The shed had looked abandoned yesterday, but that was because they had come there early in the morning. Now it was late afternoon, and a crowd of men had gathered there to drink. Three or four men were leaning against the Honda, which was parked at the front of the shed.
As Rankin raised his gun to threaten them, Ferguson grabbed his arm.
“Not necessary,” he said.
The CIA officer had a wad of twenty-dollar bills in his other hand. With a flick of his wrist the money scattered across the gravel; by the time the first bill had been recovered, Conners was pulling open the door on the driver’s side of the car.
“No offense, Dad, but I’ll drive,” said Ferguson, already behind the wheel. “You already raised our insurance premium far enough today.”
3
Six hours and several long showers later, Ferg and the two Special Forces soldiers sat down in a hotel room in Talas, trying to figure out who had killed Sheremetev. They were examining the digital photos Ferg had taken, which he’d loaded onto their laptop. Copies had already been uploaded to the CIA for analysis.
“Professional job,” said Rankin, who had two towels on his head and a third around his shoulders. He’d stayed in the hot shower long enough for his toes to wrinkle. “Nothing to do with us.”
“Awful convenient timing,” said Ferguson.
“Guy was taking all sorts of bribes for signing his papers,” said Rankin. “Maybe he asked for too much. Boof, they take him out.”
“Boof, Skip?” Ferguson smirked. Rankin had worked with him on an assignment in Russia two months before. Ferguson had specifically asked for the weapons sergeant to be assigned to him on the mission, but Rankin nonetheless tended to irritate him. He was a middle linebacker type; Ferg had played quarterback in prep school and college. Defense and offense rarely mixed well.
“You don’t know boof?” said Rankin. “I thought that was one of those Harvard words.”
“Fergie graduated Yale,” said Conners. “Bitter enemies.”
“Summa cum laude,” said Ferguson.
“What’s that mean?” said Rankin.
“He screwed everybody in sight,” said Conners.
“Just the girls and the sheep,” said Ferguson.
There was a knock on the door. Ferguson took his P7 H&K pistol out and asked in Kirghiz what they wanted.
“Shit, don’t screw with me. I’m paranoid as it is,” said the man outside in English.
The others laughed. Ferg swung open the door and pulled Jack “Guns” Young inside the room. A Marine who’d been recruited by Ferguson primarily for his language skills, Guns had come to Joint Demands via Marine Force Recon. Though the unit was thought of by many as the Marine equivalent of Special Forces, its emphasis was actually very different; Recon lacked such traditional Army SF missions as foreign internal defense and wasn’t a career specialty like SF was in the Army. He felt a bit out of synch with the others, who bore a typical Army prejudice toward members of the more enlightened military brotherhood — namely, the Corps.
Guns carried two large canvas bags, which contained bread, several large paper-wrapped parcels, a jug of water, and two bottles of vodka.
“Party time,” said Rankin, handing the liquor to Conners.
“How’d we do, Guns?” Ferguson asked.
Guns — Young was a Marine sergeant who had achieved the E-7 rank, commonly known as “gunnery sergeant,” hence the nickname — shrugged. His accent might be perfect in five languages, but he wasn’t particularly adept at bargaining or currency conversion, and only the inherent honesty of the Kyrgyz shopkeepers had kept him from getting ripped off too badly.
The room rapidly filled up with the scent of the food. Ferg took a hunk of the
“Yeah, if what ails you is your colon,” said Ferg.
“What’s this?” asked Conners, ripping open the last parcel. “Some sort of meat?”
It looked like a stew with a thick sauce. Guns told him the word quickly. Conners picked up a piece and plopped it in his mouth. “What’s that in English?” he asked.
“Horse meat,” said Guns, and Conners promptly spit it back into the pile.
“Horse is good for you,” Ferguson told Conners. “Plenty of protein.”
“You eat it then.”
Ferg got up and opened one of the vodka bottles. There were no glasses; he took a long pull, then set the bottle down. “How’d it look outside?” he asked Guns.
“Same as always.” The Marine had stayed behind in Talas the last two days, arranging for transport and poking around. He’d also met with a local police official who was on the CIA payroll, though there was some question as to the value of his information.
Ferguson glanced at his watch. He was supposed to call home for an update in five minutes.
“All right. Opinions,” said Ferg. “This is what I think — Sheremetev got bumped off because he knew what happened to the shipment, and he was going to tell us,” said Ferguson. “Police are involved somehow.”
“Why police?” asked Conners.
“Because the mafiya doesn’t drive Ladas,” said Ferguson.
“You’re a foreigner, and you beat the shit out of two guys in the restroom. One of them might’ve woken up and called them,” said Rankin.
“Those guys are probably still sleeping,” said Ferguson.
“Bottom line,” said Rankin, “we still don’t know shit, one way or the other.”
“Well duh, Skip.”
“Hey, if you don’t really want our fuckin’ opinions, don’t ask for them,” said Rankin.
“Sheremetev’s still our best bet,” said Conners. “We ought to concentrate on him, check him out, who he knew, who he didn’t know.”
Ferguson took out his phone. Each man carried one of the high-tech devices; though the size of cell phones, they connected to a dedicated and secure satellite communications system. The only giveaway was a tubular antenna at the side about the size of a fountain pen, which had to be extended to communicate. The phone included a GPS locator chip and a distress mode, which if activated would allow the folks back home to find the phone to within a tenth of a meter. It could also act as a modem for the laptop, and had two silent modes — a vibration alert and a blinking light, as well as associated voice mail.
Ferg keyed in the combination for the special operations center in Virginia known as the Cube, where a mission coordinator — the title sounded more dignified than “gofer” — was on duty twenty-four/seven while the Team was deployed. Unlike a traditional case officer or control arrangement, the coordinator was subordinate to the head of the operation, which was always the officer in the field. The desk handled support, which could literally mean anything; most often it came down to sifting through intelligence and making sure money and cover stories were in place.
Technically, orders for the SF units backing up the Team passed through the desk to the DDO, who then issued them to Van Buren, the head of the SOF group supporting the field operation. In reality, Ferguson and Van Buren generally short-circuited the procedure by speaking directly. While the Team was deployed, an SF unit — generally though not always two ODAs, commonly known as A teams — along with supporting assets — were standing by to bail them out if things got nasty.
