Covert Action (Command and Control Book 5), page 10
Yet another sign that he’d been here too long.
Roger was Harrison’s age and also prematurely gray, but the similarities ended there. Roger was tall and rangy, with a stylish haircut, while Harrison was of medium height and build and his hair was long overdue for a trim. Although they’d started at the same time in the Agency, their careers were similarly disparate. Roger’s next posting after his Chief of Station tour would be an executive position back at headquarters in Langley. Harrison, on the other hand, was doing pretty much the same job he’d had since he’d started at the CIA. Trained as a case officer, he’d taken a risk and his career had suffered for it. Don Riley, by picking him up as an analyst at Emerging Threats Group, had pulled him out of the doghouse and saved his skin—and let him get back out in the field from time to time.
Roger sipped his drink and blotted his lips with a paper napkin. “You’re a long way from home, Harry. What can I do for you?”
He had no doubt that Roger knew exactly why he was here, but Harrison played along. “A friend of mine, a good friend, is missing. His last known location was here in Tashkent. The family’s asked me to look into it.”
Roger sat back in his seat. “Tell me what you know.”
Harrison held his irritation in check. If the roles were reversed, he might have compared notes, maybe expressed some sympathy, but Roger was all about control.
Harrison began with the call from Jenny, the visit to the house, the decision to fly halfway around the world and play detective. He described in detail the interactions with Grand Surfan, noting how Roger nodded when he mentioned Jimmy Li, confirming Harrison’s suspicion that the man was MSS. He even got a raised eyebrow when he described the demolition of the temporary air terminal.
Harrison recounted how he had spent the last weeks retracing Tim’s steps, visiting each oil field and pipeline his friend had been to during his final weeks. Since he didn't have the benefit of a private jet to move him around the region, Harrison's travels had been a combination of delayed airlines, long train trips, and hired cars. All his efforts had led him to the same conclusion:
Nothing. Tim had vanished without a trace.
“I'm at the end of my rope, Roger,” Harrison said. “I need help.”
The food arrived and Roger used the break to tuck into his pita without comment. Harrison bit into his own and found it was delicious. He knew he was more than likely eating horsemeat, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. He was hungry, and the food was the best he’d had in at least a week.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for your friend,” Roger said finally.
Harrison’s appetite faded. He put down his pita. His rational brain knew Roger was right, but up until this point he’d prioritized action over analysis. Constant motion was one way to keep reality at bay.
“What’s your experience with kidnappings in the area?” Harrison asked.
Roger shook his head. “If your friend was kidnapped, you would have gotten a ransom request by now. Besides, kidnappings are rare. They happen, but your friend was ex-Army, not exactly a soft target.”
Harrison took a sip of ayran and the drink soured on his tongue. He pushed his plate away.
“I think you’ve done everything you can reasonably do,” Roger continued. “You can go back to the widow with a clean conscience.”
Widow. The word hit Harrison like a slap. Jenny, a widow. He tried to process the word and failed.
Harrison shook his head. “They deserve more. I'm not going home until I get answers.”
“Be reasonable,” Roger urged. “You’ve taken every legal action possible—”
“What about illegal actions?” Harrison interrupted.
Roger stiffened in his chair. “Look, I’m going to level with you, Harry—”
“My name is Harrison, Roger.” The change in tone caught Roger by surprise, but only for a moment.
“Harrison, then.” The other man blew out a breath of frustration. “I’m getting calls about a crazy American poking around.”
“Then help me!” Harrison wanted to shout, but he clamped his jaws together so tightly that the words came out as a hiss.
Roger’s eyes flared and he crossed his arms. “What do you want me to do?”
“Call in some favors,” Harrison said. “Put out a bounty for information. Whatever the cost, I’ll cover it. I’m not leaving until I know what happened to my friend.”
Roger rolled his neck in irritation. Harrison knew he was asking a lot. They weren’t close friends after all, and if Harrison’s inquiry caused a mess in the region, clean-up duty would fall to the chief of station.
Harrison knew he was pushing hard, but Tim’s life mattered and Jenny deserved answers. If there was a cost to be paid—and there would be, Harrison knew that—he would take the hit. Tim Trujillo was more than a friend. The lives they had shared made them brothers.
The station chief blew out another rigid breath of frustration, then leaned across the table. “Look, Harrison, I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
BOOM!
The next words out of Roger’s mouth were obliterated by a devastating noise. The blast rocked the room, knocking pictures off the walls and sending a tray of dishes crashing to the floor. Harrison felt the explosion like the slap of a wave against his body and his head connected with the wall. His eardrums compressed. His hearing dulled, replaced by a high-pitched whine.
All over the restaurant, diners recovering from the blast stared in wide-eyed shock, voices muted. Even the haze of smoke in the air seemed to quiver from the force of the explosion.
Harrison had done time in Iraq and in Syria. He knew what a car bomb sounded like, felt like. This was a car bomb—a big one—and it was close by.
The moment of shock passed, replaced by pandemonium. Screaming. Crying. More glass breaking. As a mass, the diners in the restaurant rose and rushed for the street entrance.
Roger sprang up and headed for the rear entrance. Harrison followed.
The alley behind Pita Street Food was narrow, sandwiched between a pair of three-story buildings and cast in shadow. Harrison skidded into a dumpster as he came through the rear entrance at speed.
He looked up. To his left, a column of smoke rose in the clear blue afternoon sky. Roger was already running in that direction and Harrison took off after him, his boots slipping on the puddled street.
He caught up to Roger at the end of the alley and they burst onto the sunlit street together.
The scene was utter devastation. A hundred meters away, an explosion had obliterated the midday boulevard, carving a bomb crater out of the earth and scattering cars like children’s toys.
The front facade of a four-story stone building was gone. Harrison could look into cross-sectioned offices and empty meeting rooms. Loose paper fluttered on the wind like dandelion seeds.
A few meters in front of them, a white Daewoo hatchback lay on its roof, wheels still spinning. Roger ran to the driver’s side and wrenched open the door. He helped a young woman crawl out of the car and get to her feet. She was dressed in a wool overcoat and knit cap. Her face was blank and white as bone.
Roger gripped her by the shoulders. He asked in Russian, “Are you hurt?”
As Harrison passed them, the young woman shook her head and Roger moved to the next victim.
Side by side, the pair triaged the casualties of the explosion. Harrison knew what they were doing was very dangerous. A tried-and-true terrorist tactic was to detonate a second bomb once people flooded in to aid the victims of the first explosion.
He pushed the fear aside. That was for the police to worry about.
On the sidewalk outside the immediate blast zone, he came across a man in his mid-twenties with broad shoulders and thick dark hair. He was dressed professionally in a business suit, which was powdered with dust, and he stared stupidly at the stump of his right leg. Thick red blood stained the pavement. Working quickly, Harrison stripped off his belt and used it as a tourniquet. When the flow of blood stopped, Harrison took another turn around the man’s thigh then he wrapped the belt around the man's hand.
“Don't let go,” he told him. He waited for a nod of acknowledgement, then moved on.
Harrison’s mind did not allow him to feel, only to assess and act. Once he reached the outer limits of the bomb crater, he turned left. He paused to search for a pulse in a mangled body and found no sign of life. He moved on automatically. There was nothing to be done for the people who were already dead.
A woman crouched next to a car, shivering. Her hands were wrapped around her knees and a puddle of urine had pooled between her black high heels. Her forehead lay open, the wound so deep that Harrison could see pale bone. The whites of her eyes stared out from the blood sheeted across her face.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over the wound. He unpeeled one of her hands from her knee and lay it over the dressing.
“Apply pressure,” he told her. When he took his hand away, her palm stayed in place. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
He moved on. Harrison had no idea how much time had passed. An EMT toting a medical kit arrived at the side of the next victim at the same time as him. Harrison stood back, recognizing that emergency professionals had arrived in force. His work here was done.
He looked around to find Roger standing a few meters away. His pressed pinstripe slacks were torn at the knee and there was blood on his cashmere sweater. His carefully coiffed hair was mussed, and a fine layer of dust coated his body. Harrison could feel the residue of pulverized cement on his own skin, a gritty reminder of the destruction they had witnessed.
He stood next to Roger, said nothing. The Chief of Station stared at a flag draped over the side of a building. The realization swelled in Harrison’s mind that since it was still there, it must have been unfurled after the explosion. Otherwise, it would have been swept away in the blast with everything else.
He stared at the white image on a blue background. A double-headed eagle, wings outstretched, talons reaching. At the bottom, in bold Cyrillic letters, it read:
SIF
Roger’s voice was a croak. Harrison had to struggle to hear him over the wail of sirens and shouts of first responders. “Seljuk Islamic Front. They did this.”
Harrison wasn’t sure if Roger was about to weep or throw up, maybe both. The man clenched and unclenched his hands. He gasped for air, then spoke again.
“Whatever you need, Harrison. I'll help you.”
12
The White House, Washington, DC
When Don Riley was in middle school, his parents filed for divorce. Thinking back on that time in his life, what he remembered most were the fights. Even at nine years old, he recognized how petty the arguments were, how small the stakes. It seemed as if his adult parents were just trying to find something, anything, to use against each other.
From Don’s seat on the pale yellow sofa in the Oval Office, it looked as if the President and Vice President were headed for a nasty divorce.
“Mr. President,” thundered Vice President Lionel Hawthorne, “I tell you, sir, you’re making a mistake.”
“I didn't invite you into the Oval Office to debate the merits of my decision, Lionel,” Serrano snapped in reply.
One cushion to Don’s right on the sofa, the Director sat still as a stone, letting the storm rage around him. Don tried not to shift in his seat, but he really did not want to be here.
“Your affinity for Russia is going to come back to bite us in the ass,” Hawthorne declared.
To Don, it wasn't so much what the Vice President said, but how he said it that seemed to irk the President.
“My affinity for Russia? Do you care to explain that comment, Lionel?”
The Vice President backpedaled. “I'm just pointing out that you have a soft spot for Nikolay Sokolov, sir.”
“I have an obligation as a human being and as the leader of this republic to a man who saved our collective asses when it counted during the Ukraine War,” Serrano shot back. “Or perhaps you've forgotten about how the Russian Navy saved our bacon while we were looking for a lost Chinese nuclear weapon in the middle of the Pacific. Sokolov put his forces in harm’s way because I asked him to. What you call an affinity”—the word dripped with contempt—“I call a debt of honor.”
Hawthorne's ruddy complexion took on a deeper hue of red. “I'm not suggesting we abandon them, sir. I just think we need to consider all aspects of this situation a little more deeply.” Hawthorne looked over to the Director. “Help me out here, Sam.”
The Director pursed his lips. Don could tell he wanted no part of this family spat.
“If what I'm reading about Tashkent is true,” the Director said, “then I suggest we apply more resources to the region.”
That was about as good a diplomatic non-answer as Don could have come up with on the spot. Hawthorne took it as a win. He turned back to the President.
“Exactly what I’m trying to say, sir. We should be making our own way in the region, not helping the Russians get back on their feet.” The Vice President pointed to a copy of the Washington Post on the coffee table. “There's opportunity for us there. We just need to seize it, Mr. President.”
Hawthorne had skills, Don had to admit. He’d taken the Director’s mealy-mouthed reply and turned the conversation to a more productive vein.
The Washington Post had reprinted an article by independent reporter Nicole Nipper in the World section of the paper. It was an interview with an Uzbek named Timur Ganiev about a growing indigenous movement in the region. The reporter hinted Ganiev had the chops to unite the fractious ethnic tribes across the nation states of Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Turkmenistan into some sort of unified group.
To Don, the claim seemed long on promises and short on reality. These were post-Soviet states, pseudo-democracies run by entrenched autocrats who specialized in holding on to power. The influence of the great powers in the region was in flux, that much was true, but the Central Asian republics had more in common with the Mafia than with Massachusetts.
More relevant to the current conversation was that Ganiev’s vision was in direct opposition to Russia’s desire to reestablish control over the region—and, therefore, in opposition with Serrano’s commitment to Nikolay Sokolov.
“Enough.” Serrano’s voice was sharp. “Lionel, there's a difference between running a campaign and making foreign policy.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Hawthorne shot back, “it’s my campaign, and when I win, it will be my foreign policy.”
As soon as the heated words left the Vice President’s mouth, he realized he'd gone too far. Don winced. Serrano’s face darkened. He shot out of his chair, glared down at Hawthorne.
“I. Am. The. President,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Furthermore, I've won elections to this office. Twice. I suggest you do less talking and more listening, Mr. Vice President.”
Serrano stalked away from the sitting area, rounding the curved perimeter of the office with angry strides. Don half expected him to step into his private study off the Oval Office, but he kept walking. He paused behind the Resolute desk, crossed his arms, and stared out the window.
Outside, the day was warm and sunny. The trees were a riot of soft pastel petals that from a distance looked like cotton candy.
The President returned, rested his hands on the back of his armchair. He drew in a deep breath and let it out.
“That was unprofessional of me. I apologize, Lionel.” His tone was personal, his full attention on Hawthorne. It was as if he’d forgotten Don and the Director were still there.
The Vice President hung his head. “I spoke hastily, sir. It was prideful of me. I’m the one who should apologize.”
Serrano broke the awkwardness by taking up the coffee decanter and refreshing everyone’s cups.
“Of course, you’re right,” the President continued as if there had been no break in the conversation. “This is your campaign and it will be your foreign policy once you win. That said, I have obligations that must be met during my time in office. One of those obligations is to support Nikolay Sokolov.”
He took his seat and balanced the china cup and saucer on his knee. “With that in mind, I think the first order of business is to lower the temperature in the region.” He turned to Don. “Tell me what we know about this terrorist group that is causing so much turmoil, Mr. Riley.”
Don fumbled with his tablet to find the correct slide, which he synced to all the other briefing tablets in the room. The other men studied their screens.
Don was acutely aware that their information on the SIF was embarrassingly sparse. He cleared his throat. “The Seljuk Islamic Front has emerged as the primary terrorist threat in the region over the last eighteen months. The organization is believed to be a splinter group of the East Turkmenistan Islamic Front, which has been active in Xinjiang region of China for years.”
“They support the Uighurs, right?” Hawthorne asked.
“That’s correct, sir. They’ve been a thorn in the side of the Chinese government for years in support of the Muslim Uighur population. The SIF is focused exclusively in Central Asia. To date, their attacks are low-level sabotage of work sites along the Chinese Belt and Road Initiative.”
“I take it from your tone that there’s a ‘but’ in there, Don,” the President said dryly.
Don nodded and flipped to the next image. “Two days ago, the SIF took responsibility for a car bomb that exploded outside the Ministry of Defense in Tashkent.”
In the photo, tendrils of smoke rose out of the fresh bomb crater. Sunlight, filtered through a haze of pulverized concrete, cast an unearthly light over the devastation. Cars were scattered like toys. The face of an office building had been sheared off. If he zoomed in, Don could make out corpses.
Don paused to let the scene of devastation sink in. Harrison Kohl had taken photos using his phone and sent them to Don along with a personal narrative of the terrorist attack. Don explained Harrison Kohl’s presence, and that he and the Chief of Station had been on the scene almost immediately and had acted as first responders. He flashed the image of the SIF flag draped over a building.
