Note: Thank you to all of you for your patience. I haven't looked this chapter over as much as I probably should have, so sorry if there are any mistakes/typos.
She's gone back to Old Lena.
"Stupid mother-fucker. Who the fuck –" Old Lena kicks an empty soda can and it clangs against a concrete wall. "What dipshit piece of –"
"Lena." At least they're alone. There are no more cans to kick and nothing to hit, so all she can do is stand and fume, fists clenched and unsatisfied. Old Lena wants blood.
"That dumb fuck!"
Clarence stays quiet and leans on one shoulder against the wall, waiting. One month after their first date, he had met his then-future-wife for lunch. She'd been furious about something. He doesn't remember anymore what it was about, but he remembers thinking that it was his big chance to prove himself to her, to ride in on a white horse with shining armor swinging the sword that would fix her problems. By the time she'd finished her story – maybe it had been something about how one of the senior partners had foisted off an incompetent intern onto her – he'd been ready with wise, decisive counsel. She'd been livid. 'Should?! What the hell do you mean should!? Who do you think you are?!' Lesson one: never tell a woman she 'should' do something unless you actually know what you're talking about, and even then maybe just keep your gob shut or learn how to phrase it better. Trick was to give her advice but make it seem like she came up with it all on her own. Lesson two: they find violent bitching enjoyable now and then. Lesson two had been reinforced by his fifteen year old daughter. 'Dad! Stop trying to fix everything! I know what I'm doing! Just listen! God!'
"I mean who the hell does that?! What fucking part of 'no helicopters' was un-fucking clear?!"
Lieutenant Dale, who was garnering a large number of increasingly profane names by the second, had had the gall to let out a derisive huff of laughter when Lena had called him a dumbass and stormed out of the debriefing room. The young man had then looked around as if to say 'women, huh?' Fool. Clarence bets himself twenty quid and his first night of sex home with his wife that the numpty lieutenant who went against Lena's not-so-optional request of 'no helicopters' would soon be transferred or have a fun-and-entertaining note in his file.
They'd been painfully close – fingers around the collar close – to catching Osmini al'Bashir, one of the three names Lena had managed to extract from Hadid. He'd once been a major in the ANA. Now he was a blood-spatter on the walls of his family's house. The plan had been to capture him for questioning. Lieutant Dale had ordered a show of force, presumably out of a wish to set an example to deter traitorous behavior, but it had ended up escalating what should have been a simple grab-and-nab to a shoot-out.
"Obviously a bit of a wanker, but –"
"Bit of a wanker?! Bit? Only thing he'll have by the time I'm done with him is just a bit!"
This has gone on long enough. "Lena." He slides off the wall and into her field of vision. She's building to another outburst, but holds in the breath she'd sucked in in preparation. He tries for fatherly concern without condescension. It's a dangerous game. Instead of continuing the tirade, the breath comes out in an anticlimactic whoosh.
"What."
"We need to consider our options."
Another breath in, this one in thought rather than a prelude to violent language. "Right. Well…screw it." There's New Lena. "I'll do it myself."
This is decidedly not what he'd meant, but she can see him coming and heads off his opening argument.
"No, listen. They think we're going to go in guns blazing, so we don't. Qasim doesn't know we know about him. We can just say we're having a routine meeting, pretend we're going to ask for his help with a cash shipment." Hasan bin Qasim is a moderately high ranking official in the Afghan Treasury, and a fish they'd both dearly love to fry. "We can set up an ambush and make it look like he was kidnapped by the Taliban, so the Afghans can't get pissed. We'll question him and then either send him on his way or send him to Guantanamo depending on what sort of response we get."
"Then why don't we invite him here to speak." Security out in Kabul can be a nightmare. Security out in Kabul for a high-value meet for a woman with one assassination attempt on her head is a mite more worrisome than nightmarish.
"He never comes here. An invitation like that is suspicious, and it would spook him."
Clarence considers. She's right, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. Both New and Old Lena have always been very effective, but they each take risks he'd prefer to avoid. Old Lena was ruthless, and New Lena, while still ruthless, is on a crusade. His wife would pause, look over her glass of wine at him, and ask pointedly whether he was only so concerned about her safety because Lena is a woman. He would reply that this would be easier if Lena were a man. He can bully another man into submission without worrying about the whole 'Stop patronizing me by worrying about my safety because I'm a strong, independent woman'. It's not about that; it's about being careful.
"Two ranger units," she breaks through his musings, "I'll take two ranger units. If that's not enough, then we don't deserve to get the guy."
Taking two ranger units is hard to argue with. At this point he'd just sound petulant and over-cautious. "Fine."
"Good. Now," she crosses her arms, and he knows she's about to ask for a favor, "I need you to help me set it up so they think it's the Brits that want the meet. It'll throw him off the scent even more."
He agrees, hoping that he can at least direct things in a safer direction. "Go work on your accent. You sound drunk when you try to do public school."
o.O.o
"Hey dickbutt." Tim snaps to at the elbow in his ribs.
"What? Christ."
"Seriously? That's what you respond to?" Carter smacks him upside the head. "I called your actual name like twice, bro."
"Well what the fuck do you want?"
"I got you the last biscuit."
"Awww, thanks sweetie."
"Hey fuck you," Carter jerks it out of reach and takes a huge bite off the top. "I had to fight Andre for it, and you're an ungrateful nutsack."
"Oh come on," Tim lunges, only managing to rip the bottom chunk off. Carter shoves the rest in his mouth.
"That's what you get for ignoring me so you can moon over pussy."
Ever since they found out Lena had visited and brought him books to read, he's been assaulted with a steady, never-ending stream of jokes and vulgar suggestions.
"I was fixing the swivel."
"Yeah fuckin' right. You were thinking about how maybe you should stop being such a pussy and go after that 'tang. Or did James Bond beat you to it?" Another elbow in his ribs. Tim ignores it and continues prying at the rifle sling. "Maybe she likes suckin' on chocolate d –"
Tim flips up his rifle and rams the butt into Carter's stomach. "Shit, sorry man, it just slipped."
Carter glares up at him from the dirt. "You asshole, these pants were clean."
"Run along and tell it to your mama. Maybe she'll change your diaper for you too." He lets Carter push himself to his feet, suspecting that if he lent a helping hand he'd be down on the ground as well.
"Oy!" Clark walks over and picks up one of the gear bags. "Playtime's over, you two. Pack up."
Lena's waiting for them by the jeeps. Today's the day for her. Might be a helluva day for him too. Either Qasim tells her what she wants to know or they get to kidnap a member of the Afghan government. They're pretending to be cameramen again. The building next door actually does house an Afghan news agency, so it won't be strange to see American 'journalists' entering. A couple British SAS guys will go in with her dressed as private security, while Tim's unit sits next door. There's a three foot gap between the roofs at one corner, and if necessary, they can launch a surprise attack from above, sandwiching anyone inside.
This is different than the first time he went outside the wall with her. Lena is fully alert, flipping back and forth between a file of maps and building diagrams in front of her. The mission briefing was yesterday, and she led everyone in rehearsing multiple run-throughs of two scenarios, one for if he cooperated and one for if they ended up doing a forcible extraction. If she was blasé about that first meet, this is the polar opposite, meticulous, determined. Everything has been fully choreographed and drilled and memorized.
Lena looks different this time too. There's no garish paint on her nails, and she's forgone the tight shirt and jeans for a suit. The new accent's a bit of a mindfuck. He can't decide whether or not he likes it. Everyone loves an accent, but it makes her sound like a lawyer or someone who works in a corner office, definitely not the type of someone who sits in the dirt drinking coffee at sunrise.
They all do a quick gear check, Lena makes sure everyone has a photo of Qasim, and then they're piling into two large Land Rovers. In less than ten minutes they're out the gate and headed into Kabul.
o.O.o
Lena stares out the window, eyes constantly moving over the city around them. She's consciously broken herself of a few habits since the last time she was here, but watching the road isn't one of them. 'It's ok to be nervous.' The chance of an IED within the city is pretty low however, and she returns her mental focus to the mission ahead.
Today she is Jeanine Calloway of the British Embassy hoping to have Qasim's help in receiving and then distributing a large shipment of aid money into the country. So far that story has gotten her a meeting and will get them through the door. The trickier part will be getting Qasim alone; he might panic the moment she questions him about her true purpose, and there's no telling what his reaction will be. Hopefully he'll prefer to have his assistants in the outside office during his meetings. Given her knowledge of the man, it's a fair bet. If that doesn't hold, she can always ask more and more intrusive questions until he asks for privacy in their conversation. Lena would rather she not have to do that. A reaction of panic or anger would make the whole situation a good deal more inconvenient. It would be nice if this didn't turn into the helicopter fiasco. For once she has taken Clarence's advice and brought along a briefcase filled with cash, ready to placate and buy whatever she needs. Doesn't mean she has to give it to him. People always assume that just because you're showing them heaps of money that it must be for them.
She hopes the contingency plans are unnecessary, but it calms her knowing she has them. The Rangers will be holed up in the adjacent building with a good view into Qasim's office with Tim on the roof with his rifle, ready to move in case it all goes sideways. Unfortunately, to keep up appearances the SAS guys will have to stay downstairs. It makes her wish she could carry a gun, which is impossible. For now her only line of defense is the wire and ear-link hidden under her hijab. Both the Rangers and the SAS team below will be able to hear her and she them. At least being forced to wear yet another layer of clothing that makes you sweat is good for something.
When they reach their destination, Lena takes three slow breaths to keep her heart rate under control. You are Jeanine Calloway, and you have so much cash that anyone will do whatever you want. You have the SAS and the Rangers at your back. She smiles as they go through security. 'Smile, sweetheart, it lowers your pulse.' John had told her that once. She'd been headed into her promotion interview. It had worked then, and it works now.
The Afghan security guard directs her to the elevator and gives her the office number that she's already memorized. Qasim's office suite is on the seventh floor and nine doors down. It's empty except for a young man who sits at a desk with a phone and computer. There's an old appointment book open in front of him. She is prepared to give her name, but the assistant already knows who she is and greets her by name. He doesn't wait for a reply, just knocks on Qasim's door and waves her through.
The man in the office standing behind the desk is not Hasan bin Qasim. She knows because she has his picture. She has given everyone else his picture and made them memorize it. Lena knows his face, and this is not him. The man-who-is-not-Qasim addresses her in Pashto.
"You were expecting Mr. Qasim." Shit, she shouldn't even know what he looks like, and this man knows that she does.
"Yes." The unknown man's hands stay clasped in front of him, but Lena does not move farther into the room. She ponders bolting, but realizes that the young man outside may very well not be a simple office assistant. "Will Mr. Qasim be joining us?" She considers saying something in English to alert the others, but that might provoke a reaction she doesn't want.
"Why do you wish to meet with Mr. Qasim?"
"We wish to arrange for the distribution of aid money, and he can help us with that."
"Do you think all of us are so foolish, Miss Calloway?" Shit. Lena tries to take a discreet, deep breath, evaluating her options. With each passing second, she feels as if the door to some cage is closing her in.
"Where is Qasim?" she asks in English. "Excuse me," she continues, pretending to have merely slipped, "but where is Mr. Qasim?"
A voice speaks in her ear. "Lena, if you're in danger, raise your left hand." She hesitates before raising her hand and picking at her hijab.
"He is not available to answer questions today."
"Then I am sorry to have wasted your time." She reaches behind her for the doorknob.
The man reaches behind him, and her hand freezes on the knob, fear punching through her chest.
The next second the window behind him shatters and blood and brain matter explode from his forehead. He falls forward onto the desk. Lena throws herself instinctively to the side and down.
The voice – Gutterson – is immediately back in her ear, "Lena, without getting in front of the door, open it and move as far as you can to the side."
"Okay." She scoots over, not getting up, and twists the doorknob, shoving it the rest of the way open with her foot.
Nothing happens for a few moments. She tries to breathe evenly. You are not helpless. By sheer force of will determination replaces a good chunk of the panic. There are footsteps outside, then the crack of a rifle and the thud of a body hitting the floor.
"Stay there a moment. The SAS guys are on their way up."
The staccato pop of gunshots sounds over her ear-link, and a British voice yells, "Negative, get to the roof!"
Fuck. How? No, don't ask how; get out and ask later. Lena pokes her head around the corner of the office and listens. No footsteps. Pushing up slowly to a crouch, she heads into the main suite. No one. There's a gun near the body of the assistant, which she grabs. Hopefully she doesn't have to shoot at anyone too far away. Then again, hopefully they don't get close enough to hurt her.
o.O.o
"Fuck." Tim drops the sniper rifle and sprints to the corner of the roof. He has two back up pieces, one on his ankle and the other in a side holster. "Lena, stay where you are. I'm coming to get you." They don't need her running into a hallway when there could be someone waiting for her. Then on a separate radio to Clark, "Get on the roof and be ready to meet us."
Barely a hop and he's on the roof of the office building. The door to the interior is locked, but that problem is solved with two bullets and a shove. Tim draws the pistol at his waist and cocks it, peering around the stairwell. There's movement near the bottom, but he only needs to get down one floor.
He surprises one man just inside the door of the stairs. That problem is also solved with a bullet. It makes him nervous that there's no sound on this floor. It just makes him feel like there's a trap he just hasn't sprung yet. Although it's not like they need more than two men to handle Lena. He opens every door on his way down the hall, checking for occupants. All empty. This was a well-prepared ambush.
"Lena, I'm right outside the door. I'm comin' in." There's a shuffle and a door to a back office opens, and there's Lena, gun dangling by her side. She's paler, too much adrenaline constricting her blood vessels. "You good?"
"Yeah." Her voice is steady enough, so he lets her keep the gun.
Somewhere outside there are footsteps. "Get behind me. I tell you to do something you do it."
She nods, no snarky 'yes sir.'
Tim gets low and glances back, making sure she's done the same. A peak around the corner and he can see two men making their way down the hall. Each one is carrying an AK-47. They open each door, pointing the guns inside, searching.
"When I say go, run down the hall to the right." She nods again, getting up on her toes, ready to sprint.
Tim waits until both men are fully in the hallway before leaning out and firing. He shoots upwards, two in one chest and two in the other in quick succession. They jerk backwards and drop.
"Go!" Lena's off like a runner from the blocks. He pauses before following, making sure no one else is coming down the hall.
A door opens, and Tim's about to tell her to wait before going into the stairwell, but when he turns around it's to see two more men, each with their guns trained on Lena's head.
They yell in Pashto, a language he doesn't understand, but the message is clear enough. He drops his gun.