by Jeff Buick
Carson hated coincidences. He didn't trust them.
The cab driver pulled him back from the quiet world of processing disturbing thoughts. The fare was nine dollars. Carson handed the man twenty and waved off the change. He swiped his card in the reader and signed in, calling the night security man by name and asking how his pregnant wife was faring with the summer heat. He let the guard know that Alicia would be coming in soon and took the elevator to forty-six. He unlocked his office and powered up his computer. Minutes later, Alicia appeared at his door.
"What's going on, Carson?" she asked. "Does this have something to do with the algorithm?"
Carson shook his head. "No. Chui and I were watching how it performed today and it was okay. Chased a couple of smaller stocks, but didn't drive anything beyond a realistic value. I think it'll be okay. We're going to keep our eye on it, though."
"Okay, then it's about that e-mail from Trey Miller that you asked me to trace."
He nodded. "Sit down, please," he said, pointing to the chair facing the desk. Behind them the skyline of Manhattan was darkening. Shadows danced off the buildings and the park was a huge black rectangle.
"This thing with Miller has me worried," he said.
"No shit," she replied. "The guy is CIA."
"Ex-CIA. He hasn't worked for the agency for a few years."
Alicia shook her head. "It hardly matters. Aaron sent me a copy of the file. He killed people, Carson."
Carson's hands were shaking slightly. "I know, Alicia. It's not good news." He leaned forward, his elbows firmly on the desk. It masked the tremors coursing through his body. "That's why I want you to pull every e-mail Miller has sent to Fleming off Fleming's computer."
She stared at him, wide-eyed. She didn't move for fifteen seconds, then shook her head. "That's crazy, Carson."
A strange calm settled in over him and he stopped shaking. "No, it's not. It's what we have to do. It's possible that Fleming is involved in something illegal, and whatever he's planning could easily filter down and bite you and me and Chui in our proverbial asses. We need to protect ourselves, and the best way to do that is to find out exactly what Fleming is up to."
She didn't look convinced. "You're talking about hacking into his computer. William Fleming's computer. I don't need to remind you that he's one of the richest men in the world. And powerful. And I doubt if he would be very forgiving if he found out. You, and I, could kiss our careers on Wall Street goodbye."
"So let's make sure we don't get caught."
"Not funny, Carson."
"Can you get in?" he asked.
She didn't answer for a minute, just stared out the window at the privileged view. Finally, she nodded. "Probably. I could go in through your computer and since it's on the same server I'd only have to figure out his password to have access to his e-mail. It's not difficult."
Carson's eyes bored into her. "Alicia, I'm worried and I can't sleep. If Fleming is planning something, we need to know. Breaking through firewalls and cracking passwords isn't my thing. I need your help."
"When?" she asked.
"Now. He's back from Cabo on Friday and his secretary told me that he never checks his e-mails while he's there. I'm not sure when we'll have another opportunity like this. When he's in New York he always has his Blackberry on."
She glanced over at Carson's computer, the screen backlit and casting a soft pall across the room. "This is dangerous," she said.
"So is doing nothing."
Alicia stood and walked to the window. There was no reason for her to do what Carson was asking. William Fleming was her boss - the man who ran one of the most prestigious and powerful trading firms in the world. He had the right to conduct business as he saw fit, providing it didn't circumvent the law. Pushing things to the limit was a trademark of almost every billionaire on the Forbes list. They didn't get there by being the nice guy on the block and allowing the competition to run roughshod over them. They set the pace and others followed. Fleming was no different.
But what Carson was suggesting was troubling. The reference to a crash being inevitable was like being hit in the gut with a sucker punch. The last thing Wall Street, or America, needed was another market crash. If Fleming was setting things up for a fall, with plans of swooping in and picking the meat off the carcass, then he had to be stopped. But it was a huge if. They had no proof. Nothing tangible. Not yet, at least. A quick look into his computer could change that.
She sucked in a deep breath and said, "Okay, but we're in and out. We find what we're looking for, download it and leave. The shorter length of time we're poking around in his e-mail the better."
"Of course." Carson slid out from behind his desk and Alicia took his place.
She started typing. "I need to capture the traffic inside the network. The easiest way to do that is to use EnCase to make an offline copy and analyze it later, or to insert a packet sniffer like WireShark to identify and capture e-mails. But both of those require foresight."
"Sorry about that," Carson said.
"It's okay, I have other ways." She worked for another couple of minutes, then pointed at the screen. "There it is. The e-mail from Trey Miller."
"Can you group all the e-mails from him together?"
"Easy." She hit the from tab and the computer ordered the e-mail alphabetically.
"Download all of them," Carson said, then added, "please."
There were four in total and she highlighted them and sent them to the memory stick. Another click and the e-mails went back to being ordered by the date they arrived. Alicia moved the curser to sign out, but Carson touched her hand.
"Open that one," he said, pointing.
She hesitated, then clicked on a mail from Jorge with Arrived safely in KAF in the subject line. It opened revealing a message only five words in length.
Crates at KAF. Submit invoice.
"Why this one?" Alicia asked.
"I think KAF is short for Kandahar Airfield. I have a buddy who spent some time over there and he always referred to it as KAF. He said it a lot and it stuck." He leaned closer to the screen, peering over her shoulder. "Can you reorder them so everything from Jorge is together?"
She glanced back at him for a second, then clicked on the from button. There were three from Jorge since July 27th. "You want me to save them?" she asked.
"Please."
Alicia sent them to the memory stick, reset Fleming's e-mail to its original settings and exited the program. She pulled the memory stick from the USB port and handed it to Carson.
"Thanks for doing that," he said, taking the stick and slipping it in his pocket.
"It's okay," she said. "Let's hope we're still employed next week."
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Chapter
32
Day 17 - 8.12.10 - Morning News
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Halima was beginning to see the upside to living in Peshawar. The days without food and clean water would be history. Watching her younger sisters go hungry was no longer something she would have to live with every day.
It had been a while since she'd seen her father happy. She couldn't remember the last time, but she knew it was while her mother was still alive. The Taliban had ruined his hand when they crushed it with the rifle, but they had ruined his life when they came back to reclaim the area around Kandahar. It brought more war and a never-ending stream of conflict. Finally, when he met the man from Peshawar, there was a glimmer of hope in him.
He wanted this so badly for her. And for Aaqila and Danah. He had told her that if she went to live with this family in Pakistan that he would be able to buy food and water for years. That the family would be so happy to hav
e her that they would pay him. He cried when he told her this - and begged her forgiveness for selling her. She had touched his hand and told him that he wasn't selling her, simply making a good decision.
He left the room, the tears falling freely.
When he returned he was composed. He apologized for showing such weakness and asked her if she could refrain from telling anyone. She burrowed her head into his chest and held him as tight as her thin arms could. That was three days ago. Now, today, he had left a few hours earlier with a different man to go to the bank. She didn't understand what a bank was, but he told her it was a place to store money. She thought it was strange that he didn't keep it under the blanket. That was where he always kept his money, even as much as two or three dollars.
Footsteps from the stairwell echoed through the room and all three girls looked at the door with fear and mistrust. Seconds later their father shuffled into the room. He smiled and knelt down with his arms out.
"Aaqila, Danah, look what I have for you," he said. He thrust his hand into his tunic and pulled out a small bag of candy. They scampered over to him and he doled it out to them as they giggled. When each had taken their share and had retreated across the room to compare their treats, he motioned to Halima. "Come here," he said softly.
She sat beside him. He was trembling as he slipped a thin package from under his tunic. It was a plastic bag from a store in the center of Kandahar. One of her friends had brought a similar bag to the marketplace. Everyone was envious. The friend had never told what was in the bag, just having it was privilege enough.
"Open it," he said. His voice was so gentle.
She cracked open the top flaps and peeked in. "Oh, father," she whispered as she pulled out the book and pencil. The cover was bright red and inside the pages were lined and blank. Ready for writing. The pencil was emblazoned with multi-colored flowers and sharpened to a flawless point. She ran her hand across the book cover, feeling its strength and smoothness. She had never held such a treasure.
"It's for your first day of school," Kadir said.
Halima looked at her father. There was no mistaking it. Her father was finally happy. She slipped her hand around his waist and snuggled into him. His breathing was slow and rhythmic. She felt something she had never felt before.
She felt safe.
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Chapter
33
Outside Spin Buldak, Afghanistan
"We've got something cool for you," Andrew said. He propped himself against the doorjamb. "If you want it."
Andrew's wiry frame was silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun and Russell squinted to see the soldier's backlit features. "What's that?"
"An interview. A meeting with one of the tribal elders from the Dabarey region."
Russell arched an eyebrow. "Now that's something I'd be interested in. When can we meet him?"
"Now. He's camped about three hundred meters outside the FOB."
Russell jumped to his feet. "He's here to see me?"
Andrew nodded. "Captain Hocking has spent a lot of time working with the people here and has a certain level of trust with the elders. He asked if one of them would meet with you and they agreed."
"Let's go," Russell said. He grabbed his laptop and stuffed some blank paper and pens in with his camera. "Can I photograph him?"
"I'm not sure, you'll have to ask. And this is your lucky day. The guy they sent to meet you speaks English."
"Thank God. I've worked with enough translators to know how tough it can be," Russell said.
A line of five Strykers was waiting near the front gate and Andrew and Russell piled into the third one, their heads poking out the rear hatch. Outside the wire the air was calm and the sun blistering hot. The eight-wheeled armored vehicles churned up clouds of dust as they tracked along the road leading west. Ahead, a group of three tents were pitched by the side of the road. The Strykers pulled up a bit short of the encampment and stopped. A soldier jumped to the ground and was met by four men in traditional Afghan garb, their tunics hanging limp in the dry, still air. A brief conversation ensued, then the soldier yelled up to the Stryker commander. A minute later the command came over the radio to set up a perimeter around the tents, and that the entire area had already been checked carefully for IEDs. The Strykers rumbled into position and shut down their engines. An eerie silence settled over the group.
"His name is Pacha Khan Zadran. Please don't insult him," Andrew said as they approached the tents.
"I'll do my best," Russell said, taking in the situation. The tent was open to the desert on the north side, from which they were approaching. Six men were in the tent, three seated and three standing. No weapons were in sight, but Russell wasn't naive enough to think that the tribal men weren't armed. Baggy clothes were of great benefit for hiding handguns, even rifles.
The man sitting in the middle appeared to be in his mid-sixties, with a flowing grey beard and a light orange turban. He wore eyeglasses with large dark frames and Russell was struck with the ridiculous thought that if Buddy Holly had been alive and living in southern Afghanistan, it could be him. He reached the edge of the tent and bowed slightly to the elder.
"Salaam aalaikum," he said.
"Pikheyr," Pacha Khan Zadran replied. The tribal elder motioned to a pillow opposite where he sat and said in accented English, "Please sit."
"Thank you." Russell slipped off his shoes and sat with his legs crossed and his toes pointing away from the tribal leader. This seemed to please the man and the next fifteen minutes was filled with offers of chai sabz and sweets and proper introductions. Pacha Khan Zadran spoke proudly of his Pashtun heritage - he was descended from Qais, an influential man who was like a brother to the Prophet Mohammed, and a member of the ruling Durrani clan.
"Why do you call it the ruling clan?" Russell asked. He sipped the chai sabz carefully, without making noise.
"Good question, Russell Khan," Zadran said, smiling. "Ahmad Shah Durrani was responsible for founding Afghanistan in 1747, and the Durrani clan has ruled Afghanistan ever since. As a member of the Popolzai clan, Hamid Karzai is a descendent of the Durranis. We have great influence over this country, both historically and today." The tribal elder adjusted his pillow slightly and said, "You are a journalist."
"Yes."
"For what newspaper?"
"It's not a newspaper. I work for a television station in Boston."
Zadran nodded approvingly. "Do many people listen to you?"
Russell laughed, but not too loudly. "Yes, I think so. But not my wife."
It was Zadran's turn to chuckle. "So this is a problem everywhere, not just Afghanistan." He sipped his tea and said, "You can ask questions if you wish."
"Thank you." Russell slipped his notepad and pen from his computer bag. There was no sense pushing things by pulling out a bunch of electronics. "The ISAF troops have been in your country for some time now. What do you think they have accomplished?"
Pacha Khan Zadran thought about the answer for a minute, then said, "I think the troops provided the Afghan people with a psychological sense that America is here. That the western world cares. For a time we felt protected. But that feeling waned with time. We, as a people, as a country, had high expectations. Perhaps too high. Now it is difficult. We bend and flex like the stem of a poppy, unsure who to stand behind."
"Us or the Taliban?" Russell asked.
"That's a very limited view, but if I were forced to answer it, I would say yes. Afghans want to believe the coalition troops will not only defeat the Taliban, but will also remain to help us rebuild. What happens if you don't? What happens if you leave? Having thrown our support behind you, we will face the wrath of the Taliban with no protection. That," Za
dran paused, "is an alarming thought."
"Your government is ramping up its focus to protect you. The Afghan National Police and the Army are getting stronger every day."
"That is true, but the perception of the Afghan people is that our government is weak. We believe a firm and just hand is needed." He shifted to get comfortable on the pillow and waved for more chai. "Let me give you an example."
"Please," Russell said, his pen poised over the paper.
"The region between Pakistan and Afghanistan is almost lawless. There are many small villages, few roads, no border outposts and the government has very little influence. In one of these regions there is a man who everyone refers to as the commander. He is the acknowledged leader of the entire area. One day, a man is brought in front of him, accused of raping a local woman. The commander listens to all sides of the story, and makes a decision after all witnesses have spoken. The man accused of rape disappears and is never seen again." Zadran set his empty teacup on a small sliver tray and held out his hands. "Problem - evidence - solution." His hands moved like the scales of justice as he spoke. "What the people of Afghanistan want is a government that operates like the commander. One with benevolence, intelligence, and the strength to make difficult decisions."
"I understand," Russell said. He scanned the notes on his page, then asked, "You perceive that your government is failing you. Are we, the troops and the NGOs, failing you as well?"
"It's not that you're failing us, Russell Khan, it's that there are different agendas. Contradictory ones."
Russell looked puzzled.