Ghazan next requested access to the occupants of the Forerunner, claiming that they were harboring a Russian national wanted for questioning. Gerald, to his credit, refused the request and suggested that Ghazan take up the request with the American ambassador. In response, Ghazan gave a disappointed look, pulled out his cell phone, and called the Tajik interior minister.
No more than eight minutes later, Gerald received a call from the DCM.
Standing nearby, Avery listened to Gerald get his ass reamed out and verbally handed to him by one irate deputy chief of mission, while Gerald stammered, stuttered, and, ultimately, disappointingly but predictably submitted.
Gerald ended the call and turned to Darren. “We are releasing Miss Denisova into the custody of the Tajik Ministry for Internal Affairs. They will deliver her to the Russian embassy. From there, I am assured she will be sent safely home.”
“Like fuck you are.” Avery’s eyes flashed, and he moved in on Gerald, ready to tear his throat out. Gerald flinched and jumped back. Ghazan’s men tensed, too, and a couple hands inched closer to their side arms, eyes locked on Avery, as if he were a rabid dog. “I don’t give a fuck what DCM told you. I’m responsible for her, not you. You can’t hand her over to them.”
Darren came between them. His eyes locked onto Avery’s. His hand lingered near his pistol. “Stand down now.”
“Stay the fuck out of my way, you prick.”
Poacher stepped up behind Avery and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, boss. Don’t do anything stupid. My guys will keep track of things here. Just relax, okay?”
Avery finally nodded and backed down. Satisfying as it was, sticking Gerald in the face wasn’t going to accomplish anything. When he glanced past Darren’s shoulder, he saw one of the CIA officers escorting Aleksa to Ghazan’s officers. She looked back at him, and he saw the confusion and panic in her eyes, questioning if he’d stabbed her in the back and abandoned her. They guided her into the back of one of their cars and shut the door, and it seemed as if the ordeal they had just went through aboard the Antonov had been for nothing.
There was nothing further Avery could do here. It was a feeling that was becoming increasingly common lately, and he grew sick of it. If he intervened, he’d have both sides going after him, and the DCM would probably happily allow the Tajiks to throw him in jail.
Gerald looked relieved when two armed GKNB officers finally directed Avery into the back of a marked car, just as the car carrying Aleksa pulled away.
First the Tajiks took Avery to GKNB headquarters, for “processing” and for him to fill out paperwork. They held him there over two hours before finally delivering him back to the airport. The emergency vehicles and Russian military helicopters were long gone by that time. The GKNB officers sat with Avery and waited in the departures lounge for another hour before the CIA plane that had first brought him here returned. The Learjet had been staying at the Manas Transit Center, an American-leased military facility at Bishkek’s international airport, in neighboring Kyrgyzstan the past five days.
The GKNB officers escorted Avery across the tarmac. They watched him climb the stairs into the cabin. Once he was finally in the air, they departed and reported to Colonel Ghazan that Avery was gone.
Culler had arranged for a USAF medic stationed at Manas to make the flight. Avery refused the morphine she offered, but allowed her to examine him and apply bandages around his chest and stitch his face. He hadn’t sustained any internal bleeding or ruptured organs. She advised him to get plenty of rest and to stay off his feet, instructions Avery was confident he wouldn’t follow, at least not for the next few days. Then he reclined his seat back and slept for the duration of the flight.
TWENTY-FOUR
Three hours later, Avery awoke in time for the Learjet’s jarring corkscrew landing, a hair-raising, nausea-inducing countermeasure against RPGs or SAMs in which the aircraft descends rapidly in a spiral from high altitude, almost directly over the airport. By the time the jet touched ground, Avery was fully awake and feeling like he’d just been on the world’s most intense roller-coaster ride, while recovering from the world’s worst hangover.
Bagram Air Base is located about thirty miles north of Kabul. In 1999, the Northern Alliance seized control of the base from the Taliban, later allowing it to be utilized by the Americans during the Afghan war. It has since become the largest American military base in the country, accommodating aircraft of any size and housing numerous units from NATO’s International Security Assistance Force. CIA also maintained a presence here.
Wrecks of Cold War-era Soviet aircraft lined the main 10,000 foot long runway on either side, as the Learjet rolled in.
As he deplaned, Avery was surprised to be met on the tarmac by Matt Culler. The CIA officer wore unmarked camouflage fatigues to better blend in, since civilian dress would quickly identify him as a spook.
“Good Christ, Avery, you look like complete shit,” Culler observed without humor.
Avery ignored the remark and shook the proffered hand. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“D/NCS needed me in-country on something unrelated,” Culler said, and didn’t elaborate. Avery knew Culler juggled multiple ops at any given time, and Afghanistan and Pakistan remained the primary focus of the National Clandestine Service. “I arrived yesterday morning, and good thing that I did. I’ve recalled Sideshow from Tajikistan. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
That caught Avery’s attention. As if reading his thoughts, Culler said, “Something’s come up.”
“Is there an op?” Avery asked. He tried not to sound eager.
“I’ll explain when everyone’s here,” Culler said. Avery knew better than to persist. “But I need to know more about what you found in Minsk.”
They loaded into a Humvee driven by an Agency contractor who took them across the base. Along the way, Avery brought Culler up-to-speed on everything he’d seen in Belarus and Tajikistan, and relayed the information from Aleksa Denisova. Practically a human tape recorder, Avery was able to recount his encounter with Cramer almost word-for-word. It left Culler with the same uneasy feeling Avery had experienced.
“Basically he feels disrespected and unappreciated, and he’s pissed off about it,” Avery concluded, glibly dismissing Cramer’s motivations. “He’s no different than any other fucking traitor or sell-out.”
“It’s just so hard to believe that someone like Cramer could do this,” Culler thought out loud. “It just feeds into all the bullshit from the media and congress about CIA being the bad guy and a rogue agency. You weren’t kidding when you said this could be the end of the National Clandestine Service if word gets out.”
Camp Cunningham, Bagram’s local CIA compound, was located behind blast walls, razor wire, and sandbagged machine gun emplacements. Security contractors with mirror sunglasses, beards, and tattoos lingered around, cradling rifles in relaxed positions and caustically watching the approaching Humvee. Avery recognized a few faces from the Global Response Staff from jobs in Libya and Iraq, but there was no acknowledgment between them.
Past the security checkpoint, Culler led Avery into a plywood hut converted into an office space. Culler took a plate of goat meat and rice out of the mini-fridge, microwaved it, and handed it to Avery with a bottle of water. Avery wasn’t hungry, but he knew his body needed sustenance — it had been well over a day since he’d eaten, plus his body needed to repair itself and refuel — so he forced every bit of it down his throat until his stomach was full.