The Shadow Patrol

fields stretched for miles. In the distance, a farmer grazed goats on scrub and garbage. The airfield didn’t have blast walls here, only barbed wire and a few warning signs. The apparent lack of security was deceptive. Plastic alarm wires snaked through the fence, and a blimp overhead watched the fields. Anyone who tried to sneak close would be seen long before he reached the perimeter. Cutting the fence would trigger an immediate alarm from the quick-reaction force at the northwest corner of the base, a platoon of Humvees armed with.50 cal machine guns. Even suicide bombers needed better odds than that.

“Fortress Kandahar,” Francesca said.

“We should just spread the perimeter mile by mile until it goes all the way to the borders, kick all the Afghans out. You know a guy named John Wells?”

“The name, sure.” Wells was legendary in the Special Forces. He’d been involved in a couple ops so highly classified that they were rumor even among the Tier One guys. Word was that one involved a nuclear weapon.

“Wells is sniffing around our thing.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he came to Kabul asking about it. He freelances now, thinks he’s some kind of do-gooder, and he got interested in this.”

Francesca didn’t get why John Wells would care about a few kilos of heroin. He suspected Stan wasn’t giving him the full story, but he didn’t want to push. “So what do we do about it?”

“For now, nothing. I think he’s been chasing the source, but that won’t do him any good. Guy’s never met me. I’ve used a cutout. You’re the only one who knows my real name.”

“I’m honored. What about the cutout?”

“I’ll worry about him. But I wanted to let you know about Wells. If you hear his name, see him sniffing around, assume it’s not a coincidence.”

“But why would I see him around? How could he get to me?”

“I don’t think he can. But if he does.”

They had circled back to the southern side of the base, just a couple hundred feet from the heavily fortified headquarters of Regional Command South, which oversaw the war in Kandahar province. “I’ll hop here,” Stan said.

“Good to see you. Next time I’m going to make you have that coffee, okay?”

“Okay.”

Francesca pulled over. “You know what we are, Stan? Shadows. Come and go as we like, do what we like, and the normals can’t touch us.”

“Be safe, Danny.”

“You, too, my man.” They bumped fists and Stan walked away.

John Wells, Francesca thought. Ever since Alders had made fun of him at lunch, he’d been keeping his high-pitched giggle under control. Now he let it loose. John Wells. This whole deal had just gotten a lot more interesting. Enough Talibs in manjamas. Finally, Francesca would have the chance to play against a man worthy of his respect.

STAN MADE SURE that Francesca’s pickup truck had disappeared before he headed to the RC South headquarters gate. He’d almost blown it. He should have known Francesca would ask whether he wanted to keep smuggling after the Strykers left. Francesca was making a lot of money. Plus he liked the game. He was getting weird, all that talk about shadows and normals.

So no more mistakes. Stan had worked too hard, come too far. He’d convinced Amadullah of his sincerity. In a few days, he would cement that trust. Then he’d be only one step away from his true and final goal, the one that he’d told nobody else, not even Francesca. The revenge that belonged to him, and him alone.

16

CHICAGO

After meeting Ryker, Shafer did what he did best. He sped back to Langley and spent the night mining databases as ferociously as a prospector who’d glimpsed a vein of pure gold. By noon, he’d tracked down addresses and arrests and immigration records for Miller. Curiously, Miller’s American passport showed only three visits to Pakistan in five years. Shafer figured Miller had another passport, probably Pakistani, probably in his birth name. He’d use that for trips to Pakistan to save himself trouble at American immigration.

Since the NSA had everything, it probably had Miller’s Pakistani passport records in a database somewhere. But no one had bothered matching up the files. Miller wasn’t an agent and he wasn’t a terrorist. He was a sleazebag occasional. The CIA had plenty of those. Ergo, no one paid much attention to him or his travels. Until now.

Flight records showed that Miller had left Chicago for Dubai about a month before. He was scheduled to return to O’Hare two weeks later, with a one-day stopover at Heathrow. His usual pattern. Miller often stayed in London on his way home from Dubai. Maybe he had an English girlfriend.

This time, his plans changed. Miller never got on the London — Chicago flight. He turned around, went back to Dubai and then Quetta. He was so eager to reach Pakistan that he used his American passport the whole way instead of taking the time to book flights under different names. Shafer didn’t see any clues to explain Miller’s haste. His Chicago cell phone didn’t have the answer. Miller seemed to use it exclusively to order takeout and call home. No doubt Miller had other cell phones in Dubai and Pakistan. And the mole would have insisted on burner phones and single-use e-mail accounts. Short of using human couriers, constantly shifting numbers and e-mail addresses was the best way to stay ahead of the NSA. Though even couriers had risks, as Osama bin Laden had learned.

After arriving in Quetta, Miller disappeared. He wasn’t using his credit cards or phone. Maybe Amadullah was holding him captive in Muslim Bagh. Maybe he’d gone over the border into Afghanistan. Maybe he’d gone back to Dubai on still another passport. Shafer wasn’t too worried about him. The guy’s a cockroach, Ryker had said. A survivor. He’ll still be here when you and I are sucking down dust.

Shafer called Wells to fill him in, tell him to head for Dubai.

“You sure this is the guy?”

“My source thinks so. And I’ve confirmed the arrests, the name change, everything.”

“I’m sick of Kandahar anyway.”

“You get anything yet?”

“It’s tough to sit in the mess, start asking guys if they know about big-time heroin dealing. Kind of a conversation stopper.”

“So that’s a no.”

“That’s a no.”

“Miller can take us straight to the mole if we find him.”

“So you want me to go to Dubai. I’ve got the perfect cover.”

“You’re about to make a joke, aren’t you, John? I can tell because you get all out of breath, like it’s your first time on a bike with no training wheels.”

“Jehovah’s Witness.”

“That’s funny.”

“I’ll go knock on his door. See if anybody’s home.”

“I want more than that.” Shafer explained.

“B-and-Es aren’t my specialty.”

“The DST boys have amazing gear now. Idiot-proof.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Book a room tomorrow night at the Grosvenor House under the Saudi passport. I’ll FedEx you what you need.”

“And what about Chicago? Who’s going to handle that?”

“Me.”