Unmanned

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

STEVE WENT INTO the Walmart and bought a business envelope with a plastic window. He folded the payroll report inside it so that Mansur’s name and address showed through the window. Then they headed for Gough Street.

No gentrification there. There were more boarded-up windows than Christmas lights. So many houses were empty that there was plenty of on-street parking. To be on the safe side Steve pulled into a space around the corner. He rubbed his hands together in the cold, then held aloft the envelope as if it was their ticket to the Promised Land.

“This time I’ll do the talking. You watch our backs.”

The sky was clearing, the temperature dropping. Fallen sleet filled sidewalk cracks in glowing white seams. At the address on Gough Street the outside door was unlocked. A mailbox in the foyer showed a Reyes on the second floor. The door to the stairwell was ajar, so they went on up. Reyes was the middle apartment. A television blared from the place on the left, shouts and laughter from the one on the right. Steve’s knock was answered by the bark of a dog—it sounded big—followed by shuffling footsteps. A deadbolt shot back and the door opened to the limit of a security chain, spilling a yellow band of light onto the landing. A middle-aged woman in a bathrobe eyed him suspiciously. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand.

“Qué?”

Steve showed her the envelope just long enough for her to read the name and address.

“I have a check for Mansur Amir Khan. Does he still live here?”

A thin arm darted through the opening like a striking cobra. Steve barely kept her from snatching the envelope.

“The check is mine!” she said. She unleashed an agitated burst of Spanish.

“Does Mansur still live here?” Steve asked again.

“Who are you?” she asked in English. Same question as at Taco Rojo. Same narrowed eyes and tilted head.

“Unless I see Mansur, I can’t leave this.”

She switched back to Spanish and pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her robe. Another trip wire, another alarm.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cole whispered. Steve nodded, and they took the stairs two at a time, pursued by shouts all the way to the ground floor, where an arriving tenant stood by an open mailbox.

“She’s nuts,” he said, circling a finger by his ear.

“You got that right.” They brushed past him toward the door.

“Did I hear you say you were looking for Mansur?”

Steve turned in the open doorway. The guy was mid-twenties, T-shirt and jeans, a white hard hat tucked under his right arm.

“We’ve got a check for him,” Cole said. Steve showed the envelope. “She wanted us to leave it with her, but, well, like you said. Nuts.”

“Never knew why he put up with her. Screaming, taking his money. I saw him over on Broadway a few days ago.” He shook his head. “Clueless as ever.”

“Mansur?” Steve said. “Where?”

“One of those Latino bodegas, buying a candy bar. Almost jumped out of his skin when I called his name. Like somebody was after him. Of course, maybe somebody was.” He nodded upstairs, where the woman was still muttering on the landing. Then he paused, as if he’d already said too much, and eyed them with renewed scrutiny.

“Maybe you could find a way to get this check to him?” Cole said, hoping to establish some trust. The man’s expression softened.

“No need. He’s living on Pickard now, not far from here. Being Mansur, he didn’t remember the address—you know how he is, and his English still sucks. But he said you couldn’t miss it. Called it the tall house, whatever that means.”

“Pickard?”

“Right off Fayette.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “The tall house?”

“That’s what he said.”

The woman upstairs was still making noise, speaking into her phone now. Her enforcers might be only minutes from arrival. Steve and Cole shoved through the door and ran toward the Honda.

Pickard was less than a mile away, and even drearier than Gough. It ended at Fayette, which made hunting for Mansur’s house easier. It was immediately apparent what he must have meant by “the tall house.” Just down the block was a three-story row house that towered over its two-story neighbors.

Steve parked at a metered spot on Fayette that offered a view of the front door around the corner. It was almost ten. He got on his cell phone. Cole heard Barb pick up.

“We’re outside what we think is Mansur’s new address. We’ve already raised alarms at two other locations, so we’ll probably sit tight awhile.” He looked questioningly at Cole, who nodded in approval. “Anyhow, this could take some time, so don’t wait up for us.”

“We’ll leave a light on,” Barb said. “Call if you need reinforcements. Where are you, exactly?”

“Pickard Street, at East Fayette.”

“Quaint digs in a salubrious location. If you’re not back by sundown I’ll alert the desk sergeant for the Eastern district. Don’t step on any needles.”

They decided to stake out the house until midnight. If no one came or went by then, they’d return in the morning. They were both a little puzzled by the tenant’s description of Mansur. Cole had expected to find a rough-and-ready tribal type, not easily intimidated. He instead sounded like an object of pity. Bickell had implied Mansur wasn’t exactly a bright light. So had this guy. Maybe here he was at an even greater disadvantage. But hadn’t he brought his family with him? That’s certainly what Bickell had implied.

Steve and Cole had little to keep them busy, and almost no one was out on the sidewalks in the bitter cold. By ten thirty they were stamping their feet to stay warm and wishing they had coffee.

“You do a lot of this kind of stuff?” Cole asked.

“Stakeouts? Almost never. Last time was years ago, down in Arnold, waiting to see if a governor would show up at his mistress’s apartment. Which, come to think of it, was also the last time I went through anybody’s garbage.”

“Find anything?”

“The gov was a no-show. But there were some pretty good credit card receipts. That was the story that was supposed to get me a foreign bureau. Barb got it instead.”

“Hard feelings?”

He shook his head.

“I was slated for the next opening. Then they closed all the bureaus, hers included. All those jobs are gone now. Newspapers. Equal opportunity unemployers.”

“So that would’ve been you instead of her with those two kids, getting brains all over your shoes?”

“Yeah, there’s that, too. Barb doesn’t always sleep so well.”

“Firsthand knowledge?”

Steve smiled and shook his head.

“Our lives are already too complicated. But you’ve seen the house. Not much happens that the other two don’t know about. Barb can get pretty restless late at night, moving around in the dark. Her and the cat. So what about you? No stakeouts in your Infowar training?”

“Not much call for that in a fighter wing.”

“I never did ask what your fake name was. The one on your ID?”

“Oh.” He smiled. “Floyd Rayford.”

“Wasn’t he—?”

“Orioles third baseman, back in the eighties. Four errors in one game, but I liked him. Sugar Bear. Had some pop in his bat.”

“The Wally Pipp of the Orioles. Ripken replaced him at third in game two of a doubleheader. That’s when the Ironman streak started.”

“You’re shittin’ me. How did I not know that?”

“How’d I not know you’re an O’s fan?”

“Listened to ’em on the radio when I was a kid. Virginia Eastern Shore is O’s country. Or used to be. So when I was thinking up a name I figured why not?”

“Hey, what’s this?”

A black SUV was pulling up in front of the house, brake lights shining. It was shortly after eleven. Two men in dark warm-ups hopped out from either side and scanned the block in both directions while Cole and Steve slid down in their seats. The man on the right opened a rear passenger door and hauled out a much shorter fellow in light clothing. Cole was reminded of Bickell’s description of Mansur as a “little shit Pashtun.”

“Think it’s him?” he asked.

“If so, not exactly a happy homecoming.”

The two big fellows escorted the smaller one toward the house. If this was an FBI operation, activated by the alarms they’d tripped, Cole doubted they’d be delivering Mansur back so soon, if at all. These men were acting more like jailers than protectors, with hands clamped on either arm. Hardly the sort of arrangement you’d have expected Mansur to cook up for himself.

“He must have some freedom of movement if he’s got his own apartment,” Steve said. “I mean, if he’s hanging out at some bodega when that other guy saw him. Maybe they just keep him on a short leash.”

“Well, they’re yanking it tight now.”

The three men disappeared into the house while the SUV idled out front. Ten minutes later the big guys returned, doors slamming. The SUV made a U-turn back toward Fayette, Steve and Cole sinking below the dashboard as the headlights swept the Honda. They popped up just in time to see it flash past them toward downtown. A GMC Yukon Denali, Maryland tags. Steve wrote down the numbers and phoned Barb.

“Got a tag for you to run with your guy at DMV.” He read her the number. “We may be a while longer, but I’m shutting down the phone for now. We’re gonna do some poking around.”

“Be careful.”

“You bet.” He switched off the phone and turned to Cole. “Let’s go see Mansur. Only this time, not through the front door.”

They walked up the alley behind Pickard toward the back of the house, where a fire escape stairway was bolted to the bricks. To foil burglars, the iron ladder hanging from the bottom was folded up just out of reach, held in place by a counterweight on a steel cable. Steve and Cole jumped for the lower rung but came up short. Steve got an aluminum garbage can from next door and rolled it into position beneath the ladder. He climbed shakily atop it and steadied for a leap. A dog began barking from a fenced lot across the alley. If Steve missed, the racket would be even worse. Cole readied himself to act as spotter.

Steve’s first try was awkward, and if not for Cole he would have landed in a heap. The barking dog was in a frenzy now.

“Christ, what am I thinking,” Steve said. “You’re the fucking pole vaulter, right?”

“In high school, but yeah.”

They traded places. Cole crouched carefully and pushed off, achieving just enough lift to grab the lowest rung with both hands. It was rough with rust, and for a moment he dangled like a trapeze artist while the can rattled back into place. The dog was still going nuts, and a light flashed on in one of the opposite windows just as the ladder began easing lower from the weight of his body. As soon as his feet touched the ground he started climbing. Steve followed him up, and they quickly reached the latticed platform outside the second-floor windows.

No lights were on. They paused to wait for the dog to quiet down, which took another five minutes. By then the light had gone back out in the window of the house across the alley. There were no curtains in either second-floor window of Mansur’s house, and both were dark. A streetlamp at the end of the alley offered just enough light for them to see that the rooms were empty and unfurnished. They crept slowly up to the top floor, where a window spilled light between the crumpled slats of an aluminum blind. They heard a voice from inside, a woman speaking Spanish. Cole moved close enough to peek through a slit and saw her facing into a dingy room from an open doorway. Like Consuelo Reyes, she, too, was shouting angrily, gesturing emphatically with her right hand. Crouching lower, Cole now saw that she was speaking to a man seated on a narrow bed against the far wall. He was short and sallow, with a scanty beard and the weathered, old-before-his-time look of a tribal Pashtun, although instead of a billowy shalwar kameez he wore baggy jeans and a white T-shirt. It had to be Mansur. He looked cowed, submissive, and when he opened his mouth, his voice was so meek and muffled that Cole couldn’t even make out what language he was speaking.

The woman left, shutting the door behind her. A lock snapped with a click. Mansur rose to turn out the light. His footsteps approached the darkened window, so Cole shrank out of sight, bumping into Steve, who steadied them on the landing. Then, in a stroke of luck, Mansur shoved aside the blinds and unlocked the window. The lower sash groaned as it rose an inch or two. He slid a shoe into the opening to keep the window from shutting, its scuffed leather toe poking into the frigid night. The old blinds settled back into place with a noise like a Slinky, and they heard Mansur’s receding footsteps. There was a creak of bedsprings, then silence.

Steve checked his watch: 11:24. They whispered in consultation, and decided to wait another twenty minutes to give Mansur time to fall asleep. They settled their rumps onto the cold steel slats, hoping no one was looking out from the back of any houses across the alley. Even in the darkness they probably showed up like a pair of giant spiders.

When the twenty minutes were up, Cole stood quietly and tugged at the sash. It was stiff and swollen from years of repainting, so he pulled harder, knees bent. When the window finally came free it shrieked loudly.

They paused to listen for any signs they’d awakened Mansur. His breathing was slow, regular, so Cole pulled aside the blinds and slid feetfirst into the room while holding back the blinds for Steve, who also dropped quietly to the floor. No wonder Mansur had opened it. An old steam radiator hissed in a corner, and the heat was stifling.

As Cole lowered the blinds back into place they came free from their wobbly brackets and clattered loudly to the floor. Mansur sat up in alarm as Steve crossed the room in two big steps to clamp a hand on the small man’s mouth just as he was about to shout. Mansur thrashed and squirmed as Cole grabbed him from the other side. The little man felt brittle, his bones like sticks you could snap with your hands, and his eyes were wild with fear. Cole whispered into his ear.

“We are here to help you, Mansur.” Then he took a gamble. “We are here about your family.”

Mansur relaxed only slightly, but Cole was heartened enough to ease his grip. When Mansur didn’t try to break free he took it as a sign of progress and nodded to Steve, who gently let go.

Cole whispered again. “I am going to take my hand off your mouth, but do not cry out. Do not call for anyone. Do you understand?”

Mansur nodded, his eyes still wide.

Cole let go. Mansur sagged in apparent relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was a soft rasp.

“Who are you?”

Third time today for that question.

“We’re friends. But for security reasons we can’t give you our names.”

Mansur nodded resignedly, as if he’d grown accustomed to that kind of dodge. Cole leaned closer and kept his voice low.

“Those men who brought you here tonight, in the black SUV, the black truck. Who are they?”

“The angry people.”

“Angry why?”

“Angry for Mansur, angry for me.”

“Angry at Mansur?”

He shook his head in apparent irritation, as if he’d been over this a thousand times. It reminded Cole of his son, Danny, the way he got frustrated when he couldn’t explain something.

“The angry people, who do they work for?”

“Not know,” he said, shaking his head again. “Bring here. I sleep home, then I bring here, the angry people. Now all places, the angry people.”

He looked at Steve as they tried to piece together Mansur’s fractured English.

“They came for you, in Afghanistan?” Steve asked.

“Yes. Sandar Khosh.”

The effect on Cole was electric.

“Sandar Khosh? That’s your home village?”

“No, no. Mandi Bahar. Mansur home.” He tapped his chest, placed a hand over his heart. “Mandi Bahar.”

The name stirred a memory, hazy and remote, another of those forlorn dots on the tactical map, one of hundreds. Surely he’d seen it.

“Sandar Khosh,” Mansur continued. “Very kilometers.”

“Very many kilometers?” Cole offered. “Far from Mandi Bahar, is that what you mean?”

“Yes. Far.”

“I know Sandar Khosh,” Cole said. “I’ve… been there.”

“Yes?” Mansur looked straight into Cole’s eyes, and for the first time he seemed pleased, almost hopeful. Cole wondered if Zach and he had ever seen Mansur during their recon of Sandar Khosh. Surely he must have been one of those robed men on the ground, moving like ghosts among their neighbors.

“In Sandar Khosh, did you drive a white truck?”

“Yes. No. He does, but…” His voice trailed off.

“Who does?”

“Truck gone. No truck.” Mansur shook his head, no longer smiling.

“Whose truck, Mansur?”

“Men’s truck.”

“The angry men?” Steve asked. “The ones who brought you here?”

“No!” He was irritated again. “First men.”

“From earlier?”

“Yes. From here.”

“Americans?”

“Yes.”

Had Cole’s missile strike killed Americans, then, along with the women and children? If so, then why had Castle wanted them killed? Or maybe that, too, had been a colossal mistake, a gross error of faulty intelligence. Unless they were talking about a different truck altogether. The way Mansur spoke English, he supposed that almost any interpretation might fit.

“The Americans,” Steve asked. “What were their names?”

“Not know.” Mansur shook his head again. “Not know. From Lancer.”

Lancer again, the handle Bickell had mentioned, that had popped up on Cole’s chat screen, whereabouts unknown. A name with no face, no affiliation.

“Lancer,” Cole said. “He’s American?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Working for who?”

“For who?”

“Who does Lancer work for?”

Mansur frowned and again shook his head, exasperated.

“Not know. Not know. He is American!”

As if that explained everything, all those Americans working for the same side. That’s probably how Mansur saw it, which would certainly explain how he could have been manipulated so easily by one faction or another. If one American offered to pay you more than another, what was the harm in switching if they were working for the same side?

“What about Hector?” Steve offered, trying out Castle’s code name.

“No,” Mansur said, his voice rising. “I say everything. I say everything and no more!”

Now he was downright angry. Cole worried the landlady would hear.

“Do you know about Magic Dimes?” Steve asked. “Did Hector or Lancer ever talk about that?”

“Magic? No magic. No one.” He was drifting away from them, on a cloud of either weariness or indifference.

“Shit, this is useless,” Steve said. “His English sucks.”

Cole tried another tack.

“Your family. Where is your family, Mansur?”

“Family?” His eyes brightened again.

“Yes. Your wife and children. Where are they?”

“Children, no.” He went glum, shook his head. “My children make toy. They make toy and it is ruin! Ruin!”

“Easy, Mansur,” Steve said. “Shit, he’ll wake up the whole house.

Cole, utterly baffled now, was about to try another question when a woman called out in Spanish from down the hall. Mansur went rigid.

“Great,” Steve muttered. “The bitch is back.”

“What is she saying?” Cole asked.

“The angry men. Here.”

“The ones in the black truck?”

“Yes. Here now.”

They heard the sound of car doors slamming from out front, an engine revving. Probably the same SUV as before.

“She say they bring movie.”

“A movie?” Steve whispered.

Mansur nodded. “Movie from taco.”

“What the hell?”

With a sinking feeling, Cole realized what Mansur must be talking about.

“From the security cam at Taco Rojo.” They heard the slam of a downstairs door, footsteps coming up the stairway. “They want to show him, see if he knows us. Or me, anyway.”

“He will now. Let’s go!” Steve said.

He and Cole moved to the window. Cole decided he had better do something about the fallen blinds, lest they rouse unwanted suspicion, so he hastily slid them beneath Mansur’s bed while Steve heaved up the sash. Cold air poured in. Cole half expected Mansur to try to come with them, but the young man sat impassively on the bed, rubbing his arms against the chill. He felt a stab of pity for the man, stranded alone and obviously lacking the means to help himself. And who knew what he’d say about this visit?

“Mansur,” Cole whispered, getting his attention one last time. “This is our secret, okay? Our secret from the angry men, or we will never be able to help you. You and your family. Okay?”

Mansur shook his head.

“My family. It is away.”

“Away where?”

“You not know? Then how you help?”

He was growing agitated again, so Cole moved to calm him.

“We will help them, Mansur. We will help them. But you must help us. You must keep our secret.”

Mansur nodded solemnly, then flinched as the footsteps pounded closer and stopped on the third-floor landing. The landlady called out. Cole followed Steve onto the fire escape, pulling down the sash behind him as he heard the snap of a deadbolt lock. He stepped away from the window just as they heard the door to Mansur’s room rattle open. A pool of light appeared at the spot where Cole had just been standing. He backed away slowly and followed Steve down the metal stairs. They heard the muffled voices of men in consultation, but no one was shouting in anger or alarm. Still, Mansur might tell them anything in his current state of mind, so they moved fast.

Steve clambered onto the ladder at the bottom. It sank toward the ground, the steel cable groaning as it raised the counterweight. Cole followed him down, dropping lightly to the ground. Figuring that it wasn’t yet safe to return to Steve’s Honda, they headed down the alley in the opposite direction from the way they’d come. It was nearly midnight, and the empty streets made them feel hunted and exposed. With the video from the security camera, these men would now know what Steve and he looked like. With good enough connections, the men might soon even learn their names.

Cole felt they’d gotten precious little information in exchange for their trouble. A location for Mansur, yes, and another tantalizing trace of the mysterious Lancer, whoever he was, plus some sort of link between the villages of Sandar Khosh, which he knew all too well, and Mandi Bahar, which was familiar, but he couldn’t recall why. But where was Mansur’s family now? Who was holding him here, and why? Steve and he were leaving with more questions than they’d brought.

They trotted across Fayette and disappeared up another alley. Checking over their shoulders for pursuers, they picked up the pace and headed deeper into the city.