The Lore of Prometheus

by Graham Austin-King

  I stared at a crack on the windscreen as Mujib drove. It gave me something to focus on without having to look outside, or show Mujib that his driving scared the living shit out of me.

  It had been five years since I was in Afghanistan last, and I’d almost forgotten about the roads. Traffic signs were almost non-existent, and nobody followed the few that were around. There are two rules for driving in Kabul; do it fast, and always assume you have the right of way.

  The place hadn’t improved much since I’d left, but then Kabul isn’t anything like most people think. The majority of the city isn’t in ruins; at least, not in the same way as Damascus, Raqqa or Aleppo in Syria. The war had turned into an insurgency long before coalition troops ever reached the city. In many ways it was similar to the Troubles in Northern Ireland. You can live here and never encounter anything more worrying than the occasional set of old bullet holes in the walls, or a distant explosion and plume of smoke.

  The one thing that does stand out here is the poverty. The Taliban hit Afghanistan hard in terms of trade. Then the war, the occupation, and the mess that’s been here ever since, fucked up what was left. It’s pretty damned hard to find work in Kabul that isn’t, in some way, connected to the coalition; and if the western powers ever left this place it would probably fall right to pieces all over again.

  The beggars were pretty hard to miss, too. We slowed down to pass through a check-point and I realised I was counting them. They were mostly children with lost, hopeless eyes that didn’t even bother to look at the people passing them. Some leaned on crutches, poor replacements for missing legs, while others simply looked neglected and malnourished. I turned away.

  “Selfish bastard,” Johnson whispered at me from the back seat.

  Mujib barely spoke as he drove, throwing me the occasional critical glare that told me enough all on its own. He was Gharfour’s head of security, and here was I, at least a decade younger, a foreigner, and a kafir at that, hired in over his head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The car slowed for a more involved check when we entered Waj’zir Akhbar Khan. This was the most affluent part of Kabul, hosting the diplomatic quarter, and it showed in everything from the size and condition of the buildings, to the security presence. ANSF soldiers manned the checkpoints and patrolled the streets. This was where the money was. This was where the foreign powers were. The rest of the city could clearly go to hell so long as this part was patrolled and protected.

  I glanced at Mujib as we slowed again outside the entrance to a secure compound, and received a nod in return. A large house was just visible over high walls that were topped with razor wire. Mujib stopped at the security barrier and leaned out of the window to speak to the guard. The barrier was just a painted wooden boom, less effective than the barriers you’d find at the entrance to a car park. I snorted a laugh to myself as I watched the men standing behind it smile and wave a greeting to Mujib. Not one of them held their weapon in any kind of ready position. Not one of them stood to the side of the boom. If we’d been going at any speed, we would have taken out the red and white barrier, and probably at least two of the guards.

  Christ, what have I signed up for?

  The compound itself was utilitarian. A number of small buildings ran along the inside of the surrounding wall—stores, I guessed, or possibly homes for the staff. The main residence itself was drab, covered in the same dust that eventually swallowed everything in Kabul. The real luxury and grandeur would be inside, locked away from the eyes of the masses as if they might soil it.

  Mujib drove up to the front of the building and climbed out, opening the boot of the car to hand me my bag. The heat was even worse now that the sun had had a chance to bake the concrete. It would get a lot worse by mid-afternoon.

  “This way, sir,” Mujib waved me onward with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and led me into the residence.

  The renovations can’t have been finished long; the faint smell of paint and sealant was still hanging in the air. The air-conditioning was a relief, but with the tiled floors and high, white ceilings, it was almost enough to make the place cold.

  I looked around as we walked, noting the CCTV cameras and the locations of the few guards we encountered. They didn’t look to be ANSF, which I thought was odd given Gharfour’s government position. Instead, Gharfour seemed to have opted for a private security force that, so far at least, looked to be both older and in worse shape than any of the ANSF troops I’d seen. There had to be a good reason for that, but I was damned if I could think of one.

  Mujib knocked at a door and then led me into a small side-office. An older man stood as we entered, making his way out from behind a desk. Dressed in a grey perahan tunban, and wearing an elegant long beard and a keffiyeh, this man was a traditionalist.

  “Mr Shabib, please allow me to introduce Mr Thompson?” Mujib asked.

  Shabib placed his hand over his heart and nodded at me, a formal greeting given to someone who might be unaccustomed to being touched. A more traditional greeting would have involved a handshake and alternating kisses on both cheeks. I nodded my own formal greeting, impressed at the sensitivity despite myself.

  “Mr Thompson,” Shabib said, with a slight pause before my adopted name that was enough to make me wonder just how much he actually knew. “You must be tired after such a long journey.”

  I smiled. “It was a long flight.”

  “I am sure,” Shabib said with an odd little smile. He considered me for a moment before glancing at Mujib. “Mujib here will have someone escort you to your room. Take some rest and I will introduce you to Mr Gharfour later, or in the morning, if you prefer? I’m sure there is much to discuss.”

  I watched Mujib slip out and let a sigh escape my lips. It was a relief, to be honest. It might be mid-morning here, but it was still about six in the morning as far as my body was concerned; I’d been up all night, and I was still carrying the bruises left on me by Cresswell’s men.

  “I’m sure this afternoon will be fine,” I told him. “If Mr Gharfour has the time, of course. I’d like to look over the existing security arrangements tomorrow, then get started on a few things.”

  “As you say,” Shabib said with another nod, glancing at the door as Mujib returned with a shorter, vaguely south-east Asian looking man.

  Shabib dismissed me with vague pleasantries, and I followed the servant through the halls. The man’s features told me he was a Hazara, one of the minority ethnic Shi’ites; the traditional servant underclass. There’s an Afghan saying that when God made the donkey the Hazaras wept because they knew their role had been stolen from them. Things had supposedly changed under President Karzai, with the Hazara having equal legal status to everyone else in the country, but apparently things hadn’t changed all that much.

  My rooms were better than I’d expected, with a good-sized bedroom, bathroom, and even a small kitchen area. I sank down on the bed as soon as the servant left, taking a minute to let my eyes close before dragging myself up and over to the duffel bags piled against one wall.

  Paragon had arranged to have my equipment delivered from a local supplier. Just about anything is for sale in Afghanistan if you know where to look, and they had produced pretty much the same black-bag of kit that the army does, right down to the anti-microbial underwear. They’re designed to be worn for days at a time. Hopefully this job wouldn’t come to that.

  I pulled open the first bag and began inspecting the kit. I carry my own personal protective equipment, or PPE. Boots, gloves, knee-pads; they’re all better if they’re worn in. McCourt had provided everything else. I checked over the body armour, and field-stripped the M4 and the Glock 17, checking each piece was in good condition and free of any dirt that might cause it to jam. I paid particular attention to the Glock, even though I’m not a big fan of handguns. There aren’t many situations when I’d rather have one over a good rifle, but close protection doesn’t often work like that and, although I was here to train Gharfour’s security
team, I had no illusions about what I’d be doing for the first few weeks.

  I was idly checking the combat webbing when I found the phone. The pouches should have been empty, but it’s always best to check them for holes. The phone was an old Nokia 3310. They used to call them bricks. The things are practically indestructible compared to a modern smartphone and just about every country had them at some point. I fished it out and scowled at it, turning it over in my hand.

  It wasn’t on the equipment list, and it shouldn’t have been there. I almost turned it on before I stopped myself and popped the back cover off. It wasn’t all that hard to pack one of these things with explosives, and death by mobile phone was not the way I planned to leave this world. Whoever had hidden it in the webbing had somehow known I was coming.

  As it turned out, the Nokia was exactly what it looked like. An old, sturdy, and almost untraceable phone, provided it was used correctly. I seriously doubted Gharfour would have provided it, which just left me with unanswered questions. The phone was too old to help anyone pinpoint my location with any great accuracy, no matter how good whoever supplied it was. At best it would show them Gharfour’s compound, and they obviously already knew I was here.

  I set the alarm on my watch for five hours—I’d been up all night, but I knew better than to sleep on my own schedule. I’ve always found it’s best to force yourself into a new time-zone as quickly as possible. Five hours would be enough that I wasn’t yawning into Gharfour’s face, and should still let me sleep tonight.

  I glanced at the phone again.

  “Screw it,” I shrugged and held down the power button. The phone flashed and went through its start-up sequence; I don’t know what else I’d expected really. I stared at it for a few minutes before tossing it aside. Whoever had put it in there had clearly wanted to contact me. The ball was in their court now.

  The phone bleeped just as I was dropping off, naturally. I fumbled for where I’d left it on the nightstand. A text message.

  Secure the phone. Power off and remove SIM.

  Further instructions at 9pm local.

  What the hell? I’d just flown for nine hours, survived the demolition derby that was the streets of Kabul, and now some mystery idiot wanted to play games with me? I was in no mood for this crap. I did, however, crack the back of the phone off and pull out both battery and SIM card. If nothing else, it would stop the bloody thing waking me up again.

  *

  The tap at the door was tentative, but it was enough to pull me from sleep. I blinked myself awake, reaching for the handgun on the nightstand, before I thought better of it.

  “Yes?” I called. I glanced at my watch and saw it had just passed two in the afternoon.

  The door opened slowly to reveal the same Hazara servant who had brought me to the room earlier.

  “Excuse me, sir. Mr Gharfour will see you now.” He had an odd manner of speech that managed to make the sentence both statement and question.

  “Good enough,” I nodded. “Give me a few minutes.” I pulled on the combat dress, webbing and PPE. Might as well look the part. When you’re paying eight hundred and fifty pounds a day for a British soldier, there are some expectations.

  Gharfour’s office was on the top floor. I followed the servant up the stairs, taken at my request, noting the cameras and the absence of any guards. I still didn’t know the servant’s name. He was deferential to the point of obsequiousness, avoiding eye contact and ushering me along with softly spoken directions.

  Shabib was waiting for me in the outer office. “You are well rested, I hope, Mr Thompson?”

  “Thank you, yes,” I lied through my teeth. Something about the man bothered me. He didn’t seem particularly interested in my responses, but this was more than just small-talk. He watched me as I spoke, gauging my reactions as if he was looking for something, and it set me on edge.

  I followed Shabib into the inner office to where an elegant man, who I assumed to be Gharfour, sat behind a huge mahogany desk. The thing must have weighed more than three big men, and God only knew how they’d managed to get it up the stairs. There was no way it would ever have fit into the lift.

  Unlike the desk, Gharfour was slight; a thin man in a pale grey suit with a close-cropped, black beard.

  “Mr Thompson, sir,” Shabib introduced me.

  His smile was unexpected; a warm and genuine smile that lit his face as he came around from behind the desk to grasp my hand.

  “Mr Thompson! I am Hassan Gharfour. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at Shabib and the servant hovering near the door. “That will be all.”

  He made a point of waiting for the door to close before he spoke again. “I know who you are really, of course. I think it probably best if you remain Thompson, rather than Carver, outside this room.”

  I gave him a genuine smile of my own. “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “It is a curious rumour that you carry around with you,” Gharfour mused. “How on earth did you come by it?”

  I shrugged to cover my shock. He knew? Of course he knew. He would have done his homework as soon as McCourt assigned me to the job. I’ve told this lie more than a few times, by now it even sounded like the truth to me. “Who knows how these things get started?” I said. “Soldiers gossip, and they can be as superstitious as anyone else.”

  Gharfour nodded with a small smile, letting the topic drop as he made his way to his seat and motioned me into an empty chair.

  “Please, sit. I am sure your superiors provided you with a brief on my requirements, but I’d like to go over them again.” He paused long enough to elicit a nod from me. “I am not new to this position, but there have been developments of late that will require an increase in security. Mujib, whilst he is a good man, I am not convinced that he has the skills or training necessary.”

  “What developments?” I asked, then checked myself. “If you consider it relevant, sir.”

  Gharfour smiled. “You need not worry about being overly deferential, Mr Carver. There might come a time when you do not have time for ‘sir’. I am the Director of Drug Demand Reduction, part of the Ministry of Public Health. In most other countries this would be an administrative post, working closely with social workers and support networks. But this is Afghanistan, and it is not like any other country.”

  He fell silent for a moment, turning to gaze out of the window. “They say that when Allah made the world, all of the pieces that were left over he put into Afghanistan. We have such a diverse country. Mountains; deserts; rangelands; and fertile plains; all in one small nation. But some days it feels that we have more of the teryakk, the opium poppy, than anything else. Did you know that before this war began, only four percent of our farmlands were used to grow opium? After twelve years there are more poppy farmers than ever. In the last two years alone, production has soared because of a new, hardier poppy plant brought in from China. This country is drowning in a sea of opium, Mr Carver, and it is my job to try and reduce the demand for it. To do that, I need to give the people of this nation an alternative to growing this cursed flower. You can imagine how popular this makes me.”

  I snorted a laugh at that. “Not overly, I imagine.”

  “No,” Gharfour replied with a smile. “This country has grown to depend on the poppy as much as any addict. You could not simply stop production; the economy would collapse entirely. It must be done slowly, it must be negotiated. And, in the middle of all of this, it is your job to keep me safe, and allow me to do my job.”

  “Yes, sir.” I mentally shook myself awake. The man was a rambler but was finally getting to the point. “Is there a particular area you’d like me to focus on?”

  Gharfour spread his hands and shrugged. “Security is not my field, Mr Carver. This is why you are here. So long as I am alive, I can only assume you are doing your job. I suggest you begin with Mujib. He can give you my schedule.”

  I nodded. The man would be good to work with, I suspected. I’ve heard horror stories about
jobs where the principal thinks he knows what he needs, and interferes or pushes back every step of the way. Gharfour seemed willing to just let me get on with it; but then if what he said about the opium was true, he had his hands full already. The mobile phone sprang back into my thoughts. Was it something to do with the drug barons? I shook myself, covering it with a cough as I realised Gharfour was looking at me expectantly.

  “I’d also like to do a complete review to start,” I told him. “There are some things at your compound that need changing immediately. There may be others that aren’t so obvious.”

  Gharfour nodded, absorbing that. “Such as? Immediate changes, I mean.”

  “The gate, for one,” I told him. “Your guards are on the wrong side of it. They should be stopping the cars before they even get close. At the end of the day, the gate is just a wooden pole. It’s not going to stop anyone who really wants to get in. Nor will it stop any cars with an IED in it.”

  I didn’t bother explaining what an IED was. Anyone who lived in Kabul knew the acronym for an improvised bomb.

  “I see,” Gharfour murmured, reaching into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with a polished zippo lighter, and drawing deeply. “Smoke?”

  I shook my head. I’d almost forgotten how many people smoked here.

  “And so, what would you suggest?”

  “I’d need to take a closer look at the gate to give you a real recommendation, sir.” Hell, if the gate was anything to go by, I’d need to have a bloody close look at everything. “I’m basing this on my arrival last night. I’ll conduct a full security review and come back to you with my report.”

  “You mean, your arrival this morning?” Gharfour said with a laugh.

  I laughed with him. The first rule in any job: always let the boss think he’s funny. “Yes, sir. This morning.”

  “Very well then,” Gharfour said, rising to his feet. “Conduct your review. I will be back at the office tomorrow. I assume you will be accompanying me?”