Читать книгу Exclusive - Katherine Garbera - Страница 13

Russ Dorn didn’t like the heat in Berzhaan. It hung in the air in oppressive waves, making a man struggle to breathe. Their contact, a young Berzhaani named Momar, had brought robes for all of his team.

Russ shifted in his djellaba, not comfortable with the fabric draping over his camouflage. But he knew the importance of blending in. He stopped at the back of the large open-air market and rubbed some dirt into his graying beard to darken it.

He purchased enough kaffiyeh for all the men. He spoke in Barzhaani, which he’d learned through deep immersion at home, playing only the Suwan national television station and listening to tapes from Berzhaan.

He’d always had a gift for languages and he’d picked up Berzhaani easily, brushing up on his Russian as well. The language was now a part of him and as he stood in the marketplace letting the sounds flow over him, he felt himself becoming more Berzhaani. He felt it seep into his pores and he was ready for action.

Larry waited in a small alleyway with Jake Brittan and Rodney Petri, two other fathers who’d joined the group. This was Russ’s elite inner militia. Men who knew how to act in a combat situation and weren’t afraid of the risks. Frankly, the ROE on this mission meant there’d be casualties and Russ knew each of the men was unafraid to give his life for the cause.

They donned the kaffiyeh headgear and Russ thought they did a good job of looking like men of Islam.

“Do you have the address for us?” Russ asked Rodney.

“It’s on Sovetski—the name has been changed to something Berzhaani, but the locals still call it Sovetski. Its two klicks from the embassy in a small residential neighborhood. I’ve programmed the GPS coordinates into your devices.”

Russ nodded at Rodney. “We’ll meet there at sunset. Larry and I are going to secure local transport back to the plane. You two make sure we have the carpets needed to get our package out of Berzhaan.”

Rodney and Jake departed and Larry fiddled with his backpack for a minute before handing Russ a Stechkin APS Russian automatic handgun. Russ checked the gun and the clip. He took an extra ammo clip from Larry and tucked it into the back of his pants for easy access.

“You sure about this?” Larry asked. “Once we go in there, we can’t turn back.”

Russ looked the man in the eyes. Larry had been his buddy for more than twenty years and he didn’t want him chickening out before the mission barely got started. This was what too many years and too much grief did to a man. There was a time when Larry would have taken all of Berzhaan with an AK-47 and a few grenades.

“Yes. Are you?” Russ asked, holding his gun easily at his side. Casually he removed the kaffiyeh from his head and folded the scarflike garment into the right size and density for a silencer.

Larry turned his back to Russ and Russ lifted the gun and the cloth. Larry glanced over his shoulder at Russ, eyes widening and hands coming up in an “I surrender” gesture.

Larry took a step back. “Yeah, man. I’m sure. I want our kids back home where they belong, not in this godforsaken place.”

Russ continued to stare at Larry until beads of sweat dotted Larry’s forehead. Then he lowered his gun, tucking it into the large pocket in the middle of the djellaba. “Then let’s make sure they go home.”

Larry nodded. Russ retied his kaffiyeh and led the way out of the alley. They both were careful to blend in with the people on the street. He’d have to keep a close eye on Larry in case he decided he wanted out of the mission.

Both men moved through the street with the ease of pros used to blending in. They were both hunters, well aware of how to keep their prey from becoming aware of them.

Russ felt a surge of adrenaline. There was something to be said about being on a mission with his comrades at his side. They meandered through the city, which had seen too much fighting in recent years. It showed. Some neighborhoods were still intact but others were shelled-out hulls that used to house families that were probably dead.

Russ felt his determination to make this mission a success harden as they arrived on Sovetski and the house that Jake had indicated. The building reminded Russ of some of the pictures he’d seen of Moscow.

Jake and Rodney waited on the first floor landing of the older apartment building. The Kemeni soldiers they’d hired to obtain their package waited upstairs. Russ didn’t want trouble but he was prepared for it. These men had been bought once and could just as easily have sold them out.

“We go in hard.”

“Affirmative.”

All the men pulled their weapons as they slowly made their way up the stairs.

They entered the building and moved in single-file formation up the stairs. They were dark and dirty and smelled of rotting trash and urine.

Jake moved to the front and Russ covered him as the other man knocked on the third door.

“I’m here to see Uncle Fred,” Jake said in Russian.

“He’s still recovering from the car accident, he’ll be glad for the company,” a voice answered from behind the door.

A few seconds later the door opened inward and the men filed in, all of them keeping their weapons drawn.

“I am Jamal, welcome to my home.”

“Where’s the package?” Russ asked, still in Russian. He wasn’t here to make friends. They were on a short clock and needed to get in and out as quickly as possible.

“In a room in the back,” Jamal said.

Russ started toward the room. “Is there a guard in the room?”

“Two of my men.” Jamal edged down the hallway toward a closed door.

“Tell them to stand down,” Russ ordered.

Jamal switched to Berzhaani, calling out, “The men are here and they are armed.”

“You first, Jamal.”

Russ gestured with his gun and Jamal went into the room. Two men sat at a card table, weapons in close range. On the floor were the hostages. All three of them neatly bound, gagged and unconscious. Drugged, as ordered.

They all looked so young, Russ thought, especially the girl. Just like Tommy had. This girl could have been one of his girlfriends.

Russ carefully controlled his burning anger with the kidnappers—they were supposed to take that annoying sensationalist reporter, Shannon Conner, and give the hostage tape to this woman, Andrea something. Shannon was better known—her kidnapping would have put even more pressure on the White House. Just because the opposite had worked out didn’t mean he could let the men off the hook for their mistake. But for now, Russ would work with what he had. As every good soldier did.

The White House should be ashamed of the way it kept the military here in Berzhaan now that the Kemenis were not a threat. If they’d pulled the military back home, then this young woman and two men wouldn’t be here now. They’d be safe at home.

“Where’s the video camera?” he asked Jamal, this time in Berzhaani.

“In the corner.”

“Set it up. We want to make one more tape before we leave.”

The lobby of the Sheraton Suwan hotel was filled with reporters, and Tory kept an eye out for Shannon Conner. She had a history with the newsperson from the rival ABS network. For some reason Tory couldn’t explain, she and Shannon had never gotten along—not even before Tory had exposed Shannon in the scheme that had caused Shannon to be expelled from Athena Academy.

More than 15 years later, Shannon still held a grudge. She’d slept with Tory’s last boyfriend, Perry Jacobs, and almost gotten Tory killed on Puerto Isla in Central America.

Tory was leery of seeing Shannon, yet at the same time she wanted to know where the newswoman had been. Just in case Andrea had been nabbed by mistake.

“Tory Patton?”

Tory pivoted toward the voice. “Yes?”

“Dash McNamara. I’ll be your segment producer while you’re in Suwan. Welcome.”

She shook Dash’s hand. “Thanks. I’m all checked in. I think we’re supposed to be reporting live in less than forty minutes.”

“You’re correct. I’ve already scouted a few locations for the remote broadcast that are away from the hotel. Most of the networks do a nightly broadcast from the balcony overlooking the city, but I know you like to be different.”

Tory smiled at him, impressed that he’d done his research. “What can I say? I don’t like to be part of the crowd.”

“You never could be,” he said, leading her through the people in the lobby. Jay lounged against the wall, cigarette in one hand, camera bag in the other. Next to him was a kid who looked too young to be working in their business.

“I believe you know Jay Matthews. And this is Sal Martini, my PA.”

Tory hugged Jay, glad to see her old friend here. He smelled of cigarettes and coffee. The scent overpowered her for a minute and she battled a wave of nausea. Damn, she’d almost forgotten about her pregnancy until her stomach reminded her. Jay held her longer than he should have, but it had been a long time since they’d seen each other, so she didn’t mind.

She shook Sal’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Patton,” Sal said. “If you need anything just let me know.”

“If you give Sal your bag and laptop, he can store them until we return to the hotel,” Dash said.

Tory handed over her laptop bag and her suitcase but kept the big messenger-style bag that she always carried. She had notes and notepads in there, pens and minirecorders. Everything she needed to work.

She followed the men out of the hotel into the steamy June day.

A small Renault was parked in the lot to the side of the building. She noticed crumbling mortar and cracks in the wall. The city of Berzhaan was in desperate need of rebuilding.

“Were you working with Andrea?” she asked Dash.

“Not directly, but I produced one of her segments. On the day she disappeared, she left to scout an area for the evening report and never returned.”

“What was she covering?” Tory asked as Jay held open the door to the car for her. She gestured for him to climb in the backseat. He winked at her as he did so.

Dash didn’t answer. He got behind the wheel, started the car and drove toward the east side of the city.

“What was Andrea working on, Dash?” she asked again once they were on the highway leading down toward the port.

“The story of some U.S. Marines who have been missing for almost a week. The rest of the unit was rescued from the mountains on the border between Berzhaan and Afghanistan, but two men are still missing.”

“Was Andrea close to finding out if they were alive?” Tory asked. She pulled her notebook out and started making notes. She thought better on paper.

“Not the last time we spoke. She said she was stopping in a local neighborhood to check a lead, then she and the crew were headed to the foothills of the mountains to give her report from there. Her cameraman, Cobie McIntire, was with her, and a translator.”

“Did she have her Blackberry with her?” Tory asked, knowing that the network made sure to track all their foreign correspondents with a GPS unit in their phones.

“Yes, she did. We checked that first thing. The unit has been destroyed, but we have the times and coordinates of her final movements.”

Tory’s heart clenched in fear for her young friend. As an Athena graduate, Andrea knew how to handle herself in the real world. But this wasn’t an everyday situation.

Dash eased the car onto the shoulder and gestured toward the Caspian Sea. “This is one of the locations I found. There’s an outcropping that’s big enough for you and Jay to stand on and shoot.”

Tory looked at the sea. She didn’t even know what she was going to say tonight. “I need to talk to officials and get up-to-the-minute information.”

“How would you like an on-air interview with the lead investigator from the Berzhaani police?”

“I’d love it. Where are we meeting him?”

“Right here, in about ten minutes,” Jay said. “Stop teasing her, Dash, and give her the stuff we gathered today.”

Dash handed her a small sheaf of papers. She started reading them, effortlessly committing the facts to memory.

Jay leaned forward. “I’m getting out,” he said. “I want to double-check the area where we’re shooting.”

Tory got out of the car as well and leaned against the hood, reading the report that had been filed and the few clues the police had uncovered. Shortly after the kidnapping, the vehicle Andrea and her crew had been driving had been used for a suicide bombing at a military checkpoint at one of the border crossings into Afghanistan.

She prayed that Andrea was still alive, and hoped her friend hadn’t been in the trunk of the car that been used as a weapon against Berzhaan.

“Do we know if the car blew up after the tape was shot showing them alive?”

“Not yet. We obtained a copy of the tape and the guys in editing have been analyzing it to ensure its validity.”

Tory closed her eyes and searched for the story she’d tell on the news. The facts were foggy. No one knew too much. She had a number of pointed questions for the lead detective on the case. “Is anyone from the American embassy involved in the investigation?”

“Yes, but they won’t talk to us on air or off.”

“CIA?”

“I’m not sure. We’re poking around where we can, but they warned us strongly to back off.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” Tory said. She planned to track down Ben and find out exactly what was going on with Andrea, her crew and the two missing Marines. There was definitely more here then met the eye.

After the shoot, Tory left Jay and Dash in the hotel lobby and went to look for Joan Simpson, Andrea’s producer.

The police investigator had put a nice spin on the story, telling Tory on-camera that the investigation showed definite progress and off camera that he had men undercover following leads.

Jay had chain-smoked during the ride back and Tory felt a little sick. Since smoke had never bothered her before, she had to believe that her pregnancy was responsible. She was barely six weeks along, and already the pregnancy was affecting her life.

She really hated feeling so out of control. After she talked to Joan, she was going on the Internet to research pregnancy. She’d find a way to manage this the same way she did everything else.

She was standing against one of the columns breathing in the clean air when she saw Joan. The tall brunette was a few years older than Tory but looked as if she’d aged at least ten years since Tory had seen her nine months earlier.

Joan sat in the corner of the bar, a glass of rye whiskey on the table in front of her. No sissy girly drinks for Joan, who’d started in the sports department and proved herself to be one of the guys.

Tory pulled the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and approached Joan.

“Can I join you?” Tory asked.

Joan glanced up. “Sure, Tory. What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Andrea and Cobie and their translator, do you mind?”

“Not at all. I keep thinking about them. Why didn’t I see the danger before I sent them out?”

“No one could have predicted this.”

“True, but that doesn’t make sleeping at night any easier.” Joan took a sip of her whiskey. “What do you want to know?”

“Where she’d been the last few days and what stories she was following.”

“Well, she did all her live reports just outside the city in the desert region. Do you have a map?”

Tory pulled one out of her bag and set it on the table. Joan took the pen from Tory and marked the spot. “The station has a few cars in the motor pool—see Stan and he’ll give you something to drive if you decide to go.”

Tory nodded. Since Andrea and her crew had frequented that spot, the hostage takers could have predicted when she’d arrive and who would be with her.

“Next I’d look for a woman named Alaleh. She works in the open-air market, right here,” Joan said, marking another spot on the map. “She’s a rug merchant’s wife. Alaleh has been very outspoken on the way women are treated here despite the American influences. She might be able to help you, but you can’t see her until tomorrow morning.”

Tory remembered that Andrea had done several stories on that topic. Because of the nature of the demands from the people holding her and the others hostage, Tory feared that America’s influence over women in this region might have instigated the kidnapers going after Andrea.

“Is that it?”

“No, there’s one more spot. Here.” Joan marked an area a distance from Suwan near the mountain range that bordered Afghanistan. “This is near the insurgent camp in the mountains where we suspect the Marines are being held.”

Tory stared at the map. “I called the press office for the Marine Corps to get some additional information from them, but they only referred to what they’d said in their press release.”

“Andrea talked to someone else, I don’t know who. The station had me box up all her notes and personal things. They’re in the news suite—do you want to see them?”

“Yes,” Tory said, and Joan finished her whiskey and led the way out of the bar.

“Do you think Andrea and Shannon Conner look similar?” Tory asked, advancing the theory that had been bothering her since Jay’s comment about the blond reporter.

Joan stopped. “You know, they do. I never really thought about it before.”

“Someone made a comment to Jay about the blond reporter, which got me thinking. Shannon and I aren’t really close enough for me to ask her what she’s been working on….”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Will you be in the hotel?”

“No, I’m going out after this. You can always reach me on my cell.”

The news suite was actually a quarter of the ballroom with partition doors around it to separate UBC from the other news networks. In a small, dark corner with pipe and drape surrounding it was the editing suite.

“Andrea’s stuff is over here.”

Joan led Tory to a small table that had a computer on it. A cardboard box lay on the floor under the table. “You can use this area while you’re here.”

Tory nodded to Joan and sat down in Andrea’s chair. Joan drifted off to talk to some others in the newsroom, and Tory let the sounds drift away until the conversations became background music. She turned on Andrea’s computer and booted it up.

She was tired. If only she could leave this for morning…but the terrorists who’d taken Andrea and her crew had only given the U.S. a few days to take action, and Tory didn’t want to waste any of that limited window of opportunity.

She dug around in the box, hoping to find something that would give her a lead. She sat up when the LAN log-in screen popped up.

“Joan?” she called across the crowd. “Do you know Andrea’s log-in?”

Joan walked back toward her. “I had the IT guys reset it. It’s AJancey for log-in, UBCBERZ for password.”

Tory typed it in. While the computer loaded Andrea’s page, she pulled out a small stack of manila file folders. None of them were labeled. Inside one, she found the notes for the stories Andrea had filed for Tory’s show, A Closer Look. They included interviews with Alaleh and a small group of women.

Tory put that file aside to take with her tomorrow when she tracked down Alaleh. She should be able to recognize the woman.

The next folder had clippings from the AP and Reuters on the Marine Huey that was shot down. She skimmed them but found nothing new in the press articles and no notes from Andrea.

She opened the Outlook e-mail program and read through Andrea’s recent messages. The list had several familiar e-mail addresses and one surprising one. She didn’t know that Andrea had started working for AA.gov.

Tory opened that e-mail with a feeling of trepidation. The message was brief and coded but Tory was familiar with the codes used by AA.gov, since she worked as a courier for the agency herself.

Andrea had been working on an assignment for the agency when she’d been taken hostage.