maybe fifteen guys in all. And for now it’s only running in Afghanistan. This is about the mole, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Funny thing is, you might be telling the truth. But you lie for sheer sport, Vinny. Even when I want to believe you, I have a tough time.”
“Can we step back here? Start by telling me why you think Francesca is the right guy. Last we spoke, Wells found something at Daood Maktani’s house in Dubai. Then he went to that base to give a speech. Did you find Maktani? Did he give you Francesca?”
“No. Maktani, David Miller, whatever you want to call him, he’s gone. Nothing from him in weeks. I have a bad feeling about it. I see dead people. Most likely Amadullah took care of him.”
Duto didn’t even pretend to care about Daood Maktani’s fate. “Okay, so he didn’t give you Francesca. Where’d it come from, then?”
“So Wells gave the speech at FOB Jackson.”
“I know that part.”
“Right. Afterward, a sergeant down there went to Wells, told him guys in his platoon were involved in big- time trafficking. Also that he’d seen an SF operative meeting them and he was sure the op was picking up the drugs.”
“You didn’t tell me this.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“This soldier narced on his buddies? That seems like a long shot.”
“Yes and no. Wells and I worked the speech so that anybody who knew about the dealing would sense we were reaching out. We figured somebody had to know. We just needed him to be pissed off to raise his hand. Talking to Wells, it’s not like calling CID. Anyway, that’s what we figured, and it worked.”
“That’s why it was so important that Wells stay in RC South?”
“Correct. So then I tracked down Francesca, connected him to the Stryker soldiers. And earlier today Wells went back to FOB Jackson and got a positive identification from the soldier.”
“But you’ve got no hard evidence.”
“No. Circumstantial only. But why would a Delta hang out with a couple random Strykers?”
Duto nodded. “And you see Francesca as your best bet to find the mole. Not Amadullah?”
“Amadullah’s gone. His phones are dark. When we ran satellites over the compound, we found the women are there but most of the men are gone.”
“So the mole is rolling up his network. Wells came over, got him nervous. Now he’s shutting down.”
“Looks that way. Plus I’m not sure that Thuwani knows who the mole is. The mole’s always used Daood as a cutout. Which leaves Francesca.” Shafer hesitated. “But something else is bothering me. I still can’t figure what this is
“Motive is overrated.”
More proof that power was the only principle Duto understood. Because he had no ideology, he assumed no one else did either. “Motive is everything.”
“It’s simple. Our guy saw a chance to make some money doing business with the Taliban. He’s greedy.”
Shafer rattled his head back and forth. “You know Kabul station better than that. Tribal leaders don’t take checks.” The CIA sent cases of hundreds and twenties to Afghanistan every month, money that got handed out to friendly locals in return for receipts that were smudged thumbprints. Audits were impossible. A corrupt case officer could simply invent sources and pocket the cash he was supposedly paying out.
“There are other ways to steal, sure.”
“Then why go to this much trouble? It’s like he wanted to build a relationship with the Thuwanis and used the drugs as a way in. But I don’t know why.”
“Francesca can tell us.”
“Let’s hope. I’m looking to connect him with Kabul station, but so far I’ve come up dry. I suspect whoever’s working with him is a childhood friend, or high school. Something not in the records.”
“And you don’t have the evidence to challenge Francesca directly.”
“No. And like you said, we’re getting short on time. We have to yank his chain, make him come out and play.”
“So you called down to Fort Bragg, baited the colonel.”
“Correct.”
“I assume John’s ready on the other end.”
“John’s always ready.”
25
Posters of kittens and puppies covered the walls of the trailer that Francesca and Alders shared. Francesca had bought the first one six months before at an online store that offered free delivery to all military post offices. Two tiny cats tugging on a bright yellow thread of yarn. Across the top, sky blue letters proclaimed, “Playtime.” He hung it over his bunk when Alders was at the gym.
“Seriously,” Alders said when he got back.
“Seriously.”
“Playtime.”
“Playtime.”
Alders didn’t say anything else. So Francesca bought more. He avoided anything ironic, like the poster that proclaimed in heavy black type, “Kitten thinks of nothing but murder all day.” Just cats and dogs running through meadows, splashing in pools. One for every kill. His reward to himself for a job well-done. If anyone had asked, Francesca would have insisted the posters were a joke, and they were. But they were something else, too, a way to remember that the world did have happiness even if he could no longer feel it.
Now he lay on his cot, hands clasped behind his head, looking at his favorite poster, a tiny Chihuahua with absurdly big ears. Her head was tilted as if she’d just heard her name and couldn’t decide whether to answer. Francesca called her Holly. Sometimes he imagined that when he got home he’d go to a shelter and get a real Holly. But he knew what would happen if he did. He’d play with her, buy her treats. But one night she’d pee on the floor, or he’d get tired of her yapping. He’d tell her to stop and she wouldn’t. Then he’d pick her up and snap her neck and toss her in the trash. Killing humans didn’t bother him. Why would killing dogs? He supposed he could live with a perfectly trained husky or shepherd, an animal that answered to him and him alone and never barked except in warning and never disobeyed or begged for food. But a dog like that would basically be a robot. He didn’t want a robot dog. So he was left with the posters.
He and Alders were due to ride out at two a.m., deep into the Arghandab River Valley, which stretched northeast from Kandahar City into Zabul province. For most of its length, the valley ran roughly parallel to Highway 1, which was about twenty miles to the south. The apparent proximity was deceptive. A rugged ridge of hills and low mountains split the valley from the highway, with only a handful of dirt tracks offering passage. In reality, the central Arghandab was as deeply isolated as anywhere in Afghanistan.
Over the last couple months, a Talib cell had planted five huge IEDs in the valley. Three had been found and disarmed. Two hadn’t. The most recent was the biggest yet, four hundred and twenty pounds of explosive from surplus Russian artillery shells. It had blasted through a Gator armored truck and killed everyone inside, four soldiers and a reporter and photographer from the
The Talib cell planting the IEDs was clever. The valley was a soft target, because it had two American combat outposts but no major bases. The closest was FOB Jackson, which was on Highway 1 and focused on that road. No big bases meant no blimps and less helicopter and drone surveillance, which made it possible for the cell to dig bigger holes and plant bigger bombs.
