Fog of War

Chapter Three

Nathan’s dagger indicated the agents were two miles inside the Turkmen territory. Justin had relaxed a bit now that they were out of the immediate reach of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, but he knew their lives and their mission were still in danger. His rapport with Colonel Garryev was new and untested in the face of adversity. He was not worried the Colonel would detain them and hand them over to the Iranians. But the Colonel’s reluctance to dispatch an exfiltration team had put him on guard.

The hills, the river beds, the shrubs, the road, the entire landscape resembled the one they had just left behind south of the border. The blistering sun continued to punish the land with its ruthless heat. After the long, excruciating march, Justin was longing for the sight of the black jeep Colonel Garryev had promised them.

“There it is.” Nathan pointed as they neared a clearing at the bottom of a hill about a hundred feet high. He handed Justin his binoculars, then held out his H&K P30 pistol, providing cover. They stood next to a pile of large rocks.

The vehicle waiting for their arrival was not a jeep, but the Russian version of the American jeep. It was a UAZ-469, the famous all-terrain transport of the Red Army and paramilitary units of former Eastern Bloc countries. And it was not black. Justin could not determine its original color, but its current one was a dirty olive green with specks of dried mud. Its canvas ragtop was black once, but now it was discolored and held in place by duct tape.

“Where’s the driver?” Justin whispered.

“Hilltop. Two o’clock.”

Justin raised the binoculars and followed Nathan’s directions. The grass at the hilltop was flattened, as if someone had recently sat or lay over it. The nearby shrubs were parted, and a few branches were broken off, but there were no rifle barrels or any other signs of someone waiting for them to fall into a trap.

Justin listened to the silence. It was all too quiet.

“He’s not there,” he said, handing back the binoculars to Nathan. He dug out of his knapsack his C8 carbine under Nathan’s watchful eyes. After cocking the gun, he said, “All right, let’s split up and find our contact.”

Nathan nodded. They would consider the area and the contact hostile until they were convinced otherwise.

“Left.” Justin motioned in that direction, and Nathan pressed forward. He held his pistol high in front of his chest, moving it slowly from side to side, sweeping the area. His eyes searched the shrubs and the occasional small tree, as he guided his steps around dead branches, loose pebbles, and sharp rocks.

Justin gained ground fast on the right side. He came to a blind turn, and the narrow path seemed to lead to an eroded edge of the hill. Estimating the distance and negotiating his steps, Justin skirted around a couple of rocks jutting out of the ground. He took a deep breath and jumped out, aiming his gun at the target.

A bearded man who appeared to be in his fifties was sitting cross-legged on a large flat rock. He was dressed in dark khaki pants and a light blue shirt, stained by sweat at the chest. He was ten, maybe twelve feet away from Justin. The man was looking down at the ravine about a hundred feet below. A cool breeze offered a much-needed relief from the scolding sun.

“Hands up,” Justin said in Russian.

The man’s large hands went to his sides. The left one formed a tight fist.

Nathan emerged on the other side behind the man and put him in his pistol’s sight.

“Get your hands up,” Justin shouted his order in Arabic, then in English. “And drop whatever you have in your hand,” he added in both languages, making a clear gesture with his carbine.

The man nodded slowly, then looked up at Justin. His sun-tanned face carried a grin, and his dark eyes had an eerie glow, as if the man held the upper hand. He looked neither scared nor surprised.

Justin scanned the man’s body. A large bulge at the right side of his waist suggested he was wearing a gun. Another bump by his left ankle was a sign of another weapon, a small pistol or a knife. Justin’s gaze rested on the man’s left hand as he raised both arms above his head. The sun hit at just the right angle, and the glint of a grenade’s notched casing caught his attention. Justin peered and noticed the missing grenade’s pin. The man jerked his right hand. The pin was hanging from one of his fingers.

“Grenade. Left hand,” said Nathan.

Justin leveled his carbine at the man’s head.

“You don’t want me to drop this, do you?” the man asked in Russian, shaking his left hand.

Without the pin, the man’s fingers were holding the grenade’s striker lever in place. If he dropped the armed grenade, it would explode in a matter of seconds. Shrapnel from the explosion would shower the area with metal pieces. Justin and Nathan were well within the grenade’s killing range.

“What are you doing here?” asked Justin. He took a step forward, his carbine still trained on the man’s head.

“Watching your back,” the man replied. He tilted his head toward the ravine. “I saw you crossing by those white rocks and overgrown bushes about ten minutes ago. Your partner almost tripped on a tree root. You held him by the arm.” The man spoke in Russian. His tone was soft, yet firm.

Justin nodded. The man was telling the truth. He assumed the man had used a powerful binocular or a sniper’s scope, which was somewhere on the other side of the rock, out of Justin’s sight. The vantage point was a perfect place for an ambush or to provide cover.

“I stood guard, to see if someone was hot on your trail. I was told you ran into some complications.”

Justin nodded again. “So why the grenade?”

The man grinned. “The colonel sends me here to pick up two men I’ve never seen before, after they’ve gotten into trouble deep inside Iran. I’ve no idea if someone is closing in on you or if the Revolutionary Guards are giving chase. And people coming from that land are usually in a bad mood.” He repositioned his fingers around the grenade.

Justin smiled. He was beginning to like this man but wanted to make sure the man was telling him the whole truth. “I’m in a good mood. What did Colonel Movlamov tell you?”

The man let out a loud laugh. “Good trick. The Colonel’s name is Garryev. And he told me two Canadian agents need a rescue team and transport. Well, I’m the rescue team, and you’ve seen my transport. Do you trust me now?”

The Colonel shouldn’t have revealed our identities, Justin thought. He felt betrayed by Colonel Garryev. Maybe he didn’t give this man our names, just told them we’re Canadians. It’s a bit too late for a rescue team, but we’ll use your transport. And no, I don’t trust you.

“What’s your name?” Justin asked.

“Bayram. It means ‘holiday,’ as I was born on Eid Al-Adha. It’s the end of—”

“The annual pilgrimage to Mecca, I know,” replied Justin. “I’m John, and he’s Jim.” It was their cover in case their identities as Canadians became known, but not their real names. “And we should go.”

Bayram set the grenade’s pin back into its place. His fingers moved slowly, his actions clearly visible to both Justin and Nathan.

“You Canadians play baseball?” Bayram asked Nathan as he turned his head toward him.

“Yes. Why?” Nathan replied.

“Catch.” Bayram tossed the disarmed grenade at Nathan. An underarm throw with a high arch and slightly to his left.

Nathan reached and caught the grenade. He double-checked the striker triggering the firing mechanism was intact, then secured the grenade in his knapsack.

“Let’s go then,” Bayram said. He pulled up his pants and tightened his belt. He turned around and reached behind the rock he had used as a stool.

Justin exchanged a quick look with Nathan, whose pistol was still aimed at Bayram. Nathan nodded. I’ve got him, his nod told Justin.

Bayram brought up a Dragunov sniper rifle equipped with a powerful scope. In the hands of a capable marksman — and Bayram struck Justin as such a man — the Dragunov could cut down a man at the distance of half a mile. If he was being truthful, Bayram really did have their backs.

The UAZ had no air conditioning and the seats were uncomfortable, a little more than a dog-eared cushion over a metal frame. Justin took the front passenger’s seat, while Nathan sat behind him, keeping a steady eye on their driver. Bayram left the windows slightly open, so dust and grime were their constant companions.

The UAZ engine worked its magic as they headed toward Ashgabat, the Turkmen capital, about one hundred and sixty miles northwest. Justin had heard about the vehicle’s indestructability. It could drive through any terrain, and it was easy and cheap to fix any engine problems. It was often described as having the heart of tank in the body of a jeep. Bayram boasted about the many times this UAZ had saved his skin. He had driven it while taking fire in Chechnya, over a frozen lake in Siberia, and deep into the deserts of Afghanistan.

Bayram talked non-stop about nothing and everything, from domestic politics to climate change to the upcoming US elections. Justin was familiar with some of the state of affairs in the former Soviet republic after reading extensive reports while preparing and planning for the Iranian defector retrieval mission. Along with Nathan, he had arrived in Ashgabat a week ago. They had driven around the city, plotting their moves, securing a safe house, and finalizing the last details of their operation and their exit plan. Three days ago, they had taken the trip down to Akdzhadepe, less than twelve miles away from the Iranian border. They had surveyed the terrain and had gone through a few scenarios when assessing their options.

Still, it was interesting to see the Turkmen reality through the eyes of a local man, although he was a Cold War veteran and an operative of the country’s Ministry of National Security. Justin was surprised at Bayram’s insistence on democracy in a country ruled by one strongman after the other. But Bayram wanted hope and a better future for his three college-aged children and a few good years for himself when he retired. Turkmenistan remained an unstable place, ready to burst into flames at any moment.

Their trip to the capital went without any incident. They made only one stop a little over an hour south of the capital to refuel both their UAZ and their stomachs, and for Justin to use his secure satellite connection and update his boss. Justin reported to James McClain, CIS Director General of Intelligence, North Africa Division. His title was a misnomer, since his tasks — and those of his field agents — had expanded to include parts of the Middle East and Africa. The Middle East Division was gradually merging with McClain’s, and rumors had it that he would be chairing both sections.

McClain did not speculate about the people responsible for the shootout in Iran. It was not his style to draw conclusions without gathering and assessing all facts. Plus, it was neither the time nor the place to have such a serious conversation. His orders to the agents were simple and predictable: reach the capital, secure the intelligence, and leave the country.

Justin was more than happy to oblige.

Bayram dropped off Justin and Nathan ten blocks away from their safe house, a small, non-descript apartment from the Soviet times in the forested outskirts of Ashgabat. The apartment block was gray and depressing — like the overall mood of the city and the people — providing them with the much-needed obscurity for their operation. After ensuring no one was following them, they reached their apartment just as the first drops of a cold rain began to drum onto the ground.

Justin stared out of the windows of their second-story apartment. A couple of stray dogs — he found it difficult to determine their breed — huddled next to an overflowing garbage bin. He had seen the dogs every day, scrounging for scraps of rotten food. Once or twice he had left uneaten slices of pizza in their boxes when taking out the garbage. The dogs had stared at him, their eyes dripping with suspicion, their mouths dripping with saliva. They had made no move to approach him, but had run and devoured the food as soon as he had turned his back.

Nathan hit the shower. Justin made coffee. He gulped down a cup while sitting next to the window, observing the intersection two blocks away and scanning the windows across the street. They were in a safe house, but it was them who made it safe, not the other way around.

Ten minutes later, Nathan took his place at the observation post. It was Justin’s time to scrub off blood, sweat, and dirt from his body. When he came out, Nathan was scanning the contents of Safavi’s briefcase. He was sitting at the oval kitchen table. Justin glanced at the documents taken from the nuclear physicist. He wondered if they were worth his death and risking their lives.

“I’m almost done,” Nathan said. His left hand moved with purpose across the laptop’s keyboard, while his right hand maneuvered the mouse, then placed the next sheet of paper on a small scanner. “They’re already on the servers.”

The only request they had when renting the apartment was a reliable Internet connection. Impenetrable encryption protected their data in secure online servers, accessible in real-time throughout the world. A copy of the sensitive materials had already arrived at McClain’s work station. The agents would carry nothing on them. Any search of their belongings would reveal nothing incriminating to warrant their detention by the authorities.

“I’ll get the fire ready,” Justin said. He picked up a couple of folders from the table.

“Yes, you can destroy those.”

Justin headed toward the wood stove in one corner of the living room. He did not trust shredders. Ashes made it impossible to reconstruct the information once held by the burned documents.

He rolled up a few of the reports and lit them up. He stared at the flame leaping at the words, the sketches, and the diagrams. A couple of moments later, he threw them inside the mouth of the cast iron stove, closed the stove’s door, and returned to the table.

“I’ll finish before our briefing with McClain,” Nathan said.

Justin glanced at his wristwatch. It was eight forty-five. Their boss was supposed to call them at nine. “Have you tried Ruslan’s driver?”

“Yes. Three times. No one answered his cellphone.”

“You think the Guards caught him?”

“Maybe. If he kept to the road in his Nissan, he made himself an easy target.”

Justin nodded, then looked at the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. It was almost empty, not enough for two cups. “You want some coffee?”

“Sure. I’ll make some.”

“No, I got it. We need to contact Ruslan’s man. I need to ask him questions,” he said.

“You think he had something to do with the ambush?”

“I don’t know, but we need to make sure he’s telling us everything. Somebody gave the sniper our coordinates.”

“Maybe he had another phone. Made a call, then ditched it.”

“Yeah, it’s possible.”

Nathan reached for his satellite phone on the desk and dialed a number. He listened for a moment, then said, “Now it’s telling me his cellphone is disconnected.”

“I don’t like this,” Justin said. “I’ll talk to Colonel Garryev, see if he has another number.”

He tapped his foot on the gray kitchen floor, watching the coffee dripping into the pot. He filled his cup, then searched the cupboard for a clean one for Nathan.

“Thanks,” Nathan said, as Justin placed the cup next to his scanner.

Justin went to his bedroom, returning a few minutes later with a small envelope in his hands. “The defector’s papers,” he said and headed to the stove. He threw them all in the fire, after weighting them for a moment or two in his hand and taking a deep breath. A lot of time and effort had gone into obtaining a genuine Canadian passport, a matching driver’s license, and credit cards. The fire engulfed the documents, and the smell of burning plastic filled his nose. He closed the stove’s door.

The cleanup stage of their operation started the moment they returned to their apartment. The time had come to erase all evidence, all traces of their true purpose for being in Turkmenistan. The last items they needed to get rid of were their weapons and their tactical gear.

“Here’s the rest.” Nathan handed Justin a batch of documents in a folder.

“Thanks.” He began to crumple the sheets and toss them into the fire.

The satellite phone on the table beeped an alarming tone. “It’s McClain,” Justin said. The man had a reputation for being punctual for meetings or phone calls. “Hello, sir. This is Justin and Nathan,” he said after checking the caller’s number.

Nathan sat across from him. Justin pressed the speakerphone button.

“Hello, boys. How are you doing?” McClain’s deep voice came loud and clear as if he were standing in the other room.

“Doing great, sir. Just eager to come home,” Justin said for both of them.

“Anything new about what happened in Iran?”

“Negative. Ruslan’s driver, Suleyman, has gone underground. If Colonel Garryev cooperates, we’ll find him,” Justin said.

He felt Nathan’s curious eyes fall on him and waved his hand. It was Nathan’s turn. “All documents retrieved from the defector have been transmitted to our servers. We’re tidying up the place.”

“Good job. I’ll have our analysts review them and determine their authenticity and their importance. We’ve gathered some intel about movements of rogue Taliban fighters in Northern Afghanistan near the border with Iran. Perhaps some of them crossed over to smuggle weapons or drugs and intercepted you or the defector.”

“They stumble upon our operation, and one of their snipers decides to have a field day?” Justin said.

“Maybe they took you for someone else. One of their rivals. Or they realized you were foreigners, Westerners, and just couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

Justin pondered on McClain’s words. The Taliban had hired foreign mercenaries to attack American troops in Afghanistan, drawing fighters from former and current warzones in the world. Somalia. Chechnya. Yemen. It was possible Justin and Nathan became targets of convenience.

“I still believe someone betrayed us and leaked the intel,” Justin said.

“I’m checking with CIA and MI6 about developments in northeast Iran. I’ll inform you right away once they have anything concrete.”

“Sounds good,” Justin said. “We’ll press Colonel Garryev for some answers.”

“You will not have time for that. I want you boys out of there ASAP.”

“We have seats on the first flight to Azerbaijan tomorrow morning at eight hundred. Our next stop is Frankfurt, then back to our Cairo station.”

McClain coughed, then paused for a few seconds. “There’s a change of plans, Justin.” His voice lost its evenness, turning edgy. “I’ve got some bad news.”

He told them about the Navy SEALs squad that had gone missing in southern Somalia earlier that morning after their Black Hawk helicopter had fallen into an ambush. Everyone aboard was considered dead or captured, although their bodies had not been recovered, and there was no other intelligence about the doomed operation.

Justin’s eyes darkened and his frown grew deep. He hoped he would not see the charred bodies of American elite troops dragged through the streets of Somalia, crowds of armed militants cheering and doing their macabre dance. Perhaps it was less gruesome than being beheaded alive for the pleasure of Jihad supporters.

He felt partly responsible for the fate of the SEALs. His team at the CIS Cairo Station — his headquarters when not in field operations — was responsible for assessing the intelligence leading to the operation.

“CIA wants an in-person briefing in the States. They want to share some extremely sensitive and highly classified intelligence. They say it’s about important security issues for both them and us,” McClain said.

“What do they want?” Justin asked. CIA never shared any of their intelligence if there was no prospect of them receiving something of greater importance in return.

“A copy of the defector’s files.”

Justin grinned. He had anticipated McClain’s reply. He knew his boss had given the CIA the gist of their operation, and CIA was eagerly waiting to interrogate the defector. Since this was no longer possible, the documents would be the next best thing.

“This is not going to be a finger-pointing session about the Somalia operation?” Justin asked. “I have no intention of becoming CIA’s scapegoat or allowing them to blame us for this incident.”

McClain replied in a calm voice, “No, it’s not like that. They have assured me. They don’t trust cables and phones any more, even the secure ones. That’s why I don’t know more about this intelligence they’re giving us. Since the Wikileaks scandal, whenever its’ possible, CIA prefers briefings in person.”

So they can say the meetings and the exchanges never took place, Justin thought.

“The Americans lost eight men in that ambush,” McClain continued. “They’ve already talked to Joint Task Force Two. They just need the complete story.”

“We don’t have the complete story. You just told me we have no new intel about the ambush. We only know what the SEALs reported before they were shot down. CIA already has that intel.”

“True, but it’s for their own due diligence. Perhaps they want to confirm some of the intel we gave them about al-Shabaab leaders.”

“Our intel was accurate at the time of those reports, as confirmed by their own man on the ground.”

McClain sighed. “Great, so just tell the CIA that and wrap this up.” His voice had regained its initial sternness. His tone left no room for options.

“OK, when do they want to see me?”

“ASAP.”

True to their reputation, they want everything done yesterday.

“I’ll see if I can change flights. If everything works out, I could be at Langley as early as Wednesday morning. The afternoon would work better.”

“Great. I’ll let them know. After the meeting, I expect a briefing about the intelligence they’ll be giving you.”

If it is worth anything, Justin thought, but held his tongue.

McClain said, “One last thing, Carrie’s meeting you in the States as well.”

“Carrie?” Justin arched his bushy eyebrows at the mentioning of his partner’s name. “Isn’t she still on leave?”

“She was. She called this morning from Grozny. She’s coming back, and I want her to attend the CIA’s briefing.”

Justin wanted to ask if Carrie had found her father’s grave, but knew better. Carrie would not confide in McClain such an important detail of her life. She barely knew McClain, who had taken his position less than four months ago. Carrie’s father, a colonel in the Canadian Army, had disappeared during a covert mission in the late eighties in the Soviet Union. She joined the Army in part to learn about his fate, but all her efforts had hit a dead end. Recently, she had come into possession of some classified information: a photograph that was supposed to show his grave, somewhere in northern Grozny, Chechnya. If she hasn’t told me, she hasn’t told anyone.

“All right,” Justin said. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I’ll brief Carrie right away. Take care, boys.”

“You too, sir,” Justin and Nathan spoke in almost a single voice.

“CIA needs you,” Nathan said with a smirk after Justin ended the call. He pointed his index finger at Justin, then gave him a wink.

“Yeah, they do. Like someone needs a pair of tongs to get their nuts out of the fire without burning their hands.”

Nathan grinned. “What’s this intel about?”

“Well, according to McClain it’s highly classified. I’d have to see it before believing it. CIA isn’t known for playing nice and sharing their toys with us.”

“But we’re giving them everything we’ve got from the Iranian defector.”

“That’s to trick us into believing this is a fair exchange, and we’re working together. We were going to give those reports to them anyway. Perhaps not so fast, but eventually they were going to get a copy. Anyway, let’s grab some dinner before finishing the cleanup. What’s left in the fridge?”

“A couple of pizza slices and some spaghetti.”

“It will do. We’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow before our flight. Let’s eat.”