by Eric Meyer
The floor was covered in thick carpet, which meant we were able to run across it until we reached the staircase. Then we started up, one stone step at a time, moving upward in total silence. I heard a slight noise from ahead, and my right hand dived for the .22 Sig Sauer. It came up empty. All I had was the Glock 9mm supplied by Smith. A fine weapon, but one that was guaranteed to cause a stampede of armed fighters coming right at us the moment I pulled the trigger. I tapped Manuel on the shoulder and pointed upward, and he nodded.
I shouldered the M-16 and with the Glock in my hand, continued to the top of the stairs. I took a careful peak around the corner and saw a man working at a heap of jute sacks. He seemed to be untying each one, removing some of the contents, and putting them in another sack. If I didn't know better, I'd guess the sacks contained opium, and he was skimming off some of the stock. But that was crazy. This was a religious house of worship, so it couldn't be they were using it to store and deal drugs. Let alone play with the quantities in order to con their customers. But it did look mighty like it.
I was still watching and waiting when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. Manuel. He whispered in my ear.
"The guards from the street just came inside the building, across the other side. It looks like they're escorting a VIP out to the limos, so if it's our guy, we've missed him. There must be about twenty fighters. The only way to take them on would be with a mini gun. It may or may not be Mukhtar."
I nodded. "Makes no difference," I murmured back, "There's nothing we can do, except for this guy."
"You reckon he'd know where the head honcho is hiding?"
"I reckon so. He has access to their opium stores, so he's more than just a low level courier. I have an idea."
It was simple. We'd kidnap the guy working through the sacks, get him away from here, and make him disclose the location of Mullah Mukhtar.
Manuel listened for a few moments and then nodded his understanding. "That could work, unless he's going out with those guys downstairs. In which case, he goes with them, and we lose him.
"We'll take him now."
The light was dim on the staircase, just a low wattage bulb he was using to work on the sacks. I got the impression he was probably up to no good, although for these people, thieving and deceit was something they lived and breathed on a daily basis. But this guy was taking it further, assuming I was right. He'd come up here to take a cut of the opium before it was transported to the customers. And that gave me another idea, a way to get him out of here without them being unduly worried.
I crept gently to the top of the stairs, feeling the floor in front of me with each step to make certain I didn't tread on anything that may make a noise and alert him. His back was to me, and he was rushing to finish his work, spilling some of the goods on the floor and muttering to himself as he hurriedly picked them back up to hide the evidence. One step at a time, I edged toward him until I was only six feet away. I held the Glock by the barrel and swung it up, just as all the lights came on.
He grunted and swung round. His eyes flared as he saw the infidel standing right in front of him, about to hit him. The eyes changed and filled with understanding. His mouth opened, and his Adam’s apple moved as he sucked in air ready to shout a warning. There was only one way. I dived like a footballer going for touchdown. As I reached him, I clamped one hand over his mouth and swung the Glock with the other. He managed only a tiny gurgle before he was out cold. Manuel ran up to join me.
"The something going on in the prayer hall. We're nearly out of time."
"Copy that. Open the window and toss out one of those sacks. We'll drop him out and follow him into the street."
He nodded his understanding. "They'll think he pinched some of the goods."
"I hope so. Get him to the window."
Manuel picked him up and carried him across, as I grabbed one of the sacks and rushed to the window. It was no less secure than the ones downstairs, and I pulled it open, checked to make sure the ground outside was clear, and dropped the sack. I looked at Manuel.
"You next. I'll let him down to you. I don't want him to break his neck in a fall. Not yet, anyway."
Salazar climbed over and dropped lightly to the street, executing a perfect landing. I lifted the Afghan over the sill and lowered him over. He fell the last few feet, but Manuel stopped him from banging his head on the cobbles. It was time to get out, but I could hear them coming up the staircase. We were out of time.
"Take him and the sack. Hide somewhere near the truck. Wait for me there."
I didn't wait for him to acknowledge. The hostiles were getting close. In a few more seconds, they'd see what was going on, look out of the window, and see Manuel fleeing along the street with his captive and the stolen opium. I crouched behind the sacks, readied the M-16, and waited until they came into view. Four of them, and all carrying assault rifles. I'd no doubt they'd come to start carrying the sacks downstairs to the truck waiting outside. That was their plan, anyway. I was about to do my utmost to ruin their day.
They came nearer and I pulled the trigger. A long, continuous burst was enough to knock them all down almost without a scream, apart from one man, who I shot in the guts. Sloppy shooting! I ran toward him and popped a mercy shot into his brain. He slipped away into paradise. There were already shouts echoing through the mosque from downstairs, and I knew I had only seconds to get clear, but I didn't get clear. If I'd gone out the window, they'd have seen me down in the street when they looked out. Instead, I kicked a sack across the floor as if I'd been dragging it across the room, made sure the window was wide open, and then retreated further into the mosque.
I'd only managed to race inside one of the inner rooms on the second floor when they appeared. I counted enough footsteps for a dozen fighters, and they were all shouting and babbling in Pashtu. I managed to peer through a gap in the door, to see they were clustered around the window and pointing outside. They shouted at each other, and then ran back to the staircase, obviously to cut off the escape of the man they assumed had stolen their opium. It would work, provided they didn't see me. They wouldn't have seen me, had they not left one man to guard the window. He was a problem. If I shot him, they'd know the assailant was still inside. I had to find another way out.
The space I was in was like an anteroom, and it led into a further series of rooms. First, some kind of a robing room with vestments, then there was a small bathroom further along the passage, and a cozy little bedroom, so may be the Imam who worked here sometimes stayed overnight. Or maybe he had another purpose. He wouldn't be the first priest in the world who indulged himself. Then there was a storeroom, and I came to a blank wall, end of the line. The room I was in was lined with blue burqas around the walls, and for a second I thought of Isra. I jerked my head around. There was a sound coming from the other side of the room. It wasn’t the fighter, but who? I waited for a few minutes, and the guy gave up the search and went away. It was time to deal with the other threat. I gently put down my assault rifle and prepared to use the Glock, either to batter him with it or blast him. In the end, I did neither.
“There is no need for the gun.”
A soft, gentle voice. A girl’s voice. I lowered the gun but kept it ready. I recalled Winter Moss was a girl who could speak with a soft, gentle voice, and inside her beat a heart of solid stainless steel. I heard her crawling nearer to me, and then I saw her, or at least, I saw the robe moving.
“Who are you?”
“A fugitive, just like you.”
Then she was next to me. She pulled off veil to show herself. Even in the dim moonlight, which was all that lit up the storeroom, I could see she was no ordinary girl. Her hair shone like molten metal, black and lustrous. Her skin looked clear and smooth, and she had long eyelashes over slanting, doe-like eyes. Full luscious lips that were made for kissing, and a snub nose, unusual in a land where few people displayed Caucasian features. She stood up, and I could see she was slim, her bearing regal and erect. Even before she spo
ke again, I was fascinated, too fascinated to point the Glock at her.
"I can show you a way out of here."
"You seem to know a lot about this place. I thought women…"
"Yes. My father spends a lot of time here."
Something about the way she said it piqued my interest.
"Your father, who is he?"
"He was the Mullah here, before he was forced to go into hiding. My name is Sabrina. Sabrina Mukhtar."
Jesus Christ! A score of thoughts rushed through my head. If we could get this girl to cooperate, it would be like a gift from heaven. Although in view of her father's occupation, maybe the analogy was wide of the mark. The murderous Mullah would be more like a gift from hell. But the first priority was to get out of here, join Manuel, and get clear with the prisoner.
"He's your father."
"Yes, he is, I'm ashamed to say. I am twenty-five years old, and for every one of those years, he has made my life hell."
If she was speaking the truth, and she really hated him, it could give us an inside lead to Mukhtar's whereabouts.
"You said you knew a way out. Let's go."
He could see her shaking her head. "Not now, it would be too dangerous. When those men left, they would have locked the building, and they will have posted a guard inside, and two men outside, front and back. The only chance is to wait until first light, when they unlock the building and the guards leave. There is a short time, about twenty minutes, when there will be no one here and we can leave."
I thought for a few moments. Manuel would be watching and waiting, with the added complication of a hostile prisoner to take care of. If I tried to leave before morning, it could bring a shitstorm down on all our heads. I decided to wait it out. There was only one way to let him know, and I took out my cell and sent him a text. I waited for a short time, but there was no reply. There were only two possibilities. The first was he'd managed to get clear and was in an area where there was no cellphone reception. The second was he'd been captured. I had to assume he'd got away. If the enemy tried to take Manuel Salazar, I'd have heard a storm of gunfire.
I sat on the floor and settled down for a long wait. Sabrina sat next to me, and she asked nothing about who I was and why I was there. She knew. Instead, she spent a long time telling me about her life; first as the daughter of one of the most wanted men in Afghanistan, and now in Egypt. The daughter of a man she hated with such intensity that it was like a fire burning inside her. As she spoke, I began to understand a great deal about what I was up against, about the vicious infighting between the various factions inside Egypt, the Army, the Muslim Brotherhood, the Democrats, and her father's cabal.
"Who are they?"
She grimaced. "A bunch of people like my father, opportunists, who see a way to power by riding on the coat tails of others. They plan to let the Army and the Brotherhood fight it out between them; and when the streets are ablaze with violence, offer themselves as the solution to the nation's problems. My father will return to Afghanistan with a promise of Egyptian weapons, and within weeks, the country will be embroiled in a major war. He believes he can win it, drive the Americans out of the country, and assume supreme power. The country would become an Islamic Caliphate, ruled by Mullah Mukhtar."
A double whammy! Two nations torn apart by violence, and behind it all, Mukhtar. And here was his daughter, spelling it all out. She was a goldmine of intelligence, and what made her even more valuable was she was more than prepared to help bring down her father.
"I despise him," she said for the tenth time, "He wants me to marry a man who is forty years older than me, one of his fellow Mullahs. It's political, of course. But what kind of man can sell his daughter like she's no more than a loaf of bread?"
I didn't reply. She'd already answered that question, a man like Mullah Mukhtar.
Chapter Seven
"You stupid fucking morons! What the hell were you thinking of? We're in the middle of an operation that could make or break American foreign policy in Asia and the Middle East, and I find you've been freelancing. Even worse, with one of America's most wanted men!"
Winter Moss stared back at Smith, thinking furiously. She knew her head was on the chopping block, as well as Turner's. Although the pilot was clever, he'd stayed on the fringe of the deal with Ghani Khan, and left it for her to keep the transactions running smoothly. All he did was transport the cargoes, sit back, and bank the money in an anonymous offshore account.
The document Schaeffer had brought back could hang her, but leave Turner virtually unscathed. She kept her face neutral as she regarded Joel Turner, but inside she felt the hate building. It had been his idea to set up the operation; on the basis it would reap an intelligence windfall. It would be a waste of time trying to shift the blame. Smith would see it as a sure sign of guilt. She faced ruin, and she tried to head it off.
"Khan didn't give us any choice. We weren't the only ones in the running for a slice of the action, and he said without a signed agreement, there was no way he'd go ahead. It was that or nothing. You should know. He fed us good intelligence at first. It's only later he got too ambitious and had to be terminated."
"Are you trying to tell me this was only set up to help out the Agency? That there was nothing in it for you?"
She didn't reply, couldn't reply. He already knew the truth; that she and Turner had built up an impressive sideline, enough to leave the game with considerable wealth.
Smith grimaced and shook his head. "I thought so. It's all bullshit. You fucked up badly, and if Khan had become a problem, you should have found another way to deal with him. Now Schaeffer will expect me to investigate, and he's right. If Egypt wasn't in the center of a shitstorm right now, I'd send you back to Langley in irons."
Turner had been pacing around the room. He turned to Smith.
"You mean, you're not…"
"Not right now, no. For now, I'll let it stand, although there'll have to be an investigation later."
"Schaeffer won't leave it alone," Moss commented.
Smith nodded. "Correct. He'll want blood."
Turner's face drained. "Him and his pals can do us a lot of damage."
"Too bad. We all have work to do. I suggest we get on and do it before this country explodes."
Moss shook her head. "That's not good enough, Smith. It's Turner and me he'll come after once he's nailed Mukhtar. If he nails him."
"You can forget Mukhtar. He's toast. A friend of mine at the Agency has arranged for a drone strike on Mukhtar's location, as soon as we know where he is. He won't survive."
"And Schaeffer?" Turner asked.
"It's possible he won't survive either. Hellfire missiles pack a helluva punch. As long as Mukhtar is dead, that's what counts. If Schaeffer and his men die in the attack, it's just too bad. He's accused of the murder of one of our vets, so no one is that worried about the outcome."
"You're a cold bastard," Winter spat at him.
He shrugged. "That's the business we're in. Besides, it wasn't my decision. This friend runs the drone program, and he took a personal interest. Schaeffer upset a good few people in Afghanistan, and they're not bothered whether he comes out of this or not."
Her face reddened with anger. "The country is already at boiling point and about to erupt into a bloody civil war. There'll be tens of thousands killed. You're telling me the Agency is happy to throw them to the wolves, and toss Schaeffer into the mix?"
Smith's face remained neutral. "That's the word from the top."
"And you're certain about this drone strike?" Winter asked.
"Easy. CIA still has oversight of the drone program in the Mideast. This guy can order a Reaper on station with orders to attack the moment we know his exact location. A couple of Hellfire missiles, and it's all over."
"You hope," Winter murmured, "but I wouldn't bank on it."
The two men didn't share her pessimism.
"It'll work. It has to work," Turner said enthusiastically, "Jesus Christ, Mukhtar
dead and Schaeffer out of the way."
"I don't have a problem with Schaeffer," Smith warned him, "You do. If he gets out alive, he'll come after you, and you'll have to deal with it. Personally, I think the poor bastard is doing his best against crazy odds. If he comes gunning for you, that's just tough."
"But you think the drone strike will finish him."
A pause. "I don't see how he could survive."
"How will you know when he locates the Mullah?"
Smith gave him a slight smile. "Technical means. Nothing you need to know about."
Winter gave them both a skeptical glance and then walked out without a word.
"What's the matter with her?" Turner asked.
"No idea. She's probably going to work out how to spend all the money. You know what women are like."
The pilot grinned. "Yup, the same the world over."
* * *
They reached the main door of the mosque, making no sound as they crept across the vast, patterned carpet that covered the floor of the prayer hall. The building had gone quiet after they'd heard the rattle of the main door being unlocked, a couple of voices, the guards shouting their farewells, and then silence. The first rays of dawn had lit up the inside of the building, and Schaeffer was able to see the intricate architecture; tall, elegant pillars that reached up to graceful arches. Above them, the domes in the ceiling, each one dotted with small, graceful windows that let in light to flare in random patterns, making the room almost look as if it was in motion.