Chapter 55

Through the cloth shroud covering his head, Corben concentrated on the whir of the chopper’s turbine. The sound was throatier, lower-pitched, very different from the Hueys, Blackhawks, and Chinooks he was used to. The seat he’d been shoved into confirmed his suspicion. It was positioned sideways, along the outer wall of the cabin, and its fabric was rough and starchy, its padding thin, its metal frame biting into his thighs uncomfortably.

The chopper was military.

Russian-made. A Mil, no doubt.

He’d know soon enough, as he sensed the machine slowing down and banking heavily, both of which suggested an imminent landing. Sure enough, it lurched and began its descent.

He wasn’t sure how long the flight had taken, but the feeling he’d gotten of it tallied with the journey he assumed they were making: two hours of flight time or so. Comfortably within the range and airspeed of the big choppers.

They were soon on the ground. He was hustled out of the cabin and heard some shouted orders before the big turbines strained back to full power and the brunt of the rotor wash plowed into him. As the chopper lifted off, he used the likely moment of distraction among his captors to raise his nylon-cuffed hands and pull the sack off his head. Omar spotted it and barked out angrily at him, but it was too late. Corben glimpsed the Mi-25 as it banked and headed back south. He couldn’t make out any markings on its camouflaged flank, but it was a military helicopter, and only one country within a few hours’ driving range of Beirut had them.

He gave Omar a small grin, an unspoken middle finger, then looked around. Omar had brought three other men with him. They were toting some impressive gear: Corben spotted two sniper rifles, several submachine guns, and a couple of packs of additional gear. All of which confirmed that whoever the hakeem’s sponsor was had some serious muscle. The man seemed to have access to significant support and firepower, as well as a seemingly inexhaustible supply of drones. They’d been able to chopper straight into Turkey at the drop of a hat, no doubt aided by the symbiotic, enemy-of-my-enemy relationship between Turkey and Syria, which were both engaged in an ongoing struggle to subdue the nationalistic aspirations of the stateless Kurds.

Corben realized that any ideas he’d entertained about possibly collaborating with the hakeem were seriously misguided. Besides being a hard case himself, the man clearly had some heavyweight sponsors to answer to. Whoever they were, they were heavily invested in him. They’d have serious issues with inviting an American intelligence agent to their party.

It didn’t necessarily displease Corben. He’d taken a serious dislike to the man and to the leather sole of his hand-sewn moccasin. He looked forward to possibly ramming it down the man’s throat if this mystery buyer proved useful.

He noticed Omar pulling out the phone they’d taken from him and snapping its battery into place before pocketing it and checking a handheld GPS device. Corben scanned their surroundings. They’re been dropped off in a clearing on a small hill, at the edge of a vast plain of arid land. Small patches of greenery dotted the edge of a river, the Tigris, that cut through it, snaking south, where it would eventually cross all of Iraq. About a mile north of their position, looming down on the parched flatlands from its elevated mound, was the ancient city of Diyarbakir.

Omar walked over and handed Corben his phone. “No messages for you,” he said in a heavily accented tongue. “So the position of Abu Barzan is still the same.”

“Still the same,” Corben confirmed. “But we’d better keep it on from here on, in case they call with any changes.” If Olshansky didn’t come through for him soon, things might get tight. He just had to find an opening and take it.

“I’ll keep it with me,” Omar said. “For now.”

Corben smiled. It didn’t even try to find his eyes. “Intal rayyis, ya Omar.” You’re the boss.

Movement caught his eye as two dusty SUVs drove up to meet them. Omar waved them over and yelled out an order to his men to load up.

Within minutes, they were on their way.

* * *

The King Air was met on the tarmac by one of Kirkwood’s security consultants. Typically ex-SAS or Special Forces operatives, their services were in high demand since the chaos had overwhelmed Iraq. Per Kirkwood’s request, he and Mia were able to disembark in a remote corner of the small airfield, away from prying eyes. They sat in the back of the car that was there waiting for them, a Toyota Land Cruiser with heavily smoked windows, while the hired gun, an Australian who gave his name as Bryan, took their passports in to be stamped at the small terminal. Moments later, they breezed out of the airport compound and were headed to their meeting with Abu Barzan.

“You’ve made contact with him?” Kirkwood asked the Australian.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “He was a bit put out by the change of venue, but I told him it was just a safety precaution. One of my guys is there, with him.”

Mia listened to the exchange with slight puzzlement. “What change of venue? He knows you’re coming?”

“I had him moved this morning,” Kirkwood told her. “Just in case Corben and the others were onto him.”

Something about it wasn’t sitting well with her. “Is he under guard or something? I mean, aren’t you worried he’ll just bail on you?”

Kirkwood seemed to read her suspicions. “I’ll explain everything when we’re with him, I promise.”

* * *

The two dusty SUVs made their way across a narrow concrete bridge and climbed up towards Diyarbakir.

The city had grown to become the Kurdish capital of eastern Turkey. The ancient town, squatting on its elevated mound, was surrounded by a massive Byzantine defensive wall. Only the Great Wall of China was bigger. Built of large blocks of black basalt, it housed five imposing gates that led into the old town and had sixteen keeps dotted around its circumference. Newer buildings crawled down its outer ridge and spilled out into the plain around it.

From the back of the lead vehicle, Corben studied his captors. Omar was seated next to him, studying the GPS coordinates on his handheld screen, with one of his men riding shotgun next to the local driver. The back car had Omar’s two remaining henchmen, and another driver.

He was wondering if he’d get lucky before his bluff was called, when his cell phone suddenly warbled. Omar checked its screen, then handed it to Corben as he pulled out his handgun and pressed its nozzle against Corben’s neck.

“Be careful what you say.”

Corben ignored the comment and just took the phone. He glanced at its screen. It was Olshansky.

“Where the hell are you?” his techie asked. “I got a really weird ring-tone on your phone.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Corben countered. “What have you got for me?”

Olshansky sounded excited. “The NSA’s got a lock on your Swiss mystery caller. You’re not going to believe this.”

Corben eyed Omar coolly. “He’s in Turkey,” he told Olshansky, his voice flat.

“Not just in Turkey, my friend,” Olshansky enthused. “He’s in Diyarbakir.”

“Where in Diyarbakir?”

“Last lock I have placed him at the airport — no, hang on. He’s just crossed cells. He’s on his way into the city.” Olshansky’s tone changed to concern. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m great. Just let me know when he stops moving.” Corben brusquely hung up, spinning around to scan the roads out his window. “Is this the airport road?” he asked Omar.

Omar relayed the question to the driver in Arabic. The driver nodded.

Corben turned and checked the road behind them. It was empty. “Get your driver to pull over somewhere discreet. Our buyer’s on his way in.”

Загрузка...