The camera continued to pan, then paused and moved back, focusing a half mile down an adjoining street where what looked like an armored personnel carrier sat burning, a geyser of black smoke jetting from its top.
"There . . . there's an APC that's been hit. Johnny, can you zoom in . . ." The camera zoomed in. "See there, no visible crater near the vehicle. That appears to be a direct hit."
On the screen, a cluster of people, mostly women and children, dashed across the street in front of the APC and disappeared down an adjacent alley. Closer in, an open truck full of soldiers wheeled around the corner, swerved around the burning APC, then turned again out of camera range.
"Government troops are clearly scrambling at this point," the correspondent continued, "but so far we've heard no sounds of small-arms fire, nor seen any close-quarters fighting. However . . ."
"Mute it," Lambert said. Grimsdottir did so. "Here we go again."
Since March 2005, when President Askar Akayev had been forced out of office, Kyrgyzstan had been a political powder keg as various factions, extreme and moderate, religious and secular, had fought for control of the country. As one of the Central Asian "stans" that sat atop what was likely one of the world's greatest untapped oil deposits, Kyrgyzstan's strategic importance to the United States was immeasurable, which was why in late 2005, after signs of the Taliban's resurgence in Afghanistan became undeniable, and a moderate government had finally taken control of the Kyrgyz government, the Bush administration had begun pouring money and resources into Bishkek.
All that changed the following spring with a grassroots rebellion fomented by the Hizb ut-Tahrir, in which an extremist Rasputin-like Uygur warlord named Bolot Omurbai seized power and declared Kyrgyzstan an Islamic republic. Omurbai's rule, which almost immediately returned Kyrgyzstan to a Taliban-style country, lasted less than a year before a moderate rebel army, backed by U.S. and British materials, money, and advisers, toppled Omurbai and sent him and his army running for the mountains. Omurbai was captured three months later, tried, and executed; his army scattered.
"If the BBC guy is right," Redding said, "and that was a mortar barrage, someone needs to hit the panic button. There're only a few ways they--whoever theyare--could get that accurate: eyeballs on the ground to measure and map target points and/or satellite-linked, computer-controlled mortars."
"Bad news, either way," Grimsdottir agreed.
If rebels had in fact infiltrated the Kyrgyz government so thoroughly they had perfectly pinpointed targets in the capital, the government's underpinnings were already crumbling. Worse still, if Redding was right and the rebels had gotten their hands on sophisticated weaponry, it was likely they had more at their disposal than precision mortars. It meant they had money, resources, and a sponsor interested in seeing the moderate Kyrgyz government gone. And the United States, still deeply entrenched in Iraq and Afghanistan, was in no position to help. The good news was, most of Central Asia's oil reserves had yet to be exploited, so there was little infrastructure with which the Kyrgyz extremists could meddle and no oil flow they could garrote. However, that wasn't true in all the neighboring stans. One of the West's greatest fears was a country like Kyrgyzstan falling to extremists and then setting off a domino effect in the region.
"Well," Lambert said, "right now, that's someone else's bad news to address. For us, PuH-19 is still missing. Sam, let's have you back in here in fourteen hours. You've got a ship to meet."
17
HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA
WITHtime to spare, Fisher took a commercial shuttle flight, the last one of the night, from Boston to Halifax and touched down shortly after midnight at Stanfield International Airport. As he walked off the Jetway, he powered up his cell phone; there was a text message from Grimsdottir: CALL ME. URGENT.
Fisher dialed, and she picked up on the first ring. "Change of plans," she said without preamble. "The Gosselinmade a sudden stop off Michaud Point--the southern tip of Cape Breton Island."
"And?"
"And they're moving Stewart. Looks like a small boat's taking him ashore."
Damn.As the crow flew, Michaud Point was one hundred sixty miles north of Halifax; by road, probably another fifty on top of that. "We have any assets there?" Fisher asked.
"One, but he's just an information resource. An old friend, in fact."
"Any airports or strips nearby?"
"Strips, but mostly for puddle jumpers and inland charters. If they're going to get Stewart out, they'd have to do it by boat again or get him to an airport proper. I'm putting both Stewart and Pak on the watch list--observe and report, no apprehension unless directed. If they make for an airport, we'll know it."
"Good."
"How soon can you--"
"Bird and Sandy are en route. There's an airstrip at Enfield, a few miles north up the One oh two. I'm on my way."
GRAND RIVER, CAPE BRETON ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA
BYthe time Stewart's tracking beacon made it ashore and finally came to rest at what looked like the middle of nowhere on Cape Breton's rugged southern coast, dawn was only a few hours away, so at Fisher's suggestion, Lambert scrubbed the mission. Before Fisher could track down Stewart and Pak and find out what they were up to, he needed to get the lay of the land. According to Fisher's map of Cape Breton, there were no towns or villages to speak of between Grand River and Fourchu, some thirty miles to the north.
Grimsdottir's contact, an old college friend turned history author named Robert A. Robinson--RAT--as Grim called him, lived in Soldiers Cove not far from Grand River with his wife of thirty-five years, Emily.
Robinson, a Middle East policy expert kept on a consultant's retainer by the CIA, was also, despite being Canadian neither by birth nor citizenship, the foremost expert on the obscure subject of Cape Breton Island history.
"He can brief the hell out of you, make a laser out of your cell phone, and recite obscure sci-fi trivia until you bleed from the ears," Grimsdottir had said.
"A jack of strange trades," Fisher said.
"And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. You can trust him."
Fisher's first impulse was to simply follow Stewart's beacon and do his own surveillance, but Stewart and Pak seemed to be going nowhere for the time being and, as Fisher had learned the hard way over the years, the six Ps were unbreakable laws of nature one didn't taunt: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. Better to know where he was going before he dove in headfirst.
Fisher found Robinson's home, a three-story Victorian that backed up to horse pastures on two sides and a creek on the other, on the outskirts of Soldiers Cove, population 101. It was eight in the morning, and mist still clung to the grass and low-lying bushes. He pushed through the gate in the white split-rail fence and followed a crushed shell path to the front door. It opened as he mounted the porch steps.
A man in a wheelchair, his lap covered by a red argyle blanket, wheeled onto the porch. "Don't tell me: You must be Sam of the no last name."
Fisher smiled. "I must be. And you must be Robert the R AT."
"Ha! I see Anna's been telling tales out of school again." Robinson had a genuine smile and booming laugh. "Come in, come in. Coffee's on."