Assassin's Strike Page 8

Coltrane said, “I know it’s not part of your mandate to divulge Corsair’s identity, even to me … but I suspect we’re talking about our Israeli friend?”

  Sorensen wasn’t surprised he’d nailed it—the director had seen Slaton work on at least two occasions.

  “We are,” she said.

  “Is he already in play?”

  “He’s en route. I selected him for this op because I judged his skills to be both necessary and appropriate.”

  Coltrane took on a pained expression that might or might not have been genuine. “Necessary and appropriate skills? I’m not sure I like the sound of that. We both know what he is. I’ve personally seen the man sink ships and destroy jet fighters.”

  “I have no reason to believe this mission will be so … kinetically inclined. Slaton has a wide range of abilities. He also has extensive experience operating in the region in question.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s going to enter Syria. We need to locate and extract a Russian defector who claims to have intelligence regarding a terrorist attack.”

  Coltrane’s words became measured. “What kind of attack?”

  “We don’t have many details yet, but apparently it involves chemical weapons.”

  “Does this relate to the interpreter?”

  “I see you’ve read your morning briefing,” Sorensen said, referring to the “current intel” synopsis given each morning to all top agency officials.

  “I do so without fail.”

  Sorensen explained how Kravchuk had made contact through the Czech embassy.

  “And this slipped past the Syrians?” Coltrane asked.

  “Apparently so. They’re searching intensively for this woman, and it’s a safe bet the Russians are too. If we’re going to get her out of the country, it’ll have to be done quickly.”

  Sorensen went through a rough timetable and covered the possible pitfalls. She explained that if Corsair could spirit the woman to a neutral border, the CIA would take over from there.

  “It seems like a reasonable plan,” said Coltrane. “Do we know where this woman is at the moment?”

  “We think so. On last contact she was holed up in a hair salon in one of the central districts.”

  “Let’s hope Corsair lives up to his reputation.”

  “He will,” Sorensen found herself saying.

  “Are you monitoring his progress?”

  “No. He has the ability to contact me, and we’ll get situation updates. But we won’t be watching his every move. That keeps the risk of comm intercepts low, and also aligns with our desire to avoid attribution.”

  Coltrane said, “All right. Once we have the woman in hand, I want to hear what she has to say. Hopefully it will be worth the risks we’re taking.”

  “I hope so too,” Sorensen said. “But let’s not forget—it’s Corsair who’s taking the real risks.”

  EIGHTEEN

  When viewed from the driver’s seat of a utility van at night, all the world’s deserts look the same. The landscape is gentle, the sky overhead unbroken by canopied trees. That impression would change, Slaton knew, the moment he stepped outside. The texture of the earth would take hold, carried on soft unfiltered air. He would breathe in the scents of parched brush and night-flowering succulents. Even hints of autumn could be discerned by those familiar with the region. And Slaton was indeed familiar. He’d spent many of his formative years not far from here, two borders to the west within sight of Mount Meron. He could never have imagined, in those peaceable days, how the lessons of his youth would be applied.

  Selecting a launching point for his raid across the border was easier than expected. He had seen but one official vehicle since leaving Amman: ten miles outside town, a lightly armored truck parked beside the road. There had been no sign of the attendant soldiers. They might have been on patrol, resting nearby, or addressing a call of nature. Perhaps the vehicle had broken down weeks earlier and been abandoned. Slaton didn’t care—no threat had appeared, and ever since, the desert on his left had been free and clear.

  The headlights cut the night a hundred yards ahead. Because the van wasn’t built for terrain, Slaton began scouting for a prepared road. He’d seen a handful in the last few miles, unevenly formed and marginally maintained, that were unquestionably meant for military use. The few villages and farms he’d seen had all been to his right, and none were less than ten miles from the border—wary settlers keeping their distance from the crazy neighbor.

  Slaton pulled to a stop at the next westbound offshoot. He studied it carefully in the wash of the van’s headlights. The road curved gently into flat terrain and disappeared a hundred yards ahead. From the main road it looked passable. He drove cautiously for the first half mile—it was vital to not hang up the van in a washout within sight of the main road. He navigated by a mapping application built into the phone Sorensen had given him. On all appearances it was a brand-name satellite phone, yet a special application, only accessible by a scan of Slaton’s retina, activated an entirely separate operating system with a menu of special functions.

  The navigation mode ran military-grade GPS accuracy, and the terrain database would have made any platoon leader smile. Slaton used that accuracy to drive within a half mile of the border. There he veered onto a section of level ground surrounded by stands of brush and a few stunted trees. Not perfect concealment, but the best he could expect given the topography.

  He turned off the engine, stepped outside, and stood for a moment. The only sounds were the ticking of the van’s cooling engine and the buzz of an unseen insect. The night seemed unusually still, and as expected, he sensed the desert’s resinous fragrances.

  He scanned 360 degrees, searching for unnatural shadows, any trace of movement. There was nothing. Slaton went to the van’s rear cargo door and pulled both sides open. Before him, strapped tight to the floor, was his core request—a Hayes M1060 dirt bike, designed specifically for Special Operations work.

  He guessed Sorensen had pilfered the motorcycle from the unconventional motor pool of some forward-deployed SEAL unit. The tires were foam-filled run-flats, and the model he’d chosen had an automatic clutch. The exhaust system was suppressed for sound and surrounded by baffles to minimize heat signature. The engine was modified to run on a wide variety of fuels. Diesel, Jet A, biodiesel, along with all common military-grade fuels. The bike would get reasonably good gas mileage, minimizing the need for spontaneous assaults on gas stations. An integrated GPS nav system would back up his phone—the last thing he wanted was to get lost in hostile territory on a dark night.

  He’d given considerable thought to what type of bike to request. Japanese bikes were commonplace in Syria, yet the Hayes was obviously a military item. If he were to run into anyone en route, civilian or otherwise, he would not have the option of posing as a wayward European adventure traveler who’d taken a wrong turn into a war zone. The idea of riding a standard bike straight into central Damascus had crossed his mind, yet while it might have worked in some cities, Slaton didn’t like it here. Few riders in Syria wore helmets, and his sandy hair and loosely Nordic features would stand out glaringly. In the end, he couldn’t escape the Hayes’ one great advantage—its stealth would be invaluable for getting him near the city.

  Once he arrived on the outskirts of Damascus, Slaton knew he would have to improvise to reach the center of town—where Ludmilla Kravchuk was holed up. That, he knew, would be the most dangerous part of the mission. He spoke a number of languages fluently, but Arabic was not among them. For that reason, blending in would be critical. He retrieved the bag he’d traveled with, removed a set of clothes, and began to change: tan cargo pants, two cotton shirts, the outer long sleeve, and a sturdy pair of boots. There was also a thin jacket, dark blue, with a hood. All of it was gently used, and could have been purchased at any retailer in Damascus.

  Slaton loosened the ratcheting tie-downs on the Hayes. Someone had had the foresight to include an eight-foot-long plank in the carg
o compartment. He slid the board outside, leaned it on the bumper, and walked the bike down the makeshift ramp. Returning to the van, he inventoried the rest of his gear.

  In a heavy-duty rucksack he found the weapons he’d requested: one MP5, one Sig Sauer P229 with a right-hand thigh holster. The MP5 was a Spec Ops variant with a collapsible stock. The barrel was threaded for a sound suppressor, also included, and the ammunition was subsonic—a calculated sacrifice of range for stealth. Three spare magazines for each weapon were provided, and enough ammo to fill them all. Slaton hadn’t come to start World War III. Any firefight he couldn’t resolve with two weapons, and more than 150 rounds, was one he needed to avoid.

  The guns looked flawless, but all the same he inspected them under the cargo compartment dome light. He seated a full magazine in each weapon and chambered a round. Slaton looked out over the silent desert. He saw not a single light anywhere on the horizon. The main road was far behind him, and he’d encountered virtually no traffic during the last half hour of his journey. At ten thirty at night, he guessed there wasn’t another human within ten miles.

  It was all the isolation he needed.

  He looked around the van’s interior, and his eyes settled on a box of paint cans, brushes, and rags—no doubt remnants of the vehicle’s past life. He took a paint can that, judging by its weight, was roughly half full. Slaton walked thirty paces to a clear area and set the can on the ground.

  He went back to the van and picked up the Sig. Its weight and grip were familiar in his hand. In the years since he’d left Mossad, there was a period when his training had turned spotty—when he’d lived off-grid with his family on a sailboat. Slaton’s most recent outing with the CIA had been a wakeup call. Resolving to do something about it, he’d set up a tactical range on a remote corner of his Idaho ranch. The Sig and MP, by no coincidence, were favorites in his private arsenal.

  He extended the Sig in a comfortable grip and addressed the paint can. He aligned the forward sight in the rear notch, relaxed his breathing, and sent a single round. A trickle of blue paint bubbled from a hole dead center. He next issued a quick two-shot pairing, followed by three more singles. The gun was true. Six hits in a reasonable two-inch grouping.

  He switched to the MP and did the same, finding a very slight variance to the three-o’clock position. Because he didn’t have the required sight adjustment tool, and because the correction was minimal, he left it as a mental note. The paint can was by then mottled in blue, an oozing cobalt puddle spreading in the dim light.

  Slaton secured the guns, filled the spare magazines, then topped off the ones he’d just used. From the van he removed the rest: a German-manufactured night optical device with an integrated ranging feature, three water bottles, a half dozen energy bars, a combat knife, and a tactical flashlight. All of it went into the rucksack, which wasn’t cut from military-style camo fabric, but rather heavy-duty black nylon. Better to blend in as a civilian if it came to that. There was also a stack of Syrian pound notes in various denominations. After a rough count, he divided it between two thigh pockets.

  It occurred to Slaton that, aside from the bike, none of what he was carrying, should it fall into Syrian hands, could tie him to the CIA. Even the Hayes was used by Special Forces units of other nations. He briefly wondered if the local CIA officer who’d put his package together had been given details about the mission. Probably not, Slaton decided. An untraceable vehicle, tactical dirt bike, guns, ammunition, and energy bars. It was the kind of mission support intelligence staff in this part of the world likely arranged on a daily basis.

  He collapsed the stock of the MP5, and it fit perfectly inside the ruck with the rest. The Sig went into the thigh holster, secured by a Velcro strap. He retrieved the paint can and dropped his brass into the jagged new opening. Holding the can by its wire handle, he spun like an Olympian throwing the discus and launched it far into the desert. He closed the van, locked the doors, and dropped the key in a back pocket. He doubted the van would be noticed for some time. All the same, anyone who saw it—a border patrol unit, Bedouins, a wandering refugee—would likely investigate. Aside from its odd location, the painter’s truck with Jordanian commercial plates was completely unremarkable.

  He noted his present position on the dirt bike’s GPS. Slaton committed the coordinates to memory. He doubted he would leave Syria the same way he was going in—even so, the van was an option to keep, quite literally, in his back pocket.

  The bike’s seat extended far enough to support a second rider, but just barely. Behind that was a small rack crisscrossed with bungees. He secured the rucksack on the rack, making sure the MP5 was easily accessible. Slaton donned the thigh holster, adjusting it for a natural right-hand reach.

  He mounted the bike and turned the key. The engine fired to life. Idle came at an unusually low pitch, suggesting the power resonating beneath. Like a racehorse primed in the gate.

  He looked ahead into the pitch-black night. The border in this area was unmarked, but Slaton knew it was less than a mile distant. He had made it this far with Sorensen’s help. Travel, equipment, weapons. That kind of support was now at an end. It was time to assume the identity Sorensen was after. That of a ghost. A man with no country or allegiance. Only a mission of vital importance.

  Slaton gave the throttle a turn, put the bike in gear, and shot into the desert leading a rooster-tail of gravel.

  NINETEEN

  The As Suwayda Governorate of Syria was vast and sparsely populated. The few villages Slaton encountered were easily avoided. More problematic, and the reason there were so few inhabitants, was the daunting terrain.

  The night optics proved essential as he negotiated the topography. Using the gray-scale image, he ran a twisting path through what looked like sunbaked moonscape. The valleys were little more than rain-carved ditches, while the high ground was pocked with circular craters. The entire region rested atop an ancient volcanic plateau, mile after mile of cinder cones and vents baked into a Mad Max panorama.

  Slaton’s progress slowed considerably near the heart of the plateau. He slalomed the bike amid rock outcroppings, the earth’s molten offerings hardened by a million cycles of cooling and heating. He sought out trails that kept the right general course, and on the best of them he managed a decent speed, but invariably the paths would fade to nothing and he found himself steering through what looked like a giant volcanic quarry. He put down one foot or the other to pivot sharp corners, and realized he should have asked for riding boots.

  Progress became slow and tortuous, but this was not unanticipated—after studying the satellite images Sorensen had provided, he was convinced this was the best route for avoiding detection. The gap he was threading was narrow. To the south were more populated areas, inhabited mostly by Druze who’d established towns and farms in the fertile valley. Conversely, to the north was the As Safa lava field, eighty-four square miles of lifeless rock and hardened volcanic vents. The terrain there was all but impassable, so much so that it had become a defensive fallback in conflicts for a thousand years—most recently, the Islamic State had retreated to As Safa to make its unsuccessful last stand in the south against Assad.

  As he rode, Slaton’s attention alternated between the terrain immediately ahead and the distant horizon. He’d so far seen few signs of life, but that wasn’t going to hold. According to the bike’s nav display, five miles ahead lay his first man-made obstacle—a primary paved road connecting the village of Shahba to the Duma district. If he saw no traffic, his plan was to take that road west, followed by a right turn and a dash toward Damascus. At this time of night, there was a good chance he wouldn’t see another soul.

  How close to the city he could get remained an open question. Inevitably, a transition would be necessary, some alternate means by which to reach a particular hair salon in central Damascus. At the farmhouse Sorensen had presented him with the CIA’s latest assessments. Slaton had taken particular note of Syrian army checkpoints and patrols. The road
s leading to Damascus were a brick wall—every one was being monitored. Yet the off-road approaches from the direction of As Suwayda showed little government presence. The desert bordering Jordan was sparsely populated, making it a low priority for a regime still stamping out endless pockets of resistance in the north.

  Not all of this was in Slaton’s favor. The laissez-faire treatment of the southern governorates fostered a measure of lawlessness. It was the usual cast of suspects. Druze militias were ever watchful around their villages. Bedouin tribes had been walking these sands longer than anyone, and bands of smugglers ran between them. Hezbollah also roamed, although they were a more transitory lot. Even remnants of the Islamic State made the occasional appearance—like a bulge in a water balloon moving to the area of least resistance. Slaton simply had to keep his head up—only by avoiding all of them did he have a chance of reaching Ludmilla Kravchuk.

  He checked the nav display. The road lay three miles ahead. He brought the bike to a stop and used his NODs to search a full 360 degrees. He saw nothing worrisome.

  He put the bike in gear and set out along another dusty trail.

  * * *

  Slaton spotted the road ten minutes later. On first look he saw no vehicles, but wanting to be sure, he guided the Hayes toward a minor hill and paused at its base. He studied the rocky rise through his optic. No more than fifty feet high, it was little more than a weathered outcropping of dirt over black basalt. He parked the bike, deciding the hill would give him a good view of the surrounding area.

  He scrambled up the rise on hands and feet, tiny streams of dirt and stone avalanching down behind him. Slaton paused just short of the crest and settled on his knees for better purchase. He popped his head over the peak and again brought up the optics.

  He first looked west, where the road ran a relatively straight line to the horizon. He knew from his planning that this particular road bypassed Damascus to the south, but connected to Highway 110 which led into town. There were no vehicles as far as he could see in that direction, which, given his elevation and the magnification of the optics, he reckoned to be at least five miles.