Dead Drop (A Spider Shepherd short story)

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘Karim, stop this.’

  ‘I’m serious, Spider. I have some information that might be useful to you. How can you turn that down?’

  ‘I can turn it down because I don’t want to put you in the firing line.’

  ‘But I already have the information. All I would be doing is to pass it to you.’

  Shepherd thought for a few moments and then sighed. ‘All right then, what do you know?’

  ‘Some Taliban fighters will be coming to our village. They know that the American aid money is being delivered and they’ve told the head man of the village that they want half of it.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Shepherd said.

  ‘I heard the elders arguing about it. They don’t want to pay, but they’re frightened the Taliban will kill them if they don’t.’

  Shepherd thought for a moment. ‘Do you know the name of the local Taliban leader?’

  ‘There are two. One is Hadir, named for the sound thunder makes in the mountains. The other is Jabbaar. His name means “Cruel” in our language, and he’s well-named. one of them is bound to be there with the fighters, because our head man refuses to negotiate with his underlings.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s good information, isn’t it, Spider?’

  ‘Yes, Karim, it is.’

  ‘Worth money?’

  ‘Possibly. But I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful. Eavesdropping on elders is one thing, but keep well clear of the Taliban.’

  Karim laughed. ‘I will, Spider. I’m not stupid.’

  Shepherd put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I’m serious about this, Karim.’

  The boy looked into his eyes. ‘I know you are, Spider. You are a true friend, I know that.’

  Shepherd went straight over the the Major’s tent and told him everything that he had learned from the boy. The next day at “morning prayers” – the daily briefing with the Boss – the Major announced that the intel appeared to be good. ‘The Taliban know that they’re losing the main battle and they’re increasingly turning to coercing the local villages into giving them support, supplies and cash. And they certainly know that the US aid budget is distributed in cash, by the bucket-load, in an attempt to buy the support of the villagers.’

  ‘And the names he mentioned?’

  ‘Both check out.’ The Major flicked through a series of images on his laptop until he found the ones he was seeking. ‘Take a look at these.’ Shepherd and the others leaned in to study the grainy surveillance imagery of two Afghan men. The Boss pointed to the first of them. ‘Jabbaar seems to be a particularly nasty piece of work even by Taliban standards, and his side-kick, Hadir, isn’t much better. The intel we have suggests they’re living over the border, somewhere in the tribal areas, but as you know, it’s a porous border hereabouts, so they won’t have any difficulty infiltrating to carry out raids or do a bit of cash and carry – the villagers have the cash and the Taliban carry it away.’

  ‘Then let’s go take a look,’ Shepherd said. ‘But what about Karim?’

  ‘The kid? Pay him a few dollars from the bribes fund. And if we get the Taliban head honchos, pay him some more. OK, final brief at 1600 hours. Insert by heli tonight, set up an OP and see what happens.’

  *

  As Shepherd was preparing his kit outside his tent later that morning the guard at the gate called to him. ‘A local is asking for you,’ he said. As Shepherd walked over to the gate, he saw a tall Afghan, dressed in an expensive looking shalwar kameez. ‘Salaam alaikum,’ he said. ‘I’m Spider, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Alaikum salaam,’ the man replied, touching his hand to his heart in the traditional Afghan gesture. ‘My name is Qaseem. You know my son, Karim.’ His beard was long and straggly, rust-coloured at the bottom and graying close to his chin.

  ‘Your son is a clever boy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Very entrepreneurial.’

  ‘He is very enthusiastic,’ said Qaseem. ‘I am very proud of him, but I fear for him also, which is why I am here.’ Qaseem hesitated and glanced around him. ‘He talks about you a lot and that worries me.’ He saw Shepherd frown and hurried on. ‘I mean no offence and am suggesting nothing improper. I don’t believe my son has anything to fear from you, but by being seen talking to you so often, he is putting himself in danger. Not all men here are what they seem. It would only take a word from one of them to those who are enemies of us both, to put my son’s life at risk.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he spends a lot of time in our compound, not just with me.’

  ‘If he is trading, if he is selling you cigarettes or tea, then no one cares. But he spends time talking to you, and he behaves as if he was your friend.’

  ‘I think of him as a friend,’ said Shepherd. ‘I have a young son myself. Much younger than Karim, but I would be very happy if my boy grew up to be like your son.’

  The man smiled. ‘I thank you for that, but you must understand that the friendship of a British soldier can be a dangerous thing during times like this.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Again, I hear what you’re sending and I understand you. But you’re talking to me now, in full view of other Afghans. And Karim has told me that you work for the Americans as an interpreter. Surely nothing that your son does represents any greater risk than what you do yourself?’

  ‘I am a man, and I know the risks involved,’ Qaseem said. ‘I’m well aware that the fact that I work for the Americans means that my son will probably be an orphan before he is grown up; his mother, my wife - may she rest in the peace of Allah - died giving birth to him. I do not deceive myself that the Taliban cannot reach those who collaborate with the faranji, but I’m willing to take the risks for myself, because whatever happens to me, the money the Americans pay me will at least buy my son a better future… if he survives. But he is a child, still. If he is seen to be too close to the occupiers, or is suspected of passing information to faranji soldiers, there will be no future for him.’ Qaseem placed his hand on Shepherd’s arm, holding his gaze. ‘Insh’allah that will not happen. Afghanistan is a poor country. A farmer may earn only a few dollars for an entire year’s work. Even a teacher, as I used to be, earns only a pittance. Suddenly you Westerners are among us, scattering dollars like the chaff when the wheat is threshed. My son’s head has been turned. He dreams of riches and neglects his education. He thinks that one day he will go to America, make his fortune, drive a big car and act like a movie star.’ He paused. ‘I do not blame him, he is young, but I am not as naïve as my son. I know that when the Americans tire of this war, they will leave without a backward glance, just like the Russians and, yes, like you British too in the past. And when they do, they will abandon their so-called friends to their fate, just as they did in Vietnam. We shall again be a forgotten country and what will become of my son then? So for his sake, I beg you not to encourage him in his daydreams nor put him at risk. Please send him away from you.’

  Shepherd studied him for a few moments. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll do as you ask. You’re his father, and I have no right to go against your wishes - but with your permission, I’d like to tell him face to face. I’ll not mention that I’ve spoken to you, but I’ll say it’s not safe for him to be seen talking to me any more. OK?’

  Qaseem nodded. ‘Thank you. You are an honourable man. I doubt we shall meet again but-’ Again he touched his hand to his heart. ‘May you travel safely.’

  Shepherd smiled, touched his own heart and gave the traditional reply Karim had taught him. ‘And may you not be tired.’

  When he’d finished sorting his kit, Shepherd took a stroll around the perimeter before setting off across the base to find Karim. He located him outside the American PX, selling Russian watches to a group of Yank new arrivals. ‘Every one guaranteed to have been taken from the wrist of a dead Soviet soldier,’ Karim was saying with gruesome relish, deep in his sales pitch. ‘Only twenty dollars each.’

  Shepherd waited until he’d clinched a sale, then led him
off to one side, out of earshot. ‘I’ve been thinking, Karim,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to more careful about being seen with me. It’s putting you at unnecessary risk. It’s one thing for you to be peddling stuff around the base, but being seen every day talking to a special forces guy like me is too risky.’

  Karim gave him a suspicious look. ‘My father has talked to you, hasn’t he?’

  Shepherd started to deny it, but Karim looked away and shook his head. ‘You spoke to him,’ he said flatly. ‘Please do not lie to me.’

  ‘OK, yes, he spoke to me. But what he said made sense to me anyway.’

  Karim’s eyes started to fill with tears, but he brushed them away with an angry swipe of his hand. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘I was – I am, I just don’t want to be the cause of you getting hurt or worse.’

  ‘I have done nothing wrong, Spider,’ said the boy.

  ‘I know that,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I can’t put your life at risk. It’s not fair.’

  Karim looked at him with teary eyes. ‘And what if I hear something useful;? Something that might save the lives of you and your friends? What would I do with information like that? Just forget it, and see you die? Is that what you want?’

  Shepherd thought for a few moments. ‘I’ll tell you what. There’s a way for us to stay in touch without putting you at risk. I’ll set up a dead drop – a dead letter box for us to use.’

  ‘A dead drop? I do not understand.’

  ‘If you want to get in touch with me or you have information, you can put a note in the dead drop and I’ll take it and leave money for you there. And if you’re ever in danger, you can also use it as a live drop - a live letter box - to tell me that you need to meet.’

  Karim beamed, his anger forgotten. ‘I have read of this.’ He rummaged through his sack of items for sale and produced a battered Cold War spy novel. ‘An English officer gave me this.’ He grinned. ‘Or anyway, it used to belong to him. I read it. Spies use these dead drops, don’t they?’

  ‘Well we don’t do it quite like the characters in novels,’ Shepherd said. ‘But you’ve got the general idea.’

  ‘So I will be your spy?’

  ‘Karim, no. I’m just showing you a way that you can continue to talk to me without anyone seeing you, that’s all.’

  The boy nodded seriously. ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘OK, now spies in the books have their dead drops in cities, but our dead drops are always in a natural feature, like a fissure in the rock, or a cleft in a tree. To signal that there’s a message, you just leave a mark that can be seen by a casual glance, so you don’t have to check the dead drop itself, you just walk past and glance that way. There’s an exposed rock face, in a little dip about 400 yards to the west of the gates of our compound and far enough away from the main buildings and the perimeter fence that pausing there won’t arouse any suspicion if anyone happens to be watching. I need you to go and look for it later, OK?’

  Karim nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands.

  ‘There’s a crack about an inch wide at the base of the rock, where the winter frosts have penetrated it over the years,’ continued Shepherd. ‘It’s a few inches deep, so anything you put in there won’t be seen. Pretend you’re getting a stone out of your sandal or something and you can squat down and you’ll be hidden from sight. I’ve marked it with a chalk line on the rockface above it - when you’ve found it, rub out the chalk mark with your finger. Make a fresh mark when you want to alert me. A horizontal line will signal that there’s a message in the dead drop, a vertical one is asking for a live drop - a meeting. If you - or I - ask for that, be at the place at sunset that night or on each subsequent night until the meet. I will check the dead drop when I’m taking my morning run, and you must do the same every day. He paused ‘And Karim? Not a word about this to anyone else, OK?’

  Karim nodded, face solemn. ‘Thank you Spider. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’

  ‘I know you won’t. But listen, don’t take any risks whatsoever around the Taliban. No amount of information about them is worth risking your life for. Now I want you to repeat everything I have just said to you so that I know you haven’t forgotten anything.’

  *

  Major Gannon had talked to the American agents running the AID programme and discovered the date of the next convoy distributing US dollars to a series of villages and small towns, including Karim’s home village. Shepherd put together his preferred four-man team - himself, McIntyre, Mitchell and Harper - to piggyback on the convoy and then set up an OP overlooking the village.

  ‘What’s to stop them from just attacking the convoy?’ Harper said.

  ‘Nothing, except they know that if they do, they’ll be killing the goose that’s laying the golden eggs,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they keep ambushing the convoys, either they’ll stop altogether or they’ll be so heavily protected that it’ll be a suicide mission for the Taliban. But if they wait for the Yanks to deliver the cash to the villages and then demand a share of it from the headmen, they’ll get a lot more money with next to no risk.’

  The following day they rode out of Bagram in an armoured truck, sharing it with six US soldiers and a pile of plastic-wrapped bundles of US dollar bills in different denominations stacked in the middle. ‘You’d be tempted, wouldn’t you?’ Harper said, eyeing up the mound of money. ‘I mean, I don’t expect the villagers give receipts, since half of them can’t write anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps we can persuade the Taliban to give us their share,’ McIntyre said with a grin.

  American Humvees loaded with troops rode Point and Tail End Charlie ahead and behind the truck as they drove towards the mountains, while a Blackhawk armed with Hellfire missiles and 7.62mm machine guns flew top cover above them.

  A few miles from the village the convoy passed through a dense stand of cedar and pine trees and it slowed to walking pace for a few seconds so that the SAS team could jump down, forward roll to absorb the impact of their fall and then disappear among the trees. They went to ground as the convoy accelerated again, rumbling on towards the village. An hour later, having distributed the cash, it returned the way it had come. By then, Shepherd had already led the others in to set up the OP on a steep hillside overlooking the village. The slopes were densely wooded but a landslide the previous winter had swept away part of the tree cover, giving them a clear sight of the whole village. They settled in and waited for the Taliban to arrive.

  McIntyre lay back with his head on his bergen and closed his eyes. ‘Unless anyone’s got any objections, I’ll take the second watch,’ he said. ‘I’m knackered and it’ll be a long night because unless the Taliban are fucking psychic, they won’t get word that the cash has arrived in time to get here before morning.’ Within two minutes, they could hear his soft snores.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Shepherd said. ‘Is there anywhere that guy can’t fall asleep?’

  ‘Only when he’s in your bed, shagging your wife,’ Mitchell said, ducking as Shepherd launched a pine cone at his head.

  They remained on watch, two awake and two resting, throughout the night, but as McIntyre had predicted there had been no sign of the Taliban by the time the first rays of the rising sun began to light the mountain peaks high above them. About ten that morning, however, a Toyota pick-up trailing a column of dust swept along the dirt-track road that ran down from the mountains guarding the Pakistan border. Through his spotter-scope, Shepherd watched a group of heavily armed “soldier monks” jump out in the middle of the village, their distinctive garb of black robes, red sashes and kohl-rimmed eyes marking them out as Taliban, even without the AK-47s and RPG launchers they carried.

  Shepherd was on the net at once, calling up the Quick Reaction Force from Bagram, even before a nervous looking group of village elders had appeared to welcome the Taliban leader. ‘Pity,’ Shepherd said, studying the man through the scope, ‘That’s not Jabbaar, it’s the Number Two, Hadir.’

&
nbsp; ‘Then he’ll have to do,’ Mitchell said. Dozing a moment before, he was now on maximum alert. Shepherd had already zeroed his scope and rifle, and he kept it trained on Hadir, tracking his movements as he strutted across the village square. The Taliban group were 1,200 yards away from the OP, but that was comfortably within his range - kills with AI .50s had been recorded at distances of a mile and three quarters.

  ‘Relax,’ Mitchell said, sensing Shepherd’s tension. ‘The QRF’ll be here inside ten minutes and then we’ll get all of them. And if we get Hadir alive, we might even get good intel out of him.’

  ‘Give me five minutes with him,’ McIntyre growled, ‘and I’ll have him singing like a fucking canary. He’ll-’ He broke off as there was a sudden commotion in the village. The driver of the Toyota jumped out of it and ran to Hadir, and whatever he said to him was enough to galvanise the Taliban into action. Hadir and his men began running back to their pick-up.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Mitchell said. ‘They couldn’t have been more relaxed a minute ago, so what’s stirred them up now? They haven’t even collected their cash.’

  ‘They’ve been tipped off,’ said Shepherd. ‘This op’s been compromised like the rest. Someone’s seen the QRF leave Bagram and got a warning to them.’

  ‘How?’ Mitchell said.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘Who knows - cell phone, radio comms, or a fucking ouija board - what’s it matter? They’ve been tipped off and they’re getting away.’

  He pressed the scope to his eye. There was no time for his usual meticulous preparation for the shot - Hadir had already reached the Toyota and was clambering into the passenger seat. As the pick-up began to move, Shepherd sighted and fired in one movement, taking up the first pressure on the trigger, breathing out and squeezing the trigger home in the space of less than a single second. He felt the recoil against his shoulder and simultaneously through his scope he saw the Taliban leader hurled back in his seat, arms flung outwards and a corona of blood spray around his head. It had been a lucky shot, Shepherd knew, but they all counted.