Jarvis sat down next to the only patron who could have passed as a US journalist. Not because he looked the part, but because the other two were a wealthy-looking middle aged man and a woman just under half his age who probably took gold bullion along with cash and AMEX for her companionship. No newsman on a foreign beat could afford her.
“Another Scotch and soda, and none of the latter.” The guy’s nose suggested this was a lifelong favorite. More veins than Joan Rivers’ legs. He looked at Jarvis and nodded. “You the Colonel’s friend?”
Jarvis was probably half a dozen drinks behind so he ordered a cold beer. Technically, alcohol wasn’t available for open purchase in Afghanistan. Neither were prostitutes nor drugs. “Yep.”
The beer arrived and each man drank slowly and quietly. Jarvis was in no hurry and he’d never found rushing a man led to quick answers. The journalist drained his glass and signaled to the bartender who waited close by.
“I hear you’ve got a couple good stories from your time back in ’03 when this crap started. I was in Darfur then, writing shit nobody read.” He sounded less drunk than Jarvis figured he had to be. “I’m Harding.”
They shook hands.
Jarvis didn’t look for opportunities to tell war stories, but he didn’t hesitate when talking to someone who understood. War correspondents often saw as much action as experienced soldiers.
“Maybe one or two. The one I wanted to share was in a shit town a hundred clicks from here. I walked in on a beheading.”
That got Harding’s attention. “Yeah, I know that story. Couple of RPGs took out a school. You saved a guy, sniper or somethin’. Ten more seconds and it would have been an internet highlight reel.”
There wasn’t much to add. Jarvis nodded over his drink. “One of the guys who was there, a wannabe, spent some time in interrogation at Abu Ghraib. I ran into him the other day.”
The journalist looked around the bar as though a terrorist attack were imminent. It wasn’t an entirely unfounded concern.
“Not here. In the States,” Jarvis added.
Harding’s attention went from gotten to enraptured. “Terrorism? Bomb or somethin’?” He was reaching for something to write about.
“Maybe. He was working with some other people, no one I’ve identified. But there’s more than a few.”
“He ‘was’ working with some other folks? Past tense?” He got a look from Jarvis that didn’t leave much room for doubt. “You workin’ for the Colonel or the military?”
Jarvis took another cool sip and it felt like it rinsed hard sand from his throat even though he’d already done that. “No, I’m working it by myself. Helping out a friend, maybe a few more people.”
Harding put a scowl on his face. “You’re not gonna give me shit, are you?”
Jarvis turned to him. His glare cut through the scowl. “The Colonel said you’d help. If I get anything you can use, and you don’t use it ‘til I tell you it’s okay, then you get a story.”
The scowl was replaced by a moderately greedy smile. “A terrorism plot on US soil? Broken by a grizzled war correspondent in glamorous Khandahar? Okay, I’m in.” He signaled for yet another Scotch. “Couple of the guys you interrupted back in 2003 have been doin’ pretty well for themselves. They’ve got their own little Jihad Joes wreaking havoc. Not real big, but nasty. If your dead guy in the States was with them back then, maybe he was part of whatever you’ve gotten wind of.”
Exhaustion was starting to creep in. Not needing sleep didn’t mean Jarvis didn’t suffer jet lag from being in three international cities in two days. His reading of Harding was that being succinct and informative was not his forte. Now that he’d hooked him, Jarvis could drop any false camaraderie. “You got a name for me? Some coordinates?”
Harding waited for the drink to arrive and he took a long pull as though it were his first of the day. “Sure, I’ll shoot you a text. Little village ‘bout thirty miles northwest. You’ll stand out, but that’s where the guys hang, their little base I think.” He pulled out a Blackberry and began typing. Jarvis’ iPhone buzzed with the incoming message.
He didn’t look, just finished his drink and got up. “Thanks.” He might need Harding later, so he gave a sincere smile and put out his hand. Harding took it and the grip was stronger than expected.
“I sent my number, too. And email. Remember our deal.” The booze in his eyes didn’t hide the hunger. His byline only appeared occasionally and his best reporting days were behind him. This could change the flat trajectory of his career.
Jarvis returned the squeeze and nodded. “I’ll get in touch if I need anything else.”
He let go and went up to his room. The air conditioning was on, his bag had been unpacked and stored in the closet, and there was a bottle of water and bowl of fruit by the dresser. It could have been a decent hotel in any city in the world. Except when he looked out the window from the 23rd floor he could see the sprawl of the city and on the horizon, northwest of the city, hills that hid thousands of men and women willing to kill anyone from a different tribe, a different region, or a country that was currently bombing and shooting at them. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. No sleep needed, but a little recuperative down time. He began to strategize his next move. Afghanistan didn’t work quite the same as LA, but Jarvis was not entirely unfamiliar with the machinations. In a few hours he’d get a driver to take him out to the spot he hadn’t seen for almost a decade, but whose images were painted in his mind’s eye with a vividness and clarity that sometimes exceeded reality. He thought about Brin and started to call the hospital, not bothering to do the math for the time change. Before he could finish dialing, the cell phone rang. The caller ID was the unhelpful Blocked but he picked up anyway.
The Colonel did not wait for a greeting. “Captain, write down this address. You can pick up your equipment there. Your money won’t be any good.”
Jarvis reached for a pencil stub on the table next to the bed and jotted the coordinates onto a piece of hotel marketing material that welcomed the guest in five languages. “Thank you, sir.”
That was the extent of the conversation. Jarvis listened to the cellphone equivalent of dead air then dialed a number. There was the strange beeping that passed for ringing in the Middle East and then laughter. A woman’s voice from across a crowded room sang out. “Jarvis!” That was all she said but he recognized Saleem’s wife. If he could have found the unmarried, American version of her he would have been wed years ago.
“You better come over or she is going to hit me for not telling her you were here, Jar-vees!” Saleem’s voice was that of a happily married man. It wasn’t a voice Jarvis had often heard other than from Saleem.
“When it’s over. Can you pick me up in about three hours?”
Saleem said a number of things in Arabic of which Jarvis only caught the gist, but the room quieted down. “I will be there. Should I…bring anything?”
“No, I’m covered. And I don’t want you getting caught buying anything you shouldn’t.” Jarvis was going to stir up enough shit; he didn’t want to endanger his friend any more than necessary.
“Then I will see you. Rest, rest a little my sleepless friend.” And the cellphone silence again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Muezzins from half a dozen mosques called the faithful to prayers shortly after the sun came up. Kandahar woke like any city of hundreds of thousands, sharia law notwithstanding. Jarvis could hear street cleaners, vendors setting up food, and some small arms fire in the distance. Tepid water from the shower cleared his head and erased any remaining jet lag. He put on the same clothes from the day before, adding clean underwear and socks. His shirt was loose, both for comfort and to hide anything he might want to tuck into his waistband or strap to his chest. Breakfast waited for him on a tray outside the door and he ate the figs, deep black coffee, and yogurt while standing at the window watching traffic begin to build. The hotel was in the equivalent of a Green Zone, similar to the semi
-protected area in Baghdad where the military, their families, and trusted locals lived. But in Kandahar, it was more of a faded, foam green zone – little real protection from anyone with a true intent to cause damage.
Before prayers were over in the large mosque visible from his window, Jarvis was passing through the empty lobby and into the back seat of Saleem’s cab. It smelled moderately cleaner than during the previous day’s ride from the airport, the way yesterday’s shirt, though unlaundered, used the airing from the night before to take a stab at being fresh. Saleem turned and greeted him with a warm clasp on the shoulder.
“Today you are my passenger, not my friend?”
Jarvis pointed at the bustle of the street just beyond the driveway of the hotel, where several military vehicles – not US – idled. “Better for you that I look like a tourist taking a ride.”
Saleem scowled but did not insist Jarvis change seats. He put the car in gear and rammed the car into traffic. He reached for something on the seat next to him and handed back to his passenger a heavy, sweet smelling cloth bundle. Jarvis took it and breathed deeply.
“Yes, Jar-vees, Melitha cooked for you this morning and you must eat every bite so I may tell her that is the real reason you returned to Kandahar.”
Jarvis was halfway through the warm bread and meat filling before Saleem had finished talking. Saleem looked at him in the rearview mirror. “I will not have to lie to her.”
Jarvis choked on a mouthful of food as he laughed. The last time Saleem’s wife had thought he lied she held a butcher’s knife over his testicles, one hand on the blade and the other holding the penis out of the way. Fortunately, Saleem had been able to convince her of his veracity. He had told Jarvis the story with a mix of humor, fear, and respect, which fueled his love for his wife. Jarvis stayed with them several times, and Melitha’s warmth, intellect, sincerity and strength made what otherwise would have been an ugly face into a portrait of an angel. Proof that beauty was far deeper than skin.
He gave Saleem the address provided by the Colonel and that put a halt to any lightness in the air. “That is not a neighborhood I would like to take you to.” His voice had hardened, and Jarvis read it as a cover for fear; for both of them. It wasn’t a no, just a warning. They drove in relative quiet – outside the taxi was a cacophony of city life, in the car they prepared for whatever lay ahead. Saleem had no illusions that the day would be anything near normal. He broke the silence after a few minutes and his voice was gentle and firm as he spoke to Jarvis.
“What you are doing, it must be done?”
Jarvis looked out the window and tried to count the number of men carrying weapons. He lost track at 20. “Yes.”
A few minutes later they reached an intersection where all traffic was stopped. A disinterested uniformed man in his late 50s more or less directed traffic through the intersection, but not according to any rhythm or rules Jarvis could discern. To the right was a series of shops and restaurants. To the left a building that looked as though it had been bombed, condemned, and abandoned, except a steady stream of people moved in and out. It was a secondary government building, not important enough to protect with military. It probably gave out permits for scooters or building stone walls. Jarvis tapped Saleem on the shoulder. They both knew the area.
“I’ll get out here. Circle once. That should give me at least an hour.” It was sadly funny that he was probably right. Saleem turned and didn’t need to say how careful he wanted Jarvis to be.
Jarvis opened his door, narrowly missing a bicyclist who was ignoring the traffic cop along with most everybody else on the road, and stepped onto the hot, black pavement. He walked quickly toward the quasi-government building. Mostly men passed him on the sidewalk, some ignoring him, others glaring. But in Afghanistan a hard look was not always a challenge and Jarvis had learned to distinguish danger from curiosity. Just past the building whose doors were in perpetual motion a small alleyway opened to the left. He’d memorized the address but there were few markings. Instinct was more valuable than a map. The alley was wide enough for three people to walk abreast or a man to escort an ox without hitting either wall. Jarvis sidestepped the men and squeezed past the ox. There were openings and doorways on either side, some tightly bolted and others opening and closing in random patterns as people entered and emerged. The stone walk underfoot had as much loose rock as it had flat cement. A boy no older than 9 ran by kicking a soccer ball. It seemed out of place as Jarvis ventured further down the alley, which began to undulate and create blind turns. No more than 150 feet from the taxi he’d just left and it was a different world. A door on his left had a number 26, and he counted each of the next 7 so as to estimate where #33 was. The door was blackened with age and rusted with neglect. He raised a fist to knock when the boy with the soccer ball raced past again and kicked as if it were the winning goal a perfect shot at the center of the door across the alley from where Jarvis stood. Jarvis recognized too late the boy was a lookout and the goal a signal. Before he could turn and assess the threat, there were two rifles pointing at him, one from either side. He’d seen the men, separately, a few moments earlier and neither had been armed. The door behind him, with the dirty mark from the soccer ball, opened. A man close to twice Jarvis’ size emerged blinking in the sunlight that streamed into the narrow alley. He barked a few words and both men pressed their rifles into Jarvis, one in his neck the other in a kidney.
Jarvis knew enough Farsi to order in a restaurant and curse out a bad driver. He picked his words carefully. It came out more or less translatable as “Your whore mother fucked a pig to make you.” He felt the rifles press harder against both parts of his body and sensed trigger fingers tightening.
The giant in the doorway barked again, and it sounded somewhere between a laugh and an order to rip Jarvis’ organs from his body. Instead of lead-tipped bullets tearing into his back and skull, he felt the relief of gun barrels being pulled away. Andre the Giant’s twin bent down and grabbed Jarvis by the scruff of the neck as though he were a doll. Jarvis didn’t fight. The man leaned close to Jarvis’ face and a cloud of garlic and untreatable gingivitis drifted toward him. In a whisper that was louder than a small airplane, the man said in passable English, “I eat you and shit out bones.”
Jarvis wasn’t sure whether it was a threat or historical account of the last person who’d crossed him. The monster half pulled, half carried Jarvis over the doorstep and into an instantly dark room where the air was stagnant and he could feel more than see heavy drapes covering the walls and the windows. The door shut behind him and he blinked to adjust as quickly as possible, in case there were threats other than the thyroid case who was finally letting Jarvis stand fully on his own two feet. The room settled into view as the rods and cones in his eyes deciphered the reduced light into familiar shapes and angles. It was small and mainly empty, except for a tiny, wizened figure on a stool straight ahead. He held a Kalashnikov rifle almost as long as he was tall. The air was warm and stale but the man did not sweat. The small door he guarded would require the giant looming over Jarvis to turn sideways to get through, and even then it was no guarantee. An arm pushed Jarvis toward the door and the diminutive guard’s gun shifted just enough that pulling the trigger would eliminate any chance Jarvis could have children. Jarvis wasn’t even sure the guard could see, but had probably killed enough Americans – and Russians before that and Iranians before that – that instinct was enough.
Jarvis stepped forward and turned the iron handle, which was surprisingly cool. The door opened inward and brightness spilled out, cutting through the murk in the outer room. Jarvis stepped into a space that was twice the length of the one he left, though narrow and empty. Empty except for a row of counters or shelving along each side. A long overhead incandescent light ran along the ceiling. The floor was cement but covered in a gray mat. Each of the two long shelves held dozens of plastic bags containing about a grapefruit-size lump of what looked like gray mud or clay. They were neatly tied at the n
eck with a red twist. Jarvis recognized the color and consistency of poppy extract mixed with wax and coloring, a common way for Afghan drug middle-men to transport their product. A sharp jab in his back proved the giant was, indeed, able to squeeze through the door. Jarvis moved along the center of the room toward an opening at the other end where even brighter light poured through. Behind him the wooden door shut and he heard a lock.
Jarvis moved quickly but cautiously toward the opening, glad to avoid another prodding by the enormous guard whose name appeared to have been Almak, a word used by the gun-toting watchmen outside and which Jarvis had thought meant “ostrich” and therefore wasn’t sure why they had used it. Jarvis couldn’t help but silently mouth the words “Big Bird” as he stepped through the entryway.
He knew what to expect and was neither disappointed nor surprised. To his right was a plastic sheet hanging from the low ceiling, blocking the entrance to a large but cramped room. It was cramped because there were two picnic-table sized surfaces surrounded by stools. The floor was covered in plastic along with the table. The walls were bright white and smooth and recently painted. A dozen men and women dressed for the streets of Kandahar also wore elbow-length rubber gloves and hospital masks. They used metal cups to take scoops of powder from a large pile in the middle of the table where they sat and then a handful of soft, white wax from a pile next to them and kneaded them together. It was quite an operation and if Jarvis’ mental calculator was working properly, probably generated a few hundred thousand dollars worth of product a week.
Apparently that room was not his destination. No one looked up from their work when Big Bird smacked Jarvis on the shoulder to direct him to the left, where a staircase led down. The floor and walls were not as clean, so whatever was happening downstairs didn’t require laboratory-like conditions. He could hear voices and movement. They went down the stairs and his minder had to bend over to avoid smacking the bridge of his nose as they passed under the lip of the floor overhead. The door at the bottom was unguarded and swung inward. It was heavy metal and the hinges were well-oiled and opened silently. Jarvis could see half a dozen locks and a bolt. It would take a rocket propelled grenade to open if the door were shut from the inside. He quickly saw why. The room filled the entire area under the house. They entered in the middle of the room. Straight ahead were crates lined on either side of the wide expanse and when he briefly twisted his head around, he could see a similar number of boxes and more crates in the equally-sized space behind him. The lighting was from bulbs hanging off the ceiling and no one had laid down any plastic or carpets. It smelled like the desert with a faint hint of old air conditioner. Directly in front was a scarred wooden table and three men sat. They glanced up briefly. The one counting money – American dollars – looked back at the stacks of bills in front of him. The man across the table from him kept cleaning a sparkling new AK-47, which competed for space on the large table with half a dozen handguns of various sizes. The man third man at the head of the table calmly smoked a cigar and kept his gaze on Jarvis.
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