Black Skies (11 page)

T
he man known as Smith pretended to read a newspaper while parked at an out-of-the-way DC street in his latest car, a Hyundai Azera. The sedan was a tad too big and clumsy to maneuver, but it was powerful and reliable. For a man who lived constantly on the move, the choice of vehicle was an important one. He had to switch every other week, of course, and he tried not to show a preference for any particular make or model—any regularity was a potential weakness that could be exploited by his enemies. Randomness was what kept him secret and safe.

Smith saw the man he was waiting for approaching by a sidelong glance at the rearview mirror. Ken Figueroa. He could clearly make out the bald head, thin face with a moustache and a permanently incipient beard. He was in his gray suit, as usual, with a red-striped tie. Smith watched as the man circled around the car. He unlocked the passenger door in time for Figueroa to open it and come inside.

“You’re late,” said Smith, pulling out.

“You are a pain in the ass,” said Figueroa. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. It was not hot outside—there was a cool, perhaps even chilly breeze. But he had walked over.

“You said you had something for me,” said Smith.

“I do,” he said. “It’s big. I’ve got a possible location on Haider Raza.”

“We’ve had a few of those, of late,” said Smith. “They have, as a rule, not panned out.”

“This one might be different,” said Figueroa.

“I’m listening.”

“A little birdie at the Agency thought he was on to something with a lead on Raza. A relative of his owns a house in the tribal areas . . . Anyway, apparently his section leader has it in for him and shut him down, sent him on another assignment. He got disgruntled and he came to sing to us. I think there might be something to it.”

“Think?” Smith tested.

“We’ve got satellite surveillance on the place,” he said. “There’s been some activity there recently.”

“Is it reliable, in your opinion?”

“I think it’s worth checking out.”

Smith said, “I have a man on the ground in Pakistan. Perhaps he could check it out, as you say. But that approach has not been successful of late. Raza is a man that moves around frequently, and seems to be always aware of our next move.”

“He’s a slippery bastard,” Figueroa agreed.

“Tell me, is your tactical team ready?”

“The men are gung ho for an assignment,” Figueroa said. “They’ll jump at the chance of action.”

“Good,” said Smith. “Then let them know they’re leaving tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Figueroa seemed surprised.

“Do you anticipate a problem?”

“No,” Figueroa said. “They’ll do it.”

P
eter Conley picked up the steaming teacup and inhaled deeply, noting the complex aroma of green tea, saffron, cardamom, and honey characteristic of
kahwah,
which he always made a point of drinking when he was in Pakistan. He sipped as he browsed intelligence reports on his phone—the latest one on the surge of reported sightings of Haider Raza, none of them particularly credible. As he set down the teacup, he noticed a striking pair of long-lashed blue eyes peering at him from the couch opposite his in the guest lounge of the Marriott hotel.

He shot back a smirk and sipped his tea again. When he raised his eyes again, she stole another glance and smiled. She was wearing a tan and green
shalwar khameez
that showed just a hint of her form underneath, wisps of dark red hair peeking out from under her headscarf. He checked the time on his phone—4:34
P.M.
All right, I have a couple of hours to spare.

“You know,” he said, “I have half a bottle of single malt up in my room that’s just begging to be shared.”

She set down the book she was reading, a biography of Imran Khan, a half-shocked, half-intrigued expression on her face.

“I don’t even know you,” she said in a tone that could have gone either way between offense and delight.

“I’m very friendly,” he said.

“And sure of yourself.” Conley could tell she was trying to suppress her smile. “It’s not very safe, going to the room of a man you don’t know.”

“You’re a beautiful woman working as a foreign correspondent in Pakistan,” he said. “You’re not afraid of anything.”

She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “How did you—” “Come on,” he said. “You’ve got
journalist
written all over you. Plus, you look too tough to be a diplomat, too sure of yourself to be a tourist, and too laid back to be private sector.”

“I could be intelligence,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“For that,” he said, “you look much too sensible.”

She puckered her lips as she seemed to be considering something. “All right, big boy, I’ll bite,” she said, standing up off her couch without taking her eyes off him. “I’m Carolyn.”

“Peter,” he said, rising to meet her gaze.

“So about that single malt?” she said, turning to exit the lounge and looking back at him over her shoulder.

 

Conley woke up to the muffled vibrating of his phone. The bedroom was tinged in the orange light of dusk, and not bright enough to see anything. He stumbled out of bed and fumbled in the pocket of his pants until he found the buzzing cell. He looked at Carolyn, who stirred, wrapped in the bed’s white sheets, then he crept to the bathroom and closed the door.

“Conley.”

“We have a lead on Raza,” said Smith, and then, “Were you asleep? It’s barely seven p.m.”

“Jet lag,” he mumbled, blinking in the mirror. “What’s that about Raza?”

“Air surveillance on a village in Northwest Pakistan. The data came from the CIA, but our analysts put it together. We want an operations-ready team on the ground to follow this lead, and you’re going to be at its helm.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” said Conley, pacing the tiny bathroom, keeping his voice low. “A tactical team is a bull in a china shop. Our chances are much better if we sneak up on them.”

“Like what happened in Zhob?” asked Smith.

“Worse. That’s just my point.”

“I don’t see it,” said Smith.

Conley sat on the edge of the tub, then climbed in and lay in it. “I don’t care whether you see it.”

“The decision’s been made, Agent Cougar,” said Smith.

“So Bishop and the guys are coming to Afghanistan?”

“No. I’ll be sending another team. Lambda Division.”

“I never knew there was—”

“But you suspected, I’m sure,” said Smith. “This is your confirmation. Project Aegis comprises more than one division. Lambda Division will be taking over our involvement in the investigation in Pakistan while the rest of Zeta turns their focus to Gunther Weinberg. We think he’s behind the abduction. You’ll remain involved since you’re already on the ground. I’ll put you in contact with their Division Head, Ken Figueroa. Set up the logistics, and help them with whatever they require.”

“You got it,” he muttered.

“And Cougar? Focus on the mission, please.”

Conley hung up and stood in the tub, stretching and yawning. He splashed water on his face and opened the door to the room, where Carolyn stood fully dressed.

She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thanks for the tumble. You’ve been a doll.”

“Do you want my number or anything?” he asked. She opened the room door and he hastily covered himself with a towel.

“I know where you’re staying,” she said with a wink.

M
organ walked downstairs into the Zeta War Room in the late evening. The table was crowded, with Shepard lounging next to O’Neal by the head of the table, Kirby and Dietz conferring in a quiet huddle, and Bishop’s hulking body reclining in a chair, his feet in gigantic black army boots resting on the table—boots that Morgan couldn’t help picturing coming down to break a man’s nose or solar plexus.

A tall, muscular black man who wore his hair close-cropped, military style, Bishop was a guy Morgan was glad to have on their side. It gave Morgan some comfort that Bishop was used to military obedience and following orders without question. CIA Black Ops wasn’t the Army or the Navy, and he could barely stand all that
yes-sir-no-sir,
let alone deferring to some asshole with an insignia and a different title that came before his name.

Still, Morgan had to respect Bishop. He was never a pansy about making bold decisions, which made him a hell of a leader for the Zeta tactical team—certainly better than Morgan would have been, since he liked to give orders only marginally better than he liked receiving them. Apart from Conley, there was no one Morgan would rather have backing him up on a mission.

Bishop was a code name, as Morgan’s was and had been Cobra ever since he’d been training with Conley on the Farm. Since he sure as hell wouldn’t work with a group of strangers, Morgan ran him and everyone else through his Agency contacts. His real name—Morgan always remembered with a smirk—was Oliver Duffy.

“Is this everyone?” Morgan asked.

“Waiting on your ass,” said Bishop. “Princess had to powder her nose?”

“I don’t see you griping about Bloch not being here,” said Morgan with a grin on his face.

“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands chest high, “she’s the one who pays me, she can come in whenever she likes.”

“Cobra, good, you’re here,” came Bloch’s voice, all business. Morgan looked up to see her at the door of her glass-walled office, to his right, dominating the entire room. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous room as she made her way to the War Room floor. “Now settle down, everyone, and let’s get this show on the road.” She reached the head of the table, in front of the big screen on the wall, which was blank. Morgan settled in opposite Bishop. “The recent fiasco was a significant setback, but it wasn’t the end of this investigation. We have some new information about the person who is ultimately behind the attack, and that will be our focus from here on.”

“Sorry,” said Bishop, half raising his hand, “but shouldn’t we be hauling ass to Pakistan to go after the Secretary? Isn’t it time we, you know, get in there?”

“It’s being taken care of,” said Bloch.

“By who?” asked Bishop. “It should be us out there.”

Bloch looked down, and then spoke in a tone of formal authority. “As some of you know, and I suspect the rest might have guessed, we are not the only agency of our kind. One of our sister operations, Lambda Division, has been deployed to deal with the situation in Pakistan.”

“Hey, as long as we’re both stuck with a goofy Greek letter, they must be okay,” piped in Shepard.

“They were sent, in fact, almost as soon as news of the failure of the most recent raid hit the wires,” continued Bloch, ignoring Shepard. “They are coordinating with Cougar in Pakistan as we speak, and they will be helping Cougar with operations on the ground. In the meantime, I want your attention up here.” She gestured at the screen. “Shepard, if you please.”

A paparazzi photograph appeared on the screen. It showed a man lounging on a deck chair on a yacht, glistening white against the blue waters of what Morgan guessed had to be the Mediterranean. He was wearing a Panama hat, hiding a bright pink face from the sun, flanked by a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a trim brunette half his age.

“Gunther Weinberg,” said Bloch. “Fifty-six. German billionaire playboy. He and his sister, Lena, own a controlling interest in Himmel AG, the machine and auto parts manufacturer founded by their father, Tobias, as a military airplane builder for the Third Reich.” Bloch cycled through a picture of old Tobias Weinberg shaking hands with a man Morgan recognized as Thomas Watson, president of IBM. “It is rumored that he further enriched himself by setting up a scheme to steal money and valuables from victims of the Holocaust.”

“Peach of a family,” said Morgan.

“Today, they are also responsible for a significant chunk of commercial shipping in Eastern Europe, South Asia, and the Middle East.” She clicked to a new picture, this one of shipping containers piled high with
HIMMEL
stenciled on their sides.

“Yes, I read
The Economist
too,” said Kirby. “I know who Gunther Weinberg is. What’s his significance to our case?”

“Shepard and O’Neal have discovered that Weinberg is the man pulling the strings of Iftikhar Ali,” said Bloch. “As such, he is likely the one behind the abduction as well.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kirby. “What’s supposed to be his involvement?”

“Bribery,” said O’Neal. “He’s been paying off Ali, probably in order to smuggle drugs out of Pakistan in supposed textile containers.”

“Indeed,” said Bloch. “It’s more than a little suggestive of his deep involvement in this case.”

“Even if that’s true, I still don’t get why we’re focusing on this Weinberg right now, even if there are other people on it,” said Bishop. “I mean, even if he is behind everything, we can deal with him later. Shouldn’t we all be working on getting the goddamn Secretary of State back?”

“There are other angles to this that you perhaps don’t appreciate,” said Bloch. “Consider that the blame for the abduction is poised to fall—not entirely wrongly, I might add—on elements of the Pakistani executive branch. This is after a team of Navy SEALs was killed in a raid in their territory. Relations are strained to a breaking point. We are set on a clear path to war right now, Bishop. War with a nuclear power. No politician has dared say the word to the public yet, of course, but every moment that passes takes us farther along that path.”

“And what does this Weinberg have to do with—”

“If we are able to show that this was his doing to the people in charge,” said Bloch, “then perhaps it will avert war by giving the public someone to really hate in this story. Put a face to the villain. A face that isn’t Pakistani. It might save a lot of lives and curb an international disaster.”

“Sounds like a shaky proposition,” said Kirby. “It relies on the alignment of a great deal of variables.”

“Shaky’s the best we’ve got right now,” said Bloch. “O’Neal, you’re up. What have you got for us?”

“Nothing in the way of any kind of financial motive,” she said. “As you’ve already said, he was probably paying off Ali in order to smuggle drugs out of Pakistan. I can’t think of any way in which the Secretary’s abduction can play into that. Apart from it, as far as I can tell, he has no particular gain in throwing the United States and Pakistan into war. It seems like that kind of disruption could do a lot of damage to a shipping business.
But,
” she added, “war is a destabilizing force, and all destabilization has winners and losers in the market. I’m betting there’s an angle to this where Himmel and Weinberg personally stand to make a lot of money from a war.”

“Keep working and see what you can dig up,” said Bloch. “Dietz, can you tell us anything about this?”

Louise Dietz, in tweed and glasses that covered half her face, began speaking and got immediately tongue-tied. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and started again, slowly and deliberately. “We have confirmation that Haider Raza is the one at least immediately behind the abduction of the Secretary. The assumed purpose is that of all terrorism—to intimidate, to expose the weakness of your target, to scare them into submission. Perhaps it is to lure us into war. Haider Raza would count it as a victory, as a fulfillment of his life’s purpose, if it took the deployment of the US military apparatus to take him down. An invasion of Pakistan would also heighten anti-American fervor in the entire region. You can bet he’s counting on that.” She finished with an awkward nod, like a student finishing a presentation in class.

“How does Weinberg fit into that picture?” asked Morgan.

“That’s the puzzle,” said Dietz. “Strange bedfellows, those. The implication that there might be some practical gain for Weinberg is . . . sinister. I admit that I don’t really know what to make of it.”

“Thank you, Dietz,” said Bloch. “I agree. It is disquieting. We need to keep digging on this to find out what Weinberg’s ultimate purpose is.”

“All right, I’m convinced that we need to go after this guy,” said Bishop. “And, personally, I don’t care why the man did it. I just care about nailing him. So what’s our angle? How do we get at him?”

“I was getting to that,” she said. “Gunther Weinberg is, of course, extraordinarily well protected. His schedule is carefully guarded, he never discloses where he will be next, and of course, he is never anywhere that doesn’t have top-level security, in addition to his own bodyguards. But we may have an opening. He likes his expensive toys, cars in particular. He sponsors his own Formula One team. And he’s a collector, a very avid one. Lately, he seems to have taken an interest in American muscle cars. This is where Cobra comes in.” Morgan’s cover job had always been as a classic car dealer, which he had taken up full time after he quit intelligence, years before. He’d had fairly significant success, and built a trusted name for himself in the business, and still did some dealing on his down time. “If you please,” Bloch said, motioning for him to stand up.

Morgan moved to the head of the table, where Bloch took a seat to his right. “We are going to come at him through his love of cars,” he said. “Which, by all accounts, is legendary. Lucky for us, this man has a hard-on for American muscle cars. I’ve made contact with one of Weinberg’s known dealers, which just so happens to be one of my professional contacts. It seems he is on the market for a very particular specimen. Shep?”

The image came onto the big screen. It was a black car, sleek as a panther, a panty-dropper detailed with white racing stripes. Bishop whistled. “The chicks will cream, indeed.”

“The 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454,” Morgan continued. “A classic among muscle cars. A beast of the highway. All the raw American power that you might want. An engine that roars with the slightest push. A real head-turner.”

“Okay, it’s a car,” said Kirby.

“It’s not just a car,” said Morgan. “This is the number-one pilot. First out of the factory. Only driven one mile. All original parts, born in driveline with Concours-level restoration, original sale documentation, owner history—everything, and I mean
everything,
that a serious collector might want. Valued at two million dollars, it’s one of the biggest catches out there.”

Most of them—all but Bishop—seemed unimpressed.

“All right, I get it,” said Kirby. “What’s the next step then?”

“I sell it to him,” said Morgan.

“So,” began O’Neal, “we pretend to own this car, and—”

“There’s no pretending,” said Morgan. “We can’t fool a man with Weinberg’s means on something like this.”

“So I suppose we now own this car?” asked Kirby.

“We bought it yesterday,” said Morgan. “At asking price, but we needed to close before the seller found out about Weinberg. It was a major stroke of luck.”

“And it cost us two million dollars,” said Kirby flatly.

“How did you get to it before Weinberg’s dealer?” asked O’Neal.

“It pays to have the right contacts,” said Morgan. “Looking into Weinberg, I found out about his love of cars and this car in particular. I happened to know who owned it, and he was willing to sell.”

“So, did it work?” asked Bishop. “Did Weinberg bite?”

“I’ve set the bait, and he’s chomped on it hard,” said Morgan. “He wants to meet in person.”

“Is he coming here?” asked Kirby.

“No,” said Morgan. “He’s in Monte Carlo. We’re leaving tomorrow night.”

“Who’s
we?
” asked O’Neal hopefully.

“Cobra, Shepard, Bishop, Diesel, and Spartan,” said Bloch. The last two were members of the Zeta tactical team.

“And what’s the plan, if I dare ask?” said Kirby.

“A man who’s involved neck-deep in illegal activity like Weinberg doesn’t keep his sensitive information locked away in a public server,” said Bloch

“I checked,” added Shepard.

“He’d be carrying around a hard drive,” said Morgan. “Something big enough to store a heavy load of data, which means it’s too big for him to haul around personally. That means it’ll be with him, but not
on
him—which means his hotel room.”

“Or the hotel safe?” interrupted Kirby.

“No,” said Shepard. “He’ll need to use it on a daily basis, and he wouldn’t trust it with hotel personnel. It’ll be in his room somewhere.”

Morgan continued. “The plan is, I get in close enough to have access to that hard drive, and copy it. That way, Shepard can take the time he needs to beat whatever security the thing might have, and Weinberg’s none the wiser that his data have been compromised. Meanwhile, tactical provides support and backup.

“The problem,” he continued, “is that I’ll have to use my real identity for this. I’m known in the classic car business, and it’s the only way I can have the credentials to attract his attention. Which is why this needs to go down as a legitimate car sale. As far as he knows, I am nothing more than a classic car dealer, and that’s as far as he’ll know by the end of this operation. Bishop, Shepard—I’m counting on you guys to back me up on this.”

“I’m just looking forward to my vacation in Monte Carlo,” said Bishop. “I mean, we’re going to a coastal paradise to sell a guy a car. How bad can it really get?”