by Eric Meyer
No one replied until Lena intervened.
"You're a dirty, lying piece of goatshit, Mazari. You deserve to suffer the same fate you had planned for me."
He had his hands held high, but now he lowered and spread them, like a cheap bazaar merchant. He gave her a sickly grin. "I love you, Lena Stori. I still want you to be my third wife. Think about it.”
She still wore the long, black robe. Her hands were at her side, hidden in the voluminous folds of cloth. She lifted her right hand. The hand that gripped the Desert Eagle Stoner had lent her, the gun with the single remaining .50 caliber round. She took aim at the center of his head, and he stared at her, unbelieving. His mouth moved.
"No, no. Third wife, it would be an honor."
She didn't speak. The Desert Eagle spoke as she pulled the trigger. The 'boom' of the explosion echoed around the slopes as the firing pin hit the cartridge, the bullet fired, and the heavy slug roared the short distance between the end of the barrel and Mazari's head.
The force of the bullet smashed him backward, and he landed almost three meters away. She gave his remains a careless glance and looked away, her face grim. The entire front of his face had disappeared into a bloody mush. Stoner heard Crawford mutter, "Shit, lady, I hope I don't ever piss you off."
Stoner took her by the shoulders, held her close to him, and led her away from the killing site. They walked a hundred meters further along the track, and he waited for the shock to hit. It didn’t take long. Her entire body began to shiver as the realization of what she'd done came home to her. She twisted her head to look at him.
"I killed him." Her voice was hoarse and low, choked with grief and emotion.
He pulled her even closer, to lend her his strength. "He was an animal. Look at what he did to your property, the attack on the house that nearly killed us all. And now this, the sham marriage and then a shallow grave." She was still shaking her head, and he tried again, "You had no choice. If you'd left him alive, he'd have kept coming. Again and again, until he'd taken everything you owned, and then killed you."
She started to sob, and wet tears splashed over the ground. "He did take everything I owned. My place is destroyed, my staff has left me, and my business will soon be bankrupt."
"You can rebuild," he said gently, "The house, the business, you can start again."
She shook her head. "No. Remember, I lost the gold shipment. That's enough to finish me even if this hadn't happened." She looked up at him like she'd had a sudden idea, "Could it have been him? Ali Mazari?"
"I doubt it. If he stole the gold, he could have set up his own transport outfit. He could buy an airline with that kind of cash."
"So it had to have been Ivan," she murmured.
"He denied it. He also sounded pretty convincing." Then he grinned, "But he would, he's a Russian gangster."
At that moment, Greg joined them. He nodded to Lena. "All okay here?"
She stared back at him but didn't reply. He looked back at the body, shuffled his feet, and looked embarrassed.
"Uh, yeah, I guess not. I heard you mention that bastard Ivan Vasilyevich, yob tvoyu mat. Sorry, I didn't mean to swear.”
"When you've just killed a man, it makes little difference what you say."
"I understand. But it was a righteous killing, Lena. The bastard had it coming."
She didn't reply, and he said, "I came to let you know Bukharin and Akram went to bring up the vehicles. We need to get back."
"Back where?"
He stared at her, puzzled. "Home, to Panjab..." He stopped, "Oh, right. We'll find you a hotel while they're doing the repairs."
He walked away, embarrassed again. Stoner still held her, and the shaking gradually eased. He knew she'd be tired soon, very tired as the secondary reaction set in. She needed a long night's sleep, in fact, several nights’ sleep. And time, a whole heap of time to get over it, although it still wasn’t over.
She had to make a decision about what to do next, whether to rebuild, or leave the city and go elsewhere. Then there was the gold. It didn’t seem likely they’d ever get it back for her. The loss would cripple her for the rest of her life. He wished he had a way to help her, but he didn't. He wondered again about Ivan.
Did he lie about it? I’m still convinced he told the truth, so if he didn't steal the gold, who did?
His mind came up with one possibility.
Joseph Chow, the pilot. The man she trusted and who stabbed her in the back. He was working for Mullah Khan. He also had access to the warehouse where they stored the gold. It would have been simple for him to arrange for the theft. Yeah, it’s possible.
He looked at Lena. "I have an idea about the gold. I think Chow could have been involved. He's Khan's man, so the two of them may have cooked it up between them. I'll go looking for Chow at the same time as Khan. Maybe nail them both."
"You're going to kill Joseph." She looked saddened, but there was no point in telling her a lie, although he could soften his reply.
He shook his head. "First, I'll talk to him and Khan. You never know, I may be able to come to a deal with them. The gold for their lives."
Even as he spoke, he cursed himself for going back on his vow. He'd promised Madeleine at the moment of her death, to give her vengeance. To settle accounts.
Can I spare Khan after what he did? If it’s the only way to get Lena Stori out of serious trouble, I don't know. I just don’t know. I’ll think about it over a drink.
Black Bob drove up in a Toyota. It was Mazari's SUV, the pennant still fixed to the hood. They climbed into the back, and the two Hiluxes followed for the drive back into the city. They found a cheap, anonymous hotel on the outskirts, the Panjab Ritz, clean bedroom, hot water mornings only, extra charge for cleaning. He took her to the room and inspected it. From the luxury of her home, she'd come down to something that would only just have been good enough to serve as a hostel for the homeless.
He convinced the manager, at gunpoint, to heat the water. The lady needed a bath; it was a reasonable request, maybe not in Afghanistan. She had to have a bath, wash the blood off her hands, both literally and metaphorically, to soak away the dust and the dirt, and try to dissolve the shock and fear. To relax in the hot water and attempt to make sense of what had happened. When she was inside the hotel room, he told her he'd be downstairs. She looked up sharply. "I thought you'd stay with me."
"I'll be back. I thought I’d give you time to clean up."
She stared at him as he left, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He needed a drink. No, that wasn't right. He needed several drinks. Since he'd arrived in Panjab, it was happening again. It wasn't just the Taliban, Hezbe Wahdat, Al Qaeda, or any of the other outfits that sprung up from their Islamic roots like the many headed Hydra. It was all of them. Scratch one of these backward, medieval countries, and you'd find two things, Islam and killing. They went together like Bourbon and ice.
"What can I get you, Sir?"
The manager again, the man he'd managed to convince it would be healthier if he heated up the hot water for Lena to take a bath.
"Bourbon and ice."
"A large one?"
"Gimme the bottle and the bucket of ice."
The man looked worried. "This is an Islamic country, Sir. We tolerate drinking in moderation, but the bottle..."
He stared back at the man. A stained robe, and a white cotton hat pulled over his hair, very devout, for a man who served liquor. "I won't ask again."
The man considered for a few seconds, and the bottle appeared on the bar, followed by the ice bucket. Stoner looked at the unusual label. He suspected they'd brewed the contents in someone's kitchen sink. Then mixed them with paint thinners. He didn't care. All he cared about was what it did to his brain. Oblivion.
They say booze is not Islamic? Maybe it's time they took a break from the killing and started on the sauce, make love, not war, he smiled to himself.
She joined him in the bar after almost an hour. He failed to recognize her at first.
The black robe had gone, and she must have sent out for new clothes. The black dress he'd seen her in had gone, and in its place, she wore blue denim jeans. She also sported a matching dark-blue sweatshirt, combat style boots on her feet, and a jacket styled like and American M65. She even managed to make it look stylish and elegant, with a dark patterned scarf around the neck. He gave her a grin of welcome, and for some reason, she didn't look happy to see him.
Pity, she looks damned good for someone who's had such a hard time. The sexy GI Jane look.
"You're drunk," she spat out.
He glanced at the bar, surprised to see two bottles almost empty. He gave her a lopsided smile. "Yep, I guess I am. Why don't you join me? It's the best recipe. Oblivion. Forget it all. Let it vanish into the alcoholic mists of time."
"For how long?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. How long before it all comes flooding back, the misery, the agony, the killings, how long?"
He put out a hand to touch her face. She looked so beautiful, but something went wrong, and he tipped over and fell off the barstool. She looked down at him as he sprawled helpless on the floor.
"Aren't you going to help me up?"
"No."
"Suit yourself."
Like an upended tortoise, he struggled to right himself, and when he made it onto all fours, he climbed back to his feet and seated himself again on the stool. Although this time, he held onto the bar for support. He was about to remonstrate with her when a familiar face appeared in the bar. Max Olin. The Norwegian aid worker looked cheerful for a change, until he spotted the drunken Stoner struggling to stay upright on the stool, like a small yacht in a gale.
He raised his eyebrows. "What happened to you?"
Stoner gestured to the bar. "That's what happened."
He made a grab for the bottle with a couple of inches still left in the bottom, but his hand caught it a glancing blow. The bottle tumbled to the floor and shattered in a hundred glass fragments.
"Shit! Barkeep, get me another."
Lena's voice cut through his haze of confusion. "He went away. You told him if the second bottle of Bourbon wasn't better than the first, you'd put a bullet between his eyes."
"I did? Jesus, that first bottle must have been bad. I don't remember."
She ignored him and looked at Max. "You heard about the problems at my place?"
"Sure, it was terrible. We're still worried those fighters may decide to tear the town apart. We've evacuated some of our people, and we have transport standing by to take out the rest if the trouble flares."
"You think it will, Max?"
He nodded. "I'm certain of it. Apparently, there’s a rumor just started that the Sunnis killed Imam Mazari, and if he's dead, his Shias will torch the place. The Sunnis will retaliate, and all we'll have left is burning and looted buildings, and dead and dying people lying in the streets. In view of the trouble you've had, you should come out with us. We have a new aid facility ten klicks to the north. There's a strong shelter, and it's out of the line of fire."
She stared at him. "I thought you'd shelved that project when the funding ran out. Is it the one with the hospital and the orphanage, near Watapur?"
"That's the one. We were allocated some new money, just in time to bring in new workmen and materials to finish the defenses. It'll be a tremendous asset to the locals when it's finished, keep them safe.”
"It will be until the Mohammeds burn it," Stoner interjected. Both of them grabbed hold of his arms as he almost fell off the stool for the second time. They struggled to support him as he wobbled and nearly went over, and then Greg arrived. He helped them steady him on the stool and shook the American's shoulders.
"My friend, you can't go on like this." He glanced at Lena, "Can you give me a hand to get him to your room?"
"My room? What for?"
"You've got a cold shower. I reckon he's in need of it."
An hour later, choking with rage and indignation, he lay in bed. The building was swirling round, and the room displayed a kaleidoscope of colors. Eventually, he slipped into a fitful sleep. As the alcohol seeped out of his system, the cherished oblivion began to fade, and the faces came back, Faces without bodies, bodies without faces, floating past on a river of blood. Finally, he slept, and when he awoke, it was dark outside. He'd dreamed, but not just the nightmare. It was as if the spinning wheels of a one armed bandit had hit the jackpot. They'd lined up, and he knew it all, or thought he did, Khan, Ivan, the gold, all of it. He reached for his gunbelt, feeling vulnerable, but a hand stopped him. It was cool and smooth. Lena Stori leaned over him.
"It's okay, Stoner. I'm here."
He glanced around. The building had stabilized, so he was no longer in the epicenter of an earthquake. It was over, and yet, it wasn't over. Nothing was over.
"What happened?"
"We gave you a shower, and I put you to bed. You were very drunk."
"How long have I been here?"
“About nine hours. It's almost midnight."
"Nine hours? Jesus, I have to...Ouch!"
He tried to sit up, and it was like a block of cement had dropped on his head. He saw her grin, and she said, "Stay there. You need to get over the booze. You almost died from alcoholic poisoning. I'll stay and keep you company."
To his astonishment, she stripped off her jeans and sweatshirt, climbed between the sheets and lay next to him. Her body felt good next to his. Firm, yet soft, warm, yet cool.
This is one helluva cure for a hangover. I'm gonna patent this. I can't think of anything better.
He was quite wrong about that. She pulled his body to her, and her lips found his. He returned the kiss, and it was long, filled with passion and need. He realized all of a sudden he was naked and felt guilty. Until he remembered she had undressed him. It all happened so fast, and he scarcely realized she'd wriggled out of her underwear. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, and then she climbed over him. His penis was hard, so hard it almost hurt, and she slipped it inside her and started to undulate back and forth.
He heard her murmur something about not all Muslims were bad, and he said he couldn't argue with that. Then she said something about his first name.
"Stoner."
"No, your first name. Tell me, I want to know."
His mind was otherwise occupied, so he grunted it out, "Raffaello."
"Rafaello? Like the painter, Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino?"
"How come you heard of him in Afghanistan?"
"My father made sure I had an education. It included Renaissance art."
"Right. Forget Raffaello. It's not a name I use. Not even Rafe.”
"It's not? Why not?"
He thought of Madeleine. She used to call him Rafaello, sometimes. When he heard the name, he thought of her.
"Forget it. Why don't we concentrate on what we're doing?"
They stopped talking. He never knew how long it went on, only that when he came, it was a long, surging climax that he wouldn't forget for a long time. She came a second later, and they clung to each other. It was the way new lovers would hold their partner to them, as if to insure them from ever drawing apart. Later, they slowly eased away from each other. He didn't speak, didn't dare speak. Not yet. He lay on the bed, touching her, running his hands over her body. Finding her, exploring the wonders of her magical curves and hidden places. Marveling in the spicy, musky scent of her. Content with the post-coital bliss that erased bad memories, at least for a short time.
Better than booze, he reflected.
"I want to go away from here," she said, pulling him from his reverie, "I've had enough, and I don't want to start again. They'll only tear it down once more. First, I have to go to the Ministry in Kabul and admit I lost their shipment. I’ll find somewhere to live, maybe in the capital, and accept I'll spend the rest of my life paying them back."
She gave him a lascivious grin, "Then again, there are compensations."
"Maybe we can get the gold back."
She gave him a wistful smile. "I wish, but it's not going to happen.” She shivered, "Why did we get all the bad ones here in Panjab? Stoner, you're not a Muslim, but you don’t think we're all bad?"
"You're not. That makes one.”
She gave him a playful punch. "You know what I mean."
"Sure. It's just that when they go off the rails, they start spouting this ‘Kill in the name of the Prophet’ stuff and people believe them. I'd imagine there were once decent Mullahs and Imams here in Panjab, before Mazari and Khan."
"There were," she affirmed, "Either they left town or they died. Murdered."
"Yep. Our old friends, Khan and Mazari gave them the deep six treatment."
She looked puzzled with the Navy term, but she went on. "What will you do about Khan? You said you'd kill him, but if you did, a lot of people would go crazy. Even Ivan Vasilyevich, it seems is tied in with Khan, an unholy alliance, for certain. If you lay a finger on Khan, it could start a war with Ivan, as well as the local Muslims. I doubt you’d survive."
"I don't intend to kill Khan."
She stared into his eyes, disbelieving. "You won't kill him? What about your vow to that girl?"
"Madeleine, yeah. I can deal with it."
She looked disbelieving, but she let it go. "I don't know. If we..."
She stopped. There was a loud knock at the door. She pulled a blanket over her and went to answer it. Blum was standing there with Archer behind him, the huge tongue lolling out of his mouth. The Russian’s expression was grim. "We got trouble."
Stoner sighed. "Spell it out."
"They're going on the rampage. There's a bunch of Sunnis going out to burn down what remains of the warehouses, as well as the trucks, the aircraft, all of it. They plan to torch everything that's still standing. They say the Shias have brought nothing but trouble to the town, and they're destroying every Shia business to drive them all out. It's Mullah Khan, of course. He's making a play for power, sees this as his opportunity."
Lena caught her breath. "This'll be the end."
"I'm sorry, but it gets worse. The Shias are retaliating, blaming the Sunnis for causing it all, and the killing has started. Once they've finished with the trucks and warehouses, it's going to spread into the town. There're bodies in the street around the corner; four people hacked to death. It’s all out war.”