Templar 09 - Secret of the Templars Read online

  22

  Rusty Smart, Paul Streeter, Tom Harris, James Black and Elliot Foster met at the rendezvous point sent by Smart in his encrypted message twenty-four hours before. It was a large apartment in Prague overlooking Old Town Square. Like many old apartments in Prague, it was high ceilinged with plaster moldings, dangling chandeliers and highly polished dark oak floors. The walls were plastered and had a faint blue tint. The windows were tall and curtained with long green velvet drapery. Most of the furniture was white neo-Baroque and heavily highlighted in gold. The seats on the couches and the cushions on the chairs were all uncomfortable, but there was very little that Rusty Smart could do about that. He’d rented the apartment furnished using money from one of the numerous slush funds operated in Europe by the Company.

  The men were all gathered around the large dining room table. The drapes were drawn, even though it was only midday. Smart had swept the place for bugs upon arrival and found that the only way to hear their conversation here would be to bounce an oscillating laser transmitter against window glass, turning the glass into a microphone.

  “You’re sure we’ve been burned?” said Elliot Foster.

  “I wouldn’t have sent out that message if I hadn’t been absolutely sure. Someone was looking over my shoulder.”

  “You couldn’t have explained it away?” Streeter asked.

  “I thought about that,” said Smart. “Maybe they would have believed it for a while, but they’d watch everything I did from that moment on. The trick is to be invisible and not to make waves. They caught me red-handed.”

  “Fuck,” said Foster. “Now we’re all fugitives just because you made a stupid mistake.”

  Smart responded coldly, “I might have made a mistake, but so did you. You had Holliday all sewn up but he somehow got away from you. If he hadn’t escaped, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

  “Why don’t we stop playing the blame game and come up with a solution?” said Harris. He’d been the one on Lazarus and Holliday’s tail in Rome.

  “I already have a solution,” said Smart. “The object of this whole game has been to get that goddamn scroll. We tried buying it, but that got screwed up when that Indian fag stole it. We know the final destination is Mullah Omar and we know exactly where he is.”

  “Where?” Foster asked.

  “Just inside the Afghan border close to Kandahar,” said Smart.

  “Then how the hell are we supposed to get at him?” Streeter asked.

  Smart turned to Foster. “Do you still know anyone in that bunch at Camp Gecko?”

  “What’s Camp Gecko?” Harris asked.

  Foster explained: “Camp Gecko used to be one of Bin Laden’s bases near Kandahar back in the nineties. The Company used to run an operation there with the joint Canadian-American special forces group that worked out of the camp. But they dropped out of the game when the Afghan government started raising shit about the Gecko unit doing unauthorized killings for the drug lords. The prime minister began to really raise hell about them after they assassinated his baby brother. They’ve kind of gone underground now.”

  “Are they equipped?” Smart asked.

  “Blackhawks, Vulcan miniguns, night vision—all the good stuff. The question is, can you get us there?”

  “No. The question is, can we get Afghan tribal garb, eh?”

  * * *

  It had taken Holliday and Lazarus the better part of three days to reach Haji Ayub Afridi’s import-export company in Chaman. The journey involved an incredibly tedious train ride from Mumbai to Ahmedabad, an equally tedious bus ride from there to Quetta and finally a shorter, dustier bus ride north to Chaman.

  When they arrived at the bus terminal, a desperate building of mud bricks and aluminum siding, they found a taxi to take them to something that advertised itself as a five-star hotel—a place that wouldn’t have qualified as a flophouse anywhere else. The single room had two iron beds with pillows and a single sheet with a sink against one wall and a ragged rug on the floor between the beds. They dumped their baggage, went back to the taxi and then headed off to the address Bakshi had given them.

  The two men went into the building through a narrow door off to the side. Holliday noticed as they entered that three of the windows had been papered over. Inside the warehouse, they were confronted by piles of jute bags, each one looking as though it could easily carry five hundred pounds. Three trucks were being loaded with the bags, each loader carrying a single bag across his back. It looked like grueling work.

  To the right was an office, and again, the windows were all papered over. Holliday knocked. A gruff voice answered in Arabic; taking that as a “Come in,” Holliday and Lazarus opened the door and entered the office.

  There was a single desk against the left wall with a man seated in an old-fashioned wooden swivel chair. He turned away from the ledger he had been working on and stood up, silently inspecting Holliday and Lazarus. The man was of medium height and looked to be in his early to mid-sixties, although his very dark complexion made it hard to tell. His face was narrow, his cheeks were high and he had a well-groomed mustache. His deep-set eyes were black as pitch and he wore a pale green half turban on his head.

  “We are looking for Haji Ayub Afridi,” said Holliday.

  “Why are you looking for him?” the man asked.

  “We were sent by Mr. Bakshi in Mumbai.”

  “A good man, Bakshi. What did he tell you about this man Afridi?”

  “He told us that Mr. Afridi could get us into Afghanistan.”

  “You have passports, don’t you? Why not just use them to cross the border as any man would.”

  “Two reasons,” Holliday replied. “We don’t wish it to be known that we are in Afghanistan, and if possible we would like to get into Afghanistan as well armed as possible.”

  “Weapon smuggling.” The man nodded. “A dangerous business.”

  “Mr. Bakshi said that Mr. Afridi was a very resourceful man. He also said that Mr. Afridi did not sell his services cheaply.”

  “Mr. Bakshi is quite right about that. To smuggle two armed men into Afghanistan would be a very expensive proposition.”

  “How expensive?” Holliday asked.

  The man smiled at Holliday. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “Each.”

  “This is a guaranteed price?”

  “I guarantee all the work that I do, Colonel Holliday.”

  “You’re well informed, Mr. Afridi.”

  “Being well informed is necessary for survival in my business. You agree to the deal?”

  “Not a problem,” replied Holliday. “When do we go?”

  “Tomorrow night,” said Afridi. “Be here at nine o’clock.”

  * * *

  At nine o’clock the following evening Holliday and Lazarus appeared at Afridi’s warehouse once again.

  This time there was only one truck in the loading bay. Three men waited as before while the fourth stood in the truck. Afridi greeted them and led them into his office.

  “The clothes won’t do,” he said. “Take them off.”

  While Holliday and Lazarus disrobed, Afridi went out into the warehouse. He reappeared carrying a bundle of filthy clothes, several strips of equally dirty cloth and two pairs of sandals. He also had a tin coffee can, which he set down on his desk. He handed one set of clothes to Holliday and another to Lazarus.

  “First of all,” said Afridi, “you are much too clean.” He grabbed the coffee can, dipped his hand into it and began rubbing a thin layer of grit and dirt into the men’s faces, necks, hands, feet and even hair. When he was finished, the two men had been transformed. Instead of two Western men, two Afghan beggars stood in front of Afridi. He nodded and wound the cloth strips onto half turbans around their heads, pinning them securely. For the last touch he gave each man a cloth sash to wrap around his waist.

&
nbsp; “What about the weapons?” Holliday asked.

  “Already loaded,” said Afridi. “What about my payment?”

  Holliday reached down toward the bundle of his own clothes lying in front of him, dug around in the inner pocket of his jacket and handed Afridi two rubber-banded rolls of ten thousand dollars each.

  “Good enough?” Holliday said.

  “Excellent,” said Afridi. “Follow me.”

  Afridi led Holliday and Lazarus out to the truck. A large wooden box stood on the truck bed. The box was eighteen inches high and four feet wide. Both the top and one end were missing. A piece of PVC pipe five feet high and six inches in diameter ran through the box at the head end, a large hole bored into it to let air in.

  There was a small battery-driven fan that would provide air during the trip. The pipe also descended through the floor of the truck bed in case the upper pipe became covered. The bottom of the box was padded with a thick cushion of blankets. On each side of the box an AK-47 and a Llama .45 caliber semiautomatic duct taped into place. The rest of the space on the sides of the box was filled with extra magazines for the weapons.

  “So now what?” Lazarus asked. “You don’t really expect us to get into that, do you?”

  “I’d suggest that you do,” said Afridi. “I do not give refunds. If you wish to be taken into Afghanistan anonymously, this is the only way.”

  They climbed up onto the truck, lay down side by side in the open-ended box and waited. Afridi climbed up onto the truck bed and crouched down beside them.

  “Here are some things you might need,” said Afridi. He handed down two jute bags. “Each one contains a bottle of water, some bread and some cheese. There is also a sheathed shortened Khyber knife. Wear it on your sash. It’s very commonly used where you’re going.”

  He continued: “In Colonel Holliday’s bag there is a Garmin GPS unit. In Mr. Lazarus’s bag there is a Russian military compass just in case the batteries run out in the GPS unit. You will find strips of cloth beneath the blankets. Bind the blankets into a bedroll and hide the weapons within them. Try to travel only by night and stay as far off the roads as possible. The journey will take approximately one hour. The first stop will be at the border, so maintain absolute silence. The second stop will be your destination. I don’t suppose either of you speaks Farsi or Arabic, by any chance?”

  “I can get by in both,” said Holliday. “I was stationed in Afghanistan for three tours. I got to know a little about the place.” He smiled up at Afridi. “As-salaam alaikum.”

  Afridi touched his forehead with three fingers. “Wa alaikum salaam.”

  Darkness fell as the top of the box was lowered above them. The box was nailed at each corner, as was the piece of plywood at the end. Bags were loaded over them, and within five minutes, the truck was in motion.

  Inside the box was total darkness. Holliday could hear Lazarus breathing rapidly beside him. He reached down and turned on the switch, activating the fan. It began to whir, sending a flood of cool evening air into the box.

  “Better,” said Lazarus. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Holliday answered.

  Half an hour later the truck came to a labored stop. They could hear the sound of crowds moving back and forth across the border as well as trucks lining up behind them. They were vaguely aware of a conversation being held between the driver and a customs official.

  With a grinding of gears, the truck moved off, the loud horn making a squawking sound as it lurched around a slow-moving vehicle. Forty minutes later the truck stopped again. Bags were unloaded and the top of the box was torn open by the driver and his loader.

  Without a word Holliday and Lazarus gathered up the weapons and extra magazines, rolled everything into the blankets and tied them with the strips of cloth using a longer piece as a sling. They pushed the bread and cheese into one pocket of their shirts and the bottle of water into the other. Finally they pushed the Khyber knives through the sashes around their waists and dropped down from the rear of the truck. Within seconds the loader was heaving bags back up onto the truck bed. Lazarus and Holliday joined in, making the job that much quicker.

  “Shukran,” said the loader.

  “You are welcome,” Holliday replied in Arabic.

  The loader grinned and then climbed back into the truck. The gears ground, and the truck’s taillights quickly disappeared into the darkness.

  Holliday looked around. Mountains reared up like gargantuan shark’s teeth on all sides. The landscape was about as welcoming as walking into a cage full of hungry Bengal tigers.

  “Well, I can tell you one thing,” said Lazarus.

  “Don’t say it,” said Holliday, sighing.

  “We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.” Lazarus smiled.

  “I told you not to say that,” said Holliday.

  23

  Harrison Blackthorn drove his silver Bentley through the quiet streets of Bedford, New York, eventually turning up his own driveway. He parked in front of the three-car garage doors of the sprawling split-level ranch house that was his home. The house was no ordinary suburban rancher; Frank Lloyd Wright had designed it for Blackthorn’s parents in 1956. The attention to detail was extraordinary. The slates on the roof were all slightly angled to suit in various rooflines as they swooped up and down around the house. Instead of drainage pipes, there were chains that dropped to the ground and fed into small channels so that the water could drain toward the street, and one of the windows had been designed in the shape of an open lotus flower.

  Blackthorn stared at the house for a moment, once again noting its perfection and the fact that it was more a work of art than a house. He went up the curved flagstone walk to the front door and opened it. He stepped into the front hall and stopped.

  Astrella, their Puerto Rican maid, was sprawled on the floor, a large pool of blood surrounding her from the deep slash in her throat. Feeling vomit rising in the back of his throat, Blackthorn edged around the body and headed deeper into the house.

  The next horror was his dog, Prometheus, an elderly golden retriever. Its head was skewered with a butcher knife to the newel post of the stairs. The body lay below the bleeding head.

  Staggering now, Blackthorn headed to the second floor. At the head of the stairs he saw that the door to his daughter Danah’s room was wide- open. She was lying in bed on her stomach, the covers up around her neck. Her blond hair was marred by spatters of blood and brains from the large-caliber bullet that had ended her life.

  Numb now, Blackthorn moved zombielike down the hall to the master bedroom. His wife, Julia, was sitting on the end of the bed, with Enoch Snow sitting beside her. As Blackthorn appeared in the doorway, Snow casually lifted the silenced barrel of his P9 pistol and blew the woman’s head off. She flopped down to the floor, arching sideways, and landed with her ruined face and head at the foot of her dressing table.

  “I hired you to kill Holliday and the other two,” said Blackthorn blankly, barely fathoming the horrors he had just seen.

  “Somebody paid me more to kill you,” said Enoch Snow. “Said you were a loose end.”

  Blackthorn shook his head, still not understanding. “But—”

  Snow shot him.

  * * *

  Russell Smart and his Ghost Squad flew from Prague to Istanbul, each traveling separately. They then took a Turkish Airlines flight to Kabul International Airport, arriving close to midnight. Still moving separately, all the men drove to the Kabul Serena Hotel and booked a room using the name on their respective false passports.

  At one o’clock in the morning there was a knock on Rusty Smart’s door.

  “Who is it?” Smart asked through the closed door.

  “Harper,” replied a muffled voice.

  Smart opened the door and let the man in. Harper was a large man wearing Canadian BDUs and showing the rank of major. In his left
hand he carried a large Samsonite suitcase. Without a word, he brushed past Smart and went into the room. He dropped the suitcase onto the bed, unlocked it and flipped it open. Inside were half a dozen more Canadian camouflage uniforms. Harper took them all out, then reached into the large pocket in the top of the suitcase and pulled out six sets of military IDs and six high-power FN 9-millimeter semiautomatic pistols.

  “Hand these out to your men. Meet me in the lobby at nine a.m. tomorrow and I’ll have transport waiting to take you where you want to go. Any questions?”

  “No,” said Smart.

  At nine o’clock the following morning Harper was waiting and guided them through the security apparatus out of the hotel. A Ford minivan was waiting in the driveway. Harper got behind the wheel. Smart and his men climbed in through the sliding door, and a few moments later, they were moving out of Kabul heading west.

  At six that evening they reached the city of Kandahar and drove straight to the military base there. Harper showed his ID and was immediately let through the gates. They drove along a long dirt road until they reached a parked Blackhawk helicopter, its door already open. Harper, Smart and the rest of them climbed out of the minivan. A black-bereted man in U.S. Special Forces BDUs jumped down from the helicopter. Harper introduced him.

  “This is Ivan Simons, one of the Camp Gecko people.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Simons. He was a rangy man with big-knuckled hands, freckled cheekbones and a big pair of aviator sunglasses.

  “He’ll be your pilot,” said Harper.

  “Good enough,” said Smart.

  Harper stood by and watched as Smart and the others climbed into the helicopter. A few seconds later the rotors thundered into life, the big turbines rising to a wailing scream. The Blackhawk slid into the air, heading slightly south.

  In the Blackhawk, Smart looked out the window from his jump seat position. He’d always enjoyed flying in helicopters; they gave him an almost erotic sense of power. Below him the ground looked like the craters on the moon. People had been fighting for possession of this destitute landscape since the time of Alexander. The British had fought two wars here, the Russians had fought for it too, and finally the Americans were giving it a try.