It was low, cramped, dark, and hot inside the vehicle. It bounced up and down roughly on its chassis as soon as it encountered the first bumps outside the wire of the base, and it smelled like the interior had been sprayed down with engine lube and body odor.
This was Court’s first time inside a BMP-3, and to say he wasn’t impressed would have been an understatement. He had been hoping to get some rest on the several-hours-long journey to the north, but now he couldn’t imagine any way to pull that off.
Court had never served in the U.S. military, and he’d only sat in Strykers and Bradleys, the U.S. frontline infantry fighting vehicles, a handful of times. All those occasions were during training evolutions at military bases around the United States or a few times when in Iraq and Afghanistan working operations with the CIA’s Special Activities Division.
Normally his Ground Branch task force helicoptered into a location to grab or eliminate their target, and they’d leave the same way. When they did travel over roads, they normally did so in low-profile vehicles: local cars and trucks.
The Special Activities Division left the driving around in big, bouncy armored vehicles to the military guys.
Court did not want to be here, working with mercenaries who were, themselves, working for a militia that was working for the evil Azzam regime, but he knew of no other way to get up near Palmyra, the place where Azzam was allegedly visiting Tuesday. He had to continue on this mission, to remain in cover as a mercenary deploying to support combat troops, and then, when he got as close as he could to his real destination, he would find a way to pick up the intel that would pinpoint Azzam’s location.
For this he would need a phone, and he knew Van Wyk didn’t have one, but there would be a Desert Hawks command post wherever they were deploying, and there would be all the commo gear there he needed.
In his fantasies, Court imagined his intel would send a squadron of French Mirage fighter-bombers over Palmyra to take out Azzam from the air, but in reality he was under no illusions the French would do anything so brazen. No, if this was to work, it would involve indigenous forces.
In the meantime, however, the KWA men around him seemed very certain they were heading into some sort of a fight, although whether it was going to be a two-sided affair, with people fighting back, was as yet unknown. Court would be going in with them, doing what he had to do to keep his cover, but the first chance he got to acquire some actionable intel about the reasons behind this security option, grab some means of communication, and get the fuck out of there, he told himself he would take it.
Court took off his helmet and rubbed the sweat already soaking his hair. Putting it back on, he met Saunders’s gaze, and the British man leaned forward and spoke into his ear. “When we get where we’re goin’, you’re gonna have to do your job.”
“You doubt my abilities?”
“If we make contact with armed fighters? No, I know you can do it, although if it’s not ISIS or Al Nusra you’ll probably whine about it before, during, and after. But the Hawks like to use us for suppression ops, and that means dirty work. If they send us into the city to round up town leaders or anti-regime suspects, I’ll warn you, it won’t make for stories you’ll want to tell your grandkids by the fire.”
Court just shrugged at Saunders, still trying to figure out the psychology of a man like him. He said, “This is KWA, Lars Klossner’s company. I knew what I was getting into on the way in.”
Saunders nodded at this, and then said, “How much you getting paid for the kid?”
Court pulled a number out of his ass. “One hundred thousand.”
“Dollars?”
“Pesos.”
Saunders’s face showed genuine confusion.
Court rolled his eyes. “Yes, dollars.”
The Englishman stared him down for several seconds. “Bollocks. Wouldn’t be worth it to a man like you. You’ve got a lifetime of training. You’re not Canadian, you’re a Yank, so I figure you for SEAL Team Six, or one of those Delta boys. Maybe even CIA para ops.”
“You’ve got one hell of an imagination.”
Saunders shook his head and repeated himself. “Bollocks. I bet you’re making two hundred, minimum, which means I want fifty.”
“Not gonna happen.”
Saunders turned to the team leader, at the far end of his bench. “Oy! Van Wyk?”
The older South African turned to Saunders.
“Thirty-five,” Court said.
“Fifty.”
A sigh. “Fine.”
Still with his eyes on the American, Saunders said, “Never mind, boss.”
Van Wyk went back to his thoughts, and Saunders smiled at Court.
The Englishman said, “I want to know more about you. I get that the money’s nice in this line of work, but it’s only worth it if you don’t have other options. Me? I’m what they refer to as unemployable in the security and private military contractor industry. And since I don’t have any other skills other than fightin’, I took the job for KWA five years ago knowing what I would have to do. Told myself I’d follow orders for whoever I was working for, full stop. They want me to fight insurgents, jolly good. If they want me to blast my way into a mosque and shoot a village elder, then I’ll do that, as well.”
Court looked away.
“But you? I don’t have you sorted out yet. It’s mad, really. Why the risk? Why not stay wrapped up in your bed at home when you’re not fightin’ the good fight for your country and not out here in the shite with the Ali Babas?”
Court had been thinking the same thing about Saunders, but he didn’t reveal it. Instead he said, “Look, man, if you’re trying to be my guidance counselor, you’re about twenty years too late.”
Saunders kept a skeptical eye on Court, who found the look unnerving. Finally the Brit said, “Something got switched off in you, and you ended up here, filching children. What was it?”
Finally Court said, “Here’s where you and me stand, Saunders. I owe you some money, but I don’t owe you any explanations. For anything.” Court leaned forward, menacing. “Now . . . get the fuck out of my face and let me get some rest.”
Saunders raised an eyebrow, and then he leaned back and away.
Court closed his eyes and hoped the bouncing and knocking of the armored infantry carrier would somehow rock him to sleep.
CHAPTER 56
The Frenchman tossed back the dregs of his fifth coffee of the day, and it wasn’t even ten a.m.
He’d spent the morning in his office in the 5th Arrondissement, working his satellite phone while the one suit he had with him dried in the window.
He’d come here directly after hitchhiking away from the farmhouse, because he was too tired and overwhelmed to conduct a surveillance detection route in order to make sure he hadn’t been followed from the property. He didn’t want to go home without being assured he hadn’t been followed, but there was reasonably good security in the office building where he worked, so he’d decided that would be sufficient protection. He’d slept for five hours on his leather sofa, but by eight a.m. he had a pot of coffee on the burner, his laptops opened, and his phone wedged between his neck and his ear, and since then he’d been talking almost nonstop to various intelligence operatives in Jordan. These were exactly the men he knew would not agree to extract the son of Ahmed Azzam when they learned about the death of Bianca Medina. But they were men who would do damn near anything to bring about the end of the Azzam regime, so if rescuing the baby and the nanny from Syria was the purchase price for the death of the dictator to their north, the Jordanians would find a way to come through.