by J A Heaton
As they approached a tent, Daniel spotted a motorcycle leaning against a post. To Daniel, it looked like a classic from a WWII movie. He slowed down to look at it.
Sensing that Daniel wasn’t following him, Rex turned around to see Daniel examining the motorcycle.
“It’s a Soviet copy of the German make,” Rex explained. “And it belongs to the general. Don’t let anything other than your eyeballs touch it. He’s smart and tough, but he’s vindictive about two things: American lives and people messing with his bike. You ride?”
“I used to,” Daniel said. “I traded it in for a bicycle. For the exercise.” Daniel wondered how fast the motorcycle could go out here in the flats without a speed limit. He knew the base was minutes east of Mazar-i-Sharif, but he guessed the motorcycle could get him into the city in less than sixty seconds.
Rex rolled his eyes and entered the tent next to the one General Jones entered. Daniel followed him in.
“All I know is that they’ve granted my request to stay here even though I’m without a unit,” Rex said, “and that the mission I am assigned to with you is so top-secret that only the general knows what’s going on.” Rex plopped down into a beat-up office chair and folded his hands behind his head as he leaned back. Daniel and Rex were alone. “So what gives?”
“I can’t promise you’ll be able to kill a lot of Taliban,” Daniel said. Rex shifted with agitation. “But it will save lots of American lives; it will change the course of history for the better.”
Rex raised an eyebrow and said, “Convince me. I confess I’m a bit skeptical of this nerdy spook they sent me to work with. The CIA guys who spearheaded our attack into Afghanistan last September were, well, of a different make than you.”
Daniel explained to Rex the trail of evidence that led him to the conclusion about the possibility of the Taliban acquiring a nuke.
“And so, we need to obtain that nuke before the Taliban does,” Rex concluded, “or they will kill a lot of innocents, probably Americans.
“And it won’t be easy,” General Jones said as he entered the tent, “because it will be a much smaller weapon. We’ve learned from declassified KGB files that the Soviets thought differently about nuclear weapons from the US. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that they would have used much smaller atomic bombs on the battlefield. They could have fired them from, say cannons, while the war was raging in Europe. Americans usually think of big missiles and thousands of nuclear warheads going off and ending the world, but Soviets were much more willing to consider the possibility of using very small atomic blasts at strategic points to gain an advantage on the battlefield, regardless of how dangerous the radiation would be for their own soldiers. Again, these would be relatively small atomic bombs, used with precision. If you could call it that.”
“Damn those Russkies,” Rex said. “That’s mad. How small?”
“We could be looking for something as small as four or six inches in diameter, probably a plutonium core,” Jones said. “It could be carried by hand in a bag without too much trouble. But it would be extremely dense.”
“But let’s suppose we can’t find the nuke and the Taliban do get their hands on it,” Rex said. “It’s not as if they have the secret codes to detonate it.”
“Nobody knows for sure what firing controls the Soviets had on such atomic bombs from back then,” Daniel said. “There is the real danger that they could use the radioactive material for a dirty bomb. If breathed in as a dust, it could do real damage, even if we can handle a lump of the stuff with our hands.”
“Regardless of how many people it would kill, the psychological impact would be devastating,” Rex said.
“Exactly,” Daniel agreed.
“So, I’ve decided,” Jones said, “since the weapon should be small, and only one person knows its location, this is basically a manhunt. We need to find the Berlin murderer before he gets the nuke. He’s the only one who knows its location.”
“And you were assigned this mission because you know the language and culture of the area from your linguistic studies here?” Rex asked Daniel.
“Exactly,” Daniel said. “But I won’t be able to talk my way through the whole mission. I’ll need somebody with your skills.”
“And motivation,” Rex agreed. “I’d be happy to use my skills for such a mission.” Rex stood and extended his hand with a grin. “You’ve got yourself a partner. Let’s find the Berlin murderer before he finds the nuke.”
Daniel shook Rex’s hand. He didn’t know it was the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership in the service of the CIA.
“I heard about a prisoner who looks like our Berlin murder suspect. What do you know about him?” Daniel said. “And then I need to see the report that was sent ahead for me.”
Rex shared the details about the detainee in short order. The man was picked up at a checkpoint on the north edge of Mazar-i-Sharif in a car. He was sitting in the backseat, disguised as a woman. Local ANA security forces wouldn’t dare take a peek under the veil of a woman in the back seat, but the American boys at the checkpoint were beyond giving a damn about offending the locals. One of them had felt that the person sitting in the backseat was somehow a bit too cocky to be a local woman. He ended up being right. The man was being detained in an Afghan Northern Alliance prison inside the city. He had only gone through a pre-interview.
A cute euphemism, Daniel noted.
“The report concluded that the prisoner is not the same man caught on security cameras in Europe,” Rex said. “He looks similar, but he’s not the same person. They’re quite possibly relatives, even brothers.”
“So maybe he knows where the Berlin murderer is,” Daniel reasoned. “But why would he risk getting captured? General Jones told me about the security situation, but why would he risk getting picked up at a checkpoint?”
“The city is not as secure as you might think,” General Jones warned.
“Catching the prisoner was, honestly, dumb luck,” Rex added. “I don’t want to guess how many men have been snuck through checkpoints either dressed up as a woman or hidden in a secret compartment.”
“Maybe he had no other choice,” Daniel observed. “Maybe our man told the prisoner, a trusted relative, the nuke’s location. The two of them probably don’t trust anybody else enough to tell them where it is. He had to get to the mountains south of Mazar-i-Sharif to obtain the nuke as quickly as possible.”
“And that must be why he risked going through all those checkpoints to get to the south of the city,” Rex agreed. “It was the only way. I’ve got a meeting with a source scheduled for tomorrow, but until then, what are the marching orders?”
“Daniel will use his skills to talk to the prisoner,” Jones said.
“Maybe he’ll coax something out of him so that we can find the Berlin murderer and this nuke-in-a-haystack,” Rex said.
“I’ll read over the pre-interview report while you look at this,” Daniel said. He pushed the bag General Jones had sent with him over to Rex, hoping there was some damned good stuff in that bag.
“Let’s see what Santa brought for me,” Rex said with a glint of joy in his eyes. Daniel thought he caught General Jones smiling slightly. “And you figure out how we’re going to find something as small as a softball in this dusty rock pile with terrorists lurking behind every boulder.”
Daniel couldn’t disagree with that assessment, and about two hours later, Daniel and Rex were on their way into the city to interrogate the prisoner at the ANA prison.
Daniel pushed lukewarm tea towards the prisoner sitting opposite him. The prisoner’s hands rested chained on top of the table. The morning light filtered through the small barred window up high and dimly lit the mud brick room in which Daniel sat opposite the prisoner. Rex stood nearby with another guard, armed in case the prisoner caused any problems. The ANA prison was inside the city, about a twenty-minute drive from the airbase that was on the eastern outskirts of Mazar-i-Sharif.
The prisoner did not speak or accept the tea.
Daniel played with a bone-handled knife as he considered what to say. The knife belonged to the man across the table from Daniel. His eyes were fixed on his knife.
“Why did you dress like a woman?” Daniel asked in Uzbek, needling the man. “I, for one, have never dressed as a woman. Is there something we should know about you?” Daniel was shaming the prisoner according to the prisoner’s beliefs, trying to get a rise out of him.
“Don’t speak my language,” the man said quietly. “You dishonor it. Leave my land.”
“If you help me, I can help you,” Daniel said.
The prisoner continued to sit quietly.
“Do you know this man?” Daniel asked. He slid a photograph of the Berlin murder suspect across the table towards the man.
The prisoner looked at it blankly.
“He tortured a man in Berlin before murdering him,” Daniel said plainly, attempting a new approach. “What could he have known that was so important?”
The prisoner responded with silence.
“Why were you coming to Mazar-i-Sharif?” Daniel asked.
“I was going home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Village,” the man answered.
“There are lots of villages,” Daniel said impatiently.
“South.”
“Let me guess. You and the man in the picture are brothers. And you were heading back to your home village to see him.”
The prisoner didn’t deny it but shrugged his shoulders.
Daniel paused and debated whether he should share something about himself. He decided he needed to do all that he could to get the prisoner talking.
“I used to live south of here. That’s where I learned Uzbek. The village I lived in, the family I lived with, they were very kind and hospitable people. Honestly, it’s why I am trying to help you.”
The prisoner squinted his eyes. Daniel sensed he was considering whether he believed him. But Daniel knew he could not deny that Daniel had learned Uzbek somewhere.
“So, you were a CIA spy then?” the prisoner asked.
“No.”
The prisoner sat quietly. Daniel glanced over at his voice recorder on the table recording the exchange, calculating if the prisoner had said enough. By now, Daniel was certain that the man was not going to tell him anything.
Daniel stood up to leave and moved towards the door.
“You’re going to be on the next plane out of here and held in prison forever,” Daniel said with as little emotion as possible. Daniel was certain that he had recorded enough of the prisoner’s voice, and said, “You will never see your brother again.” Daniel reconsidered. “You might, if you tell me who you are and your brother’s name.”
“Come here, and I will tell you,” the man said quietly.
Daniel turned and took a few steps towards him.
The prisoner spat at Daniel.
Daniel shut his eyes but hid his disgust from the insult.
“My name is Aziz. My brother and I fight for our own land and for our own people. A rage fuels us that you soft Westerners can’t understand. No Afghan wants you foreigners here. If we had the same weapons as you, who do you think would win? We would. We have a passion you can’t match. But right now, you have the better guns, and so you win. For now. But our anger and determination will make us win. When we do, we will cleanse our land of people like you. Our people shouldn’t accept your Western way of life simply because you have the best technology. We should choose our own way of life; the one Allah has for us. Isn’t that what you Americans did hundreds of years ago?”
“You will win because of your anger?” Daniel asked.
Aziz held Daniel’s gaze angrily but remained silent.
He knows something, Daniel thought to himself.
Knowing he had recorded enough of Aziz’ voice and not wanting yet to hint they knew about the plan to find a nuke, Daniel simply said, “Enjoy prison.” Daniel reached across the table and drank the untouched tea before turning towards the door. Daniel went to leave again and handed Aziz’ knife to the prison guard.
As Daniel pulled the door open, Aziz said, “I know the village and the family that you lived with. My brother took the daughter as his second wife, even though her family and village dishonored all of us.”
Daniel could not help but turn back and look at the man to discern if he was lying. “I didn’t think he should take her as his second wife. But my brother wanted to teach her a lesson before we would righteously kill her. He uses her. He beats her. You mustn’t be jealous. Or angry. She is my brother’s wife.”
Daniel stepped out, and Rex followed and pulled the door shut behind them.
Daniel cursed and slammed his fist into the mud brick wall.
“Don’t let him get under your skin,” Rex cautioned.
“My God,” Daniel said as he bit his trembling tongue. “At least I’m sure I recorded enough of his voice to see how it compares to the one in Berlin.”
“The bad news is that he’s not telling us anything useful,” Rex said. “He’s not afraid of sitting in prison forever. He’s principled in his beliefs. He knows something. We’ve just got to figure out how to get it out of him.”
As Daniel and Rex waited for their ride back to the airbase outside the city, one of the Afghan prison guards approached Daniel.
“Another prisoner says he has information for you,” the guard said. “Are you interested in talking to him?”
“We can’t turn down any help right now,” Daniel said. Rex shrugged, and the two followed the guard back to the empty interrogation room.
“Bring us his file and give us a few moments to look over it before you bring him in,” Rex said. The guard nodded and returned with the file. Rex and Daniel began looking through it after the guard left the room.
“The man was caught fleeing the city like tons of other people were doing, I’m sure,” Rex said. “But he resisted when forced to give up his gun when captured. Again, not a solid reason to throw him in the slammer, and certainly not an indicator that he’s a troublemaker. But I don’t have any patience for guys who won’t give up their guns.”
“Maybe he was more afraid of what the Taliban would do to him for surrendering than what we would do to him,” Daniel said.
The door creaked open, and a Northern Alliance guard led an Afghan man into the room, seated him across from Daniel and Rex, and then chained his hands to the table.
Another Northern Alliance man walked in. The translator.
Daniel turned to the translator and asked, “What language does he prefer?”
“He prefers Dari,” the translator said, “but he can speak many others.”
“My Dari is not so great,” Daniel said to the translator, “so jump in if things get complicated.”
The translator gave a nod, and Daniel began the questioning with the universal greeting, “Peace be upon you.”
“I will only talk if you give me a green card,” the prisoner said in Dari.
Daniel told Rex what the man had said.
“We definitely can’t do that,” Rex said with frustration.
Daniel thought he should have expected as much. Almost all the men he ever met in Central Asia, unless they were radical Muslims, wanted to know how to get a green card to go to America. For many of them, it was their lifelong goal. Daniel had often wondered what some of them would have done if they ever did get a green card and lost their life’s purpose.
The man repeated himself. “Give me a green card, or I won’t talk.”
“Let’s get up and walk out of here,” Rex said. “That’ll get him talking.”
“I’m a small man,” Daniel said in Dari to the prisoner. “If you give me some information that is helpful, and that we can verify so that we know you are telling the truth, we can make sure your family is safe. But a green card is not possible.”
“I have no family,” the prisoner countered.
D
aniel asked the translator to step in.
“We can move you to a better prison,” Daniel offered through the translator. “And after you give more information, then things can get even better for you.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling this guy doesn’t really know anything that can help us,” Rex said as the prisoner sat and pondered the offer.
“Maybe not. Maybe so,” Daniel said.
“I know how he gets his money,” the prisoner said via the translator. Daniel noticed that he didn’t use a name. “Drugs and women.”
“That’s nothing,” Rex told Daniel. “We could have guessed that anybody who has any resources was getting it through drugs, human trafficking, or other Islamic terrorist organizations funneling money into the country. He’s not giving us anything.”
“His smuggling operation is heavily guarded,” the prisoner said.
“Except for one point that is impossible for him to protect. The last part of the journey into Tajikistan.”
“We could have already guessed that,” Daniel said. “You need to tell us exactly how he smuggles things to the north. Otherwise, we can’t check it, and it doesn’t help us. If you want us to help you, you need to help us.”
“For the last part of the smuggling route, the cars drive north across old Soviet minefields. At great cost, a few drivers have learned to navigate the minefields. And then they bribe the right Tajik officials at the border. That’s how he smuggles for money.”
Rex gave a harrumph, unimpressed by the information coming from the prisoner via the translator.
“I will tell you exactly where you can meet the smuggling vehicles outside of Kholm before they enter the minefields.”
“Now we’re talking,” Rex said.
“About twenty minutes by car north of Kholm,” the prisoner continued, “there is a tree, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. That is not too terribly unusual, but there are two large boulders on either side of it. We joked that it is like a gateway to Tajikistan, or a gate to death, or a gate to riches. And that is where the vehicle gets its cargo before heading north. We call it the Gate.”