Alex Berenson - The Shadow Patrol

Stout pointed to a beat-up Toyota pickup near the back of the lot, one of the rattier vehicles. “That’s Francesca’s. You can’t see it from here, but underneath there’s a compartment where they hide their rifles and unis.”

“That’s definitely theirs? They never swap with the other squads?”

“No. So that’s it. All I can tell you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re not welcome. And don’t ask me to get you inside the lot. In fact, don’t ask me about anything else, or for anything else.”

They didn’t speak again until Stout dropped Wells back at the KBR trailer where he was holed up. Wells sat on his bunk and closed his eyes. He owed Shafer a call and he ought to be figuring his next move. But he was stuck on what Stout had said to him as they were driving. Which faith? Islam or America? He seemed to be failing both. His mind turned to the man in the hills outside Muslim Bagh. They’d prayed together. Then Wells had killed him. How could God view his words as anything but a mockery?

Islam had helped Wells survive all those years in the North-West Frontier. But now he no longer could explain what he believed, or why. Was he clinging to his faith strictly to separate himself from the other Americans who were fighting this war? To prove to the men he killed that religion played no part in his quarrel with them? They certainly didn’t agree.

Eventually Wells tired of asking himself questions without answers. He knelt and lowered his head to the floor and recited the first surah over and over. The prayer itself was a tonic. The Arabic soothed his lips, even if he no longer trusted himself to understand what it meant.

IN THE MORNING he put on a regulation Army uniform complete with a colonel’s eagle on the chest. In the trailer’s mirror, he found he didn’t look like a colonel. Even in the Special Forces, colonels didn’t have beards like his. He pulled off the insignia. He slipped on his Red Sox cap and his Ray-Bans. A smile twitched his lips as he remembered the morning Anne had given him the sunglasses.

He drove back to the lot Stout had shown him. Sure enough, two guys tinkered under the hood of a Ford Expedition near the front gate. One flagged Wells down. “Morning.”

Wells stopped, lowered his window. “Morning.”

“Haven’t seen you before. You certain you found the right lot?” The guy sounded South African to Wells. Lots of security contractors were.

“Pretty much. Guys at Bengal sent me here to park. Problem?”

The guy looked at Wells, his beard and shades and killer’s hands. “No problem. Welcome to KAF.”

Wells parked three spots down from Francesca’s Toyota, positioning the Land Rover between the pickup and the guards. He looked around, didn’t see anyone else in the lot. He stepped over to the Toyota. Its bed was filled with metal rods and sheets that Wells guessed could be assembled into a firing platform. He pulled out the transmitters. The brown one more or less matched the Toyota’s paint. He peeled off the backing on two of its six sides, exposing an epoxy superglue. He pressed it in the corner of the bed behind the passenger seat. Once it stuck on, it was practically invisible. He would have put it on the undercarriage, but it needed a direct line of sight to the atmosphere.

He slid back into the Land Rover and headed out. He didn’t want Francesca wondering why an unfamiliar vehicle was parked near the Toyota. As he passed the Expedition, he lowered his window. “Change of plans,” he said. “See you soon.”

“Happy hunting,” the guard said.

Wells saluted him casually, one pro to another.

HE CALLED SHAFER. “Good to go.”

“I’ll call Cunningham tomorrow morning my time. Maybe ten a.m.”

“Seven-thirty p.m. here.”

“Look at you, doing the math. So you can expect that he’ll be on the phone to KAF pretty much the second he hangs up.”

“No chance he’ll cooperate?”

“I call him, back-channel him, tell him one of his guys may be a criminal target and I want his file. And I won’t say why, won’t show him any of the evidence. Plus I act like an asshole on top of it. He’s more likely to send a hit squad up here than help me.”

“All these years I thought being an asshole was your personality. Now it turns out it’s part of your cover.”

“Cute. Like talking to my wife. Anyway, figure Cunningham sounds the alarm to the Delta commander at Kandahar, I believe it’s a major named Penn. That guy tells Francesca. Who gets off base soon as he can come up with some legit operation that gets him pointed toward FOB Jackson.”

“You’re sure the Deltas won’t lock him down while they check this out on their own?”

“If I gave Cunningham something concrete, maybe. Not this way. They start kicking over rocks, they don’t know what they might find. Best not to look.”

“Speaking of things that hide under rocks, what about Duto? He know where we stand?”

“Not yet. I’ll talk to him after I set the hook with Cunningham. Don’t jump down my throat for asking, but do you have anyone backing you up over there? Gaffan’s buddy?”

“Look, if that bug you gave me works—”

“It works—”

“Then I’ll know where Francesca and Alders are hiding. And they won’t know I know. If that’s not a big enough edge, I’d better find a new line of work.”

“Modern dance instructor.”

Wells hung up, called Anne.

“John?”

“Hello, babe.”

“You’re wearing the Ray-Bans, aren’t you?”

“How’d you know?”

“You’d only call me things like babe when you’re wearing them. Rocker John.”

“I’ve been called lots of things over the years, but I assure you Rocker John isn’t one.”

“Tell me you’re almost done over there.”

“I am. Honestly.”

“You gonna get the bad guy?”

“I always do.” Almost.

“Then we’ll live happily ever after. You and me and Tonka makes three. He told me how much he missed you this morning. Said you’re not a good owner, but you’re his favorite anyway.”

“Tell him I miss him, too. And you, Anne. Can’t wait to see you.”

“I love you, John. Whatever it is you’re doing, be careful.”

“I love you, too.” A word Wells had rarely used with Anne. A word that felt right today.

HE SPENT THE AFTERNOON getting his gear together. Then he had nothing to do but wait. He went back to his trailer and slept. No point in wasting energy he would need soon enough. He woke after sunset to a call from Shafer, who explained what had happened with Cunningham and Duto.

“So Duto knew about 71 all along,” Wells said.

“He swears he had no idea that the trail would go that way.”

“You believe him?”

“It doesn’t matter. Train’s way down the tracks.”

Shafer was right. They couldn’t stop chasing Francesca now. As usual, Duto had played them.

“One of these years, I’m going to pay him back.”

“ Inshallah, my friend. Knock ’em dead.”

“I’ll do my best.”

IT WAS NEARLY ELEVEN P.M. when his local phone rang. Young.

“Coleman.”

“Out of nowhere, Weston told us to be ready for an op in the next twenty-four hours. Motorcycle registration in the Arghandab.” Insurgents favored motorcycles, so the military was trying to track them with tamper-proof registration stickers. Never mind that the insurgents had an endless supply of cheap bikes. Registration offered a measurable benchmark for commanders to meet. The military loved measurable benchmarks.

“Where exactly?”

“He says we don’t have final orders yet. But the most likely spots are a couple roads that run from Highway 1 and up into the valley. Pretty near the base. Eighty to a hundred miles northeast of KAF. You know where I’m talking about?”