Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  How many people did he have with him?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything more. He was a low-level shooter for Malek.

  Zeb questioned him for longer. Then shot him and left him out there for carrion to feed on.

  He felt no remorse as he fired up his Jeep.

  Jamil, Mujitaba—they were stone-cold killers. They had chosen the way of the gun. They had become terrorists of their own free will.

  They were parasites who preyed on the vulnerable.

  They would prey no more.

  He drove towards Raghi.

  Several armored trucks passed him during his drive. All bristling with soldiers, both coalition and Afghan. None of them stopped him.

  Bearded Afghans eyed his Jeep curiously when he overtook them.

  Many of them were armed. Some with ancient Soviet discards and a few with AKs.

  It was a country at war, from the inside as well as the outside.

  Peace-loving Afghans had to combat terrorists and those who resented the foreign forces often joined ranks with the Taliban.

  Zeb crossed lush valleys and steep mountains. Vistas that took one’s breath away. Remote, forbidding and entrancing at the same time.

  At times, the road he followed was nothing more than a barely perceptible dirt track. He stopped to drink from a stream, and the stillness enveloped him. Snow-clad peaks of the Hindu Kush and Pamir mountains rose majestically in the distance. Terrain swooped and fell as he turned slowly on his heel. A few huts far away. A village.

  This country will never be conquered. The British tried it and failed. As did the Russians. As we are finding out.

  It wasn’t a new thought. He had realized that during his time in Delta.

  It was the landscape. No amount of firepower or technological superiority could crush a mountain range. The rugged country shaped its people, who were used to battle. It was almost second nature to them.

  Zeb leaned against his Jeep and wiped the dust from his face and arms. His job wasn’t to win a war or to convince anyone back home of its futility.

  His eyes grew bleak when they returned to the mountains. Somewhere up there, three Americans soldiers were held prisoners.

  He would rescue them. Or die trying.

  That was all that mattered.

  He removed the prosthetic ears and nose and replaced them with less noticeable ones.

  He was still Akmal Rahman. Still the minister’s nephew. However, the large nose and misshapen ears would be for his drug-running persona. The Taliban who had encountered him would remember him from those features.

  He had to do something about the Jeep, though. He filed that thought away in his mind and climbed inside his ride.

  Raghi had a single street around which the village bustled. Like Main Street in American towns.

  It was lined with stores, for groceries, clothing, everyday items.

  Women in colorful clothing perused what was on offer. Men of varying ages drifted up and down the street. A few armed.

  Not many young men . They’ve probably joined the terrorists or have moved to Kabul, where there are more opportunities.

  Farming was the main occupation in the village, located in a valley beneath the Hindu Kush range. Wheat, maize, vegetables, fruit.

  And there was poppy.

  Sometimes it was grown out in the open and sometimes, remote fields grew the opium-producing flowers.

  Zeb walked down the street, aware that many eyes were on him. Strangers didn’t come often to the village and they were usually associated with either terrorists or the army.

  His HK was across his back, in a leather case that hid its shape.

  The Rahman family’s house was in a side street, away from the hustle. It was made of stone and plaster, like most other homes in the region. A wooden door with a latch, on which was a padlock.

  Zeb kicked the door. It splintered. He enlarged the opening and ducked inside.

  A courtyard. Stone construction beyond. Several rooms. All disused, filmed with a thick layer of dust.

  He didn’t have any belongings to leave in the house.

  He made sure that it was empty and headed out.

  His destination; Sohrab Humayun’s store.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sohrab Humayun and his wife had been found dead outside the village after the Delta operatives had been captured.

  No one knew for sure who had killed them. What came to mind was the Taliban, killing a suspected informer. It was what they did.

  The Afghan police, from Faizabad, had tried to investigate, as had the Americans and the coalition forces. But they had no luck and, in a land where killing was common, the deaths were soon forgotten.

  Zeb saw that Humayun’s store was open. It had no name. In a village that small, one wasn’t needed.

  A young man, barely in his teens, served customers. He was dressed in white and was clean-shaven, which by itself made him stand out.

  Sacks of grain were neatly piled in front of the store and it looked like business was brisk.

  It would be. It’s the only grain store in the village.

  Zeb went to a café on the street and sat on a wooden bench outside. Three old men made room for him.

  He ordered tea and let the conversation flow over him, while keeping an eye on the store.

  Bidar, he learned, was the young man. Humayun’s son. He had taken over running the store.

  ‘He doesn’t like it but it is a living,’ an oldster cackled.

  ‘Why doesn’t he like it?’ Zeb asked.

  The old men paused. They looked him up and down with rheumy eyes. They didn’t open up to strangers. But, heck, the man had asked a question that related to their village.

  ‘He wants to go to Kabul. He thinks that’s where life is.’ The speaker removed his turban and scratched his head. ‘He tried to sell the shop. But who can afford it, here? These young people. They think they’re too big for Raghi. Kabul. Or Taliban. That’s all they think of.’

  ‘Who are you?’ He replaced his head gear and sipped noisily from his cup.

  His friends leaned forward expectantly.

  ‘Akmal Rahman, agha. We have a family home here.’

  Brows wrinkled. Eyes turned distant as they tried to place the name.

  Then a hand slapped a thigh.

  ‘You are the minister’s nephew?’

  ‘Yes, agha.’

  ‘Your family … there’s no one left here. Why have you come back?’

  It wasn’t asked rudely or bluntly. In the village, everyone knew the other’s business.

  ‘Business, agha. I want to do something here. We have farms. They have been neglected. I want to sort that out.’

  ‘Farming. What’s in it? Haven’t you been listening? All the young people leave the village. And you have come back!’

  ‘There’s money to be made here. Out in the fields.’

  ‘Farming,’ the old timer repeated. ‘No money in it.’

  ‘He’s not talking of grains, you fool,’ a friend slapped his back. ‘Poppy.’

  ‘Poppy. Is that true?’

  ‘I am not saying anything,’ Zeb smiled. ‘I am just looking.’

  ‘Poppy. There’s no money in it, either. Well, there’s some, but the Taliban and the smugglers make most of it. And there’s a lot of killing.’ The old man shook his head at the folly of Zeb’s idea.

  ‘There are ways … if I wanted to get into that line. I have some experience.’

  ‘You’ll be a grower or a smuggler?’ the old man whispered. His friends craned forward to hear the reply.

  ‘I am not saying anything, agha,’ Zeb laughed. He slapped several Afghanis on the table, enough to cover all their teas. ‘The village has ears.’

  ‘You won’t live long. Many have tried to do it independently. Sell their poppy to the buyers directly. The Taliban, they will not allow it.’

  Zeb chuckled and left them, aware that Bidar Humayun was staring at him.

  H
e knew news of his presence would spread. The old men would talk up his hints of getting into the narcotics smuggling business. Word would reach Atash Mohammed and the other Taliban leaders.

  Which was what Zeb wanted.

  He walked down the street, went to the Rahman house and continued walking.

  Making sure he wasn’t followed, he went out of the village to his Jeep, which was parked in a thicket two miles away from Raghi.

  He fired up his laptop and waited for his satellite phone to hook to a bird in the sky.

  He toyed with Jamil’s phone idly. He had examined it after killing the terrorist. There had been a few outgoing calls and several incoming ones. Nothing recent. He hadn’t tried to trace the numbers. Finding Malek wasn’t his mission.

  He turned to his computer when it pinged. There wasn’t supposed to be contact between Kilmer and him unless something drastic occurred. So, he was intrigued when he saw a message from the colonel.

  It was sent from a disposable email address.

  ‘Homecoming party is in two weeks .’

  No explanation, nothing else.

  A chill settled over Zeb.

  He knew what it meant. For whatever reason, the coalition attack had been advanced from five weeks to two.

  That’s not enough time to survey the land, find out where the captives are.

  Grimly, he reconsidered his plans. His cover in the village would now have been established by the old men.

  He still had to find a way to visit and check out neighboring villages without risking suspicion. Sure, he could and would do that covertly, but a legit reason made a difference. He also had to find out how Mohammed smuggled out his heroin.

  Hit the drugs and the terrorist leader would be drawn out of hiding. Backtracking him would lead Zeb to the prisoners.

  He had two weeks to accomplish all that.

  He stowed away his laptop grimly.

  He would approach Bidar the next day.

  And visit Sori.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘My father used to talk of your family. They are very famous and rich.’ There was a tinge of envy in Bidar Humayun’s face as he brought out sacks and arranged them in front of his store.

  Zeb had approached him early in the morning, before the street market opened up.

  He didn’t have to introduce himself. The old men had ensured that Bidar knew everything of him.

  ‘You were in London?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zeb grunted as he lifted a heavy sack and brought it out.

  ‘Studying?’

  ‘A little. Doing business.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Buying, selling. Something that people want.’

  Bidar stopped and eyed him. He put two and two together.

  ‘Drugs,’ he stated. No judgment in his voice.

  Zeb didn’t say anything. Silence was the best way to build a legend.

  ‘With your family connections and wealth … you can go far in this area,’ Bidar mumbled. ‘How was London?’

  ‘Amazing city,’ Zeb replied genuinely. ‘Great people. I loved it.’

  ‘I would love to travel someday,’ the shopkeeper said wistfully.

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  Bidar laughed, his hands on his hips. ‘Have you seen this village? I barely make a living. Where will I find the money?’

  ‘I could buy you out.’

  The grocer stared at him.

  ‘You? Why?’

  ‘I need a business when I am here.’ Zeb shrugged. Not elaborating. Letting the other fill in the blanks.

  ‘You need a cover business. For whatever you are planning to do,’ Bidar whispered, ripping open the sacks one by one, to display their contents.

  He went inside the store and brought out plastic boxes filled with vegetables and fruit.

  Those went behind the grain.

  ‘You know what happened to my parents?’

  ‘They were killed.’

  ‘By the Taliban,’ he said harshly. ‘Because the terrorists thought my father was an informer.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A haunted look came into his eyes and disappeared just as fast. ‘And now, you are asking me to get involved in whatever you are planning.’

  ‘No,’ Zeb corrected him. ‘I want to buy you out. Not make you a partner. You take my money. You hand over your business. You leave, wherever you want to go. What I do is my business. Think about it but think fast. There are other businesses I can buy.’

  There was a thoughtful look on Bidar’s face when Zeb left him.

  He hung around in the street as the village woke to life.

  Traders set out their stalls and hawkers strolled up and down, announcing their wares. Zeb ordered a tea in the café and soaked in the ambience.

  He made a show of talking to other store-keepers, gesticulating profusely. A couple of times, he caught Bidar’s eyes and the young man looked away quickly.

  It was when Zeb was making his way back to the Rahman house that the DEA—Drug Enforcement Administration—agents swept in.

  Five of them, armed, eyes shaded, the black letters stenciled on their vests. They were accompanied by four Afghan police.

  He lingered when the group stopped at the same café and ordered refreshments.

  From snatches of conversation, it looked like they were returning from a raid in Mir Darreh, where they had burned several poppy fields. One of the agents looked Zeb up and down.

  ‘Got something to say, buddy?’

  Zeb grinned toothily. ‘Nice guns,’ he replied in Dari.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He likes your weapons.’

  The DEA man shook his head in disgust and turned his back on Zeb.

  Zeb was leaving when his ears pricked up at a name.

  Atash Mohammed.

  ‘He isn’t there. No one is. We swept Sori, last week.’ The agents were conversing in low voices.

  Zeb ordered another drink, snatched an old newspaper that was flapping on a bench and pretended to read.

  ‘All the intel says he’s still there. Our men, too,’ another protested.

  ‘It’s wrong. You saw for yourself. There were just a few people in the village. No Taliban.’

  They talked back and forth, the conversation drifting to other topics.

  Zeb stayed back when they left, his eyes unseeing, the paper still in his hands.

  If Atash Mohammed wasn’t in Sori, where was he? More importantly, where were the Delta operatives? The file Kilmer had handed him … was it wrong?

  Jamil confirmed the terrorists’ presence, however.

  Prisoners tell their interrogators what they think their questioners want to hear.

  Zeb shook his head impatiently. That was for amateurs. A trained operative got the right answers, because everyone had a breaking point.

  No. He wouldn’t change plans. He would proceed, assuming what Jamil had told him was right.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to verify.

  He was rising when a group of men occupied the next bench. They ordered their drinks, speaking in soft voices, none of them paying him any attention.

  Zeb had that knack of staying still, hiding his chi, so that even in broad daylight, in a crowd, people ignored him as if he didn’t exist. He buried his head in the paper, his finger following a line, his lips moving silently as he read.

  ‘Mohammed is playing them,’ one man said in a low voice. Heads drew closer, nodded in agreement. One man chuckled.

  ‘He disappears into the caves. Returns when the soldiers leave. He is a fox.’

  Their voices dropped further, making it harder for Zeb to overhear.

  He stayed back when they rose, embraced and left. His lips were still moving, his head was still bent, a villager engrossed in a rare newspaper.

  It didn’t surprise him that the residents spoke openly about the Taliban or even seemed to support them.

  Poppy funds most of this region. Their liveliho
od depends on it.

  Besides, many of the Afghans resented the Americans and coalition forces.

  We are the invaders.

  Another thought struck him as he neatly folded the paper.

  There’s a leak. There’s no other way Mohammed would know of the DEA team’s movement.

  Does the terrorist know I am here?

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Where is he?’ Atash Mohammed spat tobacco from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘Carter?’ Tucker drank from his canteen. ‘No sign of him. My people are looking out for him.’

  ‘What have you told them?’ Bykov leaned against the colonel’s vehicle, chewing on a twig.

  They were close to Keshem, in a clearing away from the highway. The terrorist had five men with him. He had arrived in his usual garb, the full body and face veil. The American and the Russian were unaccompanied.

  ‘That he’s a rogue mercenary, training the Taliban.’

  Bykov’s teeth flashed as he inspected the stick. ‘Won’t it get back to your people?’

  ‘Nope,’ Tucker drawled. ‘I have given no description. In any case, there are a few mercenaries in the country.’

  ‘My people are on the lookout, too,’ Mohammed said, wiping his face with a towel. One of his men jumped forward to take it back. Shooters doubled up as flunkies. ‘So far, no sign in Sori, Mir Darreh, or Raghi.’

  ‘How long do we need?’ Tucker turned to the Russian.

  ‘Two weeks. Why?’

  ‘There’s an attack coming,’ the American briefed them. ‘In two weeks’ time. Air and ground attacks.’

  ‘To flush me out?’ Mohammed grinned, unperturbed.

  ‘Not just you. Yawar Hafiz, Mir Kalan, Abdul Malek, others as well.’

  All the Taliban commanders and the drug traffickers had informal agreements with one another. They wouldn’t encroach on the others’ poppy fields. They would share intel on safe routes and police and coalition action. And they came together when attacking the Western forces.

  ‘They tried. Twice. We are still here.’ The terrorist smirked, stroking his beard.

  ‘And they will keep doing so until you are dead. Don’t underestimate us,’ Tucker retorted sharply.

  ‘That doesn’t give us much time.’ Bykov, playing the role of peacekeeper, stood between the men. ‘We need three or four more weeks to extract, pack and have everything ready.’