While I was getting philosophical, Jessie had withdrawn to the study to attend to some essential work. The New York office was one of Private’s busiest, and she was balancing her other duties with her work with me on the Singer case.

  Rather than worrying about my distant future, I needed to focus on my next move. Sci, Justine, and Mo-bot would dig up something on the man posing as Singer, but he wasn’t my prime concern. My main worry was Joshua Floyd. Beth and her children would never be completely safe as long as Floyd was at risk.

  My new phone rang and Justine’s name came up on the screen.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “OK. Safe.”

  “And Beth and the children?”

  “They’re fine,” I replied.

  “You’ve got a call. Dinara Orlova from Moscow.”

  I checked my watch. It would be after midnight there. “Put her through.”

  The line went dead for a moment before the call was connected.

  “Dinara?”

  “Jack Morgan. It sounds as though you’ve been getting into trouble,” she said. Dinara had transformed Private Moscow from a deadbeat operation into a roaring success and it had done wonders for her spirit and confidence.

  “Nothing new there,” I replied.

  “We looked into the situation down south,” she said. I was glad she was being cryptic in case we had any unwanted listeners. “And there have been reports of a lot of unusual activity.”

  “What kind of activity?”

  “The loud and dangerous kind,” she replied. “The sort of heavy response I’d expect from someone who’d lost something.”

  “Can you pinpoint it?” I asked.

  “Yes. Some of my old friends have been very helpful.”

  Dinara was a former FSB internal security agent with excellent connections within Russia’s intelligence community.

  “Do you think you could have a team meet me there?”

  “I can do that,” Dinara said without skipping a beat.

  “Good. I’ll send you my travel plans once I have them.”

  “OK,” she said. “You know, you’re crazy, Jack. I say that with the greatest respect.”

  I laughed. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She hung up and I waited for the inevitable.

  “She’s right,” Justine said after a moment’s pause. “You are crazy. You told me you were going to New York for a run-of-the-mill case to ease yourself back into the field. Now you’re going to Afghanistan. Really, Jack?”

  I thought Justine might stay on the call, but hadn’t wanted her to find out my plans this way.

  “I have a young family with me whose lives will be in danger until this man is brought home safely.”

  “But why do you have to bring him home, Jack? What is the point of having teams set up across the globe if you always go in yourself?”

  “It’s too big a risk and I can’t ask other people to take risks that I’m not willing to take.”

  “This isn’t about other people, Jack. This is about you. No matter what you achieve, no matter what you have, it’s never enough. You’re acting as if you have something to prove. What do you have left to prove?”

  “I don’t know.” I said the words so quietly they felt more like an admission to myself. “Maybe it’s just who I am.”

  “Is it, Jack? And what about me? What about us? One day your luck will run out. Time catches up with everyone eventually. The people who live a long life don’t try to outrun it. They outsmart it.”

  “What other option do I have? There’s reason to believe the Pentagon is compromised. The DOD can’t even get a team into the country to investigate. I’ve served in Afghanistan. I know the country. I have the resources and the capability.”

  “But it’s too dangerous,” she said, getting down to basics.

  “I’ll have a team with me. We’re on a rescue mission, not going into battle. I won’t do anything that will get me, or anyone else, killed. I promise you, I’ll come home.”

  Justine was silent and I knew what that meant. She didn’t approve, but she wasn’t going to disagree.

  “You wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t the man I am.”

  “You’re so stubborn. If you let anything happen to yourself, I swear I’ll find you in the afterlife and make you suffer.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I assured her.

  “Just to Afghanistan,” she said bitterly.

  “Yes, just to Afghanistan.”

  CHAPTER 41

  “YOU DON’T HAVE to do this,” Beth Singer told me.

  She’d left the children watching a movie in the family room and had joined Jessie and me in the living room.

  “I know,” I replied, and turned to Jessie. “Hadn’t we better get going?”

  She checked the time and nodded. “Alvarez and Taft should be here any moment.”

  A buzzer sounded. Jessie went to the video intercom and lifted the receiver. On the screen, I saw the faces of two operatives I recognized: Roni Alvarez, a tough, snarky former Bronx cop, and Jim Taft, a huge, bull-necked ex–Secret Service agent. They were here to guard Beth and the children.

  Jessie buzzed them through the gate and turned to me. “Let’s go.”

  “Please be careful,” Beth said. She took my hands and squeezed them tenderly. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be in touch through Jessie,” I replied.

  I checked I had my phone, passport, and wallet, and followed Jessie outside, where we met Roni and Taft.

  “Traveling light?” Roni asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “We’ll keep them safe until you get back,” Roni said.

  “Stay frosty,” Taft added.

  “Thanks,” I scoffed.

  They went into the house and shut the door, and Jessie and I got in the black Nissan and started out for LaGuardia.

  Brooding clouds hung low over the quiet highway. Jessie drove cautiously through the slush and salt. She’d chartered a private jet, so there was no danger of the aircraft leaving without me.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked as we rolled along I-95. “Roni and Jim will be okay with Beth and the children.”

  “She trusts you,” I replied. “She might need a friendly face with her.”

  There was no need to explain why. We all believed Joshua Floyd was still alive, but the report there were no survivors might be true.

  “Dinara is sending a team to Kabul,” I added. “I’ll be fine.”

  I’d used Private’s secure messaging system to send Dinara Orlova my travel plans, and she’d replied to let me know a member of the Private Moscow team would be in Kabul to meet my plane when it arrived.

  “You need to learn to trust people, Jack,” Jessie said.

  “I do,” I replied. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be leaving Beth and the children with you.”

  “It’s not my place to analyze you,” Jessie said, “but most people running a company of Private’s size don’t get involved in frontline operations. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything,” I replied, but somewhere inside I knew that wasn’t entirely true.

  “You don’t have to save the world single-handed.” Jess smiled.

  “I know. I’ve got you to help me. We all want to be heroes. That’s why we’re in this business.”

  She shook her head and grinned broadly. “You’ve always got an answer, Jack Morgan.”

  We spent the rest of the journey discussing operational issues at the New York office, and after fifty minutes, Jessie delivered me to the executive jet terminal at LaGuardia.

  I saw my Gulfstream G650 waiting on the tarmac, and, after thanking Jessie for the ride, passed through border control without issue, grateful Rafael Lucas had cleared the person-of-interest alert off my record following the motel incident. A few minutes later, I was airborne.

  CHAPTER 42

  LOSING THE HORSE had cost Floyd dearly. He was trying to reach the Pakistan border on foot, crossing some of the harshest terrain and most dangerous mountain passes in the world.

  Floyd was nearing the summit of a mountain that, according to the map John and Chris had given him, would take him to a pass leading into the neighboring valley. There was supposed to be a trail, but it had been covered by deep snow and Floyd was having to use a stick to feel for the edge of the mountain. He was on its shoulder and a wrong step would send him to his death, eight or nine thousand feet below. There were no trees up here, and nothing to protect him from the brutal wind, which seemed to find its way through the layers of clothing, scarves, and gloves he was wearing. The jagged shards of cold bit through his skin and flesh and gnawed at his very bones. This was a brutal environment, and the darkness robbed the world of any color. The only things he had to give him warmth were the images of Beth, Maria, and Danny he held in his mind and the burning love for them that filled his heart. After everything he’d been through, he would not allow himself to die in this strange and inhospitable place.

  Other than the relentless cold, he felt fine physically. John and Chris had given him clothes and food, and he estimated he had rations for two days, which wasn’t going to be enough. He was burning a lot more energy than he would have been if he were completing the journey on horseback as planned, and it was going to take him four times as long. Floyd had a knife and a gun, and when he made it into the next valley he would try to find a wild goat or deer to replenish his supplies.

  The men hunting Floyd weren’t as careful as he was. Every so often, he would see the telltale green glow of night-vision goggles in the valley below, and he heard the distant thrum of choppers. He had been lucky so far. They hadn’t searched the route up to the pass. Maybe they lacked the local knowledge. Or perhaps they didn’t think anyone would be foolish enough to attempt the journey at the height of winter. Floyd wasn’t foolish, just desperate. He would get home no matter what.

  He looked to the east and saw the sky turning gray. It would soon be dawn and he would need to find shelter from his relentless pursuers. Breathless, cold, and exhausted, he conjured images of Beth, Maria, and Danny and held them in his mind.

  Guide my steps, he asked of them, and his family gave him renewed strength to press on.

  CHAPTER 43

  EVERYTHING WAS ON fire and I could hear my buddies screaming. I was standing by the wreckage of my Sea Knight, watching it burn, reeling from the horror of the situation, desperate to run in and save more of the men whose lives I was responsible for.

  Then the horror was gone and I was being shaken awake by the co-pilot of the Gulfstream.

  “Mr. Morgan, we’re coming in to land, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my heart rate beginning to calm.

  He went back to the cockpit and I took advantage of the copious space to stretch my arms and legs. I hadn’t been troubled by that particular nightmare for some time. It used to be a regular specter, and for years I felt as though I was living two lives. One in the present, the other trapped in the nightmares of my past. Like many veterans, I carried the trauma of battle in my unseen wounds, but time had healed the worst of them so I was surprised to be reliving the old horror again, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. This was where my military career had ended: Afghanistan. Maybe that’s why I’d been eager to return. Perhaps there was something I needed to lay to rest here.

  I looked out of the window and saw the chaotic city of Kabul spread out in the sunshine. Ancient buildings mixed with new. The roads were crowded with livestock, bicycles, motorbikes, trucks, buses, a cavalcade of vehicles of all ages, shapes, and sizes, playing a city-wide game of Dodgem. This was a country that had spent over one hundred years locked in war with an ever-changing roster of enemies, but from the air there were few signs of the scars the country bore.

  We landed without incident and taxied to a spot away from the main terminal. I thanked the pilots and walked down the airstairs, where I was met by an Afghan immigration official. He eyed two figures who stood nearby. His wary demeanor suggested he’d had a run-in with them. While he watched them nervously, I grinned at the pair. I should have known they would come. Looking back at me with mischievous grins on their faces were Dinara Orlova and Feodor Arapov, the huge bear of a man who’d been of considerable help during the investigation into Karl Parker’s murder and everything that followed. Dinara’s cascade of long brown hair was today bunched beneath a woolen hat, and her athletic figure was concealed by a thick long coat. Feodor had bushy brown hair and a thick, matching beard, natural insulation against the cold. He wasn’t wearing a coat but relied on a heavy-duty pullover to protect him from the elements.

  The immigration official stamped my passport and welcomed me into the country before retreating to an airport cart and taking off for the terminal. I walked over to Dinara and Feo.

  “What did you say to that guy?” I asked.

  “I told him I would crush him if he gave you any trouble,” Feo replied.

  I smiled and shook my head. “I thought you were going to send a team.”

  “And miss the opportunity to return to this beautiful country?” Dinara replied.

  I couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic, but got the feeling it was a genuine remark. I knew she’d spent time in Afghanistan when she’d worked for the FSB.

  I hugged her warmly and immediately found myself taken back to the night I’d almost confused my personal and professional feelings for her. I smiled awkwardly as we parted, and thought I could see her blush slightly.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I told her.

  “And what about me, American?” Feo asked. “Are you glad I’m here?”

  “Of course, Feodor Arapov. Who wouldn’t be glad to see you?”

  “I’ll tell you who,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Bad guys. That’s who.”

  He pulled me into a bear hug. “But you are not a bad guy,” he said as he squeezed the breath out of me.

  I stepped back and looked at them expectantly.

  “Do we have a car?” I asked.

  “A car?” Feo boomed. “What use is a car in the Hindu Kush in winter?”

  “That’s our ride,” Dinara said, pointing at a Bell 429 GlobalRanger a few stands away. “We chartered it for the week. I assume that’s OK.”

  I nodded. “That’s more than OK.”

  “Good,” Feo said. “Then let’s go. I hear you are a pilot.”

  “I haven’t flown for a while,” I replied.

  “Oh, no,” Feo countered. “You are not flying. I just wanted to know whether you would have the expertise to appreciate real artistry in the sky.”

  “Feo was once a police pilot,” Dinara explained.

  “I was the police pilot,” he added.

  He patted me on the back and set off for the aircraft.

  I looked at Dinara and grinned. “He’s not short of confidence.”

  “He’s Russian to his bones,” she replied, as though that explained everything. “We’ve got clothes and supplies on board.”

  I nodded and followed her to the GlobalRanger. Within minutes Feo had cleared us with the tower and we were airborne, heading for the Osprey crash site, deep in Nuristan.

  CHAPTER 44

  THE STEADY HUM of the engines remained constant as we traveled away from Kabul. Feo was an excellent pilot and kept us at five thousand feet as we flew over the desert that stretched between Surobi and Mihtarlam. There were rocky snow-capped peaks in almost every direction, but beneath us the folds of earth were arid desert—long sloping inclines of sand and rock that offered little shade or shelter. I wasn’t warm even in the Russian winter coat Dinara had given me, which fended off the worst of the chill. The three of us wore radio headsets that facilitated easy conversation, and I had brought them up to speed on the investigation.

  “So we believe Joshua Floyd is still alive?” Dinara asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, “and, if he hasn’t been captured, he’s likely to try to head for friendly territory.”

  “Pakistan,” Feo observed from the cockpit.

  Dinara and I were in the main cabin, sitting on benches that faced each other.

  “That’s where I’d go,” I agreed.

  “What would anyone want with a pilot?” Feo asked.

  It was a good question and one I’d pondered myself.

  “Maybe he’s a foreign intelligence operative who’s turned,” Dinara suggested. “Maybe they want to bring him back under control?”

  I hoped not for the sake of Beth and the children. I knew from bitter experience what it was like to discover someone you cared about was a traitor.

  “I thought it might be something to do with a past mission,” I said. “Maybe someone is out for revenge?”

  “That’s a big grudge,” Feo remarked.

  “Special Forces go up against people with the resources and funds to be able to hold big grudges,” I countered.

  “Maybe they want something from him—intelligence from a past mission?” Dinara suggested.

  “What are your comms like?” I asked. My phone had lost signal three miles outside Kabul.

  “Satellite phone and full data,” she replied.

  “Can you send a message to Mo-bot?” I asked. “See if she can get access to Floyd’s operations file and find out what he’s been doing.”

  Dinara nodded. “Sure.”

  “You better buckle up,” Feo said. “We might get some chop in the mountains.”

  I stood up and leaned through the gap between the cabin and the cockpit. Ahead of us were the foothills of a vast mountain range. The peaks were rich in snow, and I could see clouds of the stuff being blown off the steep summits by harsh winds. Snow-dusted forests rose to about six thousand feet, above which there was just ice and jagged outcrops of rock. It looked a deeply inhospitable place, and it pained me to think Joshua Floyd might be braving it alone.

 

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