Altered State. Don Pendleton

that case,” Hastings said, “I guess you’d better fill me in.”

      Hastings was in his late forties, losing the battle of the bulge around his waist, but otherwise in decent shape for an American who’d spent the past three years in Kabul, fixing cracks and pinholes in the diplomatic dike and listening to bomb blasts in the streets outside. Latimer saw him slip one hand beneath the desk and knew that everything they said from that point on would be recorded, which was fine. He’d worn a wire, himself, prepared as always for the day when one of his superiors might try to sacrifice him for some personal advantage.

      He began the briefing with a question. “Have you heard about the shootings in the Old City and Chindawol this afternoon?”

      “Not yet,” Hastings replied. “Anything serious?”

      “Eleven dead, sir,” Latimer informed him, giving Carlisle credit in advance for silencing his wounded soldier in the hospital.

      “That’s most unfortunate, of course, but—”

      “Sir, it’s not the number I’m concerned about,” Latimer interrupted. “It’s who they were.”

      “I see. And who were they?”

      “Vanguard employees. One from stateside, that I’m sure of, and the rest natives.”

      Hastings was silent for the best part of a minute, then replied, “Were they…um…What I mean to say is, did the police find anything?”

      In any other circumstances, Latimer would have considered it a strange question. But at that moment, it made perfect sense.

      “Just weapons, sir. They weren’t running a shipment.”

      He enjoyed the vice consul’s dilemma, thinking of the tape and how best to avoid seeming to understand the reference to drugs. After another moment’s thought, Hastings sidestepped the subject altogether, asking, “What do you suppose they were doing, Russell?”

      “Some kind of surveillance, I take it. From what I’ve been told, there’s a person of interest in town, just arrived, seeking contact with some of our friends down the hall.”

      He left Hastings to guess whether he meant the DEA or FBI. In either case, it had to be bad news.

      “There was a meeting, then?” Hastings asked.

      “So it seems.”

      “And Vanguard’s people tried to…interrupt it. Isn’t that a rash decision?”

      “Rash depends on whether you’re successful, sir. But in this case, I have assurances that they were simply watching.”

      What the hell. Latimer reckoned that another small lie wouldn’t break the camel’s back.

      “How did the shooting start, then?” Hastings asked him.

      “I suppose one of their men was spotted. Probably a local, since they’re not the sharpest. Anyway, the other side starts shooting, and it goes downhill from there.”

      “And were there any casualties on the other side?”

      “If so, they weren’t left at the scene. None found so far, at least.”

      “What do you make of that, Russell?”

      Meaning, What’s wrong with Carlisle’s people, getting killed like that, with nothing to show for it?

      “Sir, I can’t explain it, at the moment. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re looking at imported talent.”

      “But, imported for what reason? That’s the question we must answer, isn’t it?”

      “One of them, definitely. I’d be happy with a name and address, mind you, but we’ll have to look at the big picture sometime.”

      “Someone underneath this roof,” Hastings said, as if talking to himself. Then he asked Latimer, “How certain are you?”

      “There’s no question, I’m afraid. One of their personnel was seen. May have participated in the killings, but that is speculation. Anyway, she’s disappeared.”

      “She?”

      “I’m not sure how much more you’d care to know, sir.”

      “If we’re threatened, Russell, I must know enough to mount a competent defense.”

      “All right. Her name is Deirdre Falk. She’s DEA. You may have passed her in the halls, sir.”

      “DEA? Was this official?”

      “I’m in no position to determine that, sir.”

      “No, of course not. I’ll look into it, discreetly. In the meantime, someone needs to find her. And this stranger. What’s he call himself?”

      “Matthew Cooper. It’s a cover.”

      “Damn it!” Hastings reached beneath his desk again, to kill the tape, then said, “I’ll make some calls and see what I can do—or learn, for that matter. If you see Carlisle, tell him he’s expected to clean up after himself.”

      Latimer smiled and said, “With pleasure, sir.”

       Nangarhar Province

      T HE POPPY PLANTATION was more or less what Bolan expected: acres of flowers in bloom, tended by peasants who stooped and shuffled along the rows, using razors to etch the plants’ bulbs and release the sticky sap from which raw opium gum was derived. A sprinkler system kept the crop from wilting underneath the brutal Afghan sun.

      Bolan saw all of that in passing, with the houses set well back from the two-lane highway running past the property. A glance through compact field glasses showed him two figures on the farmhouse porch—one carrying an automatic rifle and the other tracking the Toyota Avalon through glasses of his own.

      The land around the farm, predictably, was flat and open. A direct approach in daylight, without air support or armored vehicles, would be a clumsy sort of suicide. The place was dwindling in his rearview mirror when he said to Deirdre Falk, “Okay. Where’s the refinery?”