“No. The fighters are specifically identified as white. Mercenaries maybe?”
“Maybe. But it’s a seller’s market these days for mercenaries.”
Shafer was right, Exley knew. Former Special Forces soldiers could make $5,000 a week providing security in Iraq. South African and Russian soldiers made less, but even so they could take home $10,000 a month. They would want even more money to help the Taliban against the United States. Not for moral reasons either. Simply because of the risk.
“The Talibs couldn’t afford these guys,” Shafer said. “Who would pay them?”
“I think it’s time to find out.” She handed him the last report in her file. “Also from the Tenth Mountain Division. Two days ago. A fairly big camp in eastern Afghanistan, at least fifty Talibs. And several white fighters.”
“And they’re going after it?”
“Not at the moment. They have other priorities. And it’s in a very difficult location. Way up in the mountains. I think we should get a satellite up to take a look at it.”
“Sounds reasonable. And then?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what we see. Maybe we can convince the SF to go after it.”
“Okay. Talk to Greg Levine at NSA.” Shafer scribbled a number for her and handed back the files. “If he gives you any lip, tell him to call me. And Jennifer — do you want me to say anything to John?”
She walked out without answering. Let somebody else deal with Wells for once.
THREE HOURS LATER, Exley walked into Shafer’s office at Langley. Wells was already there. A nice surprise. She’d called and asked him to show up, but she hadn’t been sure he would.
“We got them already?” Shafer said. “This must be a record.”
“Levine said they had a satellite right there and it would be no problem as long as I had a cost center for him,” Exley said. “I told him to put it on your tab.” As part of the government’s internal accounting procedures, the National Security Agency dunned the CIA whenever Langley asked for photographs that required the NSA to alter the orbit of its satellites. The agencies had teams of auditors to squabble over the accounts, though in the end the American tax-payer footed the bill for everything. The system was either a necessary check on spending or a cosmic joke, depending on who was explaining it.
“There it is. Your tax dollars at work.” Shafer clicked on a folder on the workstation in the corner, which was linked to a fiber-optic network that transferred encrypted images between Langley, the Pentagon, and NSA headquarters. The agency refused to extend the network to the offices at Tysons Corner, so they had to come to Langley to see photographs like these.
The folder popped open, revealing dozens of graphical files. Shafer clicked one and turned to the fifty-inch flat-panel screen that hung on one wall of his office. But the screen stayed dark.
“Wow, the Eiffel Tower,” Exley said.
“No, it’s the rain forest,” Wells said. He was lounging on the couch, his long legs stretched on Shafer’s coffee table. He showed no ill effects from his ride the night before. Exley noticed that he’d even shaved.
“Everybody’s a critic,” Shafer said. He fiddled with the back of his workstation and clicked again. This time a remarkably clear image of the Afghan mountains filled the flat panel. At the end of the Cold War, American spy satellites had been celebrated for their ability to read license plates from space. Now they could read not just license plates but newspaper headlines.
Shafer focused on a patch of flat ground several hundred yards long, the most likely spot for a camp. Wells lifted himself off the couch and stared. The mountains had woken him up, Exley thought. She hadn’t seen him so alert in months.
“It’s a camp for sure,” Wells said. “A big one.”
“Then where is everybody?” Exley said. Only two men were visible in the photograph. They sat against the side of the mountain, rifles slung over their shoulders. “These were taken a couple of hours ago. Near dusk over there. Dinnertime. Shouldn’t they be lining up?”
“They’ll be back soon. Look, there’s two campfires going. You don’t do that unless you’ve got a lot of guys to feed. And over here—” Wells stepped close to the screen and pointed to the southern part of the camp, where holes were dug behind a makeshift rock wall. “Those are privies. At least five of them. Another sign they’ve been there awhile, and they’re decently organized.”
“The report says forty to fifty men.”
“At least that. Ellis, pull it back. Give me the widest view you can.” Wells ran his finger over the screen, tracing a line from the ridge, south, into the valley. “See this?”
Shafer got it first. “A trail, down the side of the mountain.”
“Follow it south, south—” Shafer scrolled down the screen, leaving the plateau and moving into the valley.
“No wonder the evil American infidels always knew where we were, back in the day,” Wells said. “If we’d had one of these, it would have been a fairer fight.” He grinned at Shafer. His confusion of “we” and “they” was no accident, as Shafer and Exley well knew.
“Want to switch sides again?” Shafer said.
“I’m not so sure they’d have me, Ellis.”
“Anyway, where would you ride your bike?” Exley said.
“Children,” Shafer said. “Focus, please.”
“Fair enough,” Wells said. He stepped closer to the screen. “Can you scroll farther down?”
“This set doesn’t run any farther south. We get another pass tomorrow.”
“Magnify it. The southern edge.” Wells looked at Exley. “See what they did at the base of the valley? Just left of where the trail ends.”
“Those branches?”
“See how they’re arranged? They look like they’re part of the forest, but they’re not. They’re thicker.”
Slowly, Exley recognized the hidden shapes under the branches. “Trucks?”
“Pickups, at least four. Toyotas most likely. All with fifty-cals. When I was with them, they never would have bothered to hide them.”
“Which means—”
“It doesn’t prove anything,” Wells said. “But yeah, it’s evidence they’re getting lessons.” He looked at Exley. “Well done, Jenny. Though I have to admit I don’t get it. Who would be crazy enough to help the Taliban right now?”
“What do you think we should tell Bagram?” Bagram Air Base, north of Kabul, the headquarters of the American military command in Afghanistan.
“They’ve got to hit it,” Wells said. “Find out if it’s real. Though it’s gonna be tough. Whoever’s up there can enfilade anyone coming up that trail something vicious. And I’ll bet they’ve got heavy stuff in those caves. Mortars, RPGs, some SAMs”—rocket-propelled grenades and surface-to-air missiles.
“You want to go? Summer vacation in Afghanistan? For old times’ sake?”
Shafer had asked the question, but Wells looked at Exley instead. She hated to see the eagerness in Wells’s face. He looked like a hound that had just sniffed out a fox. Did killing thrill him so much? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Anyway this mission was what she’d told Shafer she wanted for Wells. Something that would test him, get him out of his funk.
“Go for it, John.” Anything beats the bike, she thought.
“If the guys at Bagram will have me, I’ll think about it.”
“It may take a few days to put together, but you’re right,” Shafer said. “We have to hit it. And they’ll have you.”
Shafer’s phone trilled. Shafer held a finger to his lips, warning Exley and Wells to stay quiet, and picked up. “Hello, Mr. Tyson.” George Tyson was deputy director for counterintelligence, the man in charge of making sure that foreign intelligence services didn’t infiltrate the CIA.