Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery

by Lyle Nicholson

  The journey took an hour. It was slow, some backing up, some turns, some more machine gun fire, and finally they stopped. The engine idled.

  “We’re almost there,” Hammer said. “We’ve entered the green zone.”

  Bernadette had heard of the green zone, a total enclave of American and NATO buildings surrounded by high walls and armed forces.

  The vehicle motored on. There was silence inside the vehicle, but outside Bernadette heard the strains of music. Was that rock and roll?

  The vehicle stopped and the back ramp came down. Agent Lackey stood on the pavement to greet her.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Lackey said.

  Bernadette shuffled off the vehicle, her legs stiff from the cramped quarters. “Yeah, that was a hell of a ride.”

  “Well, Sergeant Hammer and his squad do that several times a day for hours on end. You got the compressed version,” Lackey said. “Follow me, I’ll take you to your new quarters.”

  Bernadette followed Lackey into a building that looked like a high-class boutique hotel. Plush carpets, muted walls in soft colors, and framed pictures of tasteful photographs adorned the walls. A bar with a Nespresso machine was on one side of the lobby with a mini fridge with a glass door that displayed a selection of Perrier and soft drinks.

  Lackey nodded at the coffee bar. “That’s for our Muslim friends. There’s a full bar and bistro in the courtyard in the back. It’s open at zero six hundred hours and closes at midnight. Good German and American beer and damn fine cocktails.”

  Bernadette felt like she’d just walked into an oasis after being in Kandahar for the past several days. “Maybe I can grab a shower before we meet. I want to talk you about several things.”

  “Sure, I’ll take you to your room, and then I’ll show you the video we downloaded.”

  Bernadette almost wanted to see the video first but realized she needed to change her clothes. She was covered in dirt and specks of blood. The ride over had jarred her; she needed a few minutes to catch her breath.

  Her room was small but comfortable. No bare bed like the guesthouse. It contained two beds, both with down comforters and fluffy pillows. A forty-inch flat screen television hung on the wall over a small bureau. A door led to a full shower.

  She stripped off her clothes and got into the shower. The water was hot and the soap had a pleasing scent. She felt like she’d checked into a Marriott Hotel. The towels were soft, no skin abrasion. She dressed in the jeans and t-shirt she’d salvaged from her duffle bag and went to find Lackey.

  Lackey was sitting with a laptop in the courtyard bistro. “I ordered us a pitcher of beer and a pizza. I hope that’s okay.”

  Bernadette sat down “Totally fine. What do you have for me on the video?”

  “You are direct and to the point.” Lackey turned the laptop towards her. “As you can see, here is Chris and Lund exiting the shrine.”

  As Bernadette stared hard at the video, the pitcher of beer arrived, but she didn’t notice it. “Is there any audio with this?”

  “No, it’s CCTV only. And no time stamp either. This is old tech,” Lackey said as she poured both of them mugs of beer and pushed one towards Bernadette.

  Bernadette took a sip of her beer and stared back at the video. She ran the feed back and forth with the cursor. She could see a small man who was Lund hand something to Chris. She zoomed in on the video. Her heart almost stopped. There was Chris, it really was him, she felt him now, and the contact she’d lost had been regained. She knew deep down he was still alive.

  “There’s nothing conclusive here,” Bernadette said, looking at the video. You see the two men, there’s someone behind them in the shadows, and then the lights go out. I was there today. The lights were shining brightly from the shrine.”

  Lackey looked at the video. “The lights go on and off all the time in this town. They have black outs, brown outs, and then just plain no electricity for days in some sections of town. Also, we didn’t get much intel from Kahn’s computer. The Afghani Police have no clues to follow.”

  Bernadette sat back, took a long pull of her beer. “What do you know of this Lund guy?”

  Lackey pulled up her phone and scrolled it. “I got this memo from our agents in Europe. Jannick Lund is the president of a non-government organization called Mission South that was supposed to provide clean water and sanitation to Afghans in the south. In his time here, he hasn’t spent a dime.

  The pizza arrived, a steaming hot pie of salami, olives, onion and tomatoes. Lackey cut into it and served a slice to Bernadette. Although her stomach felt like it was desperate for food, this conversation held her attention.

  “Where was he before here?”

  Lackey stared at her phone. “He’s been everywhere from Syria to Egypt and even some time in Jordan.”

  “Did you ever check if there’s been other thefts of ancient objects in any of the countries he’s visited?”

  “No, we never thought of that. But I’ll run some enquiries.”

  Bernadette took a bite of pizza. It tasted just like Domino’s back home, hot, cheesy, and the right amount of grease. She chewed for a moment. “The security chief named Caprinski, who ran Lund’s protection, said he had no knowledge of where Lund was heading that day. I’m sure he’s lying.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Wouldn’t the head security guy know of all movements of the person who’s paying to protect him?” Bernadette said as she swallowed hard. The lump of pizza hit her empty stomach like a fat child doing a cannonball in the pool.

  “Good point. I’ve never checked into Caprinski.”

  Bernadette eyed Lackey for a moment. She took another slice of pizza and stared at it as if that was her focus. She tried to reason why the head of the CIA in Kandahar wouldn’t have run a profile on the entire security team, with Caprinski included.

  “You’ve never run into Vincent Caprinski in your travels in Afghanistan. I hear he’s been here for some time.”

  Lackey sipped her beer then took a slice of pizza. She looked directly at Bernadette. “It’s a big country. Nope, never ran into him.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, silence descending over the table.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to check into it then,” Bernadette said, breaking the silence. She drained her beer, and placed a slice of pizza on a napkin. “I’ll take this back to my room and do some research. Thanks again for the accommodations, your American hospitality is great.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you have any ideas for a personal security person for your next trip out?” Lackey asked.

  “No, I was going to place a posting in Kandahar for someone who wants a shit magnet as a protection client. Sorry, that’s a bit of a joke,” Bernadette said with a smile.

  “I’ll put the word out. There might be a few solo guys that you might be able to hire.” Lackey smiled back. “And by the way, I’ll give you a special code number for the front gates if you ever do find someone. It’s the only way they can enter for you to interview them.”

  “Thanks for that. I seem to go through body guards pretty quickly so hopefully the next guy is good or can duck quickly,” Bernadette said, getting up from the table.

  She walked back to her room and started to do searches on the iPad that Reza had brought back for her. Some strange things were going on with Lackey, things did not get answered in their conversation. But one thing she never asked her—was she in fact a highly valued asset, and why?”

  14

  Bernadette did a search on her iPad on both Lund and Caprinski, but didn’t find much. She knew what she had to do. As the game show says, “you need to call a friend.” She pulled out the cellphone that Reza had returned to her, the one she’d brought from Canada, and dialed her friend, Anton De Luca.

  Anton was with Canada’s Security and Intelligence Agency. He was a young, good-looking Italian Canadian in his late twenties who made most women do a double take when he walked by. To Bernadet
te, he was like a brother.

  Anton picked up after the first ring. “I was wondering when you were going to call. I just saw a heads up from the Canadian Consulate; a lady there named Chandra Gupta has put in a request to have you ejected from Kandahar. I see you’re already making friends.”

  “Yeah, we’re kind of at cross purposes here. They want me to go home, and me, not so much.” Bernadette smiled into the phone. It was wonderful to hear his voice. “Look, I know you’re busy, but I need to find whatever you got on Vincent Caprinski and Jannick Lund. They were both with the NGO that Chris worked for.”

  “Sure, I can do that and send it to you. How are you doing there? You staying safe?”

  “I think the word is staying alive,” Bernadette said in a dry tone. “There’s someone here that is throwing roadblocks in my way—not sure who it is.”

  “What kind of roadblocks?”

  “A price on my head…”

  “That’s a hell of a roadblock. You sure you’re okay there?”

  “It’s a war zone, everyone is trying to kill each other here, so yes, I’m fine. I’ll just look over my shoulder more,” Bernadette said.

  Anton paused, then said, “I heard your security guy got injured. Do you have a replacement?”

  “The American CIA agent here is trying to hook me up.”

  “Look, I think I got someone. He’s a bit of a long shot, a bit off the wall, but I know he’s good,” Anton said.

  “Nice build up. What is he, a cross between a Bruce Willis and Rambo?”

  Anton chuckled. “No, he’s a Canadian named Jason Radic. He was born in Yugoslavia back in seventy-eight. His parents immigrated to Canada and he grew up in Moose Jaw. Served time with Canada’s elite JTF2 in Haiti and Croatia.”

  “Wow, the JTF2, they were so secretive not even the Prime Minister was informed of what they were doing. Radic is here in Kandahar?”

  “Yeah, he did a bunch of tours in Afghanistan, was in Iraq for a while, and did some nasty stuff for our government in Syria. He didn’t come home when his tour was over. He’s living there.”

  “You sure he’s stable after all those missions?” Bernadette asked.

  “I know, exposure to war can get to people. Some crack and some survive but in a different headspace. I have some people who can track him down. He is one of the best there is. Knows the countryside inside and out.”

  “Sure, why not. I need someone who knows his way around this war zone. Have him call me. Look, I know it’s early for you, and thanks tons for helping me out.”

  “Anytime. Stay safe, Bernadette.” Anton clicked off.

  Bernadette stared at her phone. Those were the words Chris always used. She felt a chill down her spine. She breathed deeply and made another phone call. There was one more person she had to talk to, her Grandmother Moses.

  As the phone rang, she imagined her aged grandmother ambling to the phone. She was full Cree Indian and lived in a small house with a wood stove on the Lone Pine Reservation in Northern Canada. She wore the same print dress nearly every day, and her hair was always in braid, either single or double. The long gray hair graced her soft brown face and twinkling brown eyes.

  “I was hoping you’d call,” Grandma Moses said.

  “Grandma, how’d you know it was me?” Bernadette asked. Her grandmother had an ancient landline with a rotary dial. The telephone company wanted it for their museum.

  “I know your ring,” Grandma answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

  There was no arguing with Grandma Moses; she knew what she knew. Her knowledge was halfway between mystical and common sense. Few ever challenged her.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, Grandma. I just wanted let you know that I’m okay. Sorry, I should have called earlier. I’ve been busy hunting for Chris,” Bernadette said biting her lip at the end of her lie.

  “No, that’s not true. I had a dream you were in a long sleep, and then when you woke up you were dizzy like you’d been on the Ferris Wheel, you know like when Grandpa took you to the fair.”

  Bernadette shook her head, there was no way getting around Grandma Moses, she saw things in her dreams that happened to people in real life. No one knew how she did it. Some on the reservation were afraid of her and some flocked to her door to get her visions.

  “Okay, sorry, Grandma, I got in an accident when I arrived. I banged my head but I’m okay now,” Bernadette admitted. She closed her eyes as her vision went into a set of spins. Her vertigo had returned.

  “I saw a small fox last night outside the house in the moonlight, it was staring at me.” Grandma Moses said, as if she already knew what had happened to Bernadette and accepted it.

  “A fox? What’s so unusual about a fox? You’re in Northern Canada. They live all around you.”

  “This one wanted to tell me something. He wanted to give me a message about you and your journey.”

  Bernadette held onto her head with one hand. The vertigo was starting to subside like a merry-go-round slowing down. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes small animals lead the way. You need to look for them there, Bernadette. Remember who you are. You’re half Indian. Use your senses, not just your mind.”

  Bernadette chuckled at Grandma Moses’s words; she never called the Cree the Indigenous or First Nations People. She’d grown up being called an Indian, but to her it was badge of honor, of a people who felt in harmony with nature and the land. Distinctly opposite from the white settlers who as she once said, “couldn’t find their ass from a hole in the ground.” She meant they were out of touch.

  “Okay, Grandma, I’ll use my senses. I have to go now. I just wanted to tell you that I’m okay.” Bernadette ended the call, took off her jeans, boots and socks and climbed into bed. In minutes she was asleep. A little fox appeared in her dream. It seemed to wink at her.

  15

  Chris looked out the crack in the hut as the dawn broke over the village square. The fate of Gul had been decided. In the past few days, after the murder of Max in the square, Gul had confided in him that his case for clemency with the imam was not going well.

  Chris felt sorry for Gul. He was a sad character. Although a Taliban, he wasn’t a very good one. He hadn’t participated in the torture and killing of Max; Chris had seen him back away from the square so he wouldn’t be involved.

  Now, Gul the soft-spoken Afghan who’d become a Taliban because the pay was better than the Afghan Army, was being brought into the square by two of his compatriots. The law was the law. The imam had decreed that the husband of the wife that Gul had slept with would be allowed to shoot Gul, but just once, and from a distance.

  “God willing, I will survive,” Gul had said. His reasoning was that the husband would shoot him, but he claimed the husband was a bad shot. Gul thought if he were able to survive the bullet wound, he would recover and sneak off to Kandahar with the man’s wife. He’d send word of where Chris was held captive and have him rescued. Chris would then apply to the Canadian Consulate to have Gul and his bride to be immigrated to Canada.

  Chris agreed to the plan whole-heartedly. He didn’t think Gul had much of a chance, but this was the only possible escape plan he had. The only thing that stood in the way of the plan was the husband’s bullet.

  Gul sat on a rug in the center of the square and began to make his prayers to Allah. The imam, warlord, and aggrieved husband walked into the square. The rest of the Taliban fighters formed a semi-circle around them. Chris had an unobstructed view.

  The weapon the husband was given looked like a Lee-Enfield. Chris knew the weapon well. A friend of his owned one. They were built for the English Army in 1907, with a long barrel and heavy, around nine pounds.

  Chris watched as the husband raised the rifle to his shoulder. He hoped the weight of the gun would make him drop his aim as he fired, missing Gul’s head and hopefully his vital organs.

  The gun fired. A loud echo reverberated through the village. Then the gun fired again and again.


  “Damn it,” Chris muttered, “That shithead knows how to fire the thing.”

  The husband kept ramming the bolt action and sending another bullet into the chamber as he walked closer to Gul. The warlord ran to his side and beat on his back commanding him to stop. He did stop—when the magazine was empty.

  Chris watched them drag Gul’s lifeless body from the square. The warlord and imam were discussing the husband’s bad behavior. The husband had dropped the weapon. He stood there, arms crossed, defiant in his actions.

  The door to Chris’s hut opened. Chris spun around and sat on his bed. Aktar walked in. He smiled at Chris, giving him a look that told him he was to be his new jailer. He pulled his finger across his neck in motion that showed what he wanted to do to Chris, and then slammed the door closed as he left. His laughter could be heard outside the hut as he walked away.

  Chris took a deep breath. “Well, if anyone is close by, this would be perfect time to come to the rescue,” he said with a sigh.

  16

  Bernadette woke up and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes to let her eyes focus. Would her vertigo return this morning? She turned her head to the left, nothing, no spins. Maybe it was gone. She rolled out of bed to the right and her world went haywire.

  The vertigo returned. There was only one thing she could do; she’d read about vertigo being the movement of crystals in the inner ear. There was a remedy for it called the Epley maneuver.

  “Okay girl, this is not going to be pretty,” Bernadette, said. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself. “Okay, let’s not screw this up.”

  She got back on the bed and sat up, leaving herself enough room to let her head fall over the edge of the bed. “Turn head, forty-five degrees to the right, check. Lie on back with head over the edge of the bed—holy crap!”

  The world spun violently before her eyes. She fought back nausea. She started to count, in French so it was slower, “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix…oh I’m going to be sick…onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf…vingt….”