The Warlord of Tora Bora

by Eric Meyer

  Ouch! What did I do to upset her?

  They left the bar and climbed the stairs to his place on the top floor. The door was still ajar, just as they’d left it after Greg broke it open. He told them to help themselves to drinks, and he sat on the couch. Sara sat next to Wayne Evers, as far away from him as possible, and he felt saddened. On the way up the staircase, just for a moment he’d smelled the familiar, fresh, warm odor he remembered from before. A mix of expensive French perfume that mingled with her soap and the natural scent of woman; except now she’d become the ice queen.

  He ignored her and fixed his stare on Wayne. “Okay, let’s hear it. What are we facing when we go in. Numbers, military preparedness, weapons, sentries, tell us what you know.”

  “Sure.”

  For almost an hour, Evers talked about his survey of the ground around Tora Bora. What he’d seen, and the kind of opposition they were likely to face. It was no wonder Ivan wanted to hand the job on to someone else.

  He stopped him with a gesture. “You have to be kidding. If we try to get into that place, they’ll tell us into shreds.”

  “We don’t need to get close. Ivan is supplying me with a sniper rifle, a Barrett Light Fifty. We can find a good observation point a couple of klicks out from the caves, and you guys will keep me covered and watch my back, while I wait for him to show. Soon as he puts his head up, I blast him, and we go home.”

  “What if he doesn’t show?”

  “They always show. It could be we’ll need to wait for a couple of days, but he’ll come. What do you think?”

  He swapped glances with Greg. Wayne’s plan meant they’d be holed up in Indian country for two days, maybe much more. And according to Evers, the countryside was crawling with insurgents. Men fanatically loyal to Mohammed Tarzi, and every one of them would be looking to score brownie points from the man they regarded as God’s messenger, a prize for killing the Westerners who’d come to kill their leader.

  “It stinks. I guess we could do it, but it’s risky.”

  He felt it was the worst plan he’d heard in a long time, a very long time. The chances of being discovered were high, in which case their options would come down to one. They’d die. He was about to explore other options when the busted door flew open again, and Ma Kelly strutted into his apartment.

  This place is becoming more like Grand Central Station every day.

  “Stoner, we have a problem.”

  He sighed as he regarded his business partner. She wore a short, pink, mini-dress that clung to her ample curves, barely covering a cleavage deep enough to float a small boat. Brassy, bleach blonde hair, and a half dozen tattoos on her exposed skin, she looked what she was. A brothel madam, although one with a heart of gold, and she’d helped Stoner out of trouble on more than one occasion.

  “What is it, Ma?”

  “Cops, downstairs in the bar.”

  “What’re they after, a discount?”

  “No. The Captain in charge has an order from a local judge. He says they’re shutting us down.”

  He climbed to his feet and walked toward her. “You’re sure it’s not a shakedown? We’ve had plenty of those before.”

  “It isn’t a shakedown. This is the real thing. I offered to increase the protection money we give to the cops every month, and he got nasty. Said the closure was on the grounds of immorality, and we offend the Islamic sense of decency inside the city.”

  He broke into a smile. “Now I know it’s crazy. Since when has Jalalabad been moral and decent? Jesus Christ, half the cops in town come here, and some of ‘em are regulars.”

  “I know, but he won’t budge.”

  “Okay, I’ll come down.” He looked at the others. “Stay here. This won’t take long.”

  He followed her down and walked into the bar. Eight local cops were waiting for him, some on the payroll. The officer in charge had captain’s pips on his shoulder tabs. Stoner stood before him and stared into his eyes.

  “My name’s Stoner. I’m the owner.”

  “Captain Hosseini, Afghan National Police, Jalalabad Central Police Station.”

  He handed him a document. “This is your copy of the closure order. The text is in Pashto and English.” He sneered, “For those foreigners who have failed to learn our language, and abuse the hospitality of our country.”

  He read some of the order and looked at Hosseini. “The courts have never bothered us in the past, what’s new?”

  “What’s new is a messenger from God who intends to clean up the cesspit created by the infidels. When Sheikh Mohammed Tarzi rules here, people like you will either be dead or gone for good. Sharia law has come to Afghanistan.”

  “What about the other brothels, the Crazy Horse and the Inn of Temptation? You closing those down as well?”

  He looked nervous, and his eyes avoided contact. “They will remain open. Both are run under Islamic principles.”

  “You mean this Tarzi has a financial interest, is that right?” He looked around the room as if for an escape, and Stoner knew he’d scored, “Is he a brothel owner?”

  “How dare you suggest such a thing! Mohammed Tarzi is a holy man. We will clean up this town, and this establishment is finished.”

  The tone was beyond hostile, and he knew they were in the trouble. Stoner was thinking fast, and the clue was the name. Hosseini. The cop they’d humiliated at Greg’s farm was named Hosseini. The cop had put his plan for revenge into effect faster than he’d have believed. He rechecked the paperwork, and there was no ambiguity, no room for maneuver. The closure was to come into effect immediately, but he swallowed his anger and stared at the cop.

  “One moment, Captain, I have to make a call.”

  “You have five minutes. Then my men will seal the building.”

  Stoner found a private corner in the lobby, took out his cellphone, and dialed a number. Kabul Jalal answered within seconds. His lawyer was always ready to take a call from Stoner. It invariably meant fat fees. He explained what was happening, described the closure order, and told him to do something about it. As usual, Jalal was slow to offer a solution. That would take time, and it would be expensive.

  “Mr. Stoner, you have to understand, what you have there is a legal document, signed by a judge. There is nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “Not good enough, Kabul. I need to find a way out, and I need it now. I’ll pay whatever it costs. Anything.”

  A pause, and Stoner sensed his interest when he’d mentioned the money. “Which judge signed the order?”

  He glanced at the paper he held in his hands. “Abdul Haqiqi.”

  “Ah. Yes, I know Judge Haqiqi.”

  “You know they’ll have paid him to issue this order, don’t you? So you’ll have to bid higher. Offer him whatever he wants, and get him to call this Captain Hosseini before they start breaking my place up.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Revenge. Something they say I did. It’s bullshit, you know that, Kabul.”

  The crafty lawyer coughed. “I’ll contact Haqiqi now. You can tell the Captain to await his call. Provided you are prepared to give me carte blanche to agree to whatever he demands.”

  “Do it, Kabul. I want to hear Captain Hosseini’s phone ring in the next five minutes.”

  “That may not be enough. Make it ten minutes.”

  “Just don’t be late, pal. There’re plenty more lawyers in this town who would like my business.”

  A chuckle. “Ah, but none like me, Mr. Stoner.”

  “That’s true.”

  None as devious, thieving, and corrupt.

  He ended the call, walked back into the bar, and approached Hosseini. “My lawyer is dealing with it, Captain. He said he’d need a half hour to talk to the judge.”

  The cop scowled. “I told you, five minutes. It’s four minutes now, and then we take this place apart to look for evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “Immorality.”

  He burst out
laughing. “It’s a brothel, for Christ’s sake. What did you expect?”

  “The law is the law, Mr. Stoner. I have to do my Islamic duty.”

  Even as he said it, he had a thought, something that would explain a lot.

  The problems Greg’s had with this cop after Kaawa, and the problems I’ve been having with the brothel. Somehow, the two Hosseinis seem to surface behind so much of it. The Islamic bit is bullshit. There’s something else, a common factor linking the two corrupt cops, and probably with this Tarzi as well. I’m certain I have an idea of what it is.

  He stared at the Captain.

  “You and your pals have any business interests in Jalalabad?”

  “No.” He’d answered too quickly, and his eyes flicked away, betraying the lie.

  “Business interests like a stake in the other two brothels?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So is chasing an underage girl. This Sergeant Hosseini in Mehtar Lam, is he a relation?”

  The cop sneered and put a hand on the butt of his gun. “My cousin. I believe you met him. He said he had unfinished business with you.”

  “Your cousin the pervert. What is it with Greg’s young daughter, why is he so keen? Would it save him the effort of coming into Jbad to screw the local girls? You can tell him I’ll be seeing him real soon, and we’ll resolve his ‘unfinished business.’ Where I come from, we shoot the balls off any guy who goes after underage girls.”

  Hosseini’s expression changed. “You would not dare assault a police officer.”

  “Try me. You can tell your cousin he’d better make use of his dick while he still has it.”

  The Captain took a few moments to control his anger, and he forced a sneer. “You are making a big mistake, and you will pay the price. It is sad how such a successful and flourishing business must close. Very sad.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it just? By the way, this Tarzi guy who wants to close us down, you can tell him to go fuck himself.”

  “You cannot…” At that precise moment, the cop’s cellphone rang. Kabul Jalal had moved fast. Stoner tried and failed to listen to the caller the other end, and all he heard was a shouting match conducted in Pashto. The exchange lasted for several minutes, and when he’d finished speaking, Hosseini flung the phone down on the floor, spluttering and cursing. Stoner watched him, and he failed to suppress a smile.

  “A problem?”

  Hosseini moved his face inches away from him. “How much did you offer him, Stoner?”

  He grinned. “More than you, I guess. You’ll have to put up your rates and buy a better class of judge.”

  The cop put up a hand and pushed him backward. “I’m warning you, I’ll be back. And next time there won’t be any way out.”

  “Uh, huh. You know Ivan? Ivan Vasilyevich?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “He has a good friend in Kabul, the Minister of the Interior. Isn’t he your Boss? I gather he’s on a crusade to clear out corrupt policemen.”

  The cop glared at him for several seconds. “You won’t get away with it. Sheikh Tarzi will hear of this insult, and believe me you will suffer. I’ll find a judge who adheres to strict Islamic principles, and I’ll swear out an arrest warrant. You’re going to prison, Stoner. This time it won’t make any difference how much you offer.”

  He swung on his heels and stalked out. His perplexed officers trooped after him. Stoner breathed a sigh of relief, and when he turned around, they were all there, ready to back him up, Wayne Evers, Greg Blum, and even Ma Kelly. They each had a gun in their hands, and he felt good knowing they’d been watching his back, but the problem wouldn’t go away. He had his share of enemies.

  Captain Hosseini, his cousin in Mehtar Lam, Sergeant Hosseini. This Mohammed Tarzi. Are they the men trying to ruin me and destroy my business? Then there’s Ivan, and this Tora Bora thing. Why can’t they just leave me alone?

  He knew the answer to that question. This was Afghanistan, and every man who owned a bigger slice of the pie a target for a lesser man coveting what they owned. He had a sudden thought. Ivan was late.

  “Anyone know where Ivan is? He said he’d be here.”

  Wayne cursed. “I forgot to mention it, sorry. Before this happened, he called. Said he’d been delayed, something came up. He’ll meet us on the way to the caves, hand over the rifle, and bring along some supplies and spare ammo.”

  “Meet where?”

  “Torkham, next to the border crossing.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  On the way out, he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from behind the bar, but Greg snatched it off him. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Greg, I need the hair of the dog.”

  “Forget it. Ask me when we get back.”

  * * *

  They were doing well, and Sheikh Mohammed Tarzi felt able to praise them almost daily. These men who’d dedicated their lives to Allah and his Prophet, and to himself, showed a fanatical dedication, sufficient for them to overcome any obstacle, although most of the younger ones needed to sharpen their skills with a training operation. He turned to his second-in-command, Mahmud Mahboob.

  “You have done well, my friend. The new men are keen to take the battle to the infidel, and I have no doubt they will press their attacks home with a great deal of ferocity.”

  “I agree, my Sheikh. I am proud of them.”

  “Allah is proud of them. However, there is something we must discuss, Mahmud. They do not have experience of action.”

  “Sheikh?”

  “We must send them out to attack an easier target. A minor skirmish, where we can be certain they’ll achieve a victory. I want them to acquire the kind of experience they will need when they take on tougher targets, like the Afghan Army, and of course, the Americans. How many recruits do we have at present?”

  “Three hundred and thirty-five, my Sheikh.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Where are the others? I thought there were many more.”

  He gave an apologetic shrug. “We’ve had desertions, Sir. Some of the men grew tired of waiting. They became disillusioned and left. Perhaps some went to join an active Taliban unit.”

  He snorted. “The fools, if they’d stayed by my side, they would soon be in action, killing the infidels. Mahmud, I don’t want to lose any more men. In future, desertions will be punishable by death.”

  Mahboob gasped. “My Sheikh, every man is a volunteer. Surely they are free to come and go as they please.”

  “They are free to come and go according to my will. Make it clear to them, and the sooner you catch someone disobeying my orders and trying to leave, the sooner you can make an example of them to dissuade the others.”

  “Yes, my Sheikh.”

  “Good, that’s settled. Next, we must decide where to attack first, and we’ll use a warband of fifty men. The border post at Torkham will be our first target.”

  “Torkham?” He looked worried, “Sir, the border post between Afghanistan and Pakistan is not the easiest target. The border guards are wary. There’ve been several attacks over the years, mainly by the Taliban.”

  “How many border guards are on duty?”

  “We estimate between eight and ten.”

  “So we’ll outnumber them by a factor of five to one. You will command the first attack, my friend. But I want you to stay in the rear, and let the young hotheads blunt the enemy’s fury. If a few of them die, the others will understand the need to be more careful. I want you to kill every border guard, destroy the crossing, and bring back everything of value. Weapons, ammunition, food, vehicles, you know what we need.”

  “Yes, my Sheikh. When do you wish this to take place?”

  “Tomorrow. Time it for an hour before the end of their shift, when the guards will be tired and impatient.”

  He gave Tarzi a half bow, struggling to conceal the doubts he knew must show in his face. “We shall reduce Torkham to rubble.”

  Tarzi smiled, a rare event, and directed his red-e
yed gaze on his second-in-command. “I wish you luck, my friend, and remember to stay in the background. I do not wish you to be killed. Good luck, Mahmud.”

  “Thank you, my Sheikh. The wrath of the righteous will descend on the enemies of Allah. Torkham will become nothing more than a cemetery.”

  A smile. “I will look forward to it.”

  Chapter Four

  The first big problem for Stoner arrived even before they left Jalalabad at dawn. He, Greg Blum, Wayne Evers, and Sara Carver stashed their gear in zipped sports bags. Greg led the way outside, but Stoner stopped dead when he went toward the GAZ.

  “No way! Not in that thing, not all the way to Torkham in a motorized bedstead. We’ll take my Wrangler. It’ll be faster and more comfortable.”

  “You know that Jeep of yours is known across the whole country.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to ride in that piece of shit GAZ, never again.”

  Wayne tried to reason with him. “Stoner, it makes sense to take the GAZ. It doesn’t look very warlike or threatening. In fact, it could easily be a farmer’s transport. Lots of Afghans drive them since the Soviets left so many behind.”

  “Farmers drive them because they can’t afford anything better. They hate them because they keep breaking down.”

  “Mine doesn’t break down,” Greg snapped.

  Wayne grinned. “There you go. We’ll take the GAZ.”

  He surrendered to the inevitable and rode in the front while Greg drove. He eyed the locker where Greg had stashed his bourbon, working out how soon he could retrieve it. Wayne and Sara rode in back, and they appeared to be more than just pals. Maybe she was pumping him to recount his experiences while he was on Tora Bora, or maybe it was something else.

  One kilometer outside town, he heard Greg mutter, “Uh, oh, trouble.”

  His eyes flicked open. Several hundred meters ahead, a cop cruiser was parked at the side of the road, and they’d placed a striped pole on trestles across the road. A cop was standing in front of it, waving for them to stop. As they drew near, he saw a cop sitting in the passenger seat of the cruiser, wearing an Afghan police captain’s bars.