“Follow me,” I told her as I passed. I moved quickly, but not so fast that she would lose me in the crowd. I made my way from the market and ducked into another side street—this one empty and quiet.
I didn’t have to wait long, and reached out to grab the woman and pull her into a doorway as she entered the alley. “Hello Artemis.”
She jerked back from me with a muffled curse. “How did you know it was me?”
“Your skin is too pale,” I told her.
“That’s it?” she snorted. “I could have been anyone.”
I shrugged. “It took you too long to pay for the seed. You couldn’t find your money, and you look uncomfortable in the burqa.”
She swore again. “I have a car around the corner, we can talk there. I can’t breathe in this thing.”
The car turned out to be a massive white Land Cruiser. Not exactly subtle, and rather similar to Gharfour’s, but not unknown around here either. I scanned the empty front seats before I climbed into the back beside her. Meeting her was one thing, but I wasn’t stupid enough to let myself be driven off.
“Christ, I hate these things,” Artemis muttered, pulling the burqa back over her shoulders. She was blonde, and about thirty years old, if I had to guess. Attractive enough, though the heat had left her red in the face, and strands of her hair plastered to her cheek.
“So, you’re what? CIA?” I asked as I pulled off the pakol, relishing the air-conditioning as I scraped my fingers through my hair.
She shrugged, brushing her hair from her face. “Something like that. Suffice it to say the United States government would like to hire your services.”
My eyebrows rose and I leaned away from her a little. I’d run across my fair share of spooks, both MI5 and MI6, during my stints in Northern Ireland, Iraq, and Afghanistan, and I couldn’t say that I cared all that much for their type. They had a different view of the world than I did, thinking in terms of agents and assets, and generally considered information to be far more valuable than a life.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve killed plenty of people. More than I really want to think about, if I’m honest, and usually it was in the process of retrieving some kind of intel. The difference was: I went in to get it, I risked my own arse. Five and Six? They take a handler approach. They manipulate, bribe, and extort to get what they need and if that puts the asset at risk, then so be it. I know it wasn’t much of a distinction, and it probably made me a hypocrite, but I count it as the least of my flaws.
I eyed her and tried to ignore the increasing dryness in my mouth. I didn’t like these people, and I didn’t want to get caught up in whatever shit Artemis or her government had going on. “I’m already on a job. I told you that on the phone.”
She gave me a thin, dismissive smile, reaching into a briefcase for a folder. “And I told you that we both know you’re only here for the money. Well, this is money.” She waved the folder at me.
She was right. I wasn’t in this sweltering dustbowl working for Gharfour out of some sort of loyalty to him. I was here for the money. I needed the money. I sighed. “What’s the job?”
She smiled again, a warm smile this time, her brown eyes dancing, as she dropped the folder back into the case.
“Not much more than you’re doing already,” she told me. “We need someone on the inside to keep an eye on Gharfour. We want you to be that eye.”
I paused long enough to make her fidget. “What are you looking for?”
“Gharfour has contacts with most of the drug-barons in Afghanistan,” she said. “We’ve known that for some time. The way the economy works, they wouldn’t stop the drug trade right away, even if they could. To a point, we’re fine with that; but we suspect Gharfour is crossing the line. We’ve reason to believe he’s in the process of negotiating long-term contracts with these people, facilitating their exports into the United States. We’re less happy with that, as I’m sure you can see why.”
She smiled at me. It was a good smile, and her brown eyes were just as devastating. The woman could probably flirt her way into a bank vault. I’d been in this game long enough to know when I was being manipulated. Two could play at this.
“What’s your name?” I asked with a smile of my own, lowering my voice and leaning a little closer.
“My name?” she blinked rapidly, the question taking her off guard.
“Well, I’m not calling you Artemis. It’s like something out of a bad spy novel.”
She laughed then, a genuine laugh—or a damn good fake. “Joanne. My friends call me Jo.”
“And what should I call you?”
Those flirty eyes again. “I think you could use Jo.”
I gave her a flat look and held it long enough to make her smile falter, long enough for her to know I was onto the game she thought she was winning. “What exactly is it you want from me, Joanne?”
Her eyes hardened, and her lips pressed into a line as she leaned away and shifted uncomfortably on the leather-bound backseat of the Cruiser. Her expression could have meant any number of things, and all of them unpleasant. “Gharfour is going to be hosting a meeting with some of these drug-barons. We want you to let us know when this is.”
“What makes you think I’ll know?”
“Let’s not play games, Carver. You were hired in to ramp up the man’s security. Of course you’ll know.”
I managed to keep a straight face. She might be American, but she wasn’t an idiot. “And what do I get out of this?”
“For sending the text? Twenty.”
I nodded, chewing on that. Twenty thousand was a decent amount. The phone was a burner so that wouldn’t be traced, and I could easily ditch it once I had the money. “Pounds not dollars,” I countered.
She paused for a long moment before she agreed again.
“Any idea when this meeting is going to happen?”
She shook her head. “That’s your job to find out. We know he’s held three or four of them already this year, but they’re not on any kind of regular schedule. It could be tomorrow, a few weeks from now, or a few months.”
“That’s helpful,” I grunted. “You’re monitoring the burner phone all the time?”
“Yes,” she nodded, scratching at the back of her hand. She seemed more edgy and easily flustered than I’d come to expect from her type. “The number you have goes direct to the embassy. It will be flagged as soon as you send something.”
“And payment?”
“A direct wire transfer to your UK account. We already have the details.”
I blinked. “You have done your homework.”
She smiled that crooked half-smile again. It was more effective than I really wanted to admit.
“Of course I have, John. I like to know who I’m getting into bed with,” she let that hang for a second, “so to speak.”
I laughed. “You’re a dangerous lady, Jo.” I reached for the door as she shot me another smile. “I’ll be in touch.”
*
I made my way back to the compound and my rooms. Mujib had his instructions and was probably on the way back already. I needed some time to chew over Jo’s information. I also really needed a long shower to wash away the grime of the Bird Market.
I stopped before I made it to the shower. I’m very much a creature of habit, almost compulsively so, and something wasn’t right with my room. I’m not the tidiest of people but I do tend to follow a pattern. If I toss a shirt on a chair, you can bet your last penny that it will be there tomorrow, and probably the next day too. It took me a few long minutes of circling the room to realise what was bothering me.
My bags weren’t all the way under the bed. I’d shoved them under there as soon as I unpacked. There was nothing in them I’d need for a while, and the rooms weren’t so big that I wanted them out in the way. Now my travel bag poked out slightly, causing the blanket on my bed to bulge out.
I did a quick circuit of the rest of the apartment, checking the bathroom and the kitchen. Finally, I had a good look at the do
or and the lock, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just the bag.
I flipped the blanket back and crouched down beside the bed. The bag had definitely been moved, but why would anyone bother? I pulled it out and went through the pockets and compartments. Some spare clothing, and a couple of books. Nothing anyone should be interested in.
I unzipped the end pocket and pulled out a paperback.
“Son of a bitch!”
My passport was the only thing in here, tucked in between the pages. I’d put the passport inside the book soon after landing, using it as a bookmark. It probably wasn’t the safest or smartest idea in the world, but it’s what I do. The thing was, I hadn’t needed my passport at customs, Mujib had met me and walked me through. My passport had been wedged between the pages of the book. Now it was just inside the cover.
It had been moved.
Stolen passports, especially British or U.S. passports, can go for a fairly high price. I’d heard of them fetching upwards of three thousand U.S. dollars. But mine hadn’t been stolen. It had been left in the bag. It wasn’t the item they were interested in, it was the contents.
And that meant someone knew who I was.
And not just who I was, but what I was.
If I’d been anywhere else in the world, this wouldn’t have bothered me so much. Anywhere else in the world, I didn’t carry a legend around with me. Anywhere else in the world, I wasn’t the Miracle of Kabul.
CHAPTER TEN
I was in the shower when it came to me. The first day I could put down to tiredness; the flight was long and I’d basically been up all night. The second day, I suppose I could say I was getting to grips with the processes and Mujib’s way of doing things. Today was the third day though, and I had to face the fact that I was being a bloody idiot.
I was expecting Mujib and his men to know what they were doing. That was stupid enough all on its own, but I was in danger of falling into their routines. The fact was, I had been brought in to bring Gharfour’s security up to scratch, not to be their boss. This wasn’t a permanent job. This was a training consultancy.
I dressed quickly and made my way down to the main kitchen. I ate at a prepping station, surrounded by stainless steel. None of the kitchen staff spoke English, other than the head chef, but they were friendly enough. I shovelled down a bowl of some kind of porridge and muddled through my thoughts.
The first thing to do was get Mujib on side—this was his team after all. If I had to work around him, then not only would the job be twice as hard, but any changes I brought in would probably fall by the wayside the moment I left.
I rinsed my bowl and left it to dry beside a sink, earning me a smile from one of the kitchen staff, and made my way out to the gate. I could spot Mujib from the doorway, his ever-present cigarette glowing in the early morning darkness.
Three other guards were arrayed around the gate, looking tired and bored. If I could tell that just by their posture, then so could anyone else who might be watching. Something else to take care of.
“Mujib,” I greeted him as I drew close.
“Mr Thompson, sir. Good morning.” The hostility was still there, though more sullen than it had been before.
I ignored it and ploughed on. “I want to go over a few things with you this afternoon, once the client is back at the residence.”
He didn’t work especially hard to keep his face straight and the slight grimace shone through. “What sort of things, sir?”
“Some of the changes I want to bring in, and the new equipment.”
Mujib frowned. “Equipment?”
I nodded. “Some secure coms equipment.”
He gave me a blank look, as if the term was new to him.
“Better radios,” I clarified. “A uniform, and higher quality weapons.”
“What is wrong with our weapons?” Mujib hefted his rifle.
I couldn’t help sighing. “The AK-47s are okay I suppose, but they’re just okay, Mujib, and there are better weapons for this job.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Look, it’s just not well designed.” I pointed at the weapon in his hand. “The ammunition is too big and powerful for the gun, which is why it pulls up so much on recoil. They tend to fire high and to the right of your target anyway, and some of the damned things will jam if you fart with the safety off.”
Mujib grunted, throwing a dark look at Samir who had sidled close enough to listen in and was busily agreeing with me.
“Here,” I handed my rifle to him. “Try this.”
Mujib took the M4 gingerly, turning it over in his hands like a child with a new toy. He tucked it into his shoulder, pulling it in tight, and looked along the sights.
“That’s an American M4. It’s a bit lighter and a damned sight more accurate than what you’re using.” I smiled at his expression. “Let’s talk this afternoon, and then I can talk to Gharfour about his budget.”
“Yes, this is a good idea.” Mujib handed back the weapon with obvious reluctance as I cast an eye over the others at the gate.
“I want you to put two men on the gate today. We’ll take two cars and bring everyone else with us for the transport—treat it like we know there’s a security alert.”
Mujib nodded, eyes still on the gun.
“You’ve run two cars before?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Mujib!”
His head snapped up.
“Have you run a two-car detail before?”
“Yes, sir. Many times.” He spoke too quickly and, inwardly, I grimaced.
This was not going to be fun.
*
The streets were already crowded as the cars eased out through the gates. I rode with Gharfour and Samir, leaving Mujib to follow in the chase car. Samir was a good driver, as far as that went. I normally tried to avoid driving there. Actually, no; that’s not true. I try to close my eyes and go to a warm, safe, place until we’ve arrived. Transporting Gharfour didn’t give me that luxury, but I’d still rather be scanning for threats than driving the car.
The traffic was busy, even by Kabul standards, and Mujib was driving close—almost climbing into our back seat until we hit the junction. A red Corolla barged in front of him, forcing him to brake or crash. It sounds worse than it was, this was pretty much the norm when it came to driving there; but the Corolla had split us up, and by the time we hit the intersection outside of the British Embassy I couldn’t even see Mujib.
They call this type of junction a roundabout in the U.K. They call them ‘traffic circles’ in the U.S. I have no idea what they called them in Kabul, but they weren’t supposed to work like this. It was an absolute mess. Cars ignored lanes, other drivers, and the laws of physics, as they flew around in what looked like an attempt at mass suicide. A glance at Samir showed he wasn’t even slightly concerned, which just goes to show why he was the driver, not me.
The blast-wave from the bomb reached out across the road ahead of us, flipping over the cars it could reach, and smashing the windows of the ones it couldn’t. The ground beneath the Cruiser shook and Samir slammed on the brakes. A car rammed into us from behind and we crashed forward, ploughing into the back of a handful of smaller vehicles in front of us.
There was no fireball. No blast of flame reaching out to engulf the road. Just an expanding circular wall of dust and debris. I checked myself over quickly and found nothing amiss. The sheer bulk of the armoured Cruiser had taken the impact in its stride, and I silently thanked God for seat-belts.
“You all right?” I asked Samir. The air bag had gone off in the steering wheel, splitting his lip where it had slammed into his face. He looked pale and shaken but otherwise unharmed.
“Sir?” I called back to Gharfour. “Sir, are you hurt?”
He’d climbed down, or been thrown down, into the footwell behind my seat. Not a bad idea if he’d done it on purpose. A bit embarrassing if he hadn’t.
“No,” Gharfour managed, clambering out with a shamefa
ced expression. “A little bruised but I am okay. Can you get us out of here?”
It was a good question. The car was armoured, and whilst it wasn’t exactly a tank it had fared better than most of the others caught in the blast. We could probably drive away if it wasn’t for the fact that the road around us was chaos. At least two cars had been flipped completely over, and half a dozen more had collided, or been forced into each other, by the blast. Our vehicle wasn’t going anywhere.
I pulled a radio from my pocket. It was old and worn, and frankly I didn’t hold out much hope that it would reach anyone, but it was worth a shot. “Mujib, come in.”
I glanced over at Samir and nodded back at Gharfour.
“Mujib?” I tried the radio again. The thing hissed at me in response, which wasn’t what I’d been hoping for.
“Get him into a vest,” I muttered over the sound of static from the radio. The bullet-proof vest was bulky and uncomfortable, and if the radio was anything to go by, then I doubted it would do much more than make Gharfour feel better. That said, putting it on would keep them both busy for a minute.
I tried the radio again. The adrenaline was starting to hit and I watched my hand shake as I pressed the button to talk. “Mujib, where the hell are you? We need an extract.”
People began to clamber out of vehicles, staggering aimlessly across the road. I couldn’t see much more than that. The dust-cloud was still climbing. In another minute or two the screaming would begin.
I stowed the radio and flipped open a map from the compartment in the door, though I already had a decent idea where we were. We were in the heart of Waj’zir Akhbar Khan. The checkpoints would be closing already, and ANSF troops were likely only moments away. Getting out of the area would be nigh on impossible. For now, at least, the safest place was probably in the car.
I changed my mind the minute the first of the shots rang out. The AK-47 has a distinctive sound, and I’ve spent more than enough time listening to it to recognise it.
“Get down!” I barked at Gharfour. Manners could wait. The car might be armoured but that didn’t count for an awful lot. Any armour can be breached and I wanted him out of sight.
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