on her shoes, not him.
Ten minutes later, he shut everything down, careful to wipe his own fingerprints off of anything he might have touched. With the floor still clear, he headed back to his desktop and pulled up the building’s security logs. He scrolled through the list of people leaving the building and found Watson’s name registered and a departure time of 9:28 p.m. He checked his watch. It read 9:49 p.m. It would take him five minutes to shut down, and less than ten minutes to get to the lobby to check out. He added a few more minutes and changed Watson’s checkout time to 10:14 p.m. His own computer automatically wiped away any digital footprints he might have left behind on the building’s security computer, so no chance of that blowing back on him.
Satisfied, he shut down his computer and headed for the lobby with a spring in his step. His escort service had scheduled a date for him with his favorite, Roberto, for a weekend debauch in the bridal suite at the Fairmont in less than an hour.
Fung was on fire.
Roberto had better be ready.
24
AFRIN DISTRICT, SYRIA
Captain Akar studied his map in the lamplight inside the cab of his Kobra command vehicle, the Turkish version of the Humvee. The “Maroon Berets” Special Forces commander never could sleep before a fight, even one this lopsided.
He kept the motor running for heat against the night chill. He took another long drag of his cigarette and checked his watch. Just after three a.m. The assault on the sleeping village wouldn’t begin for another two hours, covered by Italian-engineered T129A ATAK helicopter close-air support. A platoon of his best commandos was leading a group of a hundred fifty Chechen fanatics—former ISIS fighters now converted to the Turkish cause against the Syrian regime.
For the past two weeks, his combined unit had raided regime-friendly villages behind the lines, gunning down any resistance they encountered, burning down houses and farms, and leaving the women to the tender mercies of the Chechen savages. He was tasked with neutralizing armed opposition and terrorizing the countryside along the northern border to erode the morale of the obstinate Syrian Army. With any luck, this part of the border would be absorbed by his own country within the next few months.
His battle-weary troops were still bedded down in the barn and outbuildings around the small, vacated farm they would burn down later in the day. Better to let them sleep for a few more minutes, he decided. Their bellies were full after yesterday’s air drop by a Lockheed C-130 Hercules cargo plane based at Incirlik. Resupplied with food, water, and ammo, they were well equipped to resume their terror campaign.
The captain yawned and stretched. Time to check with the sentries and fetch another cup of strong black coffee. He stepped out of the cab into the cool night air and crushed the last of his cigarette into the dry dust. The velvet black sky was strewn with a thick blanket of shimmering stars. It nearly took his breath away. It seemed a shame so much ugliness should thrive beneath such quiet beauty.
But such was the will of Allah, was it not?
EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN SEA
Captain (2nd rank) Nikulin studied the drone’s live FLIR feed on the LCD display in the low blue light of the humming CIC. The Project 21631 missile corvette Vyshny Volochyok was one of the Russian Federation’s latest Buyan-M-class vessels, specially dispatched from duties with the Black Sea fleet for this particular mission.
The high-altitude black-and-white FLIR imagery displayed the heat differentials of the ground targets below. Chimneys glowed with heat on two of the buildings. Four sentries—or at least the parts of them not covered by uniforms—stood like white ghosts against the dark, cold ground. One figure stood off in a dark patch away from the others, a widening white puddle forming at his feet. Pissing like a cow, Nikulin thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.
What caught the captain’s eye was the brightest image on his screen: a vehicle with a warm motor glowing white hot.
The FLIR imagery was a clear visual confirmation of the bandit column the FSB report had promised.
Better still, the GLONASS tracking device implanted by an FSB agent into the air-dropped ammunition supply was operating perfectly, according to his electronic warfare officer.
Two confirmations were more than enough in his mind. It was time.
Nikulin gave the order to his weapons-control officer. Alarms rang.
The first of eight vertical launch tubes burst with a fiery flash of