The Fourth War (26 page)

The assault team leader nodded and gave a thumbs up to his men.

The two U.S. combat helicopters approached the
Jablah
at almost two hundred miles an hour in a perfectly coordinated attack. The first chopper flew up the port side of the freighter, the gunner firing his 50.-caliber guns as it passed. This chopper passed in front of the freighter just as the second chopper came within range, then pulled up its nose almost vertically into the air. The pilot bled off the airspeed as the chopper climbed, then flipped the tail rotor to speed down on the target again. As the first chopper climbed and turned, the second chopper approached from the right, both guns firing forward in a deadly hail of metal and heat. Passing over the bridge, the second chopper shot two rocket-propelled grenades, blowing the bridge apart in an orange fireball.

The helicopters made one more pass, each time firing their weapons at anything that moved on the ship, then came to a simultaneous hover three feet over the deck, one fore and one aft of the smoking bridge. Ten soldiers leaped out of each chopper, firing quickly as they moved through the ship. As the soldiers moved across the ship's deck, the pilots lifted their choppers and circled half a mile away.

It was over in minutes. Fourteen enemy down.
Jablah
dead in the water. The target in custody.

The choppers moved back in position over the burning freighter's deck. Pushing a hooded and handcuffed man before them, a group of four soldiers moved from a metal doorway leading under the bridge. The hooded man was shoved onboard and strapped to the floor and the soldiers scrambled in. The two choppers lifted immediately from their hovers and turned to the west. Flying away from the burning freighter, the mission commander radioed the Hawkeye circling overhead.

“Splash one,” he announced.

The Hawkeye pilot clicked twice in reply.

The pilot looked back at the prisoner who sat against the copilot's seat, his legs spread before him, his hands tied with plastic cuffs. He wished for a moment he could take off the hood, for he wanted to see him, this man who had killed so many Americans. Fayesa Amin, one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, sat motionless. He rested his hands confidently in his lap and the pilot noted the dry skin, dirty fingers and rough nails. These were the hands of an outdoorsman, a man unafraid of work. Amin was a soldier's soldier, he could see that from the hands, a man who led from the charge and not from the back lines, a man used to sleeping in tents and living in the undergrounds of the world.

One of the most senior leaders of al Qaeda, Amin had provided the bridge between two important terrorist camps, for he was the nephew of the Iranian interior security minister as well as one of the few surviving sons-in-law of bin Laden. For the past five years he had been working from inside Iran, crafting plans and plotting strategies to kill Americans, anytime, anywhere. But though he was the mastermind of the insurgency operating inside Iraq as well as the architect of the bombing against the U.S.S.
Reagan
and the embassy in Pakistan, Amin had proven impossible to get, for he operated unhindered and protected behind the borders of Iran, untouched and unchecked because of the government support he enjoyed.

But his glory days were over.

It was a new ball game now.

South of Camp Cowboy
Northern Afghanistan

Peter Zembeic shifted uncomfortably on the floor of the tent.

The rain beat against the canvas and the wind blew outside. The warlord Gah smoked in silence, sucking on a thick Pakistani cigarette. He pulled a deep drag and held it, then let the smoke run out of his nose. He hacked once and swallowed, then took another drag.

There was no choice in the matter, the warlord knew it had to be done, and he might as well get it over with. Still, the Afghani chieftain kept his eyes low. He had always liked the American who had made him a rich and powerful man, the king of this valley, the top dog on the pile. But now he was going to lose his cash cow. For this, and other reasons, he hated to see the American killed.

Still, better to please the Great One than to let the American live. Better to prove himself loyal than to die a rich man.

Gah looked at the others anxiously. If they were going to incur the wrath of the Americans by assassinating one of their agents, he wanted to be certain that they killed the right man. So the prearranged signal was simple. Crush his cigarette, this was him, the
Apostle
that they were looking for. Keep smoking, he was a surrogate and they would have to try something else.

Glancing to the al Qaeda bounty hunters, Gah pulled a final drag on his smoke, then crushed out his cigarette inside the tin can at his side.

Peter saw the movement, then a dark flicker in the warlord's eye. The older stranger nodded and Peter's instincts screamed. His back muscles tightened and his neck grew instantly stiff. He shot a look to his handgun, almost eight feet away.

No one moved. The air crackled and the stranger frowned, a fierce and defiant look of contempt. Lashkar Gah eyed the soldiers. What were they waiting for! They had promised they would take him the moment he had signaled them. He crushed his cigarette again, then pushed the ashtray aside. “
Apostle,
” he said, “thank you for coming here.”

Peter glanced at the chieftain, who smiled uncomfortably, his face stressed and cold, then turned again to the strangers who were staring at him. He looked into the dead eyes of the older man and saw the glint of a killer, someone who hated and was ready to kill. Glancing down, he noted the tiny bulge under the stranger's jacket where he had hidden his gun and his heart drummed like a freight train as his mouth went instantly dry. How could he be so stupid?! So careless! So trusting! A mortal mistake!

So this was it.

It was over.

After years of constant gambles he had finally drawn the low card. He shot another terrified look to his gun lying on the canvas tent floor, then turned to the three Afghanis, knowing they all were armed.

The killer watched him intently through his silky brown eyes. His son moved his hand nervously, dropping it to his side. The warlord leaned back, trying to stay out of the way.

Peter shook his head slowly and cursed at the men. And with that it was over, there was no pretense any more. They had come here to kill him. And they knew that he knew.

The father pulled a small handgun from under his jacket. “Don't move,” he sneered, his finger twitching on the gun. He had the sturdy aim of a killer and he held it steady on Peter. He would have shot him right there, were his instructions not clear:
“I want a graphic beheading. And use a dull knife.”

The assassin hesitated and Peter saw his opening. Dropping his hand to his pant leg, he felt the blade that was strapped to his boot. The wide-eyed young one reached under a blanket beside him and pulled out his own gun. The warlord growled and pushed back, moving against the tent wall. The role he played was over. It was now between them.

Peter had only one chance, but he knew which man he would kill. The rage and fear burst inside him like a short stick of dynamite. If he was killed, that was fine, but he would not die alone.

Reacting out of gut fear and training, he snatched the four-inch blade from its sheath and threw it with a snap of his wrist, the motion so tight and swift it was nearly impossible to see. But he didn't throw for power, he threw for accuracy, for the target he was after was soft as a water-filled balloon.

The blade flew through the dim light, flickering once as it turned, and the older soldier fell back in pain and surprise. The blade hit him just above the eyeball, penetrating his skull, and he screamed once in agony before falling limp on the floor. Peter cried like out like an animal, half in rage, half in fear, as he pushed himself over and rolled across the tent floor. The young son looked down at his father and saw the knife blade sticking there. He saw the blood spurting from the slashed socket with each beat of his dying heart, then screamed in panic as he fired his gun. But he shot without aiming, sweeping it across the tent wall, and Lashkar Gah cursed in anger as the wild shots rang out. The young soldier fired again, following Peter as he rolled across the floor. The American reached for his gun while rolling to his knees, his back to the enemy, facing the tent wall. He grabbed his holster and turned it upside down, letting the weapon fall in his hand.

The young soldier knew there was enough time for just one shot more; it was kill now or be killed. He lifted his weapon, his hands shaking, his arm weak as wet twine. He aimed down the short barrel of the weapon while closing one eye. Grasping the warm steel, he pulled the trigger again.

Peter didn't even turn his body before he fired his gun. Twisting, he reached under his left arm and fired from his ribs, aiming behind him out of instinct, experience, and fear.

Dual explosions shattered the air as both men fired their weapons at exactly the same time. Peter felt the bullet pass by him, an electric buzz at his ear, so close he sensed the pressure as it passed by his head. Twisting on his knee, he fired again and the Afghani stumbled back. He heard a grunt, then a moan as the young kid dropped to his knees, holding one hand at his abdomen and one hand at his chest. Deep red blood seeped between his fingers as he gasped for air. His kidneys shattered, his lungs deflated, he gurgled and fell to the floor.

Peter was on his feet before the other man hit the ground. Moving to Lashkar Gah, he started screaming again. The chieftain held a gun in his right hand, but pointed it at the floor. “Who were they!” Peter screamed as he waived the gun in Gah's face. “Who were they, Gah! I want to know who sent them here!”

“They came asking questions. They came looking for you.”

“Who did they work for!”
Peter screamed as he squinted down the barrel of his gun.
“Those were not regular soldiers! Why did they come for me?!”

“I don't know, I don't know.”

Peter moved his gun and sent a shot a mere inch from Gah's head. The explosion shattered the dim light as a spout of flame emitted from the short barrel. Peter moved the gun and held it right at Gah's mouth. “Are you ready for Allah!” he sneered as he stared down the gun.

“Angra…they worked for Angra!” the warlord cried.

“Who's Angra?! Who is that? I've never heard of him before!”

“Angra works for the Master. I swear, that's all I know.”

“Is he al Qaeda? Afghani? Tell me everything you know!”

“He does the dirty work for the Master. He works counter-ops. They say he's a devil. I have never met him, never talked to him. There's nothing more I can say.”

Peter saw the desperation in Gah's eyes and he knew he was telling the truth. “Angra. Alright then.” His voice trailed off. “Angra,” he repeated. He would remember the name. He turned back to the chieftain. “I thought I could trust you,” he muttered angrily as he lowered his gun.

“There are no friends, here,
Apostle,
you know that by now. But I could have killed you, just like you could kill me. I could have shot you before you even picked up your gun. But I didn't, and you know that. Our debt to each other is paid. Now go! Get out! This is the last time I will see you. This is the last time we will speak.”

Peter swallowed and holstered his weapon, then reached down for his coat. He was out the tent and into the darkness before the warlord could clear his eyes.

Boulevard St. Michel, Montmartre
Paris, France

Close to the university where his mistress studied, close to the capital where he worked—but far enough away from his wife—the apartment was ideally located. It was small but beautifully appointed, with mahogany floors, marble counters, and a stunning view of the Church of the Sacre-Coeur and, further south, the Sorbonne. Postimpressionist works from the Orangerie in Monet and Musee d'Orsay were hung in the entry and main hall, beautifully framed and expertly lit. A black fireplace, crackling and inviting, warmed the main room, its yellow flame casting shadows through the French doors and into the bedroom while warming the chill and misty evening air. Though luxurious, with a million euros in updates, furniture, and art, the outside of the apartment was modest and unostentatious, having been intentionally designed to fit in comfortably with the less expensive flats on the block. The brick was old and blackened, and steel bars covered the entry to the front door which, like all the others, was chipped and well worn.

The president of France had just stepped from the shower. He toweled his thin hair, then put on a red-and-gold robe with matching slippers. His mistress was still sleeping, buried under the down comforter that stretched across the iron bed, and only her hair, strands of brown with blond highlights, could be seen above the comforter. The lovely hair fell across the pillow and caught the light from the hall. The president watched for a moment, smiled, contented, then turned for the kitchen where the coffee was brewing.

The man stood in the hallway. The president was startled and cursed, his face draining in fear. The stranger was tall and well dressed in a black suit and tie. He smiled pleasantly. “Good evening,” he said in French.

“Who are you!” the president demanded. His eyes shot to the door leading onto the street where Institut De'fense security guards were positioned along the avenue. Behind the apartment were his personal guards, hidden along the back wall, next to the alleyway that led to Ile de la Cité.

The American frowned and took a step forward. “We have a little problem,” he said and then slipped into English. “We would appreciate your help.”

The president cursed. “What—who are you! What do you want!”

“Simple. We want four men. For now. Others will follow. But for now we would be satisfied with Sheik Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, Abdul Qadus, Abu Rawalpindi, and Iftikhar Khanum. You know these men. You know who they are and you know where they live. We think it would be a good idea if you were to take them into custody tonight.”