by Eric Meyer
“You’re traveling through the night?” Faria looked alarmed. Afghan roads could be death traps during the day. At night, they were worse.
He nodded. “I never did like the enemy to see me coming. We should get there by dawn, see how the land lies.”
The beautiful young Afghan girl and Ahmed watched them leave from the stoop. Ahmed waved, and Stoner felt encouraged. Like it was an approval for what they were about to do. Maybe he was just being friendly. Or maybe he was remembering the traumatic events in Ghazni, when the young boy shot and killed a man.
Does he wake up nights, sweating and shivering as he recalls that night? Seeing the face of the man he killed staring back at him. Why wouldn’t he?
Chapter Two
They were outwardly religious men. One was an Imam, and the other, older man, wore the characteristic brown robes of the Islamic Mullah, with a black turban. The younger man, the Imam, was dressed in a white linen shalwar kameez under a Nehru collar coat, with a white kufi cap on his head, also in white linen. Both sported long, shaggy, unkempt beards and had lined, leathery skin. In the case of the older man, the Mullah, his skin was a mass of deep fissures, as if he’d spent much of his life in the open. Running and hiding from a predatory hunter. Which in fact he had. Mullah Mahmoud ‘Death March’ Khan was once Taliban.
He acquired the nickname ‘Death March’ during his days as a Taliban commander. When his warband took a village, he often felt the need to underline the requirement for Islamic discipline. He had a habit of marching some of the inhabitants to the outskirts. There, he’d force them to dig a mass grave, and then his men would butcher the prisoners with knives, swords, and bayonets, anything that had a cutting edge. One by one, they died a terrible death. He made it clear to the survivors they were carrying out the will of the Allah, and the Prophet would be proud of them. Bless his holy name. The system worked. Few dared to oppose him.
“Our people need that transport, Ali. The infidel ISAF forces have blocked us at every turn. Even the lapdogs of the Afghan National Army have joined them in their foolish quest to rid this land of the crops that provide the guns and supplies needed to maintain our fighters. We have to have alternative distribution channels, and Stori Transport can give us that. It is a Shia run company, and you are Shia, you must make certain to gain control."
Imam Ali Mazari inclined his head in agreement. “Mullah Khan, I have approached the woman on several occasions with the generous offer to become my third wife. The third wife of an Imam, no less, it is an honor to be considered, yet each time she refuses.”
He shook his head in exasperation. He hadn't said it was even more difficult than Mullah Khan envisaged, for there were other problems. Khan saw the anxiety in his eyes.
“What is it, my friend? Hezbe Wahdat, are they causing problems?”
“You know?”
Khan nodded. “Their aims are similar to us Sunnis, to rid this land of the infidel. To fund our efforts we must distribute the product that gives our people the means to continue the fight. We are united with the same aim.”
Mazari was thoughtful. The last time they’d clashed with the Sunni-based Taliban, Hezbe Wahdat almost ceased to exist as an organization. They were Shia, and the much more powerful Taliban was avowedly Sunni. He needed to be wary of Mullah Khan. Hezbe Wahdat was strong, but the Taliban was much, much stronger. If they could, they'd wipe out the Shias without a second thought.
“What do you suggest? The Stori woman has been seeing an infidel, a man who works for UNHCR.”
“It is serious, this relationship?”
Mazari shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“We must assume it could be. Go to her again, and make her an offer she can’t refuse. It is time she married, and what better candidate than you. Talk to her, and tell her it is that or death. I will speak to my flock and make it clear this man is an enemy of Islam. Perhaps we can invent a pretext to have him arrested and thrown out of the country. Or killed, yes, that would be better. More permanent.”
Mazari smiled. “We would need a charge that carries the death penalty. Burning the Koran, that would be enough. I can produce witnesses.”
He neglected to mention that a false accusation of burning the Koran was as blasphemous as the act itself.
Why should I mention it? It is irrelevant.
Khan nodded. “See to it, Imam Mazari. We need that company. For the good of the country, we need to transport and sell the drugs. It is essential if we are to buy the guns to honor the will of the Prophet.
“Praise be his holy name,” Mazari said automatically, “I will find witnesses and tell them what to say. When I have everything ready, I will go to see her. If he is with her, this Olin, so much the better, we can arrest him and have done with it. She will surely see the folly of defying those chosen by Allah to be his instruments on this earth.”
“So be it. Death for the infidel, and you will marry the woman. Whether she likes it or not.”
* * *
Lena Stori glanced around the place she called home. She owned most of the land she could see, the wide, flat plateau two kilometers outside the city of Panjab, home to Stori Transport. The company set up by her father she had inherited after his death. The whitewashed house was impressive, with landscaped gardens. Nearby, behind a high wall to screen her from the activities of her business, the transport yard, with lines of trucks emblazoned with the name of her company. Half a kilometer away to the south, there was a short but usable airstrip.
Two aircraft were on the ground, both De Havilland DHC-3 Otters. The venerable Otter first flew in 1951; a large, no-nonsense bush plane powered by the 600 hp Pratt & Whitney Wasp radial. She owned a third Otter, which was currently in the air, returning after a trip to Peshawar in Pakistan. Although the truck transport business was the core of her wealth, the aircraft gave her the most pleasure. It had been her idea to expand the business into airfreight, and the short take-off and land Otters had given the business a new lease of life.
It brought prosperity to the city. Many of the inhabitants worked for Stori Transport. The thriving business banished much of the poverty, and the increased wealth reduced local people’s reliance on the sick depredations of the drug trade. Yet she knew there were men who wanted to change things. One of those men was approaching now, and she feared his latest demands, which she knew would be obscene.
The vehicle had turned off the main highway out of Panjab and was heading along her drive. A red Toyota Land Cruiser, which she knew belonged to Imam Ali Mazari. Behind her, she heard the voice of her friend Max Olin calling out to her.
“What is it, Lena, who's coming? Trouble?”
“Stay in the house, Max. Mazari is about to pay us a visit.”
“Shit.”
She watched the Toyota as it neared her house. The driver swerved sideways in front of her as he skidded to a stop, showering her with gravel from the driveway. For some reason, she assumed it was Mazari’s vanity; the hood carried a small pennant in the center, dark green with Islamic writing in white. They’d ruined the effect with the jerry-rigged radio aerial. At some time, it had broken off or been stolen, and they’d replaced it with a bent wire coat hanger. Ali Mazari stepped out of the Land Cruiser, flanked by two of his men. Both carried AK-47s. She ignored them and smiled a greeting at the cleric.
“Imam Mazari, you do me too much honor with your visit to my humble home.”
He gave a pointed glance at the house and grounds, by far the grandest in the region.
“I must talk to you about certain matters.”
“Of course, how may I help you?”
Inwardly she sighed. She knew the bastard wanted control of her wealth. Third wife was what he'd offered her last time around.
Does he think I’m crazy enough to agree?
“First, I came to arrest Max Olin. Is he inside the house?”
“Max?” She was shocked, “Why would you want to arrest him?”
“The charge is burning the Kora
n.” He nodded to the two men with the assault rifles. “Search the house. If he’s inside, bring him out.”
Before they could act, the front door opened, and Max stepped out. He was a slender, pale Norwegian with blue eyes and long fair hair, a throwback to his Viking ancestors.
“There’s no need to search for me. I’m here. Imam Mazari, you know the charge is ridiculous. I have the utmost respect for the Koran, and would never even damage one, let alone burn it.”
It was as if he hadn’t spoken. Mazari looked away and snarled, “Seize him. Olin, you are under arrest. The charge is blasphemy. This is a very serious offence. I’m sure you’re aware it carries the death penalty.”
Lena was horrified. “But surely…”
She stopped. The men with the rifles pinioned Max’s arms with thin baling twine and pushed him to the ground. Then they started on him with their boots, kicking him in the head and the body, and when they decided it wasn’t enough, they used the wooden butts of their Kalashnikov rifles. Lena ran forward, her face contorted with an equal mix of anger and terror.
“Stop, stop, you can’t do this!”
Mazari smiled. “Oh, but I can. The man is an infidel and a blasphemer. He deserves to die.”
“That’s rubbish. Imam Mazari, I want you and your men off my property. Now!”
He sneered at her, a woman confronting a senior Imam? Unheard of.
“I will leave when I have finished conducting my business here.” He shouted a word of command, and the two men stopped the beating.
“Now, Miss Stori, I came to renew my offer of marriage. Most women would be more than delighted at the opportunity to become the third wife of their Imam. If you agree, I can make the arrangements, and the ceremony will proceed in the next few days.”
She was aghast. “I can’t believe you’re serious, Ali. The answer is no. Never.”
He shrugged. “In that case,” he nodded to the two men, and the beating started again. Blows rained down on the victim, and she considered running inside to fetch a weapon to force the men to leave but knew it would be tantamount to suicide. She’d lose everything. They’d seize the advantage to arrest her, and Max would gain nothing. No matter what she did, they’d continue to do whatever they wanted. She looked around wildly, desperate for any solution, anything to stave off these men beating her friend to death.
It was then she saw the dust cloud in the distance. Another SUV was heading up her drive, and her heart sank. Mazari had reinforcements on the way, so this time he was serious. Unless she could do something, he’d kill Max, and could even force her to become his wife, which would give him control of the business.
As it drew nearer, she identified the vehicle as a black Jeep Wrangler. It slowed and stopped only a few meters away, and two men climbed out. The passenger was not one of Mazari’s men. Not a pure Afghan.
His face was smooth, a good-looking man with unlined, dark-olive skin in a country that exacted such a heavy toll on its despairing citizens. Despite his skin, he had ice blue eyes, clear evidence of an Afghan mother and a Caucasian father.
An American, or a Russian, perhaps?
He wore a long, brown leather coat. She’d seen pictures of senior Soviet officers during the occupation, and they wore the same coats to ward off the bitter cold of the Afghan winter. A few men still wore them. They were very warm and durable, also very rare and expensive. She pegged his ancestry as Russian. On his feet were high, brown leather jump boots, his denim jeans tucked into the tops.
An interesting man, and she smiled when a huge German Shepherd jumped to the ground beside him. The man spoke a quiet word of command, and the dog assumed a sitting position. His alert eyes were bright with intelligence, and she knew at once this was a dog that wouldn’t miss a thing, least of all the reaction of the Muslims standing watching, their faces uneasy. Despite Mohammed, the Prophet, having a reputation as an animal lover, Islamic doctrine had come to preach that dogs were creatures of the Devil.
Probably the dogs feel the same way about the Muslims.
At first she dismissed the driver as being of little importance, until he stepped out of the Jeep, and she looked closer. A little over five feet nine inches tall, he was anything but special, at first glance. He wore black pants, shirt, boots, a long, mid-length black leather coat, and an old black fatigue cap. His coat was unbuttoned, and it flapped open. Underneath, she could see he carried two huge automatic pistols, one either side, slung from a heavy, black leather belt, a man who liked to be ready for anything. She shivered. He looked like a man who carried the scent of death wherever he trod.
What does he want, this man in black? Like the Angel of Death, or is it the Grim Reaper? Does it make a difference? Whoever or whatever he is, this man is a killer. If he works for Imam Mazari, I’m finished. Max Olin is finished.
He spoke first, “Ma’am, if we’re interrupting something, we can always come back.” He cast his eyes around the yard, and then gave the woman an appreciative glance.
Stoner saw a girl who was petite and fair for an Afghan. Cafe-au-lait skin and sleek, glossy hair worn in a long ponytail fastened with a carved ornament.
Antique ivory, unless I miss my guess.
Wide, luscious lips and dark, saucer eyes dominated her round face, her skin untouched by any makeup. Apart from the hair clasp, she wore no jewelry except for a watch, a Patek Philippe that could only be genuine. Her clothes were simple, elegant, and not Islamic; a calf-length pale blue skirt, long-sleeved white blouse, and simple but elegant flat shoes. She carried a small leather purse on a shoulder strap.
Hermes, no question, a very classy lady, understated, subtle, and very, very desirable.
Then he noticed the unarmed man lying on the ground, and his eyes narrowed. The man’s face testified to the beating the men with guns had given him. Whatever he’d done to upset the Muslims, the Imam clearly took a dim view of it.
She stared back at him. “You’re not interrupting anything. These men were just about to get off my land.”
Mazari bridled, and his face twisted with anger. “No, we’re not finished. Stranger, whoever you are, you should leave. This is religious business.” He nodded to his men, all of them grinned and raised the barrels of their AKs.
“The lady said you were leaving,” he said, his voice quiet and still polite, despite the Afghan cleric’s covert hostility. The accent was American.
“You don’t come here and give orders, American! I suggest you leave before you find yourself in more trouble than you can handle.”
He glanced around him. Mazari was unarmed, but another man climbed out of the red Toyota. Like the bodyguards, he carried an AK-47. He held it with the barrel raised, ready to open fire. If the new arrival noticed the threat, he didn’t acknowledge it.
He replied to the cleric, “It seems to me, pal, this place belongs to the lady here, and she said you’re leaving. Why don’t you just do what she says?”
The fourth man, the driver of the Toyota rolled down the window. The squat, black barrel of an automatic poked out, and the man cranked the action.
The man in black knew he was about to fire. It was some sixth sense, born out of scores of hot situations. In a smooth, flowing motion, his right hand flashed down, a Desert Eagle came up, and he aimed and pulled the trigger. The boom shattered the awkward peace of the early morning, and the huge bullet took the driver in the chest. A .50 caliber round at short range does more than penetrate flesh. It tears a man apart, splatters blood and tissue in every direction. Death is a foregone conclusion. It is the rare individual who survives such a catastrophic impact. The interior of the windshield became a grisly mockery of a Jackson Pollock painting.
The three men with the rifles wore expressions of shock. As if they couldn’t believe the situation they’d dominated so absolutely had spiraled out of control in a fraction of a second. The first two men, Mazari’s bodyguards, brought up their AKs ready to fire and bared their broken, blackened teeth in matching snarls. The Dese
rt Eagle boomed, as his left hand swept down and dragged out the second pistol. He aimed and pulled the trigger in a single, flowing action. A second shot roared out.
Both men went down, and neither was about to get up again. Ever. The third man who’d been in the passenger seat came out of his trance and started to run for the distant gate at the end of the drive, about five hundred meters away.
“Archer, guard,” the man in the brown coat said to the dog. He pointed at the cleric. The dog bounded over to the robed and turbaned man and waited a half-meter in front of him, staring up into his eyes. The guy got the message, and he froze.
“I’ll take the other one,” he said quietly, “I could do with the practice.” He went to the Wrangler and extracted a huge rifle from the back. With the bipod extended, he lay on the ground and started to take aim with the Barratt.
“He’s going to shoot him!” Lena shouted, “He can’t...”
“Ma’am, if you mean the treaties people say banned the use of the .50 caliber Barratt against human targets, you’re wrong. The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General issued a legal opinion that the Barratt .50 caliber round is legal for use against enemy personnel.”
“But the man’s running away. He’s not a threat to us!”
“Not yet, no. He’s running because we killed his pals, and what do you think he’ll do next?” She shook her head, “He’ll come back with several truckloads of ragheads to start taking potshots at you and your property, as well as us. Don’t worry; he’ll pop him outside the gate. He won’t involve you.”
She watched helplessly as the man with the huge rifle made fine adjustments to the Barratt. The fleeing man had reached the gate, and he continued out to the highway, where for some reason, he decided vengeance couldn’t wait. He turned and took aim with his Kalashnikov. He needn’t have bothered. The bellow of the Barratt sent shock waves of sound reverberating off the walls of the stone house.