LOST AND LETHAL Read online

  Molka nudged Tariq with her elbow. “Um…I know I’m new to this neighborhood. But that looks a bit suspicious.”

  Tariq chuckled. “He’s not too subtle, is he?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Another Rivin man. Three years ago, Rivin got the semi-inspired idea of having one of his distant cousins buy that house. He promptly kicked the cousin out and installed his own men to survey Zoran the Great’s home around the clock.”

  Molka’s eyebrows rose. “And Zoran the Great just allows this?”

  “Yes, he welcomes it because he can control what he wants them to see.”

  “Like a form of counter-surveillance.”

  “Exactly,” Tariq said. “And Zoran the Great took his counter-surveillance measures one step further a year later when he sent one of his trusted unit commanders to Rivin posing as a traitor. The unit commander told Rivin he was tired of the old man’s old ways and wanted to help a ‘young lion,’ Rivin, finally overthrow Zoran the Great and take over his domain. Instead, this unit commander acts as a double agent who feeds Rivin disinformation within actual information.”

  “And Rivin hasn’t figured that out yet?”

  “Like I said, Rivin is not a deep strategic thinker. But it’s more that his overwhelming hatred of Zoran the Great blinds him from thinking logically. He believes this unit commander could betray Zoran the Great because he himself did. And it also feeds into Rivin’s ultimate dream of someday catching Zoran the Great outside of Mucize without his normal security complement.”

  “How big is that?” Molka said.

  “Zoran the Great always travels with no fewer than two full units of 25 men each. And these 50 men, all very good men, are more than a match for Rivin’s 100-plus hired guns. Rivin knows that too. But he keeps hoping Zoran the Great will slip up one day.”

  The gate opened, and the three vehicles drove through, up a circular driveway, and stopped outside the home’s front door.

  Zilan exited her car, still dressed in her scrubs, and entered the home.

  Tariq spoke to the two men in the front seat in their native language, and the men exited and joined the two men who had exited the black SUV and cigarettes were lit.

  Tariq removed the gold-colored scarf from his neck and wrapped it around his head to form a keffiyeh as he addressed Molka. “I’ll inform Zoran the Great you’ve arrived and about the situation with Uri. He may or may not want to meet with you. He has certain views about women.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “If he does meet with you and asks about his money, it's best if you don’t inform him you’ve hidden it. Just tell him Uri will bring it to him when I get Uri back.”

  “I have my instructions of what to tell him about the money,” Molka said.

  “From Azzur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which are?” Tariq said.

  “Which are classified.”

  Tariq shook his head. “I’ve heard Azzur deals out trust sparingly. Shall we go in?”

  Molka trailed Tariq from the SUV, up stones steps to the heavy front door, and inside to a large multicolored terrazzo floored foyer.

  Zilan waited there beside a woman: a middle-aged version of herself dressed in a long turquoise colored dress ornamented with gold embroidery.

  The woman smiled and spoke to Molka in their native language.

  Zilan translated to Molka. “This is my mother, Amira. She says you are most welcome here.”

  Molka nodded with respect. “I am honored. Thank you.”

  Zilan translated to Amira.

  Amira smiled at Molka and then addressed Tariq.

  Tariq acknowledged her words with his own, and then he addressed Molka. “Zoran the Great is out patrolling with his men. But he should return shortly. I’m going to get Uri. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll go recover the money and wrap this mission up.”

  “Alright,” Molka said.

  Tariq departed.

  Amira spoke to Molka again.

  Zilan translated to Molka. “My mother says refreshments have been prepared on the terrace. And that her other guest waits there and wishes to speak with you. I’ll show you the way and translate.”

  “Thank you,” Molka said. “And please thank your mother again for her kind hospitality.”

  Zilan translated Molka’s gratitude.

  Amira smiled again and then departed.

  Molka followed Zilan up a carved wood railed staircase to a second-floor family room-type space. They crossed the room to an open French door and out onto an iron-railed terrace which overlooked the spectacular Mucize night view.

  A large table on the terrace had been laid out with platters of cheeses, fruits, nuts, and a small ceramic pot containing hot, sweet tea.

  A man sat at the table’s far end: Ibis.

  He matched his briefing photos, except his hair and mustache had grayed more. He sported a brown V-neck sweater over an open-collared cream-colored dress shirt. He wore the gold signet ring he used to imprint wax seals on documents on his right middle finger. On the table before him, a thick unpleasant-smelling cigar smoldered in an ashtray next to a half-filled stemmed glass of red wine.

  He viewed Molka’s arrival with apathy.

  Molka addressed Zilan. “Please tell him my name is Molka, and I’ve come to take Ibis to safety.”

  Zilan translated to him in Turkish.

  His face flashed with annoyance, and he addressed Molka in Arabic accented English. “I am not an Ibis. I am Major General Ahmad Shamieh. Please dispense with that ridiculous code name and address me by my proper title.”

  Old habit brought Molka to attention. “Yes, general.”

  The general puffed his cigar. “I assume you are the security specialist on this operation and not the pilot.”

  “Yes, general. But I’m also a pilot. Helicopters.”

  The general grunted. “And I assume the pilot, the man, is meeting with Zoran the Great right now to finalize the deal, and we will be leaving in the morning.”

  “I’m not sure about that yet,” Molka said.

  “Why are you not sure?”

  Molka paused.

  Zilan smiled. “I’ll leave you two to talk in private.”

  Molka smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  When Zilan left the terrace, the general repeated. “Why are you not sure?”

  “There’s been a slight setback.”

  “During an operation, there is no such thing as a slight setback.”

  “You’re right, general,” Molka said. “Unfortunately, our pilot, Uri, was taken captive by another local warlord named Rivin, who plans to ransom him.”

  The general dropped a heavy fist on the table. “How could that possibly have happened?”

  “Right after we landed, we were approached by armed men in vehicles bearing Zoran the Great’s markings. Or so we thought and—”

  The general interrupted. “And these armed men took the pilot away from you? You are the security specialist. Were you not armed too?”

  “Yes, general,” Molka said. “But I was…away in another location when they arrived.”

  The general turned his head to view the tranquil Mucize below. “When the Traitor’s scandal crippled your organization, I praised the perpetrators as angels. Now I curse them as demons. For they have placed my life in the hands of rank amateurs.”

  “Yes, general,” Molka said. “But Tariq is on the way now to negotiate the pilot’s release.”

  The general faced her. “Tariq is a very capable young man. However, negotiate does not necessarily mean secure.”

  “No, general.”

  The general stood, placed his cigar in his mouth, picked up his wine glass, and glowered at Molka. “I should have listened to my wife and approached the Americans first.”

  The general exited the terrace.

  Molka sat and consumed cheese, fruit, and nuts from the platters with vigor to quash her extreme hunger.

  I don’t th
ink the general thinks very much of me.

  Molka checked her watch: 9:35PM.

  Ugh, what a day it’s been.

  My first task went from bad to worse.

  Stay positive.

  Keep believing things will get better.

  But when?

  Zilan stepped back onto the terrace. “My father has returned and wishes to speak to you in his office.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “The Red Lion’s Den”

  10:27PM

  “The first fortress was built here by the Hamdanid dynasty in the 8th century AD. They recognized how this position could dominate that pass just to the south, which was one of the trade routes from Persia. Nothing remains of the original fortifications. These outer walls were constructed between 1626 and 1656 and are 13 meters high and 5 meters thick.”

  Rivin narrated in Turkish a walking tour of his fortress home to Jäger and Fuchs as the trio walked alongside the parapet atop the south wall.

  Jäger and Fuchs still wore their khaki surveyor outfits from earlier that day and Fuchs puffed his pipe.

  The mid-30s Rivin styled a newer combat uniform with a digital pattern of greens, browns, and black over his shorter, stocky frame. His black hair was cropped close, and his full black beard hung down to his upper chest. Close-set dark eyes were topped with a near-unibrow, and a thin red scar ran from the corner of his left eye to the middle of his left cheek.

  Rivin continued his lecture. “And as control of this region passed to the Ottoman Empire and later to modern Turkey, a continuous military presence occupied this fortress until the 1950s.”

  “Why did the Turks abandon it then?” Jäger said.

  “They decided aircraft surveillance of this remote, mostly peaceful, location would be good enough.”

  “Which made it impractical to garrison,” Fuchs said.

  “Yes,” Rivin said. “And now it’s been removed from their books and all but forgotten.”

  “And when did you take it over?” Jäger said.

  “As kids, me and my friends cut through a little fence they placed over the entrance gate. We made this place kind of our private playhouse. Then when I set out on my own 12 years ago, I decided to move in permanently. And as you can see, I’ve made some improvements.” He pointed to pillboxes mounted atop the wall at each corner containing a heavy machinegun and heavy mortars emplaced on the fortress’s interior yard to fire over the walls at attackers in any direction.

  Fuchs said, “So, assuming you’re not assaulted by air, this position is invulnerable to any ground threat.”

  Rivin flashed an annoying face. “The only real threat I have in this region is the old man of Mucize. And he wouldn’t dare attack me here again.”

  A man wearing a similar uniform to Rivin and a red keffiyeh climbed the stone steps leading to the wall top and approached the trio.

  Rivin addressed him. “What is it?”

  “Sir, we still have not heard back from them.”

  Rivin’s face angered. “Those assholes. Send someone over to the camp and see if they went there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man headed back down the stone steps.

  “Problem?” Jäger said.

  “The three men I sent to go grab the Israeli tourist woman haven’t come back, and they’re not answering their radios. They probably went to the big refugee camp near here. In it, I operate a brothel, a bar, and a store where I sell contraband. Sometimes my men sneak off to the brothel and drop my name to get free service.”

  Fuchs said, “We passed the Israeli tourist couple’s abandoned airplane on the way here. It’s very nice. When you ransom them back to their country, will that also be included?”

  Rivin grinned. “No. I’ve already put it up for sale online and have offers. Now let’s finish your tour. Any questions?”

  “How many entrances?” Jäger said.

  “Only two,” Rivin said. “The main entrance gate and one that men like you would appreciate.” He grinned again. “Follow me.”

  Rivin descended the stone steps to the fortress’s interior yard, which was covered in crushed gravel and illuminated with wall-mounted LED lights. The yard’s northwest corner served as a parking lot for over 30 SUVs and technical trucks. And centrally located in the yard sat a large, one-story, concrete-walled building called the blockhouse.

  Rivin led Jäger and Fuchs across the yard to the blockhouse. When they reached the heavy steel entrance door, Rivin paused and addressed Fuchs. “I don’t allow smoking inside. The ventilation in there isn’t the greatest.”

  Fuchs tapped his pipe on his boot heel and emptied the bowl onto the gravel yard.

  Rivin opened the door and the trio stepped from the 1650s outer fortress walls into 1950s chipped light gray painted walls and a worn gray tiled floor hallway.

  Straight ahead lay a large open common space containing several long tables with several uniformed men seated at them watching an action movie on a sizeable TV mounted on the wall. An open door on the room’s opposite side revealed a barracks area.

  Rivin turned to the left and walked to the hallway’s end to a closed door. He opened the door, and they entered a large bedroom. He moved to a king-sized bed and pushed it across the room, leaving behind a small red rug on the floor. He moved the rug aside. Underneath was a closed, metal hinged hatch with a metal handle. He grabbed the handle and opened the hatch to expose a vertical shaft made from concrete blocks extending down into darkness. A metal access ladder was bolted to one side of the shaft.

  Rivin pointed into the shaft. “That leads straight down 30 meters to a horizontal tunnel. That tunnel extends all the way under the north wall and continues on another two kilometers beyond it to another vertical shaft. A ladder in that shaft climbs up to an exit hatch in the ground concealed by a fake boulder made from fiberglass.”

  “So this is an escape tunnel?” Fuchs said.

  Rivin smiled. “I call it my mutiny hole.”

  “Mutiny hole?” Jäger said.

  “Yes,” Rivin said. “The old man of Mucize hoards all the decent men around here, so what’s leftover—and what I have to bring in—are questionable at best. Their loyalties depend on how well I do in leading them to things worth taking. I’m damn good at that. But they could still turn on me. And if they do and decide to mutiny, I’ll be long gone because they have no idea this is here. I told anyone curious about the crew I brought in from Mardin to build it that they were fixing a 100-year-old broken sewer line.”

  Fuchs grinned. “And no one wants to go look at a broken sewer line. I like the way you think, Rivin.”

  Jäger said, “Thank you for the informative tour of your impressive fortification. And for the drinks and the fine dinner your cook prepared. But it is getting late, so can we discuss a plan for removing General Shamieh from—as you say—the old man of Mucize and turning him over to me before the Americans decide to come and take him away.”

  Rivin smiled. “You have nothing to worry about. General Shamieh isn’t going anywhere until I say so. And he has no deal with the Americans. He hasn’t even contacted them yet.”

  Jäger gave Rivin a doubtful glance. “You have confirmed this through your operative in Zoran the Great’s camp?”

  “Yes. And also, through new intel from your employers. I have friends there too.”

  “Then, what is your plan to achieve our goal?” Jäger said.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

  Jäger frowned.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Rivin called out: “Hold on!” He closed the hatch, replaced the rug, pushed the bed back into place, moved to the door, and opened it.

  The same Rivin man from the wall stood outside.

  “What is it now?” Rivin said.

  “Sir, your friend Tariq is at the gate.”

  Rivin smirked. “Tariq is not my friend.”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “No, he wants to steal something from me right before my ey
es and make me believe it was all my idea. Because that’s what Tariq does best.” Rivin addressed Jäger and Fuchs. “You should know about this Tariq. He grew up around here and was always a real scammer and hustler. Then he told us all to go to hell and left for Istanbul to make his fortune. And then a few weeks ago, after over ten years of being gone, I see him in the refugee camp hiring workmen. He didn’t say what for. And then I heard he’s friendly with one of the old man of Mucize’s daughters. I pretended we were friendly too and invited him to hang out here whenever he wants so I could find out what he’s up to because I know it’s worth something. I haven’t figured it out yet, though. My point is, he’s a sly one. So as long as you’re around Mucize, best to watch out for him.”

  Rivin’s man spoke up. “Should I send him away, sir?”

  “No. Bring him to me. Perhaps this time I can keep something from him and make him believe it was all his idea.”

  CHAPTER 20

  As Zilan led Molka from the terrace back downstairs, Molka tried to imagine what the private office of a famous warlord would look like.

  She pictured a masculine room with dark wood furniture and walls covered in paintings of horrific battles and weapons taken from vanquished foes—maybe even their swords—and maybe even their stuffed and mounted heads!

  She checked her vivid imagination, but what she found when Zilan opened the door for her challenged the wildest expectations she possessed.

  The only furniture in the space was a modern-style workstation desk holding a laptop, an ergonomic office chair behind the desk, and two plain office-type chairs fronting it.

  And the four white walls were covered with hundreds—maybe over a thousand—framed family photos: most featuring seven pretty girls chronicling their lives from newborn infants to married women.

  In the privacy of his practical, functional, unassuming office, Zoran the Great, legendary warlord, was above all a proud daddy.

  Molka liked that.

  Zoran the Great entered.

  Unlike the general, his current age matched her briefing photos. And like his fighters, he wore olive-green fatigues and a gold-colored keffiyeh on his head. He also wore a broad gold sash around his waist. In his right hand, he carried a spotless AK-47 with a folding metal stock folded under, and in his left hand, a black two-way radio.