Surface to Air Read online

  Gérard de Villiers

  SURFACE TO AIR

  Gérard de Villiers (1929–2013) is the most popular writer of spy thrillers in French history. His two-hundred-odd books about the adventures of Austrian nobleman and freelance CIA operative Malko Linge have sold millions of copies.

  Linge, who first appeared in 1965, has often been compared to Ian Fleming’s hero James Bond. The two secret agents share a taste for gunplay and kinky sex, but de Villiers was a journalist at heart, and his books are based on constant travel and reporting in dozens of countries.

  On several occasions de Villiers was even ahead of the news. His 1980 novel had Islamists killing President Anwar el-Sādāt of Egypt a year before the event took place. The Madmen of Benghazi described CIA involvement in Libya long before the 2012 attack on the Benghazi compound. In Surface to Air, an interagency rivalry draws the FBI and the CIA into the world of black-market arms sales, corruption, and death in Russia and the Caucasus.

  ALSO BY GÉRARD DE VILLIERS

  The Madmen of Benghazi

  Chaos in Kabul

  Revenge of the Kremlin

  Lord of the Swallows

  FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2016

  Translation copyright © 2016 by William Rodarmor

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published in France as Igla S by Éditions Gérard de Villiers, Paris, in 2012. Copyright © 2012 by Éditions Gérard de Villiers.

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file at the Library of Congress.

  Vintage Books Open-Market ISBN 9780804169394

  Ebook ISBN 9780804169400

  Cover design: Evan Gaffney Design

  Cover photographs: woman © lambada/Vetta/Getty Images; background © Jon Arnold/Superstock; plane © Stocktrek Images/Superstock

  www.weeklylizard.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Gérard de Villiers

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Translator

  CHAPTER

  1

  New Jersey

  Parviz Amritzar was looking at Benazir but without seeing her. His eyes were locked on the telephone on the night table next to the bed.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked in Urdu.

  This wasn’t the first time he had taken his young wife to a hotel, but they usually started making love as soon as they got to their room. This time was different. For one thing, the Newark Liberty hotel was unusually charmless. It stood less than a mile from the airport runways and featured white walls decorated with banal prints and windows double-glazed against the aircraft noise. For another, Amritzar seemed distracted.

  A good wife who never questioned her husband, Benazir didn’t ask why Amritzar had taken her to this cheesy place. They usually crossed the Hudson to spend weekends at one of the boutique hotels on the West Side of Manhattan.

  Amritzar had recently brought his aged mother from Pakistan to come live with them, which tended to inhibit his sex life. So he got away as often as he could to enjoy his wife without constraint. He was a wholesale oriental carpet dealer, earned a good living, and, aside from making a good Muslim’s zakat alms, had few expenses.

  “I’m expecting a phone call here,” he told Benazir. “After that, we can enjoy ourselves.”

  When he caught her dark gaze, Amritzar felt a pleasant surge of warmth in his belly. His wife really was very beautiful. She followed Islamic practice—she wore a head scarf and dressed modestly when she went out—but in the evening would dress up for her husband. Tonight she was wearing a tight sweater, a wide belt, and high boots. She had made up her mouth with special care and brushed mascara onto her long lashes.

  “A phone call?” she asked in surprise. “Here?”

  If it had been on his cell, she would have understood. But a call on the room telephone of a hotel they had just checked in to and which they would leave the next morning?

  “That’s right,” said Amritzar, without explanation. When Benazir looked puzzled, he went over and put his arm around her waist.

  “It’s men’s business,” he assured her. “Afterward, I’ll be all yours.”

  The young woman relaxed in his arms.

  “I hope you’ll give me a child,” she murmured.

  Benazir loved her husband as much as he loved her. He was a handsome man, with classic Middle Eastern looks, very dark eyes, and a strong nose and jaw. He spoiled her and showered her with love. A perfect husband.

  Their lips were about to touch when the telephone rang, startling them both.

  He ran to the phone and picked it up.

  “Parviz?” asked an unknown man. The sound sent Amritzar’s pulse racing.

  “That’s r-right,” he stammered.

  “I’m downstairs at the bar.”

  Amritzar had no time to say anything else. The man had already hung up.

  “Wait for me here,” he told Benazir. “This won’t take long. You can watch television.”

  He was already at the door, feeling as moved as the day he had asked for her hand in marriage.

  The hotel’s lobby was as impersonal as its rooms, and the bar at the end of the hall was almost empty.

  Sitting at a table was a swarthy man of about forty wearing a windbreaker over a heavy brown sweater. He didn’t stand when Amritzar came over.

  For a few seconds, the two men looked each other over, their absorption only interrupted when the bartender asked for their order. Without consulting Amritzar, the stranger ordered two Coke Zeros.

  When they were alone again, the stranger extended his hand and quietly said in Urdu:

  “Call me Mahmud, brother.”

  Feeling ill at ease, Amritzar sat down. The two men had communicated by email, but this was the first time they were meeting in person.

  Mahmud broke the silence.

  “I bring you greetings from those you sent your messages to,” he said quietly. “They want you to know they are praying to Allah and his prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name, that your project prove successful, inshallah.”

  “Inshallah,” said Amritzar.

  In the presence of this confident stranger who represented people fighting for the faith and the triumph of Allah, Amritzar suddenly felt himself moving from dream to reality.

  Six months earlier, he had learned that a missile from an American drone had killed his uncle, his three brothers, their wives, and five of their children. They all lived in the village of Miramshar in the tribal area between Pakistan and Afghanistan.
The official explanation? “Regrettable collateral damage due to incorrect targeting data.”

  The coalition authority wrote a letter of apology to the local government and offered to pay for the funerals.

  But under Islamic law, the bodies had all been buried the very day of the attack, and anyone who accepted dollars from the infidels would have had his hand cut off. The village imam had assured everyone that all the martyred shahids would be under Allah’s protection until the end of centuries of centuries.

  And that jihad would continue until the death of the last infidel.

  When Amritzar learned the terrible news, he was shattered. He had never been particularly religious, but now he spent hours in the Newark mosque, trying to speak to God.

  The imam there told him that Allah had sent this trial to test his faith. Over time, Amritzar gradually emerged from his despair, and pain gave way to a burning desire for vengeance.

  Turning to Wikipedia, he plunged into the study of armed drones. He learned that the ones flown over Afghanistan were piloted long-distance by operators at a base in Nevada. The operators put in eight hours a day, then calmly went home to their families, risking nothing more serious than an occasional upset stomach or head cold.

  Amritzar initially considered taking revenge on the drone pilots, but they worked on a very secure military base. Besides, he didn’t know which individual fired the missile that wiped out his family.

  He began to visit a mosque close to his home more often. He had always been a believer, and never missed Friday prayers, but he rarely went during the week, preferring to pray at home or in his warehouse.

  In addition to telling the imam, Amritzar started sharing his newfound hatred of Americans with some of the faithful. One of them suggested that he check out a website said to be closely connected with al-Qaeda that regularly called for jihad.

  Without much optimism, Amritzar created a Hotmail account so as to communicate in the website chat room, choosing his first name as his username.

  He posted several messages expressing his desire to participate in jihad but got no answer. Then ten days ago, he received a Hotmail message from someone in a cybercafe calling himself Mahmud632. Amritzar of course noted the year of the Prophet’s death.

  Mahmud congratulated Amritzar for his desire to make jihad and asked him a few personal questions. They chatted online, mainly about religious matters. Then Mahmud suggested they meet in person, at the Newark Liberty hotel on Friday at nine p.m. Amritzar decided to take his young wife along, as he sometimes did on a weekend.

  Now he was face-to-face with the man himself.

  Mahmud leaned over and again spoke quietly in Urdu.

  “You don’t know who I am, but I’ve read the messages that you posted on the website. I believe you are a good Muslim and that you want to take vengeance on the infidels. Have you decided on a plan?”

  Surprised by the question, Amritzar was silent for a few moments. After studying Mahmud’s eyes, he decided to trust him.

  “Yes, I have,” he whispered.

  “What is it? Do you think that the faithful who are making jihad can help you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Amritzar’s thoughts were racing. For months he had dwelled on revenge while feeling sure that he would never be able to get it. After all, he was just a small businessman, a rug merchant. He was wealthy enough, but he didn’t have any contact with the people who carried out attacks. What little he knew he’d learned on the Internet or by reading specialized magazines. And now this man at the table was turning a dream into reality.

  “What will you do to avenge your family?” asked Mahmud, sipping his Coke.

  Amritzar hesitated to answer, and Mahmud pressed him.

  “We are fighting for the triumph of the same God, brother,” he said. “You have to trust me. As I said, I’ve come here especially to weigh what is in your heart. Your emails show a sincere desire for revenge, but we have to be careful. The infidels are powerful and very clever. If you really want to avenge your family, you must be ready to sacrifice your life. To become a martyr.”

  “I’m ready!” said Amritzar, surprised by the firmness of his own voice. A strange exaltation had come over him.

  “So tell me what you have in mind.”

  At that, Amritzar began to speak in a quiet, almost inaudible voice. Leaning close, Mahmud listened tensely.

  “I need to get an Igla-S,” he said. “It’s a sophisticated Russian surface-to-air missile.”

  Mahmud stared at him in astonishment.

  “How do you know about those weapons?” he asked. “I thought you were in the carpet business.”

  “I am, but I’ve learned a lot from the Internet. The Igla-S is the most effective weapon against a plane or helicopter currently available. The missile is 72 millimeters in diameter and five feet long. It’s shoulder-fired and weighs less than thirty pounds. The warhead travels at 1,755 miles an hour and is effective to an altitude of 12,000 feet. Iglas have already brought down American planes in Iraq and in Serbia. In Chechnya, the boiviki rebels have used them to destroy Russian Mi-8 and Mi-16 helicopters.”

  Amritzar had recited his lesson without pause, and Mahmud listened carefully.

  “Have you ever fired one?”

  “No, of course not,” Amritzar said with a rueful smile. “I’ve only seen them in pictures. But I know everything there is to know about them. Did you read about the jihadist in Morocco—may Allah protect him—who built a bomb using only information he got from the Internet? He could barely read and write but was guided by the hand of Allah. His bomb killed seventeen infidels in Marrakesh and spread terror among the unbelievers.”

  Mahmud knew the story and seemed impressed.

  Amritzar waited, his eyes downcast.

  “What exactly do you plan to do with this missile?” asked Mahmud. “Assuming you learn how to use it.”

  “Shoot down Air Force One, the American president’s plane,” said Amritzar calmly. “With him on board, of course.”

  Mahmud clearly hadn’t expected this. He was silent for a moment and took another sip of Coke. When he spoke, his voice was serious.

  “That’s a wonderful project, brother, but extremely difficult to carry out. You must know that since the blessed day of September 11, 2001, we have never succeeded in striking the Americans on their home soil.”

  “I know how careful they are,” said Amritzar. “But I have a plan to get around their precautions.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t tell you yet. You know our proverb: the man who knows nothing can say nothing. Do you think you can help me?”

  Mahmud realized that he was dealing with neither a fool nor a dreamer. He had really only arranged this meeting to be on the safe side. Most would-be terrorists chickened out the moment you met them. This man was different, and the gleam of hatred in his dark eyes was real.

  Just the same, he needed to push Amritzar a little harder.

  “Do you realize what you’re risking?” he asked. “You have a beautiful young wife.”

  Amritzar’s head jerked up.

  “How do you know that?”

  Mahmud gave him a sharp look.

  “We know many things about you,” he said. “We must be very cautious. The Americans are powerful, and they pursue us relentlessly. You might be an undercover agent, trying to draw us into a trap and destroy our organization.”

  “I’m not an agent!” cried Amritzar.

  Mahmud opened his windbreaker and lifted his brown sweater, revealing the automatic tucked in his belt.

  “If I thought you were,” he said quietly, “I would take you outside and shoot you.”

  Amritzar looked at him coldly.

  “If I were an undercover agent, I would have arrested you by now. And you haven’t answered my question,” he continued. “Can you help me get a working Igla-S?”

  Mahmud was silent for a few moments.

  “That’s a question I can’t answer,”
he admitted. “I will pass on the request. Give me your cell phone number. It will make contacting you again easier.”

  Amritzar did so.

  “I’ll call to set up another meeting,” said Mahmud. “And don’t ever, ever mention your project on the Internet.”

  “Of course not!” snapped Amritzar, annoyed that he was being taken for an idiot.

  The two men stood up and hugged briefly.

  “Don’t try to follow me,” Mahmud whispered. “It would be dangerous for you.”

  Amritzar watched as Mahmud went out the revolving door. Then he put a five-dollar bill on the table and left the bar. He felt as if he were walking on air. What had started as a vague dream of vengeance was becoming concrete, turning into a real project.

  When he opened the door to his room, Amritzar was still elated. And when he saw Benazir, he felt happier still.

  She was lying on her side, so absorbed in watching television that she didn’t even turn her head when he came in. For his part, Amritzar couldn’t take his eyes off the curve of her hips in her tight pants. He felt as if all the excitement of his conversation with Mahmud had now rushed to his crotch.

  When he stretched out next to his wife, she started.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she murmured.

  “Who did you think it would be?” he growled. “You’re a she-dog, who would let any man lie with you. Yet you swore before the imam to be faithful.”

  Benazir realized she had made a mistake. She turned around and gently touched her husband’s crotch.

  “I hope you get me pregnant tonight,” she said. “I very much want to have a child.”

  Amritzar put his hand on her hip and pulled her close.

  “So do I,” he said.

  Actually, this was a lie. At that particular moment, all he wanted was to take his young wife from behind, the way he used to when they were engaged. He had wanted to marry a virgin, and they both developed a taste for anal pleasures.