by K. D. Lamb
“Interesting. He wants them dead?”
“Yes. Sick, isn’t it? Obviously, he wants to bury the truth for good.”
“That’s right! The only remaining people alive in Afghanistan who have knowledge of the events at the palace that night are Kendall and Rashid. But how ironic, as it also includes me. General Omar just doesn’t know it.”
“But why does he need them dead?”
“My guess is for two reasons. So he doesn’t have to compete with Rashid, and to obviate the need for further investigation.”
“Ruthless bastard!”
“To put it mildly, Daniel.”
“How is she ever going to survive if everyone thinks she’s behind the assassination and bombing?”
Fields sighed. “I just wish we knew if she was still alive!”
Daniel brightened. “We do know that, and she is.”
The Orion CEO stood up, he was so excited. He stammered, “Why, er … How do you know that?” He sank back down into his plush executive chair.
“Because the Afghan news reported that Rashid and a woman were seen in a town by the name of Bamiyan. They were spotted at some caves—”
“Yes, yes, I know those! That’s where the world famous Buddhist statues are that the Taliban desecrated. Go on … what happened at the caves?” Fields voice was intense as he prompted Daniel for more information.
“The officials claim the two set off a bomb disrupting a local event and causing a boy’s death. Needless to say, the Afghan people are looking for blood now. They also want those two dead now.”
“But how were they identified in Bamiyan?”
“They were living in a cave, and people around them noticed they were different, and that they spoke English.”
“So, were they caught?”
“So far, no. They escaped a few minutes ahead of the military police and have not been seen since. Paul, they seem to be staying a step ahead of the authorities, but just barely. And how?”
“That’s easy! From what I saw of Rashid, he’s intelligent and quick witted. He can also take care of himself. The man would make a perfect CIA operative or Navy Seal. He has the ability to blend in. My guess is that’s what’s keeping them alive. As far as Kendall, do we know for sure that it’s her?”
“No, Paul, but it’s got to be her. If they were speaking English, it’s her. I just can’t believe she survived the bombing of the Afghan government building.”
“I wonder what the Bamiyan bombing thing is, and who got killed? Rashid wouldn’t go around arbitrarily setting off bombs and killing children. There has to be another explanation.”
“So, where do we go from here?”
“Daniel, can you bring up a map of the Bamiyan area for both of us to see? Let’s connect remotely. Oh, and don’t even think about data streaming my computer with Proph. Ha!”
Daniel thought, Hmm! Too late … already done. He expertly input the various codes, and finally the computers were linked to the same site. They were both seeing identical images but on their own laptops.
Fields studied the map and frowned. “Shit! Bamiyan is in the center of the country! They’re going further into Afghanistan when they need to be getting out! They could head in any direction, including across Shibar Pass, which is probably the way they came. But no way would they take that back into Kabul without running into troops.”
“There’s Herat to the West towards Iran. Hmm. That’s unlikely too, as Iran would love to get its hands on a young American with no passport.”
“Right. The Israelis told me there was bombing all day along the eastward route from Kabul to the Khyber Pass and into Pakistan. General Omar blamed it on Rashid and Kendall, but I don’t know why that area would be bombed.”
“Okay, so we know they wouldn’t be heading west or east. They could go south to Kandahar, but there’s some pretty treacherous-looking unpaved roads between Bamiyan and Kandahar.”
Fields finally offered a theory. “I think they’re headed north to Mazar-e-Sharif, near the border with Uzbekistan. It totally makes sense. But they would need to stay off the main roads and highways.”
Daniel jumped in, “So they lay low for a while at some place that has water nearby.”
The excited CEO jumped up and shouted, “That’s it! Oh my God, I know where they are!”
The young techie squinted at his screen, wondering what the boss was seeing that he wasn’t. “Where?”
“They’re at the Band-e-Amir Lakes! That place has six lakes and lots of camping. It’s part of a National Park.”
“So, it’s good?”
“Well, maybe not. If we can figure it out, surely that pointy-headed General Omar can too, especially after they were spotted in Bamiyan.”
“What happens if they are seen at those Lakes?”
Fields shook his head. “That would not be good. It looks like there’s only one road in and out. Otherwise, it’s over the mountain pass on foot.”
“How long would it take them to get to Mazar-e-Sharif?”
“Probably more than a week. And by that time, General Omar would’ve sent up helicopters, and they’d be spotted. Damn! This is not good.”
“What do we do, Paul?”
“You get back to monitoring Omar and the military’s activities. It sounds like Kendall and Rashid will get cornered. Since they’re headline news in Afghanistan, we should be able to get up-to-date reports on them. I’ll call some of my friends in DC and make sure they know that Kendall is alive, and that both she and Rashid need rescuing.”
Daniel didn’t dare let on that he knew who that person was and their connection with Fields. The call was ended and the link-up terminated. Next, Fields picked up the phone to dial his frat brother, Frank Reynolds, at the NSA.
Mossad leader Benjamin Zimmerman was pacing his office as he watched the scene unfold over the satellite image. He saw the movement of Afghanistan troops into the Band-e-Amir Lakes and visibly calmed down. He had thought for sure that idiot, General Omar, was going to lose track of Rashid and the girl. But fortunately, Rashid still had the satellite phone with him. Even though it was deactivated, the Mossad was still able to follow their path because of a built-in electronic tracking device. The Mossad didn’t always tell its young agents everything they needed to know … particularly when it involved spying on their own. So, the Mossad had been able to track Rashid from Kabul over the Shibar Pass to Bamiyan and then on to the Band-e-Amir Lakes.
When it looked like General Omar had lost the trail, the Mossad sent the hapless Afghan leader an anonymous, untraceable email, pointing the Afghan troops into the Band-e-Amir Lakes. From a look at the satellite view, the message had been received.
Now Zimmerman need only wait for confirmation through the media of the deaths, since they would never be allowed to survive more than an hour after capture. His blood still boiled at the thought that Rashid had probably taken Shazeb’s drug money. Yes, it would be satisfying to know when the two were dead. The coupe de gras would be that Afghanistan, and the rest of the world, would never know that it was Israel that had bombed the palace, the government building, and the farms and trucks on the northeastern roadway into Pakistan. The secret would die with Rashid and Kendall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
RASHID AWOKE EARLY TO AN uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He unfastened the tent ties and scrambled out into the clear morning sun. The pristine, undisturbed lake waters lay before him, and yet he couldn’t enjoy them. He looked around for the source of his discomfort, and everything seemed normal. He walked over to the drying carp and it remained undisturbed from the night before. He saw a cloud of dust in the distance, toward the visitor area, and rummaged around for his binoculars.
Peering through the lens, he froze. Right in front of the little hotel and visitor center were ten military vehicles with men walking about readying themselves for the day.
Rashid flew into action. He ran over to the tent and knelt down. “Kendall, get up quick! The milit
ary’s here. Put on the blue robes with the head covering. Help me unload the rest of the jeep. I have to get rid of it now.”
Without a word, she willingly did as he said, stopping only long enough to find a large boulder to pee behind, and stuff a quick bite of dried fruit and nuts into her mouth. The jeep was unloaded in ten minutes. He made a fire for her and told her to sit next to it, with her back to the dusty road. Before he left, he handed her a stiff branch with coarse needles on it and instructed her to wipe away any signs of the jeep’s tire tracks.
He took off in the jeep away from their campsite, driving across the open terrain. He was very careful of the landmines that dotted the land. A large rise loomed ahead. He drove about a mile around to the back side of it and then put the jeep in low gear and climbed as far as he could up the steep slope. The jeep jostled and bucked over the dried weeds and loose rocks. He was able to go about a quarter of a mile up the side of the incline and finally stopped. He was now on the back side of the cliff from where Kendall and the lakes were.
He couldn’t afford to blow up the jeep now, as it would cause an explosion and attract attention. He shut the engine down and jumped out. After giving the jeep a once-over to make sure they had removed their belongings, he put the vehicle in neutral and pushed it off the cliff face. It landed on the rock-strewn floor below with a huge crash of twisted metal, and sent up a dust cloud that quickly dispersed.
Rashid made his way down the steep hillside and surveyed the wreckage. He gathered up nearby branches and threw them onto the pieces of the twisted vehicle frame. Anyone venturing past would now think it had lain there for some time, maybe even years. One would need to get fairly close to even identify it as an old jeep. Because of the constant wars over the past forty years, old, rusted, broken-down jeeps were not an uncommon site. Rashid banked on that being the case.
As he headed back the way he came, he missed the bits of aluminum alloy and polymers scattered about that used to be his satellite phone, courtesy of the Mossad. It had been stowed far into the wheel well to escape the notice from any surprise inspection.
He continued on his way toward the campsite and used a scraggly branch to wipe away the faint tire tracks. One good dust storm would eliminate the tracks, but he didn’t want to take any chances. It took him longer to walk back, as he needed to be extra careful to avoid the landmines. Finally, he was within half a mile of the campsite when he saw the camel train off to the right behind a rise in the distance. He changed course and walked toward it.
In the meantime, ten of Omar’s troops headed to the far end of the lake where Rashid and Kendall’s campsite was, and ten worked their way from the visitor area. They planned to meet in the middle and keep in contact by radio transmission.
Kendall was terrified as the approaching jeeps made themselves heard over the rough, unpaved roadway. As she quickly scanned their campsite, her stomach lurched when she saw how scattered and messy their site was. A hasty, dusty, tarp had been haphazardly thrown over some of their more expensive items in an effort to hide their distinctive western or more modernized things. Making matters worse, she thought, was that she was in bare feet … not having had time to locate the paizar or flat shoes worn by Afghan women, which the female doctor Maysah Siddra had been so kind to provide her with.
The military men got out at the end of the roadway seventy-five feet from her and walked about, pointing and gesturing over the lake and land. They did not approach her or say anything to her. She held her breath, and a small Afghan Snow Finch landed on a nearby tree branch overlooking the lake. She focused on the little bird and recalled that Rashid had pointed it out the day before as being a species exclusive to Afghanistan. She noticed right away that it was making the sharp tsi alarm tone rather than the usual zig-zig sound, as Rashid had shown her. She thought, wryly, that was particularly fitting under the circumstances, but it didn’t do anything to assuage her immediate fears.
As the soldiers looked around their sloppy campsite, she soon realized they were regarding it with derision and contempt. They had chalked this family up to being poor, unfortunate souls who had little by way of possessions. They most likely deserved their lot in life because of the careless way they treated their belongings. One soldier made a loud comment and gestured toward Kendall sitting rigidly around the fire, her robes only just covering her bare feet. The others laughed and then walked to their vehicles and drove away to the next camp site.
What she didn’t realize was that the sloppiness of the campsite, coupled with her rigid lack of curiosity toward the soldiers, actually saved her. They were so disgusted at the careless scene, they wanted to be away from it lest they too succumbed to a dull and poverty-stricken life, with next-to-nothing to their names. As they drove away, they were glad of their own lives and the meager possessions they had. In their eyes, at least they had something by way of a small house or a few children.
Rashid had made his way to the camel train and saw that the people were a large, extended, closely knit family of Kuchi nomads who had made the Band-e-Amir Lakes their home for a few weeks. Their sheep, goats, and camels were grazing around the nearby slopes under the watchful eyes of the Kuchi tribes’ young men. Sauntering up, he approached an elder overseeing a line of kneeling Arabian dromedary, or single-humped camels, contentedly chewing their cud in the mid-morning sun.
The older man nodded and voiced a Pashtun greeting. He quickly sized up a very dirty and tired—and slightly rank—Rashid as most likely a military deserter. He had a look of strength and vigor, and was obviously well-fed. He carried himself like a leader and seemed to be independent and strong-willed. The elder was curious what the young man wanted, and being no fan of the late President Shazeb or the military, had no bone to pick with him, per se.
Rashid pointed towards the camels and inquired about purchasing an older—maybe twenty-five-year-old—camel. The Kuchi elder nodded and was pleased with his first impression. This poor young man didn’t have much money and could not afford one of the prized younger camels.
The wizened man figured he wouldn’t get much Afghani from this guy. He shrewdly moved over to a thirty-five-year old camel that looked as if it wouldn’t last the day, and indicated he would sell this one for a very fair price. Rashid eyed the soft, small hump and thinning quarters and asked the wrinkled man to have it stand. The elder complied. The young man quickly realized the camel’s breast pad, which would bear the most weight, was weak and the girth unsteady. Rashid felt a flash of anger at the insult at being offered such a broken-down animal. But he held his annoyance in check and vehemently shook his head.
They moved on to an average but sturdy-looking male camel. “This camel’s name is Babar. He is a younger, strong camel. I will sell him to you for a quarter million Afghani.” The old guy doubted the younger man even had that much Afghani.
Rashid was pleasantly surprised, but knew that was all he had on him … at this very moment. He feigned shock. “But that’s all I have. I need to buy rope and padding.”
The old man nodded, “And you also need a saddle and permanganate for any wounds.”
Rashid’s face fell, as he realized he may just have to buy the old rickety camel. But the shriveled old man took pity at the crestfallen look on Rashid’s face, and agreed to the purchase price of a quarter million Afghani or approximately $5,000, which would include two ropes, three old pads, and the medicine he would need, along with surgical scissors and a knife.
Since Rashid needed a saddle, the older man helped him construct a crude but functional four-stick camel saddle, the kind often used in Kenya and Somalia. After the three pads were placed over Babar’s back, two pairs of sticks were crossed over the withers on one end and the breast plate on the other. The sticks were held into place with a rope that passed under Babar’s belly. Now, Rashid would be able to sling his two large water skins on either side of the animal. The saddle would also help balance the load.
Rashid dug Afghani out his pockets. It was almost com
ical the way Afghani were popping out of every nook and cranny on Rashid’s clothing. It also gave the impression this was all the money he had in the world. The old man went away satisfied but feeling slightly guilty that he had just taken all of the younger man’s Afghani.
An hour later, Kendall looked up to see Rashid, dressed in the same traditional nomadic robes with a Kufi white hat perched on his head, leading a camel carefully over the rocky landscape. Using a stick to control the camel, Rashid looked comfortable maneuvering the animal. Kendall laughed when she was told its name was “Babar.”
They quickly loaded all of their supplies and headed out in the same direction of the jeep remains. Kendall filled Rashid in on the soldiers’ coming around. He was nervous, and felt they would be back at the campsite if anyone mentioned that a jeep had been parked there for the past couple of days.
As they walked somewhat close to the remnants of the jeep, Rashid indicated the heap of metal off to the right. Kendall could tell he was struggling with having to part with the vehicle. It had been with him for over ten years and, just like that, he had smashed it to pieces. He averted his eyes and trained them on their route up into the Hindu Kush Mountains.
They walked for two hours and were finally far enough away that Rashid felt they could stop for a break and a decent meal. They stopped near a stream and washed the dirt and grime from their hands and faces. Babar began to drink an enormous amount of water. Kendall fretted. “He’s going to get sick! He’s drinking too much at a time.”
Rashid laughed. “He’s fine! Camels can drink a hundred and fifty liters, or about thirty-nine gallons of water at a time.”
“My God! We’d better stay close to water.”
“It doesn’t work that way. He’s just storing it. He doesn’t really sweat. When he exhales, the vapor is reabsorbed into his body, conserving water.”
Kendall was feeling cranky. “Whatever! I’m starved! What are we going to eat?”