Rising Tiger: A Thriller (3)

The Diwali festival was in full swing and even more spectacular at night. From courtyards and rooftops, fireworks were being launched high into the night sky. Beautifully decorated homes were framed by the illumination from tiny, flickering clay oil lamps called diyas.

People walked down the street waving sparklers, dressed in their most elegant clothing. Bursts of firecrackers could be heard coming from all directions. There were musicians on every corner. The traffic was thick and noisy. Everything in Jaipur was electric… thrumming… alive.

Ritter was meeting his contact in a part of Vaishali Nagar popular for its food scene. The Tansukh fine dining restaurant, with its gleaming white floors and polished wooden ceilings, specialized in authentic Rajasthani cuisine. It was one of his contact’s favorites. Though they had serious business to discuss, the man had assured him that he was in for a meal he would never forget.

His contact had been right. From the Mohan Maas—meat stuffed with dried fruit and cooked slowly in milk, cardamom, and cinnamon—to the Bajra Roti flatbread, a never-ending parade of chutneys, and ice-cold bottles of Kingfisher beer from Bangalore, it had been an outstanding dinner.

Even better than the food was his counterpart’s agreement on almost everything he had come to discuss.

It wasn’t a total fait accompli, however. Ritter would have to convince the man’s boss. And it would not be easy.

What’s more, setting up the meeting was going to be extremely difficult and would require an unparalleled level of secrecy. India was on edge.

China had become much more belligerent. Pakistan, despite its massive internal problems, was also stirring up trouble. And the Kashmir region, after an unusually protracted calm, was beginning to overheat.

Those elements alone had the makings of a perfect storm. Throw in an upcoming election, and the danger level only skyrocketed. Politicians seldom liked taking risks. They liked risk-taking even less when their political careers were sure to hang in the balance.

Complicating matters even further was the fact that India’s democracy was backsliding. Illiberal forces were amassing power at an alarming rate. The incumbent party was doing all it could to hang on to office. There were fears that a state of emergency might be declared, the constitution suspended, and all elections postponed.

It was against this difficult backdrop that Eli Ritter had been sent to work his quiet magic. And based on the success of his dinner, he appeared—so far—to be off to a solid start.

So that they would not be seen leaving together, his contact stayed behind and ordered a digestif.

Stepping outside, Ritter smiled. Jaipur’s citizens were still out in force celebrating. He also felt like doing a little celebrating.

Removing one of the Cohibas he had purchased earlier in the day, he snipped the end and fired it up.

The communists may have fucked up everything else in Cuba, he mused, but they’ve been wise enough to keep their hands off Cuba’s exceptional cigar industry.

Filling his mouth with a heady draw of peppery smoke, he struck off toward his hotel.

Two blocks later, a string of firecrackers exploded close by, taking him by surprise.

Out of instinct, he turned toward the noise. That was when the assassin stepped up from the opposite direction, placed the suppressed pistol behind Ritter’s left ear, and pressed the trigger.





CHAPTER 3


KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

Ducking back behind cover, Scot Harvath slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon. Out on the street, Taliban gunmen—about twelve in total and most of them armed with American M4s—continued to fire on his position.

The amount of U.S. military equipment that had been abandoned to the bad guys after Afghanistan’s collapse made him sick to his stomach. The fact that it was now being used against his team made it even worse. Two of his people were already dead.

They lay in pools of their own blood no more than twenty feet away. There had been nothing he could do for them. Things had escalated that quickly.

The pair had been fierce, anti-Taliban resistance fighters, recruited specifically for this operation. Dressed in plain clothes and supplied with envelopes full of cash, their job had been to negotiate roadblocks and to smuggle their American colleagues into the city.

While the key phase of the mission took place, they were to stand guard. Then, once the objective was complete, they were to smuggle everyone back out again. Ideally, no one would ever know the team had been there. But when a roving Taliban security patrol had passed through, everything had gone south.

What had started as a shakedown, with the Taliban angling for bribes, had rapidly turned into a bloodbath.

The men were initially accused of being out too late. Next, questions were raised about their vehicle, then their driving permits and other documents.

It didn’t matter that everything was in full compliance. That wasn’t how things worked in a failed state. The law didn’t matter. The rights of the individual didn’t matter. The only things that mattered were brute force and one group’s ability to successfully impose its will upon the rest of a society.

It was the antithesis of everything the United States had hoped to help the Afghans achieve. Sadly, and at tremendous cost, America had learned the painful lesson that democracy couldn’t simply be handed to a people on a silver platter. The people themselves had to want it so badly that they would do anything for it. They had to be willing to fight and die. And not just some of them. All of them. Anything less than a complete commitment to their own freedom was a recipe for defeat and subjugation.