Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition) (9 page)

In the light,
Avery noticed burns, bruises, and cuts across the Uzbek’s body. His lip was
split open and his nose swollen and crooked. His hands were shackled behind his
back. He had a pile of hay to sleep on, a bucket for a toilet, and another
bucket filled with clean water. The air was stale and stank of human waste. Evidently,
Avery observed, Gurgakov’s people made clear what they thought of Uzbeks.

The Pamiri gave
a wave of his hand toward the Uzbek, indicating to Avery and Dagar that they were
free to speak with him and that their ten minutes started now. Then he took a
few steps back to give them space and watched silently, keeping his eyes on the
prisoner in case he made any threatening moves toward Gurgakov’s guests.

Avery knew a
little of the Uzbek language from his time in Afghanistan. There had been many
Uzbeks in the Northern Alliance, but he was out of practice and decided to have
the more proficient Dagar translate for him.

Dagar briefly
explained the situation to the Uzbek and presented the man his options. He
sounded like he addressed a mongrel animal, Avery thought, stern and
domineering.

The Uzbek looked
up at Avery. Avery recognized the absolute hatred and contempt in the man’s
eyes. He’d seen the exact look on the faces of countless al-Qaeda terrorists
and Iraqi and Taliban insurgents. The look still managed to fill Avery with unease.
It was the look of someone capable of maiming and butchering without a second’s
hesitation, as natural as breathing.

The Uzbek was at
first uncooperative and resisted. He came upright on his knees, spat at Avery’s
feet, and called him CIA scum, the veins in his neck and temples bulging and throbbing.
Dagar gave Avery an “I told you so” look, as if again re-affirming that he
looked like a goddamn American spy.

The Pamiri guard
quickly stepped in and struck the Uzbek down with a couple hard blows from the
stock of his AK-47, opening up fresh cuts on the prisoner’s forehead, and
screamed at him in angry Pamiri. Before he was done, the Pamiri picked up the
piss bucket, splashed its putrid contents over the Uzbek, and threw the bucket
at him. This subdued the Uzbek and returned him to a degraded, submissive
state. The guard gave Gurgakov’s guests an apologetic look and shook his head
before stepping back again.

“Tell him that
if he answers my questions,” Avery addressed Dagar while holding eye contact
with the Uzbek, “I have the authority to secure his release from here into
American custody where he will be treated humanely and allowed to keep his
life.”

The Uzbek
listened to Dagar’s translation and then laughed out loud, as if astonished at
the absurdity of the American’s offer. He shook his head. When he finally
spoke, Avery detected the contempt in his voice. The Uzbek cowered in the
presence of Gurgakov’s Pamiris, but clearly held no fear for the American. Avery
could work with that.

Dagar started to
relay the Uzbek’s response, but Avery cut him off in the interests of saving
time. “I think I got the basic idea. Tell him his alternative is to remain
here. Emphasize that if he does not answer my questions, then I will have no
further use for him, and if I have no further use for him, then neither will
Gurgakov. Explain to him in detail what Gurgakov does to Uzbeks, how Gurgakov
will have him nailed into the ground and sever his manhood and pour salt in the
wound. Then Gurgakov, when he finally becomes bored, will gut him and drape him
with raw pig meat, so that his entry into Heaven will be forbidden when
Gurgakov finally slits his throat and ends his life. From there, Gurgakov will
most likely slaughter his family as well. That’s what he does, so that there
will be no offspring or brothers to seek vengeance.”

Dagar translated
again.

Avery watched as
the smirk quickly vanished from the Uzbek’s face.

“But first, he needs
to tell me where the American is being held. He does that for me, and if I can
confirm he is not lying, then I will guarantee his safety and release from
Gurgakov. If he’s really helpful, CIA might even be convinced to let him go. But
I need his answer right now. If he refuses or plays any games, then I will
stand aside and allow Gurgakov to have his way with him. This is his only
chance.”

Avery waited
patiently for the translation and then the response from Dagar. “He said that
he will cooperate with you, as long as you take him away from this infidel
barbarian.”

“Good. I thought
we’d arrive at an understanding.”

Avery had a
litany of follow-up questions, to confirm the Uzbek was indeed telling the
truth and put together the missing pieces of how Otabek Babayev’s forces had identified
Cramer and lifted him, but he neared the end of his allotted ten minutes. So he
used his remaining ninety-seven seconds to get to the most important bit. 

“Ask him where
the American is being held.”

The Uzbek gave
Avery a detailed location and drew a map of the village on pencil and paper
provided by Avery.

“I know this
pace,” Dagar said. “It is not safe. For the people there, the civil never
needed. You shouldn’t go alone.”

The guard yelled
out that their time was up and stepped in to lock the cellar once more.

Avery stepped
several feet away from the cellar, out of earshot of the others. Keeping an eye
on Dagar and the Uzbek, he took out his phone and placed a call to Poacher.

The target house was located in a
village called Yazgulam, approximately forty-five miles northwest of Gurgakov’s
farm.

Avery had told
Gurgakov that he needed to make logistical arrangements and would return within
the next two days with the $20,000. Dagar remained behind in the village and would
take Avery or an American representative to Gurgakov once he returned. Gurgakov
appeared wary, but accepted this arrangement. Avery thought that soon as he
left, Gurgakov would probably leave, too, and relocate to another hiding spot.

Avery
rendezvoused with Sideshow in Yazgulam at 3:47PM. Poacher and Reaper had
reached the village first and already had eyes on the target for over an hour,
but had nothing to report when Avery arrived.

While Dushanbe
had its fair share of Westerners, the three Americans definitely stood out
here, especially to members of an IMU cell who’d keep their eyes open for
anyone who didn’t belong. Just driving in from the outskirts of the city, a
group of kids playing soccer in an empty lot had paused their game to watch
Avery drive past

It wouldn’t be
too difficult to blend in, though. Most of the people here were Yazgul, an
ethnic group indigenous only to Tajikistan. Like Pamiri Tajiks, the Yazgul
people were fair skinned and had light, even blond, hair. Avery and the
Sideshow operators had already thrown on
chapan
cloaks or
kameez
robes that they’d picked up in a marketplace over their clothing. Like most men
here, Poacher and Flounder both sported unkempt beards.

But looking the
part was only a small part of blending in. A lot of it came down to having the
right attitude and acting like they belonged, which meant moving with
confidence and purpose and looking like they knew exactly where they were
going.

The problem was
Yazgulam was pretty desolate and near abandoned. There weren’t many people
about. Whether they were Tajik or Pamiri travelers passing through, or
Americans, any outsiders would stand out and draw scrutiny, and word probably
spread quickly around here. The crowded sidewalks and busy streets of Dushanbe
would have been preferred.

Yazgulam was one
of the poorest places in the entire country, having been hit especially hard
during the Tajik Civil War. The town still never fully recovered and showed
heavy battle damage.

Following
Tajikistan’s independence from the Soviet Union, fighting quickly broke out
between neo-communist government forces backed by Russian army troops and
various opposition militants aided by foreign fighters like the IMU and Afghan mujahedeen.
The fight grew in intensity, leaving entire villages burned to the ground,
until the factions hit a stalemate.

In 1997, after
six years of fighting, a United Nations armistice ended the war, leaving most
of the country’s population dependent entirely on the United Nations and NGOs
for food and medicine. The war left some 100,000 dead, over a million more
homeless, and most of the country’s infrastructure destroyed and in disarray. The
government has done little to rebuild, and fighting still sporadically broke
out in remote parts of Gorno-Badakhshan between rival militias and government
troops.

Some buildings
in Yazgulam remained bombed-out or were simply collapsed piles of rubble with
just the skeletal structures left standing. Craters and potholes were scattered
across the streets. Driving to the target house, Avery even spotted the charred
husk of a Russian-made T-72 battle tank sitting on broken treads.

Police presence
was non-existent. Fourteen years after the war ended, armed and masked
militants freely roamed the streets. Crime was high, Dagar had warned. There
was the threat of being recognized as outsiders and ambushed by bandits or
detained by the so-called militia or kidnapped for a ransom. President Rahmon’s
government had zero control or influence here, making this an ideal spot for
IMU to hold and interrogate a prisoner. It was also just seventy miles south of
the terrorist strongholds in the Fergana Valley.

A gunman wearing
a balaclava, standing off side of the street, eyed Avery’s car suspiciously as he
drove past but made no move to stop him. Avery kept his eyes on the road,
stayed calm, and didn’t eye the militant as he passed.

Avery wasn’t
familiar with local politics or what affiliation the militant’s green and red
armband signified. Avery just hoped that whatever militia he belonged to didn’t
report to the IMU. It was likely the Uzbeks operated here with the consent or
at the least the knowledge of whatever warlord ran the city. In this part of
the world, encroaching on another tribe’s or group’s territory was asking for a
fight. Tribal Afghans, Tajiks, and Pamiris lived by a rigid code of honor that
was thousands of years old. They could be your best allies, but if you
disrespected them by not sticking to the code, they’d slice your throat.

The target was a
dilapidated single-story, square-shaped house built of thick cement, sturdy and
heavily insulated in the winter, but probably stifling hot and uncomfortable in
summer. A house this size would probably be a crowded place and home to nearly
a dozen people. The only windows were in the front, near the blue door, or in
the back, and they were all heavily boarded up. It looked like someone had
barricaded the place, but that wasn’t unusual. During the war, the people who
couldn’t leave sought shelter inside.  Except for a pick-up truck parked over
the front lot, the property otherwise appeared abandoned, which it probably had
been since the end of the fighting.

The same could
be said for the rest of the neighborhood. The house sat next to a four story
apartment building with broken windows and riddled with bullet holes. There were
empty storefronts and a few more houses, also in a depressing shit state,
across the street. Shops had gone out of business years ago and never re-opened
under new management or owners. The street was unpaved and cracked and damaged
from heavy tank traffic.

The team did
target reconnaissance of the connecting streets and surrounding neighborhood,
to work out potential defensive positions and escape routes. Then they began
looking into where to establish an observation post. They had few options.
There wasn’t enough time to try to gain access to the neighboring apartment or
to scope out a nearby house that might have a line of sight to the target, to
determine if it was abandoned or occupied. If any locals stumbled upon them,
they’d have to detain them, and that created a whole slew of complications.

After taking a
walk around the block on foot and performing a quick recon, Flounder returned
to the van and suggested they break into one of the empty shops across the
street. They could gain entry through the back door. Once night fell, they
could easily plant audio and video surveillance equipment around the target
house with less chance of being seen.

Avery and
Poacher both liked it, so this is what they did.

First, they
broke in through the rear entrance of what, from the looks of it, used to be a
grocery store and deli. The lock was simple, and Flounder picked it in under
thirty seconds. There were no alarms or security systems to overcome. In fact,
there wasn’t even electricity here or in most of the city, but that was okay,
since they wouldn’t be able to turn on any lights anyway, which would give away
their presence. Any of their gear that required power was already fully
charged.

Avery and
Flounder then moved the vehicles they came in, so that they would be out of
sight from the occupants of the target house and not potentially alert them to
the presence of strangers on the block. They left the van near the door behind
the old grocery store in case they would need to get away quickly.

From behind the
blinded windows of the darkened, dusty storefront, they observed the target
house for the remainder of the day. Other than the occasional lights going on
or off, there was no other activity at the house. No one came or went. From
this vantage point, they did not have eyes on the target’s back door, but they
would still clearly be able to see if someone was coming or going.

By midnight, the
neighboring apartment building and houses were all blacked out. A few blocks
had electricity, but most households relied on lanterns or candles. Others,
including the target house, utilized portable generators bought in Dushanbe or
Kazakhstan.

Poacher and
Flounder waited another two hours, during which time there was absolutely no
activity from either the target house or its neighbors, before slipping across
the street and planting the surveillance equipment. Avery covered them from the
storefront, keeping a close eye on the target and ready to warn them if anyone
came their way. Given the lack of functioning street lights, stealth was not a
problem for the two seasoned paramilitary operators.

Thirty-five
minutes later, when Poacher and Flounder returned, Avery ventured across the
street with his Radar Scope II motion detector.

Developed by
DARPA, this is a handheld device weighing less than two pounds and roughly the
size of a brick. The Radar Scope is capable of detecting motion as tiny as a
human heartbeat or a person breathing through up to twelve inches of concrete
and fifty feet into the selected room. It does this by emitting
stepped-frequency radar and then detecting the tiniest alterations of the
return signal’s Doppler signature. Additionally, it has a sensor array capable
of “seeing” through multiple walls and rendering a 3D image of the room itself.
An earlier, less sophisticated model was first introduced to soldiers going
house-to-house in Iraq.

After making a
trip around the perimeter of the target house, Avery determined that there were
five people inside and knew the rooms in which they stayed. He used this
information to prepare a floor plan of the house, complete with current
placement of its occupants. Avery joked to Poacher and Flounder that maybe the
next generation of Radar Scope would be able to even differentiate hostages
from the bad guys.

When they’d
completed the night’s work, it neared 3:30AM.

They agreed to
take turns of six-hour shifts in observing the house and manning the audio
surveillance gear. Poacher volunteered to take the first shift, and Flounder
insisted on taking the second, to give Avery time to recharge, since he was
operating on the least amount of sleep. Both of the CIA operators had been able
to get a full night’s sleep the previous night, but by this point, it had been
nearly two days since Avery last slept, so he was grateful to finally shut his
eyes. He didn’t even care that it was in a sleeping bag on the dirty,
dust-covered floor of an old grocery store that was now home to big, black,
monstrous-looking arachnids known as trapdoor spiders. 

At 9:30AM, Poacher
woke up Flounder.

When they
switched places, Poacher informed Flounder that there’d been no activity from
the target house overnight. He’d made a written log of any vehicular or
pedestrian traffic, with descriptions of the passerby in each entry. Seven
people had walked past the house, including a drunken bum and a group of four
teenagers out late. Only three cars and a bicyclist had come by. Two militants
on a roving patrol had passed along the street. There’d been no sighting of any
official government police or troops.

Avery woke up at
ten, ate a couple protein bars, and joined Flounder at the storefront. Flounder
brought him up-to-speed and showed him the activity log. The only relevant
occurrence was that at 9:45AM a man exited the target house and left in the
pickup truck, heading south, but he hadn’t said anything within range of any of
the audio surveillance equipment they’d installed. Flounder had gotten a clear
picture of the man and showed it to Avery.  

At 10:27AM, the
man was apparently still in the pick-up truck, because he made a phone call and
Sideshow’s bugs heard everything. Both Avery and Flounder were familiar enough
with the language to determine that the man spoke Uzbek, with a spattering of
Russian thrown in. Flounder recorded it, and they listened to it several times,
breaking the two minute conversation apart and taking out the words they
recognized and trying to put them into some manner of context. The only thing
they could clearly piece together was the Uzbek telling whoever he was speaking
to that they would give it “one more day” and “see if they showed” and then “move
out.” It was also apparent by his tone and inflection that the Uzbek spoke to a
superior over the phone.  The Uzbek returned to the house forty minutes later.

This time, catching
a frontal view of the Uzbek’s face, Avery immediately identified him as Otabek
Babayev. There was no mistaking him. The face from the CIA file was seared into
Avery’s mind.

Flounder had the
voiceprint of the Uzbek speaker in the IMU’s Cramer video—the man the Russians
claimed was Otabek Babayev—on his laptop. Computer analysis determined this
voice to be an 88% match with that of the man they’d just listened to. The mask
Cramer’s captor wore in the video could have muffled his voice and account for
the discrepancy.

Babayev’s
presence seemed to confirm that this was an IMU job, Avery thought. He’d been
skeptical of the Russian report claiming that Babayev was the masked man in the
video. After all, CIA and NSA had no sample of Babayev’s voice on file and therefore
no way of confirming it. But here was Otabek Babayev right in front of his eyes.