Disavowed Page 3

  The man continued. “So while I applaud your noble intentions and understand that you will fight us until the last breath escapes your lips, I am equally sure that you have no idea what the repercussions would be should you continue your mission.”

  Andy had no idea what the man was talking about. He’d flown into Helmand on a hunch, a simple investigative trip. What swarm of hornets had he uncovered?

  “I will leave you with one final thought, Major, a gift really. What you might not know is that steps have already been taken by your country to distance itself from you.”

  “What are you talking about?” The last he’d heard he was in perfect standing with the CIA. Hell, he was still the new guy. No one knew him.

  The man chuckled. “Have you ever heard the term disavowed, Major?”

  Andy’s throat seized.

  “I had to look the word up. According to your English dictionary, the term disavowed means to refuse responsibility for something or someone, or to deny its existence. That is what your CIA has done to you, Major. To them you no longer exist. You are a figment of your own imagination. A ghost. A traitor.”

  Andy shook his head. It couldn’t be. Nothing he’d done could be construed that way. He was a Marine for God’s sake. Maybe this man was lying. Maybe he…

  All of a sudden the nagging recognition that had been tapping away in his subconscious coalesced into clarity. He knew who the man was.

  “I will give you the day to think about it, Major. Cooperate with us and your death will be swift. A warrior’s death. Deny my request and…well, we Afghanis do have creative ways of seeing men suffer. The media will love the story of a Marine on loan to the CIA conducting an unsanctioned operation inside Afghanistan… Get some sleep today. You will not be bothered. I will be back tomorrow morning. Good day, Major.”

  Andy heard the opening and closing of car doors. Not rusted pickups or late model sedans. The heavy thud of armored SUVs. More proof that the man was who Andy suspected.

  As they dragged him back to his cell, Andy tried to find a silver lining in his predicament. He searched for a way out, a reason why his own government was turning its back on him. None came. If this man had taken the time to see him, Major Andrews had tripped on something much larger than he’d suspected. But what could it be?

  Chapter 6

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  12:37am, August 24th

  He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair, a yawn accompanying the gesture. It had been a very long day. As the Chief of Staff to the President of The United States of America, Travis Haden rarely left the office before midnight. There was simply too much to do. If it wasn’t a raging policy battle, it was another imminent threat from one of the many crazies around the world.

  The former SEAL was used to stress. While getting his trident had been tough, and leading a global security company like SSI had been challenging, his new role eclipsed them both by far. Some days, he wished he was getting shot at again instead of having bundles and bundles of reports and requests delivered daily. The level of hypocrisy alone was enough to send him running. The warrior in him growled, but the loyal public servant calmed the unease by recognizing the importance of his contribution.

  President Zimmer needed him. It still amazed Travis to think of all they’d accomplished in less than a year. When he’d asked Travis to join him in Washington, Zimmer had made two requests. “Help me clean up my cabinet.” That was the easy part. Most of those people had known the reshuffling was coming.

  The second request was less defined, more strategic, and yet, the reason Travis had said yes to the new position.

  “Help me be a good president,” Zimmer had said.

  While the request might’ve seemed simple to others, Travis understood the breadth of what the president wanted. Zimmer wasn’t just worried about his legacy, he wanted to do it right. He wanted to be a fair leader worthy of the office. That meant surrounding himself with people like Travis and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General McMillan, USMC, men and women whose sole purpose in life was to do the right thing, even if it meant challenging their boss’s point of view.

  Travis felt like they were succeeding. The whole Zimmer Doctrine idea was gaining steam. International allies rallied to the president’s call. Terrorists were running scared, pursued by eager military veterans and their active duty brethren. They’d even made some headway with the economy.

  Yeah, things were going in the right direction, but there was still so much to do.

  That brought him to this latest problem. Andy.

  He’d been introduced to the Marine years before, when his cousin Cal had brought the young officer home after returning from Iraq. The guy was sharp, a born leader. Travis had met all manner of men in his years in the military and with SSI. He knew honest men, men with the morals of patriotic warriors. Andy was one of those guys.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Earlier in the day, he and the president met with the CIA director, his deputy director of National Clandestine Service (NCS) and the CIA’s inspector general.

  Travis knew the director, but had never met the other two. The president said he’d only met them in passing.

  They’d come at the president’s request, more of a favor than an official tasking. The picture they painted of Major Andrews contrasted harshly with the image Travis had of the lost Marine.

  “Mr. President, we have overwhelming proof, including video, phone transcripts and witnesses that prove Major Andrews’ guilt,” explained the inspector general. His voice was nasally and pompous. “We’ve also uncovered at least five overseas accounts containing just under thirty million dollars, all held by known aliases of Major Andrews.”

  “And what exactly are you saying he’s guilty of, gentlemen?” asked the president, his eyes boring into the almost flippant inspector general.

  The director saw the simmering anger in the president’s eyes and cut in before the Inspector General could respond.

  “Sir, we believe Major Andrews is part of a larger conspiracy to discredit the United States and embezzle millions of dollars earmarked for aid projects in the Middle East.”

  They’d shown them the files, the videos, the proof that Andy was what they were accusing him of being: a traitor. Neither man wanted to believe it, but the deck seemed insurmountably stacked against the Marine.

  And yet, something nagged at the edges of Travis’s vision. It all seemed too tight, too perfect. Ask any cop on the street or FBI agent in the field, an investigation was rarely this cut and dried.

  The other thing that bothered Travis was the deputy director. Sitting there with his perfectly manicured fingernails and Savile Row suit, the man looked more like a person heading an international luxury brand than leading the most powerful clandestine service in the world. The man’s silence did little to ease Travis’s suspicions.

  So instead of going home and facing Cal, who had texted every thirty minutes for an update, Travis sat at his desk and conducted his own investigation. Luckily the Secret Service owed him a few favors, and it only took one phone call to get their file on the CIA’s Deputy Director NCS, Kingsley Coles.

  A Harvard grad, Coles had done a stint in the Army after college. Intelligence. After fulfilling his four year commitment, he’d gone back to Harvard for his Juris Doctor, then spent thirteen years in environmental law, suing large corporations who were killing Mother Earth. Coles had become a very wealthy man.

  Strangely enough, he’d entered public service on some sort of grant funded by the government in the wake of 9-11. Coles left private practice, even giving up his position as partner to serve his country. He’d done a year stint with the State Department then made his way to the CIA.

  It didn’t look like the guy had any field experience. That would most certainly have precluded Coles from attaining his current position ten years before; however Zimmer’s predecessor, after repeated CIA snafus, ushered in a slew of political appointees
to positions formerly held by CIA lifers.

  It looked like Coles was one of those guys. Someone who’d been brought in to clean house, to polish up the image of the American spy network. Travis shook his head. Sure there were plenty of subpar employees in the CIA just like any government entity, but putting an attorney in the spot rightfully reserved for a field veteran was just wrong.

  Beyond that, something didn’t feel right about the guy. It wasn’t anything Travis could put his finger on, but his senses were tingling.

  Either way, that would have to wait until morning. Right now he had to call Cal and give him the bad news. It wasn’t looking good for Andy.

  Chapter 7

  Arlington, Virginia

  12:52am, August 24th

  The veins in Cal’s hand bulged as he gripped the phone. His chest heaved like a bull waiting to go into a matador’s ring. He closed his eyes as he listened, trying to focus on steadying his breathing. His temper howled inside demanding to be unleashed.

  “You know that’s impossible, Trav,” Cal managed to say into the phone, his voice flat, emotionless.

  “I know, but until we have evidence to support Andy, there’s not much we can do.”

  “Don’t tell me that. I couldn’t care less about the evidence. We need to get Andy back. Not tomorrow. Now.”

  “Look, if the president goes against the CIA it would ruin the inroads we’ve made. I think…”

  “So you’re saying I should sit here and wait until my email dings and I get the video with Andy’s head dangling from some terrorist’s hand?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Cal. Unofficially, of course, the president agrees with you. But we need to be careful. Have you heard from Isnard?”

  “No. He’s gone deep somewhere. Every line we’ve put out there has yet to get a bite.”

  “I’m sure he’ll call as soon as he has something,” said Travis.

  “Yeah. I sure hope so.”

  +++

  Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  8:37am AFT, August 24th

  The white delivery truck pulled up the long drive, escorted by two pickup trucks and the usual complement of gunmen. You didn’t go anywhere in Helmand without security, least of all if you had something of value in your possession. Food was on the top of that list.

  Quraish gazed down from his perch atop one of the squat buildings of the village. He sat in the best place to view the steep approach of the road below. It was early for a delivery, but at least they might have something better than the stale bread and moldy cheese they’d been given at sunup. One of the others had told him that supplies were running low. Quraish’s belly rumbled at the thought.

  Someone in the larger village below had undoubtedly checked the convoy and passed it through. This was the innermost of three security rings. Besides, this side of the river was protected by a local warlord who ensured its safety. No one set foot inside the warlord’s lands without permission.

  Quraish clicked his radio twice then spoke into it. “Food delivery coming up from the village.”

  Whoever was on the other end mumbled something Quraish couldn’t understand. He replaced the radio on the short wall and continued to watch the small caravan as it moved closer. Still bored, Quraish’s only hope was that there would be some food left by the time his shift was over.

  +++

  The three vehicles pulled to a stop in front of the main building. Although larger than the others, the home was missing a quarter of its roof courtesy of an American mortar.

  A five man contingent from the group assigned to defend the small outpost walked out to meet the delivery. Like their friend on the roof, their stomachs growled at the thought of food.

  The men in the beds of the pickups stayed where they were as three men piled out of the delivery truck. One approached the defenders and the other two moved to the rear of the vehicle.

  “Good morning, brothers,” said the lone man who approached, arms spread wide in greeting. His face was covered with a dust crusted black scarf. He wore a rust colored pakol on his head, the traditional Afghan round-topped cap worn by many in the rural region. Even the man’s eyes were shielded with dark sunglasses rimmed with brown dirt. “Where should I have my men put your shipment?”

  “Have them take it over there,” one of the five said, pointing to the building they’d come out of. “What did you bring today?”

  The delivery man pulled down his scarf revealing a yellow smile. He rubbed his hands together.

  “Many fine surprises, my friend. Many fine. Tell me, how many men do you have so that I might leave enough extras? Nothing you need to tell your commander about. I know how it is on duty.”

  The five men looked at each other, one finally answering. “There are ten, but one is an old man with no teeth.”

  The delivery man smiled wide and clapped his hands once. “Good! Then I have brought enough. No treat is too good for our fine warriors.” He put up a finger as if to say, “Wait here.”

  The man disappeared behind the truck and came out a moment later cradling something wrapped in a white linen veil. The smile hadn’t left his face.

  “What is it?” asked one of the men, who now numbered seven. The rest nodded in anticipation.

  With a flourish, the delivery man whipped the linen away revealing a Russian-made PKM medium machine gun. On instinct, the seven men went for their weapons, but hesitated when the armed man standing in front of them whistled to get their attention. He motioned with his head back over his shoulder.

  The outpost security guards looked where he was pointing and saw the rest of the caravan pointing their guns straight at them. It only took a second for them to realize they were outgunned.

  “Now, if you will be kind and lower your weapons, I promise that we are not here to harm you,” said the delivery man.

  “How do we know you won’t kill us as soon as we do what you say?” one of the guards dared to ask.

  The delivery man laughed. “Do you think we would be here if we didn’t have your master’s permission? This is all part of the plan. We’ll even leave you the food in the back of the truck. No harm, eh?”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “First, I want you to put your weapons on the ground. Then I want to talk to whoever is in charge.”

  Six of the guards looked to a seventh. He shook his head in disgust.

  “It looks like you are in charge,” the delivery man said to the seventh. “Let’s step over there while they unload the truck.”

  The two men moved away from the others and stopped next to a gray bricked well.

  “Where is the American?” asked the delivery man. His smile was gone.

  “I don’t know what…”

  “I could easily kill you now and ask one of your underlings. You have two seconds to decide. One…”

  The seventh man put up his hands. “In that building.” He pointed down the row to the smallest structure of the bunch.

  The delivery man nodded. “Take me.”

  +++

  Andy’s eyes snapped to the door. He’d heard the crunch of tires and the slamming of car doors. They were back for him.

  The wooden portal creaked open and one of the guards walked in with his hands raised, followed immediately by a shorter man wearing sunglasses and carrying an impressive machine gun.

  “Get up,” ordered the armed man.

  Andy lifted his bound hands to show him that he couldn’t.

  “Where are the keys?” the man asked.

  “In my pocket,” said the guard.

  “Well take them out and unlock him, you fool.”

  The guard did as instructed, inserted the skeleton key and took the heavy chains off of Andy.

  “Now sit down and put them on yourself.”

  The guard nodded and set both cuffs on his wrists. He glared at the second man as Andy backed away cautiously. He didn’t have a clue what was going on. Possibly some sort of power struggle. Kidnapping and extort
ion were big business in Afghanistan. It looked like he’d just been snatched by another faction. Confirmation came when the stranger tossed him a pair of handcuffs.

  “Put them on.”

  Andy complied.

  “Now open the door and walk outside.”

  Andy led the way out of the room, maintaining a safe distance from the weapon that had yet to be lowered.

  “Walk to the delivery truck,” his new captor ordered. “Get in the front.”

  Andy nodded, keeping his head lowered, even as his eyes darted back and forth. There were men he recognized, the guards, unloading food from the back of a white delivery truck. Other men sitting in the beds of smaller pickups watched, weapons trained.

  This could go either way. Careful not to get in the path of his former guards who threw hateful glares his way, Andy climbed in the passenger side of the cab. The smell of stale cigarettes greeted him as he sat back and waited for the next leg of his journey.

  +++

  Once all the food was deposited next to their weapons, the delivery man gathered the outpost guards together.

  “As I told you when I arrived, I am here at the bidding of someone much more important than any one of us. That puts you in a dilemma. If your boss finds out that you let the prisoner out…” He shook his head, confirming the implication.

  “So what do we do?” asked one of the guards, panic in his bloodshot eyes.

  The delivery man nodded slowly, thinking. Then he said, “I secured your leader in the same cell where you held your former prisoner. I would suggest that if you want to relieve yourself of the burden of blame, do with him what you like. After all, was it not his responsibility to secure this outpost? Perhaps retell the story of how he orchestrated the prisoner’s escape, how he failed to lift a finger.”

  The six remaining guards nodded. They all knew what would happen if the blame lay in their hands.

  “I think you know what you must do, brothers. Good luck.”