Line of Sight - Mike Maden Read online

Walib’s eyes narrowed, taking the measure of the man again. “You’re vouching with both of our lives.”

  “Understood.”

  “And there’s no question in your mind we can pull it off?”

  “If there were, I wouldn’t be standing here.” Dzhabrailov glanced around again. “And you are certain you want to do this thing? There is no turning back from it.”

  Walib’s face hardened. “As certain as anything I have ever known. I will die rather than turn back. Do you doubt me?”

  The Chechen shook his head. “I trust your hate, brother. And the will of Allah.”

  “Then we’ll speak no more about it. And I am still your captain, not your brother.”

  “Yes, sir. When do you propose to make the move?”

  “The sooner the better,” Walib said. He turned around and continued with his halfhearted inspection. “Before the next fire mission, thirteen days from now.”

  “How about tonight?”

  Walib whipped back around. “Tonight? How is that even possible?”

  Dzhabrailov allowed himself a small grin. “Everything is already arranged.”

  “You are overly confident, Lieutenant. You couldn’t have known what my answer would be. I didn’t know it myself until an hour ago.”

  “I saw what happened to you at the launch, Captain.” Dzhabrailov darkened. “I saw the same thing in myself not so long ago.” But the Chechen brightened just as quickly. “And I also knew because Allah told me that this was His plan.”

  “You mean your commander’s plan, don’t you?”

  “My commander is a servant of the Most High, as am I.” The Chechen smiled. “As are you, Captain.”

  “Perhaps,” Walib said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “What do you propose for tonight, then, exactly?”

  They spoke in measured whispers for the next fifteen minutes while they inspected the hulking tank chassis with its giant missile box affixed above, pretending to check for signs of damage or needed maintenance. Anyone watching them from a distance wouldn’t have thought anything about them or paid attention to the short salutes they returned to the grateful guards as they resumed their posts.

  The two conspirators parted ways, each in a different direction, their determined steps quickened with the urgency of the damned.

  PRESIDENCY BUILDING, SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  The Turkish ambassador sipped a strong, black Bosnian coffee from a cup of fine bone china. His smiling eyes gleamed behind steel-framed glasses above a sharp, distinctive nose and a thick but well-trimmed mustache tinged with gray, as was his hair, though he was nearly bald now. This gave Ambassador Topal a rather agreeable but owlish appearance, which suited his reputation as a patient and thoughtful diplomat.

  He sat across the desk from the Bosnian president, a Muslim, locally known as Bosniaks. In fact, the man was just one of three Bosnian presidents. If a camel was a horse designed by a committee, then the Bosnian presidency was a three-headed camel; a collective head of state. It was composed of three presidents: an ethnic Croat, an ethnic Serb, and a Bosniak. But such was the mystery, and compromise, that governed the enigma of this ethnically and culturally divided republic. At least the three presidential heads were of one mind—for now.

  Topal had accepted the modest posting to the small but troubled republic for a number of reasons, one of which was his fascination with its complicated politics and governance. Bosnia and Herzegovina—“Bosnia” for short—was a nation comprising two political entities, like states: the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, with primarily ethnic Croats and Muslims; and the Republika Srpska, with mainly ethnic Serbs. Bosnia was a creation of European design at the end of the Bosnian War to form a peaceful, liberal democratic republic between these three distinct but hostile groups. So far, the experiment had worked, after a fashion.

  Yet in the last few years, just about the time Topal accepted his ambassadorship, ethnonationalist factions from each group began agitating for independence from one another. In recent months, small acts of insurgency had occurred across Bosnia, committed apparently by resurgent ethnic militias. Sloganeering graffiti sprayed on government buildings, smashed shop windows, burned cars. Fortunately, no people had been injured or killed by the hooliganism—at least, not yet.

  Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks were equally active on social media, airing current and historic grievances against one another while simultaneously claiming the moral high ground against the “fanatics” who “oppressed” them. Local and national politicians from all sides were beginning to pick up their respective ethnonationalist flags in hopes of taking advantage of the increasing friction. This occurred even as the national police and security forces stepped up their efforts to find and prosecute domestic terror operations.

  The senior leadership of the national political parties, along with each of the three Bosnian presidents—the titular heads of their respective parties—came up with a unique plan to stem the rising tide last year. They ordered a national Unity Referendum to be held on the same day as the upcoming national elections, just six weeks away. The idea was to show that the vast majority of Bosnians—Orthodox Serbs, Catholic Croats, and Muslim Bosniaks—all preferred to remain a single, unified democracy. The hope was that a successful referendum would curb the rising nationalist forces and, not coincidentally, assure the easy reelection of the incumbent parties that sponsored it.

  The initial announcement was greeted enthusiastically by liberal democrats of all stripes and widely supported in the public opinion polls, especially among the business community. If Bosnia had any hope of entering the EU in the near future, it would have to demonstrate that it was a stable, functioning, and pluralist democracy.

  The religious leaders of all three faiths even signed a joint letter supporting the referendum, speaking in favor of continued national unity as a practical act of faith in God and in one another.

  But in the months that followed, opinion polls began turning in the opposite direction, particularly as local violence escalated. There was now a real chance that the Unity Referendum would fail. If it did, Bosnia would undoubtedly break up. What seemed like a painless, thoughtful solution last year had become both a social and political crisis of the first order today.

  This explained why the Bosniak president sitting in front of him was so animated this afternoon, Topal thought. The magnificent Ali Pasha Mosque loomed in the bright fall sun in the large window behind the president’s desk.

  “I don’t care what they say. This isn’t an act of religious renewal,” the president said. He was referring to the recently announced Serbian Orthodox Renewal liturgy. The president’s round, clean-shaven face reddened with each word. “It’s a political act, pure and simple, meant to derail the Unity Referendum. And Ivanović”—the Serb president of Bosnia—“knows this. And yet he chooses to attend. What is he thinking?”

  Topal set his cup and saucer down on the small table in front of him. “What choice does President Ivanović have? The bishop is his bishop, and his Orthodox citizens vote. If he steps away from the Renewal, it looks like he’s the one playing politics. Besides, none of us thought this was a problem two weeks ago. I don’t blame President Ivanović. I think other forces are at play.”

  “As do I. And we both know who.”

  The Serbian Orthodox Renewal service was just weeks away. When it was originally announced by Sarajevo’s bishop for the local metropolitanate as an outdoor baptismal service and liturgy at Sarajevo’s Olympic soccer stadium, it was assumed that no more than several hundred, or perhaps a few thousand at most, would participate. Like most Europeans, the average Bosnian—Serb or otherwise—was usually more passionate about his local soccer team than the practice of his religion.

  But with the announcement by the patriarch of the Serbian Orthodox Church—a Serbian national from the nation of Serbia, not the Republika
Srpska within Bosnia—interest began to grow. But it was the announcement by the patriarch of Moscow, the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, that he would also be attending that kindled a fire of apparent faith renewal. The latest estimate was that thirty thousand Orthodox Serbs from around the region now planned to fill the stadium, many from across the Serbian border.

  “There’s no question in my mind that this is stoking Serb nationalism,” the president said. “And if Serbs galvanize, so will the Catholic Croats, not to mention my own people.”

  Topal shook his head. “A democracy cannot survive identity politics. Bosnians must think of themselves as Bosnian, first and always. All religions are respected in your country, and everybody has equal rights, and there has been peace. But all of that is at risk if ethnic identity trumps democratic ideals.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “If Bosnia breaks apart, there will be trouble again, like in the old days.” His round face darkened, overwhelmed with painful memories of the genocidal war.

  “My country stands with you, Mr. President, and with all Bosnians, especially our Muslim brothers and sisters. I believe we have demonstrated our commitment to you and your democracy.” Topal was politic enough not to mention the hundreds of millions of Turkish liras his government had poured into Bosnia over the past decade, much of it under Topal’s guidance.

  “Turkey is our best friend, and we are grateful for your continued commitment. Both of our governments understand the existential crisis that a failed Bosnian democracy represents. The nationalisms here will only spread, and regional instability will be the inevitable result. If Croats and Bosniaks feel threatened, other nations—even NATO—might intervene against the Serbs to prevent another genocide.”

  Topal sighed. “Yes. And if the Serbs are threatened, the Russians will intervene on behalf of their Slavic brethren, to make up for their failure to protect Serbia from NATO during the Yugoslav wars.”

  “NATO versus Russia again?” The president sighed. “We’re speaking of World War Three.”

  “That would be a disaster, which is why my government stands ready to serve you and the Unity Referendum in any way possible.” Topal leaned forward, smiling. “Be encouraged, my friend. Bosnia isn’t dead yet. I have confidence that the forces of democracy will prevail. And who knows? Perhaps the Renewal service will lead to something positive. A renewal of faith can be a good thing.”

  “Given the history of my country, I’m not as sanguine as you are. But I thank you for your assurances, and your friendship.”

  The president stood, as did Topal. They shook hands. The Turkish ambassador caught a glimpse in the window of a flock of redwing birds circling the tall minaret in synchronous flight. He smiled to himself.

  A good omen, indeed.

  5

  HAMA, SYRIA

  Grechko’s heavy boot crushed the throttle of the tiny UAZ jeep, its poorly maintained suspension bouncing him around in his seat like a bean inside a Cuban maraca. The UAZ was throwing dust and granite chips in a rooster tail behind him, slewing around the snaking curves of the quarry road as fast as the straining four-cylinder engine would allow. He cursed violently, clutching gears in the sharp, spiraling turns, his headlights splashing across the twisting maze of steep quarry walls as he raced toward the bottom of the pit.

  His boot smashed the brake and the jeep skidded to a tooth-rattling halt in front of the heavy steel doors of the ammo warehouse, cut deep into the thick walls of granite. It was a highly unusual location to store munitions and therefore not on American or Israeli aerial targeting lists, and well hidden from overhead surveillance. The steel-reinforced concrete walls were doubly protected beneath several hundred tons of quarry stone, creating a virtually impenetrable shield for the explosive contents inside.

  Grechko leaped out of the jeep in a cloud of dust and stormed past the big covered 6x6 Kamaz cargo truck parked to the side. The jeep’s headlights illumined dark blood spatter on one of the half-opened steel doors, confirming his worst fears. Walib’s phone call had interrupted his evening with his favorite talented contract whore, a redheaded Ukrainian girl with high cheekbones and low self-esteem. But the captain’s panicked voice quelled Grechko’s rage and convinced him that the Syrian was out of his depth, and a firm, Russian hand was needed to take charge.

  Grechko’s eyes adjusted to the dim lights inside the warehouse. A long trail of blood and dust led from the doorway to Walib, who was kneeling down next to a body splayed out on the floor. Grechko knelt down beside the body as well, examining the young face. One of the Russian guards, a corporal. Grechko couldn’t recall his name. The slit across the dead boy’s throat was a wide, bloody smile beneath his clean-shaven chin.

  “What the hell happened here, Captain?”

  “This one dead, along with the other two, farther back.” Walib stood as Grechko laid a soft hand on the young corporal’s unblinking eyes and closed them.

  Grechko sprang to his feet, his back to Walib. “We’ll get the bastards who did this!”

  He suddenly noticed that dozens of crates of 122-millimeter missiles were gone from the far wall. He pointed at the empty spaces. The rest of the facility was stacked high with crates of 220-millimeter thermobaric missiles needed for the TOS-1A Sunfire system still operating in country.

  “Walib! The 122s!”

  “Yes, I know. They’re gone. One of the Shmels, too,” Walib said, referring to the RPO-A Bumblebee, a thermobaric shoulder-fired rocket.

  “Start an inventory immediately. I’ll call security—” Grechko spun back around, reaching for his cell phone.

  Walib’s pistol was pointed at him.

  “No need. I know exactly how many missiles were taken.”

  Grechko’s eyes widened with fury. “You traitorous shit!”

  Walib crashed the butt of his pistol in the center of Grechko’s wide forehead, breaking the skin. Blood gouted from the wound. The Russian staggered under the blow but didn’t fall. He wiped the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hairy hand, stunned and incredulous. His mind cleared, and he lunged with a shout at Walib’s throat with his thick fingers. But the Syrian was ready for him, hammering the top of the major’s skull again with the pistol’s steel butt. Grechko moaned as his knees buckled, and his head hit the concrete with a sickening thud, like a ripe melon dropped on a hot summer sidewalk.

  Walib holstered his pistol.

  “Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Dzhabrailov asked from the doorway.

  Walib called over his shoulder, still staring at Grechko. “In here? You want to meet your virgins with your manhood cooked and your face fried like a falafel?”

  The Chechen grinned. “We need to move.”

  Walib spat on the Russian. “One last thing, Lieutenant, then we can go.”

  * * *

  —

  Dzhabrailov was driving the heavy truck west on a two-lane ribbon of asphalt when the moonless sky behind them erupted in a flash of blinding light.

  Walib sat in the cab, riding shotgun. He checked his watch. The timer had worked perfectly. He imagined the bunker’s thick steel doors melting like butter beneath the withering torch of the white-hot gases, and the explosive flames exhausting harmlessly through the quarry, scorching acres of nothing but granite and dust without a single civilian casualty.

  Not only had Walib destroyed the rest of the thermobaric arsenal, he had also found a way to cover their tracks. There would be nothing left of the corpses—not even ash—or any hint that the crates of missiles they carried in the truck had been stolen. All of the missing personnel—the Russian guards, Grechko, Dzhabrailov, and him—would be presumed killed in an attack by Israeli Sayeret Matkal or Iranian Quds Force commandos. The Russians wouldn’t allow the possibility of an accident.

  For the first time in a long time, Walib was happy. Killing Grechko with his own hands h
ad done that. That surprised him. He was an artillery officer, not an infantryman. He’d never killed in anger before, or at close distance. Before tonight he wasn’t sure if he could do it. But it had been shockingly easy to kill the raging bastard, and satisfying to force the guards at gunpoint to load the heavy missile crates before Dzhabrailov’s vicious blade dropped them like slaughtered lambs. Walib felt no guilt about them, either. Revenge had a sweetness he hadn’t expected.

  And tonight was only the beginning.

  He smiled.

  “Something funny, brother?” Dzhabrailov asked.

  “The Russians will probably award us medals of valor for our glorious sacrifice.”

  “A medal would be nice,” the Chechen joked. “Too bad we can’t collect it.”

  “Neither can Grechko.”

  The thought of the Russian’s head cracking on the concrete made Walib smile again. Perhaps Dzhabrailov was right after all. Perhaps they really were doing the will of Allah. Walib had never known a plan to survive first contact with the enemy. That alone was a miracle.

  All of the pieces were in play now. So long as the checkpoint guards up ahead had been bribed as promised, they’d be home free. The foreign Chechen—a violent and unlikely ally—had proven as good as his word so far. Walib looked forward to meeting this mysterious commander of Dzhabrailov’s when the real work began.

  Walib was, no doubt, a changed man now. A man on a mission.

  But did that make him a mujahid?

  Walib checked his watch again. They were even ahead of schedule. “We’ll make the coast before sunrise.”

  “Inshallah,” the Chechen said.

  Walib patted the heavy black Pelican case between them, an object of even greater importance than the other device they had stolen, or even the ordnance stacked in the covered bed behind them. “Yes, indeed.”

  Inshallah.

  6