Solkov grunted, stopped eating, and laid his fork down. His mouth was still full. “Tomorrow?
Your client has indicated a need for such urgency?”
Doronkin leaned forward and kept his voice low.
“There will have to be a slight change in our plans,” he said.
“There is a small complication.”
“What do you mean ‘complication’?”
“I have underestimated the American. From the beginning I believed he was not the man he claimed to be. Today he introduced me to an accomplice: a man who represents himself as an agent of Jade, the Canadian arms dealer. Today I also learned that this accomplice, the man he calls Bogner, will accompany us to Ammash. I fear this will make it difficult for us to execute our plan.”
Solkov frowned, leaned back in his chair, studied his knife much as a surgeon would a scalpel, and swiped at his chin with his napkin.
“This Banks — he has never before mentioned this affiliation with Jade?”
Doronkin shook his head.
“And the other one, the one you call Bogner, do you believe what this man tells you?”
Doronkin’s expression betrayed his growing concern.
“Up until now I have been convinced that the American, Banks, was working on behalf of his government. Now I learn that is not the case.
If he is, as he claims to be, affiliated with the organization known as Jade, we are suddenly playing an entirely different game — a much more dangerous game, I fear. I have heard stories about Jade. I am told they regard their own not unlike a family. We could be asking for more trouble than we bargain for.”
Solkov’s tone of voice divulged his surprise at Doronkin’s sudden display of wariness. It was a side of the man’s personality he had not seen before.
It was this unexpected display of caution on Doronkin’s part that fostered an element of anger in Solkov’s voice.
“I do not understand your sudden quavering, Comrade. Would you withdraw simply because of things you have heard?”
Doronkin stiffened and waited, refusing to allow Solkov to intimidate him.
“I am not talking of withdrawing. I am speaking of perhaps the necessity of rethinking our plan. The entry of Jade into the equation concerns me.”
Solkov girded himself and laid his oversized hands on the table with the empty bowl between them.
“Look at it another way, my cautious friend.
Perhaps in the scenario of which you speak, there is even more of an opportunity to discredit the Americans than existed in our original plan. After Baddour is eliminated, it will be just as easy for you to report that the two men who committed the heinous act died trying to escape. One man or two men, what is the difference? We can report that these men were using the arms dealer. Jade, as their cover. You must remember our real purpose.
We have one objective and one objective only — to create a diversion, a smoke screen,” Doronkin looked around to make certain no one was overhearing their conversation.
“Perhaps I need to remind my comrade,” Solkov continued, “that it is our purpose to create a world-focused distraction. We do this to create further tension between the forces of Baddour and Abbasin. We have chosen to accomplish our objective by eliminating Baddour. Baddour’s staff officers will be told their leader died at the hands of American mercenaries hired by Abbasin. I think you will agree, when that happens war between the two factions is inevitable — resulting, of course, in world attention again being focused on the troublesome Iraqis. The concern of world leaders will be that Baddour’s forces will be prepared to retaliate using the deadly chemical weapons they have been perfecting.”
Doronkin was silent for several moments, thinking.
Solkov was right.
“You will meet us in Simak tomorrow night?” he finally asked.
“That could make them suspicious,” Solkov decided.
“You will have all the assistance you need when you arrive in Ammash. Our comrades will be notified of your impending arrival.”
“How will I know them?” Doronkin pressed.
“They will make themselves known to you at the appropriate time,” Solkov assured him. At that point Solkov appeared to relax and signaled the waiter.
“My friend and I shall drink a toast,” Solkov said to the waiter.
“Bring us each a glass of raki — and a glass of water, of course.”
The flight from Istanbul to Diyarbakir was uneventful.
Bogner had crawled into his seat and feigned sleep the entire flight. By doing so he was able to avoid conversation and listen to what was going on around him. Banks, on the other hand, spent the time reading. Doronkin, sitting across the aisle from the two Americans, lapsed into conversation with the woman sitting beside him.
In Diyarbakir, Doronkin rented a car, and the drive to Simak was accomplished in less than the three hours he had estimated. He stopped twice, once to make a phone call and the second time to treat Bogner and Banks to one of the local delicacies, burma kadayif, a shredded-wheat pastry covered with nuts and honey.
At Simak he drove straight through the town, then followed a dusty, winding road, and some fifteen kilometers later, pulled into a small cluster of buildings close by a dirt airstrip. When Bogner stepped out of the car, he realized the temperature had dropped more than twenty degrees from the time they had boarded their flight in Istanbul. Doronkin opened the door of the Simca and gestured toward a row of mountains to the south. He was smiling.
“Soon you will see why it makes sense to fly the rest of the way,” he said.
The Simak airfield consisted of four neglected Quonset-type buildings and three aircraft. One was an ancient, dust-covered Sikorsky H-34/West land Wessex that Bogner figured had probably been flown at one time or another by the French in the Algerian War. The insignia had been painted over and the armament stripped out. It looked sadly in need of repair. Next to it, in the one building big enough to serve as a hangar, there was an equally ancient de Havilland Canada DHC-5 Buffalo. One of the General Electric turboprop engines had been removed. It was mounted on a repair stanchion at the far end of the building.
Doronkin buttoned his coat collar tight around his throat, hunched his shoulders against the steady fifteen-mile-per-hour wind blowing down from the mountains, and headed for the hangar.
As near as Bogner could tell, other than the tiny cluster of buildings and the airstrip, there were no other visible signs of civilization. Bogner leaned against the car and continued scanning their surroundings while Banks got out of the car and lit a cigarette.
“Smack dab in the middle of nowhere,” Bogner muttered.
“Why the hell would anyone be fighting over it?”
“Been going on for centuries,” Banks answered.
“These people don’t know any other way to live.”
Doronkin had disappeared into one of the smaller buildings and reappeared moments later, accompanied by a short, heavyset man wearing grease-stained coveralls. He walked with a pronounced limp. Unlike Doronkin, he appeared oblivious to the raw wind and the chill in the air.
“According to Kabak here, we made the right choice,” Doronkin said.
“It seems there’s a group of militant Kurds flexing their muscle along the border. Kabak says they’ve been exchanging gunfire for the past three days. Two days ago they attacked an NIMF border patrol and killed three men.
Jolo Kabak, a man with no teeth, and generous eyebrows guarding fidgety black eyes, nodded his affirmation. If he spoke English, it was on a limited basis. He managed to do most of his communication with a series of hand gestures and facial expressions. Each time he offered more, Doronkin attempted to interpret and relay the information.