Nathan hit the shower. Justin made coffee. He gulped down a cup while sitting next to the window, observing the intersection two blocks away and scanning the windows across the street. They were in a safe house, but it was them who made it safe, not the other way around.
Ten minutes later, Nathan took his place at the observation post. It was Justin’s time to scrub off blood, sweat, and dirt from his body. When he came out, Nathan was scanning the contents of Safavi’s briefcase. He was sitting at the oval kitchen table. Justin glanced at the documents taken from the nuclear physicist. He wondered if they were worth his death and risking their lives.
“I’m almost done,” Nathan said. His left hand moved with purpose across the laptop’s keyboard, while his right hand maneuvered the mouse, then placed the next sheet of paper on a small scanner. “They’re already on the servers.”
The only request they had when renting the apartment was a reliable Internet connection. Impenetrable encryption protected their data in secure online servers, accessible in real-time throughout the world. A copy of the sensitive materials had already arrived at McClain’s work station. The agents would carry nothing on them. Any search of their belongings would reveal nothing incriminating to warrant their detention by the authorities.
“I’ll get the fire ready,” Justin said. He picked up a couple of folders from the table.
“Yes, you can destroy those.”
Justin headed toward the wood stove in one corner of the living room. He did not trust shredders. Ashes made it impossible to reconstruct the information once held by the burned documents.
He rolled up a few of the reports and lit them up. He stared at the flame leaping at the words, the sketches, and the diagrams. A couple of moments later, he threw them inside the mouth of the cast iron stove, closed the stove’s door, and returned to the table.
“I’ll finish before our briefing with McClain,” Nathan said.
Justin glanced at his wristwatch. It was eight forty-five. Their boss was supposed to call them at nine. “Have you tried Ruslan’s driver?”
“Yes. Three times. No one answered his cellphone.”
“You think the Guards caught him?”
“Maybe. If he kept to the road in his Nissan, he made himself an easy target.”
Justin nodded, then looked at the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. It was almost empty, not enough for two cups. “You want some coffee?”
“Sure. I’ll make some.”
“No, I got it. We need to contact Ruslan’s man. I need to ask him questions,” he said.
“You think he had something to do with the ambush?”
“I don’t know, but we need to make sure he’s telling us everything. Somebody gave the sniper our coordinates.”
“Maybe he had another phone. Made a call, then ditched it.”
“Yeah, it’s possible.”
Nathan reached for his satellite phone on the desk and dialed a number. He listened for a moment, then said, “Now it’s telling me his cellphone is disconnected.”
“I don’t like this,” Justin said. “I’ll talk to Colonel Garryev, see if he has another number.”
He tapped his foot on the gray kitchen floor, watching the coffee dripping into the pot. He filled his cup, then searched the cupboard for a clean one for Nathan.
“Thanks,” Nathan said, as Justin placed the cup next to his scanner.
Justin went to his bedroom, returning a few minutes later with a small envelope in his hands. “The defector’s papers,” he said and headed to the stove. He threw them all in the fire, after weighting them for a moment or two in his hand and taking a deep breath. A lot of time and effort had gone into obtaining a genuine Canadian passport, a matching driver’s license, and credit cards. The fire engulfed the documents, and the smell of burning plastic filled his nose. He closed the stove’s door.
The cleanup stage of their operation started the moment they returned to their apartment. The time had come to erase all evidence, all traces of their true purpose for being in Turkmenistan. The last items they needed to get rid of were their weapons and their tactical gear.
“Here’s the rest.” Nathan handed Justin a batch of documents in a folder.
“Thanks.” He began to crumple the sheets and toss them into the fire.
The satellite phone on the table beeped an alarming tone. “It’s McClain,” Justin said. The man had a reputation for being punctual for meetings or phone calls. “Hello, sir. This is Justin and Nathan,” he said after checking the caller’s number.
Nathan sat across from him. Justin pressed the speakerphone button.
“Hello, boys. How are you doing?” McClain’s deep voice came loud and clear as if he were standing in the other room.
“Doing great, sir. Just eager to come home,” Justin said for both of them.
“Anything new about what happened in Iran?”
“Negative. Ruslan’s driver, Suleyman, has gone underground. If Colonel Garryev cooperates, we’ll find him,” Justin said.
He felt Nathan’s curious eyes fall on him and waved his hand. It was Nathan’s turn. “All documents retrieved from the defector have been transmitted to our servers. We’re tidying up the place.”
“Good job. I’ll have our analysts review them and determine their authenticity and their importance. We’ve gathered some intel about movements of rogue Taliban fighters in Northern Afghanistan near the border with Iran. Perhaps some of them crossed over to smuggle weapons or drugs and intercepted you or the defector.”
“They stumble upon our operation, and one of their snipers decides to have a field day?” Justin said.
“Maybe they took you for someone else. One of their rivals. Or they realized you were foreigners, Westerners, and just couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
Justin pondered on McClain’s words. The Taliban had hired foreign mercenaries to attack American troops in Afghanistan, drawing fighters from former and current warzones in the world. Somalia. Chechnya. Yemen. It was possible Justin and Nathan became targets of convenience.
“I still believe someone betrayed us and leaked the intel,” Justin said.
“I’m checking with CIA and MI6 about developments in northeast Iran. I’ll inform you right away once they have anything concrete.”
“Sounds good,” Justin said. “We’ll press Colonel Garryev for some answers.”
“You will not have time for that. I want you boys out of there ASAP.”
“We have seats on the first flight to Azerbaijan tomorrow morning at eight hundred. Our next stop is Frankfurt, then back to our Cairo station.”
McClain coughed, then paused for a few seconds. “There’s a change of plans, Justin.” His voice lost its evenness, turning edgy. “I’ve got some bad news.”
He told them about the Navy SEALs squad that had gone missing in southern Somalia earlier that morning after their Black Hawk helicopter had fallen into an ambush. Everyone aboard was considered dead or captured, although their bodies had not been recovered, and there was no other intelligence about the doomed operation.
Justin’s eyes darkened and his frown grew deep. He hoped he would not see the charred bodies of American elite troops dragged through the streets of Somalia, crowds of armed militants cheering and doing their macabre dance. Perhaps it was less gruesome than being beheaded alive for the pleasure of Jihad supporters.
He felt partly responsible for the fate of the SEALs. His team at the CIS Cairo Station — his headquarters when not in field operations — was responsible for assessing the intelligence leading to the operation.