The Lore of Prometheus

by Graham Austin-King

  Three cars were lined up outside the main doors, with another four already parked to one side. Anywhere else I would have expected limousines or something similar, but there is a premium on safety here, and these people probably trusted each other less than anyone else. They arrived in oversized Range Rovers and Jeeps, all of them as armoured as you can make a vehicle without actually turning it into a tank. The heavy thud of the car doors was testament to the thick metal plates buried inside them. I stood at the corner and consulted my clipboard, watching the proceedings out of the corner of my eye.

  Gharfour’s guests were dressed as if they were heading to Cannes rather than a dinner with a government lackey. I don’t know much about suits, but I know what I can’t afford, and the men emerging from the cars were probably wearing at least a year’s worth of my normal earnings in clothing and watches. They had other ornaments that probably cost twice as much. Social mores tend to go out the window with these kinds of people, and it makes sense when you think about it. If you’re making millions supplying the world with illegal drugs, then what does it matter if your wife or mistress isn’t wearing a hijab or a burqa. I’m no expert on fashion, but I was willing to bet that the dresses cost a lot more than the suits.

  The security detail was huge. Bigger than it needed to be. From my position, I counted four arrivals, and each of them came with between ten and fifteen men. Gharfour’s house was big, but this was just stupid.

  Security usually comes down to two things; line of sight and distance. If your client can be kept at a distance from the threat then it can be easily neutralised, or simply left. Guns complicate the issue, which is where the other factor comes into play. There were too many men in these escorts for anyone to really assess a threat, and too many unfamiliar faces to manage them all.

  It was an assassin’s delight.

  Even if they left half the men outside, I could probably take out any one of the drug-barons using a knife, and probably all of them with a handgun. By the time the hired goons had figured out what was going on, I’d be long gone.

  I glanced up from the clipboard in time to see the latest cars arrive; three white Toyota Land Cruisers—these guys were nothing if not original. I fussed with the non-existent contents of the top crate as I watched the security detail climb out and scan the area. They were good, professional, and far better than the others had been. I watched them checking the rooftops and securing the path into the building before reaching for the car door.

  The man who emerged was nothing I hadn’t already seen four times, a little shorter and fatter than some of the others, but still sporting the expensive suit and gold watch. I was more surprised by the lady he had on his arm than the watch on his wrist.

  The dress was stunning, crimson, and flowing in a way that would make a dead stick sit up and take notice. But it was her face that stopped me cold.

  Artemis looked up and ran a casual eye over the compound. There was no way she hadn’t seen me, but her gaze passed over me without slowing.

  “Mr Thompson?” The voice was soft, almost apologetic, and I jumped. I spun around to see Shabib frowning at me.

  “Shabib,” I said. It wasn’t much of a greeting, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He nodded an acceptance. “You are aware that Mr Gharfour had asked you remove yourself from any security duties during this event?”

  I nodded with a grimace.

  “He and I have revisited this decision,” Shabib went on. “It does not seem prudent. Perhaps you could provide some supervision to our newest security employee?”

  Khalid? I frowned for a moment. Was I being asked to go and babysit the new guy at the gate? I’d been brought in as a consultant to bring Gharfour’s security up to scratch. While I needed to know was how each aspect of the security measures worked, I wasn’t really supposed to be making sure the gate didn’t get stolen. That said, they were the ones paying the bill.

  I shrugged. “Of course.”

  It didn’t take me long to ditch the chef’s whites, grab my gear and get to the gate. Khalid was a nice enough guy and standing post can be miserable work. Mujib left as soon as I arrived, giving me a smile as he headed into the house. The man was beginning to really get on my nerves. As far as Khalid went, he seemed glad for the company.

  It was past midnight by the time the first of the cars began to roll out through the gates. The line of vehicles made their way out onto the street, a parade of criminals that I suspected ran most of the drug-trade across Afghanistan. I watched as they passed and wondered briefly what impact on the global heroin supply a few well-placed bullets would have.

  The last group of cars slowed as they passed us, and a window wound down. I tensed as the man inside looked at me. It was far more than a casual glance. His eyes narrowed as he toyed with the sunglasses in his hands, taking my measure. I frowned, about to say something—though I have no idea what—but he muttered something to the driver and they moved off.

  “What the hell was that about?” I asked Khalid. His shrug matched his face, as confused as my own.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I waited until morning, but that was as long as I was going to give anyone. It’s quite surprising how fast you can put an old Nokia together when you really need to. The phone was supposed to be a burner. Unregistered on a prepaid sim card. The idea was not to use it unless you really had to, and then it was best to stick to texts—short bursts of data that nobody would think to intercept or trace. Calling was a bad idea. It broke a whole pile of operational protocols and procedures. Which was exactly why I did it. They weren’t my procedures, and if they got violated then it wasn’t my problem.

  The first five calls rang out, going to a voicemail service that hung up without taking a message. About what I’d expected really. I gave up on calls and tapped out a text message.

  We need to talk about last night.

  Any other time, I probably would have laughed at how the text read. Right at that moment I wasn’t laughing. I didn’t have to wait long for a reply, either.

  Our business is concluded. Do not attempt further contact.

  That, on the other hand, did make me laugh and I snorted as I thumbed out my reply.

  I can keep calling for as long as it takes. Hell, I can even give the phone to Gharfour if need be.

  It took a moment for the message to send, and the reply buzzed in a few seconds later.

  Meet at the Bush Bazaar. 3pm.

  *

  The Bush Bazaar was essentially an outlet for Kabul’s black-market. It’s a market for western goods that were largely stolen, or sold with a wink and a nudge, from the NATO military bases around the country. The Bazaar wasn’t a single shop, though. It was a collection of stalls and stores clustered together in what was once the busiest market in the city. American rations—M.R.E. packs, or Meal Ready to Eat—sat on shelves next to cakes, protein powders, combat boots, and everything else in between.

  At its height, the Bazaar was the driving force behind what was left of the Kabul economy. Now it was a broken ruin. The US withdrew most of their forces around 2014, dropping from about 130,000 to less than a tenth of that. The Bush Bazaar began to die the day the withdrawal was announced.

  Somebody told me once that the Bazaar was nothing new. It wasn’t born from the American, or even the NATO, presence. During the Russian occupation in the 1980s the Bazaar was known as the Brezhnev Bazaar, although I suppose we called them Soviets back then. The place is a tick, clinging to the arse of whatever military complex sets up shop. For all I know the place was around during the British invasion in the 1800s.

  These days it’s a quieter place. The troops were still in Kabul, but the numbers had dropped. Fewer bases meant fewer supplies, which in turn meant fewer thefts, and therefore fewer black-market goods. The Taliban and Al-Qaeda might have celebrated the withdrawal, but in the Bush Bazaar, the news was met with fury and dismay.

  It was quiet when I arrived. A handful of shopkeepers ch
atted beside half-forgotten stalls as stray dogs sniffed about for scraps. Charred beams and scorched shelves attested to the fire that had ripped through the place just a year ago.

  Unlike in the Bird Market, I was attracting attention and I knew it. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, my borrowed thobe and pakol could only do so much to disguise my western features. My beard was still closer to stubble with delusions of grandeur, and I’ve always been pale. When it came right down to it, there simply wasn’t enough people here for me to be able to fade into the crowd.

  I made my way along the alleyways, stopping occasionally to look over the goods on display. A stack of M.R.E packs were piled beside old tins of Campbell’s baked beans. I looked closer at the American ration packs.

  Menu 16.

  I nodded to myself, suddenly understanding why they were still there. Menu 16 was pork. Looking closer at the beans I saw they had pork in them too. I buried my laugh inside a cough and glanced at the shopkeeper.

  “You want?” he asked in English. So much for my blending in.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Thank you.”

  “It’s good. Lamb and rice.”

  I looked down at the pork M.R.E with a half-smile, shaking my head. Did he know? Probably, I decided. Times were hard these days in the Bazaar. The stall-owner still had to eat, and he couldn’t eat this.

  “Not hungry, Carver?”

  I turned and flashed a grin at Jo. “Not for this. God, I don’t know how your lot survive on it.”

  She cocked her head inside the burqa. She was probably raising an eyebrow but it was impossible to tell. “We’ve had M.R.E. packs since the early ‘80s. I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “Yeah, judging by the way your boys will trade just about anything for a British rat pack, I’d say they’re excellent.”

  “Shall we?” she edged away from the stall and turned, making her way out of the market.

  The same car waited, parked in a quiet backstreet. Jo climbed in, pulling the burqa off the second the door was closed.

  “So, Carver,” she said with a smile. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

  She looked at me with a bright smile while I scratched my cheek. “Did you send someone into Gharfour’s place a few days ago?”

  She shrugged. “You know I’m not going to give you operational info, Carver. Please tell me you didn’t drag me out here just for this?”

  “Someone went through my stuff when we met at the Bird Market,” I told her. “It’s a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  She frowned for a moment. “And you think we did it? What do you have that’s so valuable that you think we’d be interested? What was taken?”

  “Nothing, but my passport was moved. What were you doing there?”

  She grimaced, then shrugged. “You can’t think we had anything to do with that? I already know everything I need to know about you. As for my role in the operation last night? That’s really none of your business.”

  It was my turn to grimace. She was right. I’d been reacting and not thinking this through. Seeing her at the party had thrown me. Regardless of whether she was CIA or not, she already knew my name. Why would they bother getting a look at my passport?

  I pushed on. “Do you have anyone on his staff?”

  She shook her head. “No. You’ve seen how small his staff is. Getting anyone in has always been more trouble than it’s worth. We’re reasonably sure that Afridi has his hooks into someone, though.”

  I raised an eyebrow “Afridi? As in Haji Ayub Afridi? The drug-lord? I thought he was dead?”

  Jo nodded. “He is. This is Ehsan Ilyas Afridi.”

  “A son?”

  Jo shrugged. “He could be, I suppose. I don’t know, to be honest. I suspect it’s more likely Ehsan is just from the same tribe and letting people assume a closer connection. Afridi was a bit of a legend after all.”

  I nodded. Afridi had been known as the founder of the Afghan heroin trade and had built himself an empire before he died. “So, this Ehsan has someone on the inside. What for?”

  Jo shrugged. “Probably an insurance policy. Gharfour is playing ball with the Afghan/Pakistan cartel right now, but his ultimate aim is to bring down the drug-trade altogether. At least, that’s his public goal. I would imagine Ehsan’s man is just keeping an eye on things.”

  “Until Gharfour steps out of line and Ehsan wants some fingers broken.”

  “You’re a big boy, Carver,” Jo said with a smile. “You know how the game works.”

  I looked out of the window, staring blankly at a doorway. It had been painted blue once. Now the colour was faded and peeling. Whoever had looked at my passport had to be either on Gharfour’s staff, or someone who’d been let into the compound by them.

  The memory of the car slowing down at Gharfour’s gates came back vividly. The passenger in the back seat had looked at me with more than just a casual glance. There had been more to that look than idle curiosity. And she had been there too. This game was more complex than I’d imagined, and I wasn’t sure of my part in any of it anymore.

  “Shit!”

  “Problem?” Jo asked.

  I’d been sent to the gate by Shabib. It had seemed odd at the time but was there another reason for it? Had he sent me there to be seen? He didn’t seem the type really, but the way he’d used my alias had made me question whether he knew who I was. Gharfour certainly did, so what was to say Shabib wasn’t in on the secret.

  I muttered something dark and vile and glanced at Jo, meeting her gaze. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  She gave me a cold smile. “I really wasn’t that interested, Carver. Not unless your problem is likely to become my problem?”

  I gave her a tight smile of my own and shook my head.

  “Then I can’t see us needing to be in contact again. It was nice doing business with you.”

  I grunted my agreement and reached for the door handle.

  “Oh, and Carver?”

  I paused, one foot hanging out of the door.

  “Don’t bother me like this again. I’m sure it’s a problem that needs addressing, but, and I really can’t stress this enough Carver: it is your problem.”

  The things I called her as I made my way back through the Bush Bazaar could have had me arrested and, depending where I was, possibly stoned to death.

  Mujib met me with Khalid at the gate as I arrived back at Gharfour’s compound. I wasn’t sure to what level he was involved in this business with the passport, if he was at all, but I wasn’t expecting the smile.

  “Mr Thompson, the new equipment has arrived.”

  I wasn’t expecting that, either. Urgency and quick deliveries aren’t things you tend to come across in Kabul, and certainly not within the Afghan government or military sector.

  I nodded with a smile. “Let’s see it then. Where is it?”

  “Most of it is in the bunkhouse,” Khalid said.

  “Though there is something special in your rooms, according to Mr Shabib,” Mujib added.

  I frowned at him. That didn’t sound right.

  He spread his hands at my expression. “I have no idea, sir.”

  I hadn’t ordered anything particularly special. The M4s and coms equipment could easily have gone to the bunkhouse. I made my way into the residence and up the stairs. I’d made it more than halfway before I registered that Mujib was still with me. My confused look was met with a broad grin. I suppose everyone likes new toys.

  The package was in a long wooden crate, about the size I’d have expected the M4’s to arrive in. I grabbed the crowbar that rested on top and worked at one end as Mujib stood and fidgeted behind me.

  I didn’t feel the prongs as they hit me, but then apparently you rarely do. My back arched as over fifty-thousand volts tore through me and I did my best to drown out the clicking of the taser as I screamed.

  “Sshhhit!”

  The crate was kind enough to break my fall and I rolled, screaming as my muscles convulse
d. Mujib stepped around me, into my field of vision, as he held the trigger of the damned thing. Tasers don’t actually knock you out. Instead they overwhelm your nervous system to the point that your muscles barely know your brain is screaming at them to move.

  “Bastard!” I hissed out between clenched teeth.

  “Goodbye, Mr Carver,” Mujib said, abandoning my alias with a smile. He dropped the taser and took a hypodermic needle from a leather wallet. “I don’t think we’ll see each other again.”

  He flicked the body of the syringe and depressed the plunger long enough to push a bead of fluid out the end and send it sliding down the needle’s length. Nice of the bastard not to give me an air embolism.

  He took his time finding a good vein in my arm, and I watched him with horrified fascination as my body continued to ignore my brain. I had long enough to get a last good look at his face, long enough to plan to put a bullet into it one day, and then the darkness took me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kabul, Afghanistan, early 2013

  The radio clicked twice, short bursts of static, and then we were moving. Boots thumped hard on the packed dirt, sounding too loud in the dark. The door was just thin, sun-baked, boards. SAS or SEALs would have kicked it in and entered like a hurricane. We weren’t the SAS. That’s not how we worked.

  The door was eased open and we drifted in like smoke on the breeze, checking corners and exits, whispered voices calling “clear” through the comlink. I saw the hand signs in the lurid green of my night-vision gear.

  Team Two were heading to the left and up the stairs, we would carry straight on.

  The target was a man known as The Gatherer, though we knew his real name to be Azzat bin Shah. Somewhere, a room full of men in dark suits had decided he was a person of interest, which made this job a smash-and-grab. If he had the documents we’d been sent for with him, then so much the better. Mossad are more widely known for this sort of thing, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do it. We just do it more quietly.