Right now, they were working with little to no information, beyond the fact bounties were being paid. They had no idea who was paying it beyond a vague sketch, who was paying that person, or even the purpose behind it beyond killing Americans.
The comms squawked overhead. “Control, this is Diggler. Come in, over.”
Leroux snatched his headset, fitting it in place, detecting the urgency in his friend’s voice. “This is Control. Go ahead, Diggler.”
“We’ve got new intel. It turns out our friend was holding out on us. The thousand dollars per head was a bonus to him personally. The village itself received ten thousand a head.”
Leroux’s heart raced as he turned in his chair. Everyone in the room was stunned, especially after discussing what $1,000 meant to someone in Afghanistan compared to the United States. $10,000 changed the equation entirely. “Then where is the rest of the money? You said there was less than six thousand in the envelope.”
“There was. He handed the envelope over to his imam because he felt he didn’t deserve it. He used it to buy supplies for the village, then donated the rest. Apparently, the remaining sixty was in his vehicle.”
Leroux collapsed back in his chair, staring into the distance as he processed this new information. It explained a lot, like why a village was willing to murder American soldiers who had never done anything but help them. $60,000 was an astronomical amount in a country like that. But it changed the equation the other way as well. They had been searching for somebody who had supplied at least $30,000, now they were after somebody who supplied at least $300,000. A much different sum. $30,000 pulled together, over multiple withdraws was far easier than $300,000. And with no signs of these attacks letting up, $300,000 could be the tip of the iceberg.
“Are we sure about this?” he finally asked.
“He has no reason to lie, and look at where we’re headed. Our target has a shiny new nightmare on four wheels, satellite dishes, new roof, new everything. Six grand doesn’t buy that, but sixty-six does.”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to lean a lot harder on this guy than I did Jafar. We need answers. With these dollar amounts, this is bigger than we thought, and the players might be as well.”
“Agreed,” said Leroux. “I’m going to recommend we go back into the last village and search for that money. The serial numbers might provide us with more information.”
“Copy that, Control. Keep me posted. Our ETA is thirty minutes to the next target.”
“Copy that, Diggler. Control, out.” Leroux disconnected and turned to the room of highly experienced analysts. “This changes the scope of things. Let’s see if we can figure out how close together the withdrawals were made geographically and timewise. It might give us an indication as to how many people are involved. If things are happening close together but far apart, we have to assume this isn’t a couple of people withdrawing small donations from supporters around the world. This is something bigger with funding that goes beyond what we thought. Start pulling banking transactions as well where we have taps. See if we can find anything in common like wire transfers arriving at multiple banks from the same source. Any type of pattern that might identify where the money came from and who withdrew it.”
“We’re on it, boss,” said Tong.
Leroux rose. “I’m going to go brief the Chief. This new intel could change everything.”
24 |
Cheyabi, Afghanistan
Firash relaxed in his above-ground pool without a care in the world as the sun baked him. He now floated in more water than he had ever seen in person outside of a river or lake. It was luxurious. It was something he had only seen in pictures. A dream beyond reach. But the moment the offer had been presented to him, it was the first thing he could picture purchasing with the promised bounty.
He just wished he lived somewhere he could truly enjoy it.
In America, he had no doubt a pool like this and a fancy car—if he could get it to work—would have women fawning over him non-stop. But Afghanistan was far too conservative a country for that. Perhaps in Kabul, he might attract some questionable women, especially foreign women, but not here in the middle of nowhere.
For now, he’d be content to enjoy the fruits of very little labor. All he had done was gather a dozen of his friends, promised them each $500, then took photos of the aftermath. He didn’t care about the Americans. As far as he was concerned, they were no different than the Russians, though he could honestly say he had never met a Russian. They had been forced out long before he was born. But as far as he was concerned, they were all the same. Foreign invaders. Yes, things had improved, but they were rapidly worsening, and nobody believed that the central government would maintain control after the foreigners left. So he had snatched his opportunity, and for the past several weeks, was living an unbelievable life.
He just wished the damn SUV worked.
He was happy, his friends were happy, and the community was happy when he bought the mosque a new truck. The entire event had gone so smoothly, it had been almost easy. The ambush had been set up outside of town, and when the Americans left, those he had hired for the job had merely opened fire with the weapons provided by the others that had arrived that morning. The strangers did most of the work. They fired the rockets, they threw the grenades. If anyone from his village had killed an American, it was purely by luck.
But it didn’t matter where the bullets came from—he was paid for every photo. It was so easy. When he collected his money, he offered his services for any future jobs. His contact had been non-committal, but said he would reach out should an opportunity arise. He hadn’t heard from him and was tempted to call the man himself. What his contact didn’t realize when explaining how to use the phone given to coordinate the mission, was that he was fully aware of how to use it. He loved tech, and was in charge of the village’s satellite phone.
He knew what he was doing, so pulling the phone number from the speed dial setting was easy—a fact he kept to himself when returning the phone after being paid. And because he had done that, it meant he could reach out himself. With the Americans soon pulling out, there wouldn’t be many more opportunities to earn this type of money, perhaps for the rest of his life.
He eyed through the rear door the satellite phone charging on a table inside. The urge to call was overwhelming. Little of the money was left, and as he had already discovered, the Western lifestyle required money to maintain it. He growled at his misfortune with the SUV.
There was a knock at the front door. He climbed out of the pool, toweled off, then threw on a robe as whoever it was knocked again. “I’m coming! Give me a moment!” He rushed through the living area, unable to hold back his grin at the 65-inch flat-screen powered by the new solar panels with content fed by the new satellite dishes on his roof, with entertainment from all around the world—including pornography, something he had only heard of but had never seen. The television had revealed a world to him he hadn’t known existed. It was wondrous, confusing, terrifying.
And he wasn’t certain he wanted to be part of it.
Life was simple here, but hard. Until a couple of weeks ago, it was the only life he knew, and now that he was aware of how much better it was in the rest of the world, he wasn’t sure he was happy with his own reality. The novelties he had bought with the one-time windfall he was meant to share with his village, but instead kept for himself, certainly were helping him forget his current plight, but as he had already discovered with the car, these things would break in time, then he’d be left where he was previously—a poor man in a poor country, though this time with a taste of what life could be.
The veil that had hidden the world outside was now lifted away.
Permanently.
He opened the door and his heart leaped into his throat at the sight of a white man standing there, smiling broadly, with an Afghan behind him.
“Hi there. My name is Dylan Kane. I represent Shaw’s of Londo
n. It’s an insurance company. Do you know what insurance is?” the man asked in what he assumed was English, the other one translating.
Firash said nothing, still stunned at the situation. He couldn’t recall a white person being in his village that wasn’t either a soldier, or accompanied by them. He finally shook his head as he realized the question was left dangling, unanswered.
“Well, insurance is designed to protect your valuables, like that fancy car and the TV I can see down the hall.”
Firash’s eyes shot wide, a possible solution to his problem being presented. “So, if something breaks, you’ll fix it?”
The man smiled broadly at the translation. “Stolen, broken, damaged, anything. You simply pay a small monthly fee, and if something happens, you let us know and we take care of it. Like that car you’ve got there. Judging by the make, I assume it’s not working?”
Firash muttered a curse. “It worked for three days.”
Kane laughed. “I’m sorry to hear that, my friend, but if you agree to go with our insurance, I’ll write it up so that it says the car was in perfect working order. Then you just wait a few weeks, call us and tell us there’s something wrong with the car, and my company will take care of everything. May we come in to discuss it?”
Firash rapidly agreed, stepping aside, and the two men entered. He closed the door and turned to face them when Kane’s hand darted out and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing with a grip unlike anything he had ever thought possible.
And then in perfect Pashto, the man said, “You and I are going to have a little talk, and if I don’t feel you’re telling me the truth, your friends are going to find you drowned in your fancy pool.”
Firash grabbed at Kane’s hand, struggling to remove it from around his throat, to no avail.
“Do you understand the position you’re in?”
Firash nodded, his eyes filling with tears as he slowly grew faint. Kane eased up slightly on his grip, then hauled him down the hallway before shoving him into a chair. The translator bound his hands behind his back, leaving him completely at the mercy of this crazed American.
Kane pulled another chair closer and sat in front of him, staring directly at him. “What’s your name?”
“F-Firash.”
“Do you know why we’re here?”
Firash knew. Of course he knew. He wasn’t a fool. “No.”
Kane smacked him across the cheek, the sting in some way worse than a punch, for there was an element of humiliation to it. You punched a man. You slapped a woman. And Kane’s action emasculated him.
“I’ll ask you again, or we’re going to conduct this interrogation in your pool. Do you know why we’re here?”
Firash closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Good, but just so we’re clear, you tell me why we’re here.”
Firash’s shoulders slumped. This would be his punishment for participating in the deaths of the infidels, for once he revealed the truth, there was no way they were letting him live. But at least he would die a martyr, and his eternity in Jannah would be the bliss all good Muslims lived their lives in service for. “You’re here because of what happened,” he finally said.
“And what happened?”
“The American soldiers were killed.”
“Exactly. Tell us everything, and you live, and we won’t even take away your toys.”
Firash’s eyes shot wide at the prospect of surviving the day, and told them everything about being approached in the market by a man who offered his village $10,000 per dead soldier, plus a $1000 bonus to him personally. He had asked if it were necessary to give the money to the village, and was told what he did with the money was up to him. He could share it with his community, his friends, or keep it for himself, but he had to supply a dozen men willing to fight, and perhaps die. He hadn’t any concept of how much money that was, but there was no doubt it was an enormous amount, something that would change his life for the better.
And he had indicated his interest.
The man had given him a cellphone, explained how to use it, and told him to call when a decision was made. He had gone home, talked to a group of friends, and offered them a pittance, though the amount was still more than any of them had seen in their lifetimes. An agreement had been reached, and it had been far easier than he would have thought. The Americans had never done anything to hurt them, and if anything, had only helped them, but they were leaving. And everybody wanted to be on the right side of the Taliban, and helping them while getting payouts was a win-win for everyone.
Except of course, for the Americans.
He had made the call, agreed to the terms, and provided the date and time of the next American visit. Six Taliban had arrived that morning, showed them the weapons, coordinated the attack, then disappeared the moment the last shot was fired. He took his photos, then everyone returned to the village, keeping their mouths shut. Two days later, he met with the man, received his payment, and was told that if anyone asked him about the money, to say he found it in a government convoy that had been attacked.
And he hadn’t heard from the man since.
Kane pulled a tablet computer out of his satchel, then tapped on it several times, bringing up a drawing of a man. He held it up for Firash to see. “Is this the man you met?”
Firash stared at the drawing. “It does look like him, though I couldn’t really say one way or the other, except to say that it’s definitely not not him.”
Kane frowned, apparently not pleased with his response.
“I have a picture of him if you want.”
Kane’s eyes widened and the translator’s jaw dropped. “How the hell did you get a photo of him?”
“The village has a satellite phone so whoever is driving the truck into town for supplies takes it, just in case. So, when I went to collect my pay-out, I used it to take a photo of him when he was approaching, just in case if I ever got caught, I could perhaps bargain for my freedom.”
Kane leaned back and chuckled. “You might just have saved your ass a good beating. Where is this photo?”
“It’s still on the phone.”
“And where’s the phone?”
He jerked his chin at a table against the wall, a satellite phone sitting on top, charging with the only electricity in the village. The translator stepped over to the table and unplugged the phone, handing it to Kane. He worked it expertly, then held it up, showing the photo in question.
“Is this him?”
Firash nodded, his heart hammering with the realization he had just betrayed the Taliban. If they found out, not only would he die, but it would be a horribly painful death, and could mean the end for his entire village.
“Do you have a name for him?”
“No, I know nothing of him.”
“The phone he gave you, where is it?”
“He took it back when he paid me.”
“And the number that he had you call?”
This was a lie he had to tell. He could lie to the Taliban about the photo, say that the American had shown it to him, not that he had taken it, but there was no way to explain the phone number. “It was programmed into the phone. I have no idea what it was.”
Kane appeared satisfied with this and handed the phone back to his translator, then passed him the tablet that had been sitting on his lap. “Copy the photo onto this.”
The traitor to his country perched on a window ledge and went to work as Kane leaned forward.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Firash shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What about the men that arrived that morning? Anything about them?”
Another shake of the head.
“You didn’t take any photos?”
“No.”
“Did you speak to any of them?”
Firash thought for a moment. “To one of them, yes. He explained what would happen and showed us how to work the weapons.”
“What about the others
?”
“No. They mostly kept to themselves.”
“Did you hear them say anything to each other?”
Firash’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so, but they must have. I guess I just didn’t notice.”
“So, you didn’t hear them speak Pashto or another language?”
His eyes narrowed further. “Another language?”
Kane finally came out and asked the question directly. “Did you get the impression that any of them weren’t from Afghanistan?”
Firash’s jaw dropped and he leaned back. Just the mere suggestion had his mind racing, and it flashed back to the day of the attack. His assignment was to take the photos only, to be the liaison, so he hadn’t been involved in the shooting, but his friends had, and they had all been shouting instructions to each other, the heat of the battle intense despite lasting less than ten minutes. But as he pictured what had happened, as he replayed the events in his head, he realized the Taliban had said nothing during the entire firefight.
His jaw slackened at a memory. “They used hand signals!”
“What?”
He stared at Kane. “They never said anything, but they used hand signals during the fight.”
Kane’s head bobbed slowly. “Interesting.”
As his captor scratched his chin, Firash wondered what the man was thinking. This was obviously an American spy. What did the use of hand signals mean? Why was he so curious about whether the outsiders had spoken? His own curiosity won out. “Why is this important?” he asked.
Kane ignored him, instead abruptly rising and turning to the translator, saying something in English. The translator packed up his equipment, leaving the satphone charging before cutting the bindings free.
Firash rubbed his wrists. “What are you going to do to me?”
The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021) Page 10