Miles To Go Part 8

Then came the kidnapping of the female American journalist.

It had seemed eminently reasonable at the time, but had turned out all wrong. And then they had begun the bombings. Fareed knew he had crossed a line and could never turn back. Or could he? When he had stepped through the door of Armin's office the day before, Armin was in a state, flushed and perspiring and frantically shuffling papers on his desk.

He finally noticed Fareed standing before him. "Sit, sit," he said, motioning toward the cushioned chair in front of his desk.

"Why aren't you wearing the uniform?"

Fareed sat and crossed his legs without answering.

"Why aren't you wearing the uniform?" Armin's eyes glittered with something Fareed had recently begun to see in him. He suspected it was madness.

"I told you I think it's absurd. I agreed to wear it tomorrow for the festival. But not until then."

"You must not be so difficult. We must be together in this if we are to further our cause."

This is what their relationship had evolved to. Since their crimes had become more deadly, Armin had relaxed his psychological hold over Fareed and treated him like a partner.

Fareed would wear the uniform at the festival to appease Armin, to stop his badgering, but the event loomed large in his mind as a spectacle he wanted no part of. It was to be a display of over-the-top propaganda, punctuated by fevered, hysterical speeches and gunfire. It rubbed roughly against the last shreds of his dignity.

"When will Rashed reach the village?" Armin asked.

"In a day or two." Fareed shook his head. "I think you have too much faith in him. I should have gone myself. This thing is too important."

Armin moved from around his desk and laid a hand on Fareed's shoulder. "You must trust my instincts. The young man has abilities. Someday he will be a great leader in our movement."

Movement. Cause. Holy mission. They had always used such rhetoric for recruiting purposes, but for many months now such language had begun to leech into Armin's private conversations.

Fareed never responded to it and didn't now, only c.o.c.ked an eyebrow to show his dissent.

He had argued with Armin for hours about his decision to send Rashed and Hamid, a mere boy, on such an important errand. But Armin was resolute and could not be swayed.

"If and when he returns with the photographs, we will have the Americans in a place they cannot worm their way out of,"

Fareed said.

"Yes, if the photographs really exist and are authentic, we will be in a very good position. But in case they aren't, I have contacted our old friend al-Katib. We will be able to take things to the next level if the photographs don't pan out."

"What are you talking about?" Fareed stood, unable to remain seated at the thought of his old contact. Al-Katib had gotten himself into some very dirty business since he had introduced Fareed to Armin.

"Al-Katib can get us material. For a price, of course."

At that, Fareed placed his hands on Armin's desk and leaned forward, staring deeply into his eyes. He searched and failed to find any trace of sanity. Fareed turned and walked from the room without a word.

There is always a price, he thought, remembering the scene from the comfort of his bed. Armin's "material" meant nuclear material. For years, Fareed's judgment had been clouded by the force of Armin's will. But now he saw things clearly. He would get out, as soon as he had the chance. Go back to London maybe.

Restore relations with his family. But first there was the matter of the stable.

Waking before her alarm vibrated, Rennie could hear her blood pulsing in her ears. Now, for the third time since she had dropped through the frigid night air into an unsuspecting farmer's pasture, she woke to a world seemingly created anew.

For the third time, the world she knew, or thought she knew, had been dismantled and built again in the night as she slept. After the ambush, the dawn had brought with it a world transformed, a world where life could be snuffed out in an instant in a rush of inconceivable violence. No amount of training could have prepared her for that moment. She would never be the same woman again. In that moment, the animal in her had come alive and the ultimate desire to survive sent a panic coursing through her veins that made her just want to run, far, far away from the chaos she had woken to. The second time, struggling awake the following morning, alone and fighting desperately against her body's need for hydration, she knew all her training, all her hard work had come down to making it through the woods in one piece.

And now. When Rennie opened her eyes, she knew that this was the day. Her body knew this was the day. When she looked around her campsite, at the river and woods beyond it, she saw it all with new eyes. Everything was crisp and sharply outlined. Her nerve endings seemed to have stretched, reaching for the surface of her skin, and she felt the fabric against it suddenly keener than before. The air, too, seemed to have rarified. Or, maybe, it was just her, a new her, able to extract from it just what she needed.

Today was the day of all days that would determine the course of her life. On this day, she would live or die. She would succeed or fail. Nothing else would ever matter so much.

Rennie filled the pockets of her cargo pants with everything she might need for the shoot. She packed her bag, eating an MRE and drinking water as she did so. She had maybe half an hour before the pall of night lifted. She sat down next to her pack and unlashed the sniper gun. She snapped the two halves together and flipped the bipod into position. Lying on her belly, legs spread, she switched on the scope's night vision. The world turned a sickly green and she saw a large buck on the other side of the river turn his head as if he were suddenly aware that a large deadly eye had opened upon him. She only hoped she had his instincts.

Rennie felt the ground lumpy under her as she stretched over it, fingering the trigger guard of the gun, peering through the scope into an unfamiliar world. She imagined Armin in the crosshairs of the scope and knew she would pull the trigger when the time came. Pull the trigger and then go, as fast as she could, running back through the woods to the village where she would arrange transport to the capital city of Dushanbe. And fly home.

Home. She couldn't think of it now. Here, at this moment, it had no meaning; it couldn't penetrate through the layers of defenses she had built up over the past few days. No such place of safety and comfort could exist, not when she lay on the hard ground preparing herself to bore a bullet deep into a man's brain.

But she could imagine running. The man would fall and she would run, harder and faster than she ever had, and she wouldn't stop, until she was safe. Adrenaline ramped up her energy at the thought of that run.

When the sky began to lighten she got up, lashed Brad's gun back onto the pack and hoisted it over her shoulders, heavier now that she had filled all of her water bladders. She carried her sub-gun in her hand and began walking.

Every sense that Rennie possessed was on high alert. She couldn't afford to miss anything at this stage. She continually swept her gaze from left to right and then turned a hundred and eighty degrees to look behind her every twenty or thirty paces.

The morning pa.s.sed quickly, becoming hot. Her shirt became sticky and damp and then so wet that she had to stop and wring it out. She left it off, tucking it in her belt, and just wore the tank top. She ate at ten and again at one. She was in such a high state of adrenaline that her body was rapidly burning up whatever food she put into it. She had a fleeting thought that she was low on MREs, but it pa.s.sed just as quickly. The matter at hand edged it and everything else out of her mind.

She was making good time. She hated to do this last stage of the hike without the GPS. It was so easy to become reliant on the technology, but she was familiar with the topographical maps and the aerial photographs and had a good sense of where she was.

About mid-afternoon she began looking for a place where she could hide her pack so that she could scale the steep incline up to the ridge unenc.u.mbered. The ridge was a natural formation several hundred yards up that had provided a kind of terrace, long ago, for a British colonialist who gave up on politics to pick up the plow. He had engaged in little more than subsistence farming, but the few square miles of cleared land had offered Armin a small haven ideal for his camp. One or two st.u.r.dily built farm buildings remained which he'd put to use.

It wasn't long before she saw a recently fallen tree, a victim of a lightning strike. Ideally for Rennie, it had fallen across an old log, with its tallest boughs brushing the trunk of a tree a few yards from it, giving her a small leafy cave to hide the gear she wouldn't need for the shoot.

Rennie threw down her pack and stretched out her shoulders.

Her tank was so wet with perspiration that every bone and curve of muscle was clearly outlined through the thin material. She unlashed the sniper gun from her pack and slung it across her shoulders so that it rested on her back. She pulled out one of her water bladders, made sure it was full, and slipped its clasp over her belt. Then she shoved her pack deep into the ma.s.s of foliage.

Suddenly the scene became a kind of tableau and she saw it as if from a great distance: the tree, the hidden pack, a young heavily armed woman standing alone. She might never return to this spot in the woods. She would take this mission through to its completion. If she didn't make it, she knew it would be said, speculated upon, whispered around the halls of the Bureau, that they would have succeeded if there hadn't been a woman on the team. But if she were to go back alone now, without trying, it would be the same deal. She would play the sacrificial lamb in every scenario but one: to push on and to shoot Ahmad Armin.

She understood the risk, even the insanity of considering itshe was alone and virtually inexperienced with the gunbut this was the only option. The only option for her.

She turned and continued walking east. She knew she was close, maybe five miles from the encampment, and she walked as carefully as if the area were covered in land mines. She held her sub-gun in both hands, safety off. The woods again took on a new aspect. She imagined the trees harboring Armin's men. Stray branches and fallen leaves cried out to expose her with every step.

The forest seemed her enemy, in collusion with Armin.

Time, too, seemed to enter a new dimension, pa.s.sing rapidly as she crept along. And then she was at the bottom of the incline.

It wasn't as steep as she had feared, but she couldn't see the crest.

It was the twilight hour and the woods were permeated by that strange hue when the light begins to fail. A shiver ran down her spine and the fine hairs stood up on the back of her neck as fear tried to trap her. She shook it off as fast as it came upon her.

Unhooking her water bladder, she drank the last few cups. Then she folded it and slipped it in the pocket of her cargo pants.

Here we go.

She started up, at first crouched low, but soon flattening herself as close to the ground as she could. The slope was dense, with tall, thin, evenly s.p.a.ced trees interspersed with the occasional jutting rock. Vines covered the ground in tight knots of confusion that gave her sure footing. She needed to be as close to invisible as possible. She moved slowly and soundlessly, the sniper gun secure at her back and the MP5 tight in her hand. It was almost completely dark now and she was thankful for this.

From the light above her, she could tell she was very close to the top of the slope. She paused to wipe her hands on her pants.

Then she heard the voices.

CHAPTER TEN.

August 18, 2001 Armin Training Camp Rennie heard them before she saw them. She was thirty feet from the crest of the ridge. She couldn't tell if they were close or if the slight breeze had carried their voices from farther away and she couldn't see anything over the slope, the angle was too steep.

She drew herself into a low crouch so she could move quickly if need be, bracing her foot against a tree to keep her balance.

Every sense seemed to open and expand to its fullest capacity.

She thought she could even smell them. Then, just as quickly, the voices retreated. It was completely dark now, but she could see a halo of muted light at the crest of the ridge coming from the lights of the camp.

She lay perfectly still, well camouflaged by the dense vegetation, but in an uncomfortable position, a kind of half-crouch, half-sprawl. Her muscles were bunching up and she forced herself 00.

to ease her body flatter to the ground. She looked at her watch.

Almost 2100 hours. If all was on schedule, the festivities were due to begin in half an hour.

The men so close to the edge of the woods had surprised her. She thought of the plan of the camp she had studied until she knew it like she knew the layout of her own apartment.

The Bureau's intelligence had obviously erred in estimating the distance between the forest and the nearest buildings. She would have to top the slope to get her bearings anyway.

She hated to leave her spot. She felt safe there, hidden in the brush. She moved out slowly, still on her belly, and inched her way up the steep incline. The ground was more viney here and she used the tangles to stay her footing and still allow her to keep the sub-gun in her hand, with the safety on to avoid any chance of an accidental firing. Nearing the top, she heard more noiseswheels on an unpaved road, and faint music. She had no idea what sort of security they would have at this time of night. It was believed that they were more concerned with the road. They would never suspect an attack from the woods.

Still, Rennie paused before lifting her head. She feared the split second it would take to raise her head over the edge of the slope.

She might rise up only to hear the retort of a weapon and know that she was dead. This night, though, was tied to a schedule and the thought of time slipping away from her pushed away whatever fear remained and she looked over the bank's edge.

The two-dimensional picture imprinted in her mind suddenly sprang to life. Buildings rose from black lines on a white page, taking on form and texture. There were the barracks, a series of huts sharing a common roof. And there was the old stable. What was it used for now? Perhaps more barracks. Or storage. North and to her left was the activity she had heard. There was light and smoke and the forms of soldiers walking from the barracks toward the maneuvers field. Intelligence had posited accurately that this was where Armin's speech would take place.

It was almost a quarter after nine and Rennie needed to be in position by the time Armin stepped up to the podium.

0.

Fortunately, he was known to be verbose. The plan of the camp the FBI had was very close to what she was actually seeing and she knew she needed to move farther north in order to get a view of the maneuvers field. She shifted her position carefully, ducking her head out of view and crawling awkwardly along the steep, vined edge, occasionally peeking over to check her line of sight.

It was completely dark, the only light coming from the field where a bonfire raged and spotlights were trained on the makeshift stage that came into view. Rennie's adrenaline shifted up a notch. As long as Armin took the stage, and everything pointed to that notion, she would have what appeared to be a clear shot. She settled into the brush, pulling some of it around her, camouflaging herself as much as she could. She swung Brad's already a.s.sembled sniper gun off her back and snapped the bipod into position.

Hunkering down, she peered through the scope. The scene suddenly leapt to life before her eyes. The clarity the scope brought, in addition to the strong light source, was astounding.

Rennie could see the splintering planks of the stage smeared with mud. The gra.s.s around it looked bitten up by too many heavy boots. She raised the barrel of the gun slightly and flinched as the head of one of the men moved through her crosshairs. Soldiers were bustling around everywhere. They didn't look like a band of ruthless terrorists, at least not most of them. A lot of them were young boys who looked like they were playing dress-up.

Rennie wasn't surprised at thisshe had read the profiles. What surprised her was how much they looked like any group of boys, joking and making rude gestures to one another, filled with the excitement brought about by the break in their routine.

The conditions for the shoot were almost perfect. The light wind had died down and the night was still very hot which was ideal, since colder, denser air would create more drag on the bullet. Rennie estimated she was about a half-mile from the stage.

It was far, but she had shot accurately at that range before.

It was hard to tear her eyes away from the stage. She didn't 0.

want to miss the moment Armin stepped into her line of fire, but she needed to scan the area and get her bearings. About two hundred yards directly in front of her was the stable. She was in line with the wide center aisle that cut through the middle of the ancient structure. She flicked on the night vision on the scope and the world again changed to radioactive green. She swung the barrel of the gun past the stable across a few hundred yards of dirt and gravel to the barracks. There was a road that ran behind these buildings, parallel to the line of the woods. She could see a few men walking toward the maneuvers field. She scanned past the barracks until her line of vision was even with the crest of the bank where she hid and then moved the scope left. Again she swept slowly past the barracks, the stable and then to the mess hall and what they thought was Armin's house. She lingered there, moving along every inch of the building. Dim light shone weakly through the small covered windows. Then she heard commotion from the stage area. She moved her sight left and switched off the night vision.

Men were packed around the stage, pressing up against it.

She could feel their excitement and it affected her, elevating her adrenaline and setting her even more on edge. Everyone seemed to have their weapons in hand and Rennie longed for the familiar feel of her sub-gun. With her face against the cheek pad, she could smell Brad's musky scent caught in the fibers of the leather and took a small comfort in it. Armin was nearby. She knew it.

The crowd was beginning to take on the aspect of a large group of people caught up in the same all-consuming emotion. It was an arena where that emotion would rule the day. She hoped Armin didn't fire them up any more than they already were. A loud roar rose from the field and the crowd began to press forward, focusing their attention.

And then he was on the stage, stepping up to a tall crate that the soldiers must have moved there to act as a podium while Rennie was doing her scan. Rennie held his face in the scope and watched him smiling, his gun raised in triumph. Ahmad Armin.

She needed to let the crowd settle in a little before she took her 0.

shot. She concentrated on controlling her breathing, keeping her breaths slow and shallow. She could feel her adrenaline jumping wildly, pulling at its leash, begging her to just squeeze off a few rounds and watch his head explode, but she kept a tight hold on it. No mistakes now. She needed to wait for the right moment, keeping him in her sights. Then make the shot and run like h.e.l.l.

Through her scope, she watched him as he calmed the crowd so he could begin speaking. He looked smaller than he had seemed in the many photos she had seen. Dumpier. He didn't look particularly dangerous, but if Rennie had learned anything during her time at the Bureau, it was that murderous instinct can come in any form.

Armin began to speak, raising a bullhorn to his mouth. She trained the crosshairs at the spot on his head just behind his right ear. Her index finger was on the trigger guard where it was supposed to be until she decided to make her shot. She scanned over the crowd at the edge of the stage. Everyone was listening intently and occasionally roaring their agreement. She moved the barrel of the gun back to Armin. He was becoming emphatic, gesticulating with his gun and punching the air with the hand holding the bullhorn. The crowd grew louder. To Rennie, they sounded almost panic-stricken, fueled by his rhetoric. Then Armin began to fire his gun in the air. The crowd joined in. Now is the time. Rennie flipped off the safety and put her finger on the trigger. Armin was moving back and forth, rocking against the crate as he leaned into it. She just needed him to pause. Just for an instant. Then a light flickered out of the corner of her eye.

She jerked her head to the right, waiting for the sensation of hot metal pa.s.sing through her brain. She saw a red glowing point at the entrance of the stable pa.s.sageway. Someone had just lit a cigarette.

Rennie swung the barrel of the gun toward the point of light and flicked on the scope's night vision. A soldier stood with a hand in his pocket, leisurely smoking a cigarette. Why wasn't he pressing up against the stage with everyone else? Then he turned and looked down the pa.s.sageway to his left. Rennie followed his 0.

line of vision with her scope. Leaning over the top of one of the stable's Dutch doors was a woman. She was very thin and had short dark hair. She was motioning to the soldier for something.

A small woman, something feline about her, with distinctive features.

Hannah Marcus.

The American woman kidnapped by Armin almost two years before and believed to be dead stood very much alive in the crosshairs of Rennie's scope.

Fareed Reza unb.u.t.toned the high collar of his uniform. It was too b.l.o.o.d.y hot to be wearing the G.o.d-awful thing and he had never felt more like a man playing a part. But perhaps it had always been this way. He hardly knew who he was anymore. He lit a cigarette and drew in deeply on the bitter smoke. He had stepped away from Hannah Marcus's stall to give her a moment of privacy as she ravenously ate the food he brought her from Armin's celebration. She wasn't starving but it was the first thing approximating decent food she'd had since beginning her captivity. None of them ate well in the camp, but her diet was particularly paltry.

Standing at the opening of the stable, Fareed turned his face to the sky. It was a clear night, a beautiful night. If only he were anywhere but here.

He heard Hannah set her plate down.

"How about a smoke, Fareed?"

He stepped back from the opening of the stable and knocked a cigarette out of his pack. "They aren't very good. Just cheap Indian cigarettes. I haven't been able to get anything better."