Slim To None. Taylor Smith
Читать онлайн книгу.
still don’t see what this has to do with Amy Fitzgerald’s kidnapping in Iraq.”
Stern sighed heavily, as if it should be self-evident to anyone but a moron. “The Russians have domestic oil reserves nearly equal to the Saudis’. About the only other country with that much oil still in the ground is Iraq.”
“There’s Iran, too.”
“Yes, but the Iranians haven’t learned how to play nicely with others, have they? Until they do, they’re a total write-off.”
“Okay, so you’ve got Russia, Iraq and the Saudis…”
“Right. The Russians and Saudis were already moving closer to Baghdad before we went in and toppled Saddam. Think of it—the three largest oil patches in the world, strategically linked and controlled by people who certainly haven’t got us in their bedtime prayers. If Moscow and Riyadh controlled Baghdad, they’d have us by the short and curlies, now, wouldn’t they?”
“And you think that’s their game plan.”
“There you go. We put it on hold when we invaded Iraq, but the question is, can we keep it together?” Stern kicked back in his chair and folded his hands over his ample sternum. “Think about it, Evan. Who has a bigger interest in promoting instability over there? If the anti-American forces in Iraq build up enough steam and we buckle and walk away, who’s left to come in and bring that country’s oil industry back online? Why, none other than the Russians, of course.”
Myers sat back in his own chair and stared at the older man. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“But—well, forgive me, Dick, but that sounds like old-school paranoia. You don’t think maybe you’re just a little jaded by your Cold War past? Seeing commies in the woods again?”
Stern scowled. “Need I remind you that the president of Russia was a senior KGB officer, raised on the sour milk of anti-Americanism? If you don’t think this is a big problem, then you’re in the wrong business, son.”
Myers shook his head. “In the meantime, what am I supposed to tell the Fitzgeralds about their daughter?”
“Tell them we’re doing our best. But do not,” Stern added, “do not, young Evan, promise them anything.” He drummed his blunt-tipped fingers on the brown leather desk pad once more. “And while you’re at it, encourage Patrick Fitzgerald to keep his own counsel, for God’s sake.”
“In other words, don’t go to the media.”
Stern’s hands rose, palm up, as if it should be self-evident. “Although it’s rather a case of shutting the barn door after the horses have already escaped.”
“What do you mean?”
“That damn reward. The jungle drums are already beating out the news of that bit of folly.”
“Well, can you blame them? It’s what I’d do if my daughter were kidnapped and I had the money.”
Stern shook his steel-gray head irritably. Shards of light flickered off his rimless glasses. “If Fitzgerald think she’s made things easier by offering a million-dollar reward, he’s sadly mistaken. He needs to lie low. Tell him that, for God’s sake.”
“And if he does? What are the odds of them getting their daughter back safe and sound?”
Stern shrugged. “One hopes for the best and prepares for the worst. Wars have casualties. You know that. I know that. Amy Fitzgerald should have known that before she blundered into the Sunni Triangle.” Before Myers could protest, Stern added, “Stay on top of the Pentagon and Langley. Meantime, I’ll see if I can find out anything on my end. That’s the best we can do.”
A few minutes later, once Myers had been escorted out of his office and out of the building, Stern wheeled in his chair and reached for a phone on the credenza behind his desk. He punched a series of numbers on the base, then listened while the system bounced the call across several international satellite links. The line picked up quickly at the other end, but the voice sounded groggy. It wasn’t just the scrambler encoding their communication, Stern realized, glancing at his watch. It was after midnight over there.
He didn’t bother to identify himself. “Kenner, look sharp!”
“I’m here. What’s up?”
Stern’s trained ear picked up the faint hint of an almost untraceable accent, although he knew that not one in a million other listeners would hear it. The man he called Kenner had American pronunciation and syntax down perfectly, and he used American colloquialisms with ease. It was only one of the reasons Stern found the man so useful.
“The Fitzgerald problem is looking to get out of hand,” he said.
“How so?”
“Patrick Fitzgerald has posted a million-dollar reward for his daughter’s safe return. He’s also calling in markers to pressure the administration to take action. What were you thinking of, standing by while they kidnapped the American woman?”
“They needed a doctor and the local clinic had just gone through a personnel shift.”
“And nobody knew it was an American there? A girl, for chrissake?”
“What can I say? The intelligence was faulty.”
“Nonexistent, is more like it. Enough is enough. It’s time to get this situation back under control. Got it?”
Stern barely waited to hear the assent from the other end before hanging up. He didn’t need to. Orders were meant to be followed. He had no doubt that his would be.
CHAPTER
5
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Iraq, the heart of the Sunni Triangle
The Brandywine team came out of the hills just after 1:00 a.m. There were four commandos with the forward unit that set out from the landing zone. They’d left the pilot and a base guard on backup at the LZ with the understanding that the chopper would pull back to a safer distance if there was any sign of enemy activity in the area. They had no desire to draw undue attention to their effort to extract the two Iraqi civilians from the insurgent-held town of Al Zawra.
Hannah was the lone woman in the advance group that headed down into the valley. Sean Ladwell, the team leader, was on point. Hannah and Marcus Wilcox were in the two and three positions, while OzNuñez was on rear guard. Nuñez, a former marine sniper, carried an M40A1 rifle, while the others had M-16s. In addition, each team member carried a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol with sixteen rounds, half a dozen spare clips, plus a personalized assortment of backup guns, knives, fragmentation grenades and smoke bombs. Wilcox, a former NFL linebacker who’d quit pro ball on September 12, 2001, also had an M203 grenade launcher slung around his Kevlar’d torso. They were armed for bear but hoped to need none of it, slipping back to the LZ before sunup with their rescue targets in tow.
Four pairs of tan leather boots negotiated barren, rock-strewn terrain as they crept stealthily toward the target: the small market town of Al Zawra, population eight thousand, some fifty miles north of Baghdad. Four heads took constant, 360-degree readings of the terrain as they crept forward. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on the green-tinted shadows in their night-vision goggles, searching for any movement that would betray opposition forces. Hunting, too, for seemingly innocuous bumps in the terrain that could conceal improvised explosive devices.
The air, hot and arid, was laden with powder-fine grit. It was all Hannah could do not to sneeze inside the itching balaclava pulled over her head, nose and mouth, but she dared not make a sound that might announce their approach.
The caution was well warranted. They were coming in from the back side of the town that pressed up against the hills rather than via the main road off the Baghdad-to-Tikrit highway. Advance intel suggested that this