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“I don’t know,” he lied. “Some kind of accident, I imagine. Maybe they were transporting something flammable.”
“But there are police cars. And was that shooting I heard before?”
He shrugged. “I imagine it’ll be on the news tomorrow.”
“I wonder if anyone was hurt?” she said, drifting ever further from her script as she watched the fire spread.
“I don’t know.” Another lie. But after all these years, they came easy.
It was their most meaningful exchange of the evening, and the Girl used the opening to reach across the table and put her hand on his. She really would have been a pleasant way to spend the night, but he had too much on his mind.
She began chatting again as the people around them lost interest in the real world and settled back into the one provided by the restaurant. What happened on those docks—what contraband came in, who was injured, who died—had no bearing on their charmed lives. No effect at all on their families, future, or wealth.
Another seafood course arrived, and he watched absently as the Girl examined it with the aid of her fork. He allowed himself to enjoy her youthful enthusiasm for a moment before sinking into darker thoughts.
Three weeks ago, a member of his decimated network in Syria had sent him details about a shipment of reformulated captagon tablets leaving Tartus for Salerno. After a great deal of consideration, he’d decided to use his European contacts to inform the authorities. The hope was that the government would see the danger of this new variant and act with determination and competence.
A long shot, particularly in light of the fact that they’d largely missed the creation of an elaborate Muslim distribution network in their backyard. And to the small degree it had been noticed, it was being used solely as propaganda to keep the illusory threat of ISIS in Syria alive. The media-friendly remnants of that insurgent group allowed the world’s governments to avoid facing the fragmented disaster that Syria had become.
Sadly, he could afford no such luxury. The network that had been built, and that this shipment would have put into full operation, was both surprisingly professional and shockingly well funded. The Syrian government’s success at retaking control of its territory had combined with continued economic sanctions to transform the country into a narco-state. A potentially very successful one. Not only did they now have their European infrastructure in place, but they’d managed to develop a product that Losa’s chemists couldn’t reproduce.
Losing control of the European narcotics trade wasn’t an option for him. He was the man who made people money. Who kept the peace and held the authorities at bay. The fact that he was nowcompeting not against another cartel but against an entire nation would be taken into account by neither his enemies nor his allies. Any territory ceded would be seen as weakness and the fear he commanded would soften. Soon there would be whispers—leading inevitably to open discussion—of his advancing age. Of whom and what would come next.
He glanced past the Girl again, watching fire suppression vehicles arrive on the dock. The other machinery had fallen silent, and it appeared that a full evacuation was underway. He’d managed to draw first blood, but the war ahead would be long and brutal.
How would it play out? With such limited information, it was impossible to make intelligent moves on the chessboard. His life had been one of careful action based on hard data. It was what set him apart from the sadistic and impulsive men who made up the majority of his peers.
Normally, this would be a job for his renowned negotiating skills. He would fly to Damascus, sit down with Syria’s leadership, and come to a mutually beneficial agreement. He had done that with great success in places as diverse as Colombia, Thailand, Morocco, and even the United States.
The government in Damascus was somewhat more complex. The speed and ruthlessness with which they’d dismantled his Syrian operation had been stunning, as had their move into Europe. He knew now that he’d underestimated them, counting on their corruption, internal tensions, and lack of regional experience. An uncharacteristically careless error on his part.
At this point, a personal appearance in Syria was far too dangerous. He needed someone to stand in for him. Someone with the ability to navigate the environment there and to survive long enough to gather the necessary information and contacts. Preferably a person from outside his organization who would be incapable of revealing anything sensitive if subjected to torture.
That left very few options.
The Girl touched his hand again, pulling him back into the present.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been distracted.”
“It’s all right.”
He smiled, this time with a bit more sincerity. No decisions would be made that evening. It would take a few sleepless nights to sort all this out. And if that was the case, there was no reason not to enjoy himself.
“Don’t be so understanding. It’s an insufferable trait in a dinner companion. But from now on, you have my full attention.”
CHAPTER 3
HINDUKUSHMOUNTAINS
AFGHANISTAN
THEbarely perceptible crunch of approaching footsteps became audible behind Rapp. Their rhythm was familiar and just as confidence inspiring as when he’d first heard them so many years ago.
“Still nothing?” Scott Coleman whispered, dropping to the ground and peering up at the starlit village.
“Completely dead,” Rapp replied.
The former SEAL nodded and spoke into his throat mike. “Give me a sitrep.”
