The much larger and heavier cases contained his standard assortment of gear and equipment, including an M4A1 5.56mm carbine assault rifle with collapsible stock, suppressor, scope, tripod, and several spare magazines; Desert Eagle .50 semi-automatic pistol, Cold Steel combat knife, night vision device, urban ballistic vest, and a small assortment of surveillance equipment. A shoulder holster worn under his black windbreaker held his Glock 17, and he wore a new pair of Colombia hiking boots.
When he left for a job, Avery didn’t always know what may come up, so he always went prepared with basic kit. He’d also retain the option of contacting Culler and procuring any other equipment he may need, most likely by way of diplomatic pouch, but that was best left as an absolute last resort. Obtaining gear from Langley meant money and resources and that invariably involved bean counters creating paper trails and records.
It felt good to have something to do again, to have purpose and be needed. Over two months since his last job, and Avery started to feel the sink into the familiar, purposeless void that inevitably clouded his mind in between jobs. Thinking that way, while Cramer was quite possibly being beaten and tortured, waiting to have his head chopped off by fanatics, and another man was already dead, made Avery feel callous, but it was the truth.
He’d spent the majority of the past fifteen weeks, since returning from his last job, routine bodyguard work in Tripoli, at his ranch house in the backwoods of West Virginia. When there wasn’t a job, he trained hard and stayed focused. He ran five miles four days a week. Each day, he targeted a different muscle group with weightlifting. Once a week, he practiced with firearms, either on the makeshift range in his backyard, or he’d make the drive to Quantico or the Point, where he’d also tackle the obstacle courses, the Kill House, or defensive driving courses to keep those skills sharp. Once a month, he’d make a day-trip rock climbing and hiking.
The confines of the jet’s cabin became stifling.
He wanted to get on the ground and get to work. The feelings of wasting time and waiting were always the worst for him, even more so now, with a life on the line.
A text from an old friend named Jack helped reign in some of the anxiety. Before leaving the US, Avery had contacted the former Special Forces NCO who currently did work for the Agency in the Hindu Kush, asking him if he had any local contacts. And he did. A Tajik named Dagar Nabiyev, who had worked as a fixer for the Northern Alliance during the Afghan war, was expected in Dushanbe later that day. Jack provided a time and place where Avery could find him.
Avery responded to the text with thanks and told Jack to call him on his regular number next time he was in the States.
The Learjet was received at a section of Dushanbe International Airport reserved for military and diplomatic flights, but this was rather misleading, as Dushanbe International resembled something more akin to a medium-sized airfield rather than a modern international airport. The military section was in reality two run-down hangars, one currently under Russian lease, the other used by Tajik troops.
The buildings and major infrastructure of the airport were built in 1964, and even some of the original structures from the 1920s and ‘30s remained intact. The main complex, terminals, and hangars had seen little renovation over the last fifty years. The Airbuses and the Boeings at the gates were the only things modern about the place.
A spotless black, armor-plated Toyota Forerunner with tinted windows sat on the apron in front of the hangar, reflecting sunlight. Avery cringed. The embassy vehicles screamed US Government and would easily stand out on Dushanbe’s streets. Nearby, there was a Russian-made GAZ jeep painted drab olive green with rooftop-mounted sirens and lights. It looked dirty, rundown, and all the more pitiful parked ten feet away from American opulence and luxury.
The Learjet had barely come to a complete halt, and Avery was already on his feet and gathering his things and sliding his arms through the straps of his backpack and putting on his mirror sunglasses and cap. Alerted to his urgency, one of the flight crew stopped what he was doing and opened the cabin door and collapsed the foldable staircase.
Avery picked up both of his cases and was quickly out the door and down the narrow stairs. The temperature was seventy-five degree, dry but with a light and pleasant breeze. After the time spent aboard the plane, breathing recycled air, it was a pleasant change.
He covered the twenty-five feet to the groups of waiting Americans and Tajiks.
He didn’t know what Gerald Rashid looked like, but one of the men in front of him appeared to be of Central Asian descent. Avery knew from the files supplied by Culler that Rashid’s father was the grandson of Pakistani immigrants and his mother a native New Yorker. He wore khakis and a sky blue Oxford shirt. He was a bit taller than Avery’s five foot eleven, but lanky, easily fifteen pounds lighter than Avery’s one-ninety-five. He looked young, more like a college grad than a GS-11.
“Nick Anderson,” Avery said, using his cover name.
“Gerald Rashid.” He lowered his voice. “Sorry about the Tajiks showing up. State tipped them off. They’re not happy about your being here.”
“Who isn’t? The Tajiks or State?”
“Well, both,” Gerald said. He turned and waved toward a short Tajik with a bushy mustache. “This is Sergei Ghazan, Ministry of Internal Affairs. He’s heading up the Tajik end of the investigation.”
As he approached them, Sergei Ghazan oozed insincere courtesy, and Avery took an immediate disliking to him. “Welcome to the Republic of Tajikistan, Mister Anderson. First, let me assure you that my government’s law enforcement and security branches are doing everything within their power to find those responsible for these crimes committed against your citizens. I have been authorized to provide you any possible assistance, but first there are formalities that we must undergo. Given the emergency and the necessity to save time, your arrival has already been cleared through immigration, but I will need to verify your credentials and have the contents of your cases declared.”
Avery produced his ID, diplomatic credentials, and official documents bearing the State Department seal. Ghazan took these and gave them a cursory examination. Avery said, “As you can see, the contents of these cases are diplomatic materials and are exempt from search. My superiors thank you in advance for your cooperation. I’m sure the secretary of state will express to your government his appreciation.”
Ghazan frowned and shoved the documents back. He also gave Avery a card. “These are the numbers to my office and my personal cell phone. Please, feel free to contact me at any time if there is anything at all I may assist you with. We are fully committed to seeing that these criminals are found and brought to justice.”
“I appreciate that, sir.” Avery struggled to sound cordial and decided it best to be sparse with his words. He hated diplomatic shit where everyone acted polite while knowingly lying to each other’s faces and trying to fuck each other over. “At the moment, I need to confer with my colleagues, but I’ll contact you if there’s anything I need.”
They parted ways, and the Tajiks watched the Americans pile into the Forerunner. Avery and Gerald sat in the back row of seats. An embassy security officer sat up front.
“Is Ghazan really from the interior ministry?” Avery asked as soon as the doors were shut and the driver pulled away. An obvious, unmarked Tajik chase car appeared behind them.
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s Tajik KGB.”
“He’s a full colonel in GKNB’s counterintelligence section,” Gerald confirmed. “He heads a specialized tactical unit that we funded, trained, and equipped. But instead of targeting drug traffickers and terrorists, he goes after the president’s political opponents.”