Missing persons, p.12
Missing Persons, page 12
“Where are we heading?” I asked, as Feo took us up.
“Kamdesh,” he replied. “Local intelligence says there was some trouble there a few nights ago.”
I nodded and returned to my seat in the back.
The chopper started to dance in the updrafts and I pulled on my seat belt. I knew Afghanistan well. This was going to be a bumpy ride.
CHAPTER 45
IT WAS BITTERLY cold. Justine shivered as she and Sci walked along West 81st Street. They’d arrived in New York that morning, having caught the red-eye with Mo-bot. Jessie Fleming had met them at JFK and driven them to Private’s office at Forty-One Madison, a thirty-six-story black glass and steel skyscraper that stood on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 26th Street, overlooking Madison Park. Private New York was headquartered on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors, and they’d been given a meeting room that was to act as the base of operations for their investigation into the man posing as Beth Singer’s father.
“You’ve been pretty quiet,” Sci observed as they weaved around another couple heading along the icy sidewalk.
“Just thinking,” Justine replied.
“Pining?” Sci remarked with a knowing smile.
“No.” She elbowed him playfully.
In truth, she was worried about Jack. The thought of what he could be facing in Afghanistan was almost too much for her to bear, particularly after what had happened in Moscow. She’d insisted they come to New York, not just to be closer to the guy they were investigating, but because she wanted to be there the moment Jack stepped off the plane on his return.
She had tried not to worry and had focused on getting the local investigation up and running. She didn’t have Sci’s forensic skills or Mo-bot’s knowledge of computers, but as one of the country’s leading criminal profilers, Justine knew people.
“You don’t have to worry,” Sci said. “Jack knows how to take care of himself.”
“I’m not worried,” Justine replied, but that was less than the truth.
She wasn’t just worried about whether or not Jack would come home. Each of these major investigations took an emotional toll on him, and while it might remain hidden from others who only saw the confidence and bravado of a hero, she saw beneath the façade. The Moscow investigation had been particularly grueling, and even Jack acknowledged how much it had affected him. It wasn’t often that Jack Morgan benched himself. Justine knew Afghanistan already held traumatic memories for him. She prayed that he would not pay too high a psychological price for whatever was to come.
“If you say so,” Sci responded. “Although I’m a little offended that after all these years working together, you don’t think I’m smart enough to read you like a book.”
Justine elbowed him again.
“Cut it out,” he said. “Try to be professional. We’re almost there.”
Mo-bot had traced the cell phone Justine had called to contact Donald Singer to an apartment building on West 81st Street, one block from Central Park. Justine and Sci had volunteered to see if they could pin the phone to a specific apartment. It hadn’t moved since it had been taken into the building.
38 West 81st Street was a grand old building with a green awning that traversed the sidewalk. It was the kind of prime real estate foreign investors would pay a premium for. It was a short walk from the park, and apartments on the upper levels had balconies that overlooked the small playground in the broad West 81st Street median. It was a beautiful part of New York City, and ownership of an apartment in the building would have been a status symbol for a certain class of jetsetter.
A liveried doorman opened the brass-bound door for them and smiled as they entered a huge vaulted lobby. There was marble everywhere and lush potted plants abounded, as did expensive abstract artwork. Justine didn’t need to be an expert to know these were all costly originals.
She and Sci crossed to a long marble reception desk.
“Can I help?” the suited receptionist asked.
“I hope so,” she replied. “My colleague and I work in Fisher’s, a jeweler on Fifth. One of your residents was in the store yesterday and he left his billfold. We have his address for delivery of a bespoke piece he ordered, but we’d like to make sure he gets his money back sooner rather than later.”
Sci produced the billfold containing three thousand dollars in hundreds.
“My colleague accompanied me for security,” Justine said.
The receptionist’s smile was condescending. “Quite. Well, if you’d like to leave it with me?”
“We’d rather not,” Justine replied. “It’s quite a lot of money.”
The receptionist’s teeth remained on show even though Justine could tell he was offended.
“We don’t have any dishonesty in this building,” he said coldly.
Justine fought the urge to scoff.
“Could you give me the resident’s name?” he asked.
“Donald Singer,” Sci replied.
The receptionist frowned. “We don’t have anyone here by that name.”
Sci produced his phone and showed him a photograph of the man posing as Donald Singer. It had been lifted from the false Singer Investments property company website.
“Ah, Mr. Andreyev,” the receptionist said. “A very private man.”
“Naturally,” Justine responded. “Many of our clients use pseudonyms for reasons of discretion.”
Sci handed the receptionist the billfold. “Can you make sure he gets this?”
“And could you also ask him to phone Fisher’s and confirm receipt?” Justine asked. “Just to put my boss’s mind at rest.”
“I can certainly ask,” the receptionist said. “I will run this upstairs immediately.”
Sci and Justine thanked him and headed for the exit. The doorman smiled as he let them out. When they were a short distance from the building, Justine spoke into the microphone concealed within the cuff of her sleeve.
“You got it?”
“Yes,” Mo-bot replied into Justine’s earpiece. “I’m following it through the building now.”
The billfold contained a tracking device that would enable Mo-bot, sitting in the warm comfort of their operations room at Private New York, to pinpoint Andreyev’s exact location.
“And I’ve started running the name,” she added.
“We’re on our way back,” Justine said, satisfied with their work.
In a few minutes they would know exactly where their target was based, and soon they’d know who he really was.
CHAPTER 46
KAMDESH WAS A small town located high in the Hindu Kush mountains. I’d flown these ranges before, but still found their majesty breathtaking. We approached from the south, flying up the valley, and I looked out of the chopper in wonder as huge peaks loomed to our north, their snowcaps dazzling in the morning sun. The lower flanks were a kaleidoscope of purples, grays, and blues in the bright light, and further down there were deep greens of cedar and fir. I couldn’t help but feel insignificant in the presence of something so vast, and these were only a handful of the mountains stretching to the north and west as far as the eye could see.
My body ached and the bones in my feet felt as though they’d shrunk away from my soles. My eyes were heavy with jetlag and I could feel the ominous signs of a headache forming, but all these nagging discomforts melted away as I took in the awesome landscape.
We flew into Kamdesh a little after five. The town was a feat of engineering, built into the mountainside in terraces so that one home was constructed almost on top of another. Steep roads and alleyways carved through the clusters of buildings.
I joined Feo in the cockpit as he circled, searching for a place to land. Beneath us, people emerged from their homes and looked up at the aircraft. Some of the men carried rifles, others were armed with machine guns. A few were shouting instructions and pointing up at us.
“They don’t look friendly,” I observed.
“A thousand friends are few, one enemy is too many,” Feo replied. “It’s a Russian proverb that teaches people to be cautious. Like them, I hope.”
I hoped they were just being cautious too.
“Down there,” I suggested, spotting a shoulder of land that protruded to the north of the village near a track that led out of town.
Feo nodded and said something in Russian. I looked back to see Dinara smiling.
“He said he hates backseat pilots,” she revealed.
“She’s lying,” Feo objected with a broad grin. “I would never say such a thing about my boss.”
I buckled myself in as he swung us around and began his descent. A crosswind coming up the valley buffeted the chopper, but Feo compensated expertly and we were soon on a snow-covered patch of ground.
Outside, a group of armed men were coming along the track.
The yelling started the moment Dinara opened the cabin door. She swung it back and was greeted by a barrage of anger delivered in Kamviri. I unclipped myself and hurried back to join her. She jumped down and replied in Pashto. It wasn’t the local dialect, but most of the men there understood her.
They moved forward, close now, their guns pointed at us, their voices still loud and angry.
Dinara spoke again and Feo climbed out of the chopper. He held an SR-2 Veresk submachine gun and had an MP-443 Grach pistol in a holster slung under his arm. The size of the man, coupled with the hardware he was toting, only served to fuel the crowd’s hostility.
Dinara carried on talking. Slowly the angry shouts morphed into low grumbles.
“Their village was attacked three nights ago,” she revealed. “A unit of Russian mercenaries. They killed three people and wounded another twelve. They think we’re part of the same unit.”
She turned and spoke some more. A young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty yelled at the others and, a few moments later, they dispersed and headed back toward town.
“I told them we’re friends of the pilot, the man the Russians were looking for,” Dinara explained.
The young Nuristani man stepped forward and slung his AK-47 over his shoulder.
“Hello,” he said. “You speak English?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“My name is Vosuruk,” the young man said. “After my grandfather. He was an important man here.”
“Nice to meet you, Vosuruk. You can call me Jack.”
“Welcome, Jack. Come with me, please. There is someone who can help you.”
CHAPTER 47
I KNEW FROM experience that when you weren’t facing them across a battlefield, the Afghan people were warm and welcoming, and Vosuruk was no exception.
“Did you come from America?” he asked as he led us along the track that ran into the village.
I nodded.
“We came from Russia,” Dinara replied.
“The Russians killed my uncle,” he remarked. “But that was long ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Dinara said.
“What for? We fight with honor. We die with honor. And my uncle killed many Russians before he died. So maybe I also should say sorry.”
Feo laughed. “Smart kid.”
Vosuruk smiled in reply. He was about a foot shorter than me and wiry, but I could sense strength in the way he moved. The mountains punished weakness, so the people who lived here had to be tough.
“I want to go to Moscow one day. And America. I want to see cities where there are more people than there are stars in the sky.”
He turned right onto a narrower track that lay between two rows of houses. “This way,” he beckoned.
We followed and I admired the simple but resilient architecture and construction methods used to build homes in such a difficult environment. Square, functional, built with a mix of brick and concrete, much of which had been clad and whitewashed, there were still enough distinctive flourishes to distinguish one house from another. A blue ceramic plaque of Quranic text hung beside one door. Another had red-painted window frames. A third featured a wall that was covered in an abstract artwork formed of brightly colored cubes. No matter the conditions, wherever I’ve been in the world, people always seek beautiful ways to express their individuality.
“Have you seen a Ford F-350?” Vosuruk asked. “It is a pickup truck.”
“It’s a good truck,” I replied.
“It is another dream. One day I buy one from America and bring it home. I see it in a magazine and I feel in love.”
“Where did you learn English?” Feo asked. He towered over the slight Afghan.
“From my teacher. We’re going to see him now,” Vosuruk replied. “He’s English. Proper English. Not American or Russian. Original English teacher.”
I wondered what could have led an English person to this remote mountain village. There were worse places to live, but it wasn’t somewhere I’d imagine was rich in opportunity for the foreign settler.
Vosuruk took us to the house on the corner at the far end of the alleyway. I looked south down a narrow road toward the bottom of the village and saw evidence of recent battle. There were blast craters and bullet holes in the thick walls of nearby houses, scorch marks on the white paint.
“The men who came here did that,” Vosuruk explained.
He knocked on the door of the house on the corner and a moment later a woman’s voice responded in Kamviri.
“She says to come in,” Vosuruk said. He opened the heavy, weatherworn door.
We stepped inside a small room that was full of shoes, boots, and coats in two sizes. Vosuruk took us through an interior door into a large open-plan space that consisted of a living area decorated with richly colored cushions and throws. A kitchen was built around a large hearth and a stone chimney hung above it and stretched up to the steep ceiling. A couple of screens partitioned a sleeping area by the large window overlooking the valley.
A slim, brown-haired woman stood near the screen.
“These people say they’re here to help the American pilot,” our guide said.
“Thank you, Vosuruk,” the woman replied, and the young man nodded and withdrew.
“Who are you?” the woman asked. She sounded Californian.
“Jack Morgan,” I replied. “I run Private. It’s a detective agency. These are my colleagues, Dinara Orlova and Feodor Arapov.”
The woman studied us but said nothing.
“What do you want with him?” a voice asked from behind the screen. The man spoke with an English accent.
I heard a soft groan and someone shuffling around, then a tall, athletic man appeared from behind the screen, placing his hand on the woman’s shoulder. He wore a vest, and there was a bandage over his right shoulder. He looked pale, and I guessed from the nature of the dressing and the flecks of blood seeping through the bandage that he’d been shot.
“We’re here to take him home,” I replied. “We’re working for his family. Vosuruk said you’d be able to help us.”
“The paramilitaries who came here and shot the place up were well equipped and sophisticated,” the man said. “The kind of people who might come back to try a softer approach. How do we know you’re not working with them?”
His accent suggested he was British.
“We’re nothing to do with them,” I assured him. “I don’t know who they are or what they want with Joshua, but you’re right to say they’re sophisticated. They’ve been operating in the US at the same time, to try and capture his family.”
The man and woman judged us silently. Feo kissed his teeth and exhaled in frustration, but now wasn’t the time for confrontation.
“If you know where he is, please tell us so we can take him home. His family is in danger, and getting Joshua to safety is the only way to protect them.”
The man and woman exchanged a skeptical look before she fixed me with a piercing stare. “Convince us.”
“Convince us you’re telling the truth,” the man added. “And then we’ll see if we can help.”
CHAPTER 48
FLOYD WOKE SUDDENLY. He hadn’t been dreaming; he was too exhausted. He came around from a black void that felt like death, and immediately wished he could go back to that blessed oblivion. Every muscle ached and his eyes burned with fatigue. He felt feverish, as though there were hot coals somewhere deep inside him, but when he touched his skin his temperature seemed normal. He suspected he was starting to experience the combined effects of altitude sickness and exhaustion.
He could see bright sunshine through the tiny crawlspace that allowed access to the cave where he’d planned to spend the day. He saw a shadow cross the light, and the hairs on his neck bristled. His stomach filled with acid as he realized something must have woken him. Was it a creature of some kind? A branch blown by the wind? He held his breath and listened closely, but heard nothing except the breeze through the trees.
He rolled onto his stomach, grabbed the coat he’d been using as an extra blanket, and slid it over his shoulders. He crawled to the cave mouth, which was only a little broader than his shoulders and taller than the width of his torso. He’d found the tiny entrance at dawn, after having spent much of the early hours looking for a place to bed down. He was at the foot of the last mountain before the range that would take him to the border. One final push up and over the next set of peaks would take him into the adjacent valley, on to a pass that led to the border with Pakistan.
To ears that had become attuned to silence, the scratching of loose rock sounded like the applause of a crowd of thousands. Floyd tried to move more quietly, but it was hard to do when crawling. He approached the end of the tunnel and used his forearms to inch forward and pull himself to the lip. He poked his head out and saw nothing but snow and the trunks of cedar trees. He hauled himself out carefully and slowly.
“Don’t move,” a voice said in a thick Russian accent.
Floyd glanced around to see a man in blue, gray, and white snow camouflage and a gray ski mask standing on a rocky outcrop above the cave mouth. He had a Vityaz-SN submachine gun aimed at Floyd’s chest.
“Get on the ground,” the gunman ordered, before saying something in Russian into a handheld radio.
