Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

We landed without incident and taxied to a stand away from the main terminal. I thanked the pilots and walked down the airstairs where I was met by an Afghan immigration official. He eyed two figures who stood nearby. His wary demeanor suggested he’d had a run-in with them. While he watched them nervously, I grinned at the pair. I should have known they would come. Looking back at me with mischievous grins on their faces were Dinara Orlova and Feodor Arapov, the huge bear of a man who’d been of considerable help during the investigation into Karl Parker’s murder and everything that followed. Dinara’s cascade of long brown hair was today bunched beneath a woolen hat, and her athletic figure was concealed by a thick long coat. Feodor had bushy brown hair and a thick, matching beard, natural insulation against the cold. He wasn’t wearing a coat but relied on a heavy-duty pullover to protect him from the elements.

The immigration official stamped my passport and welcomed me into the country before retreating to an airport cart and taking off for the terminal. I walked over to Dinara and Feo.

“What did you say to that guy?” I asked.

“I told him I would crush him if he gave you any trouble,” Feo replied.

I smiled and shook my head. “I thought you were going to send a team.”

“And miss the opportunity to return to this beautiful country?” Dinara replied.

I couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic, but got the feeling it was a genuine remark. I knew she’d spent time in Afghanistan when she’d worked for the FSB.

I hugged her warmly and immediately found myself taken back to the night I’d almost confused my personal and professional feelings for her. I smiled awkwardly as we parted, and thought I could see her blush slightly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I told her.

“And what about me, American?” Feo asked. “Are you glad I’m here?”

“Of course, Feodor Arapov. Who wouldn’t be glad to see you?”

“I’ll tell you who,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Bad guys. That’s who.”

He pulled me into a bear hug. “But you are not a bad guy,” he said as he squeezed the breath out of me.

I stepped back and looked at them expectantly.

“Do we have a car?” I asked.

“A car?” Feo boomed. “What use is a car in the Hindu Kush in winter?”

“That’s our ride,” Dinara said, pointing at a Bell 429 GlobalRanger a few stands away. “We chartered it for the week. I assume that’s OK.”

I nodded. “That’s more than OK.”

“Good,” Feo said. “Then let’s go. I hear you are a pilot.”

“I haven’t flown for a while,” I replied.

“Oh, no,” Feo countered. “You are not flying. I just wanted to know whether you would have the expertise to appreciate real artistry in the sky.”

“Feo was once a police pilot,” Dinara explained.

“I was the police pilot,” he added.

He patted me on the back and set off for the aircraft.

I looked at Dinara and grinned. “He’s not short of confidence.”

“He’s Russian to his bones,” she replied, as though that explained everything. “We’ve got clothes and supplies on board.”

I nodded and followed her to the GlobalRanger. Within minutes Feo had cleared us with the tower and we were airborne, heading for the Osprey crash site, deep in Nuristan.

The steady hum of the engines remained constant as we travelled away from Kabul. Feo was an excellent pilot and kept us at five thousand feet as we flew over the desert that stretched between Surobi and Mihtarlam. There were rocky snow-capped peaks in almost every direction, but beneath us the folds of earth were arid desert — long sloping inclines of sand and rock that offered little shade or shelter. I wasn’t warm even in the Russian winter coat Dinara had given me, which fended off the worst of the chill. The three of us wore radio headsets that facilitated easy conversation, and I had brought them up to speed on the investigation.

“So we believe Joshua Floyd is still alive?” Dinara asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “and, if he hasn’t been captured, he’s likely to try to head for friendly territory.”

“Pakistan,” Feo observed from the cockpit.

Dinara and I were in the main cabin, sitting on benches that faced each other.

“That’s where I’d go,” I agreed.

“What would anyone want with a pilot?” Feo asked.

It was a good question and one I’d pondered myself.

“Maybe he’s a foreign intelligence operative who’s turned,” Dinara suggested. “Maybe they want to bring him back under control?”

I hoped not for the sake of Beth and the children. I knew from bitter experience what it was like to discover someone you cared about was a traitor.

“I thought it might be something to do with a past mission,” I said. “Maybe someone is out for revenge?”

“That’s a big grudge,” Feo remarked.

“Special Forces go up against people with the resources and funds to be able to hold big grudges,” I countered.

“Maybe they want something from him — intelligence from a past mission?” Dinara suggested.

“What are your comms like?” I asked. My phone had lost signal three miles outside Kabul.

“Satellite phone and full data,” she replied.

“Can you send a message to Mo-bot?” I asked. “See if she can get access to Floyd’s operations file and find out what he’s been doing.”

Dinara nodded. “Sure.”

“You better buckle up,” Feo said. “We might get some chop in the mountains.”

I stood up and leaned through the gap between the cabin and the cockpit. Ahead of us were the foothills of a vast mountain range. The peaks were rich in snow, and I could see clouds of the stuff being blown off the steep summits by harsh winds. Snow-dusted forests rose to about six thousand feet, above which there was just ice and jagged outcrops of rock. It looked a deeply inhospitable place, and it pained me to think Joshua Floyd might be braving it alone.

“Where are we heading?” I asked, as Feo took us up.

“Kamdesh,” he replied. “Local intelligence says there was some trouble there a few nights ago.”

I nodded and returned to my seat in the back.

The chopper started to dance in the updrafts and I pulled on my seatbelt. I knew Afghanistan well. This was going to be a bumpy ride.

It was bitterly cold. Justine shivered as she and Sci walked along West 81st Street. They’d arrived in New York that morning, having caught the red eye with Mo-bot. Jessie Fleming had met them at JFK and driven them to Private’s office at Forty-one Madison, a thirty-six-story black glass and steel skyscraper that stood on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 26th Street, overlooking Madison Park. Private New York was headquartered on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors, and they’d been given a meeting room that was to act as the base of operations for their investigation into the man posing as Beth Singer’s father.

“You’ve been pretty quiet,” Sci observed as they weaved around another couple heading along the icy sidewalk.

“Just thinking,” Justine replied.

“Pining?” Sci remarked with a knowing smile.

“No.” She elbowed him playfully.

In truth, she was worried about Jack. The thought of what he could be facing in Afghanistan was almost too much for her to bear, particularly after what had happened in Moscow. She’d insisted they come to New York, not just to be closer to the guy they were investigating, but because she wanted to be there the moment Jack stepped off the plane on his return.

She had tried not to worry and had focused on getting the local investigation up and running. She didn’t have Sci’s forensic skills or Mo-bot’s knowledge of computers, but as one of the country’s leading criminal profilers, Justine knew people.