And it had been three days.
Three days of observing Arman Nazar as he enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh in a high-end brothel in the Wazir Akbar Khān district, only a stone’s throw away from many of the foreign embassies and aid agencies based in Kabul. Three days of watching the son of one of the world’s most notable terrorists revel as he was used as bait to draw his father out of his foxhole.
The four-story brothel looked nondescript from the outside, but once past the compound walls and barricades, a patron would find themselves inside a walled garden full of exotic Tajik, Chinese, and Persian beauties, some of whom were captured or sold into slavery by parents and husbands; others were merely desperate. Young men and women, many still teenagers, traversed balconies wearing vividly-hued silks, their supple skin scented with heavy incense to overlay the sweet, faintly floral scent of the opium they served the clientele.
Sam stepped into a quiet building catty corner from the brothel, identifying herself to the US Army guards even as she pulled off the silk chadari that covered her completely from head to toe.
“I’ll never get used to seeing you emerge like GI Jane out of a full burqa, Wyatt,” Lieutenant Colonel Collins told her as he stepped out of a surveillance room and into the foyer of the CIA safe house they were inhabiting while they waited for Ibrahim Nazar to show up for his son.
Sam hung up the chadari and saluted Collins in her battle dress fatigues. “Sometimes, hiding in plain sight is the most effective camouflage, sir.”
Collins eyed the customary cloak most Afghan women still wore hanging from the door hook. “You think I can get my daughter to wear that to prom?”
“I’d say you won’t like my honest answer, sir,” Sam smiled. “But she can hide a gun or knife just as effectively under a dress, so that’s good news for you.”
Collin’s tidy moustache twitched as his steel blue eyes warmed with humor. “Here’s to hoping.”
“Anything new, sir?” Sam asked, following him back into the surveillance room where a row of monitors showed grainy footage from the closed-circuit feeds of the brothel.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Collins responded. “It’s been quiet; too quiet,” he told her, eyes tracking back to the monitors. “We need someone inside the room with Arman. Ibrahim Nazar should know by now that his son is holed up in there, and I don’t want Arman overdosing while we wait.”
“What happened to our contact inside?”
“She’s been with him for the past sixteen hours but her shift is about to end.”
“I thought there was no rest for the wicked,” Sam murmured, eyes tracking across the screens. She counted at least fifteen rooms, all filled with clients.
“We’re working, aren’t we?” Collins quipped, sipping his coffee.
“Cartwright’s good-looking,” she replied, dreading the thought of having to go in undercover as a prostitute. She’d take a full-length chadari any day over that. “Why not send him in?”
“He wouldn’t look nearly as good in eye kohl,” a deep voice answered behind her.
Sam turned to find a tall American with salt-and-pepper hair and a closely-trimmed goatee standing right behind her.
“I don’t know about that,” she replied, brows lifting as she took him in. “You gotten a good look at those pretty blue eyes of his?”
“Can’t say that I’ve checked Cartwright out too closely,” the mystery man responded. “He’s not exactly my type.” He extended a tanned hand to her. She felt the calluses, could tell immediately that he’d come by them honestly. “Pleasure to meet you Lieutenant Wyatt.”
Sam accepted his shake, cocking her head. “Which SEAL team are you with?”
His deep brown eyes shown with amusement. “What gave me away?”
“The four guys standing behind you,” she replied, eyeing the group of large, fit men conducting weapons checks in the next room. Each wore tactical blacks, handled their weapons with the speed and efficiency of seasoned veterans, and if their size and physiques alone hadn’t given them away, the blatant sense of menace that emanated from them would have.
“Lieutenant Wyatt, let me introduce you to Davis Wright, assault leader of Blue Team for SEAL Team Six,” Collins announced.
“Sir,” Sam saluted, immediately familiar with the legend behind the name. “It’s an honor.”
Wright’s smile was friendly, his grip callused and firm as he shook her hand. “Pleasure’s mine. I understand you were instrumental in getting Arman Nazar to give up his identity.”
“Let’s see if it actually leads us to the whale first,” she replied. “The goal has always been his father, Ibrahim Nazar.”
Wright considered her briefly. “I’ve watched your interrogations. I have a feeling Arman was telling you the truth. The CIA’s done some intelligence gathering. It looks like this isn’t the first time Arman’s been picked up at this particular brothel by his father.”
“And given the importance of nailing Nazar, ST6 will be supporting our op over the next few days,” Collins explained. “Wright’s under orders to capture Ibrahim Nazar alive.”
“Understood,” Sam nodded. “Will we still be leading the interrogation if he does?” she asked, her breath hitching a little.
“CIA wants that prize,” Collins replied dryly.
“And Arman?”
“Remains in our custody,” Collins finished. “Now that Arman’s had a few days to get noticed in the brothel, we need someone on the inside to make sure he doesn’t OD, try to escape, or make contact with anyone.”
Sam felt uneasiness run through her spine. “Sir, with all due respect, I didn’t join the military to go undercover as a hooker. If I wanted that kind of action, I’d work vice with the Houston PD.”
Davis cracked a smile.
“You already have rapport with Arman, Wyatt,” Collins pointed out. “I could send someone else in from the agency, but I think we’d both be more comfortable keeping our only bait for Nazar under our own jurisdiction, don’t you think?”
He had a point. And he knew it, judging from the look in her eye as he watched her think through all the alternatives and come to the same conclusion.
“How do I get in?” she asked in a low voice.
“Our contact has a daughter. She delivers food to rooms. She’ll get you into the room where you and her mother will exchange clothes. Since you’re about the same size and you both have dark hair, no one will be the wiser as long as you keep your face veil on and your back to the camera in the room.”
“And my men and I will be on point as soon as we see Nazar come in for his son, ready to engage in aggressive action if necessary,” Wright added.
“If Arman tries anything, I’ll have to break his hands,” she muttered darkly.
Davis covered his chuckle with a decent approximation of a cough.
“Your prerogative,” Collins replied with a shrug. “But I think Arman’s so far gone at this point, he won’t know what the hell is going on, much less be able to try any moves.”
It felt risky, but Collins did have eyes on her and she knew the support team was solid. He also had a point in that Nazar would know by now where to locate his missing son. And she knew Arman hadn’t been lying when he told her his father would come and retrieve him, wondering at his disappearing act over the past couple months.
Sam looked at Collins, then Wright and the men gearing up behind him before sighing.
“Well, I guess I better get ready for my date.”
*
July 2006—Late Night
Kabul, Afghanistan
S A M A N T H A
The prostitute’s daughter was a lovely little thing. Maybe seven or eight years old, the girl was clearly bright and astute. The moment she let Sam inside the compound, Sam’s heart faltered as she realized this little girl was risking everything to save herself and her mother. Her mother was a CIA informant, but this little girl had helped to engineer their escape, and she was barely in grade school.
<
br /> “You’re dressed like Afghani,” the little girl whispered in heavily-accented English, peeking up at Sam through thick lashes.
Sam smiled grimly under her chadari. “Take me to your mother quickly so we can get you both out of here.”
“Come,” the little girl replied, leading her up a few flights of narrow stairs before taking her down a dark hallway. Samantha counted her steps and the doorways, memorizing the rough layout of the building before the little girl stopped in front of a heavy wooden door.
She knocked gently and shuffling could be heard on the other side; the door opened. The scent of opium was so powerful; Sam stifled a cough, nearly swooning from the contact high. A woman wearing a chiffon face veil blinked blearily up at her as Arman lay prostrate on the bed, dressed only in loosely pleated partug pants. Arman lifted his head, a lazy smile appearing on his face as he peered at her.
“A new girl?” he murmured in Persian. “How exciting.”
Samantha pushed the little girl into the room, shutting the door quickly behind her. The woman glanced up at the corner of the ceiling, and Sam realized she was looking at the camera through the veil.
“I’ll get her ready for you,” the prostitute told Arman quickly in Persian, grabbing Samantha’s hand and pulling her toward the bathroom. “The little girl is here to clean.”
“Very well,” he drawled, sitting up enough to take another hit off an elaborately-carved opium pipe while the little girl began to pick up clothes and decorative pillows.
“Is she safe in there with him?” Sam asked in a low voice as the prostitute shut the door.
“Change quickly!” the woman replied anxiously, pulling off her silk skirts and belly chains while Sam tugged off her chadari.
Sam complied, handing the woman the plain clothes she’d changed into before coming into the compound.
“He’s very high on opium,” the woman told her as she helped Sam put on her skirts and tie the hip scarf. “He has been talking, talking, talking,” she muttered. “I think he’s crazy.”
“What has he been saying?” Sam asked as she adjusted the top bra, already tremendously uncomfortable in the revealing, sheer garments.
“He keeps saying he’s been captured by Americans and his father will come to save him,” the woman answered brusquely as she pulled on Sam’s t-shirt. “Hurry—we don’t have much time. They don’t like it when they can’t see us.”
“How often do they check on you?”
“They don’t,” the woman replied. “Not unless there’s some sort of problem. But they watch. All the time, they watch.”
“Will you and your daughter be okay getting out?” Sam asked as she released the knot in her hair, letting the black waves fall down her back.
“We have to be. I have to get her out, before they start using her too,” the woman answered bluntly, her dark eyes clouding with worry.
Sam reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of cash.
The woman’s eyes widened in shock.
“Hide this on yourself and your daughter—anywhere you can.” Sam said as she handed her a card. “There are men outside ready to take you to safety.”
“Why—why are you helping me?”
“Because I can,” she answered honestly. “You helped me tonight; it’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you,” the woman whispered.
“I wish you luck,” Sam told her sincerely, hiding the lower half of her face underneath a thin chiffon veil as she watched the woman disappear under the pale blue chadari.
“If you need more food, drink, or opium, just ring the bell on the wall,” the woman told her quietly, indicating the little button by the light switch as they moved back into the room. “Mo’afagh bashed,”23 she said to Sam before grabbing her daughter’s hand and leading her out with the dirty laundry her daughter had collected.
Arman watched Sam lackadaisically as she performed a quick inventory of the room. He took another long hit, humming his pleasure while the smoky haze surrounded him, the sweet, cloying scent filling her senses. Careful to keep her face turned away from the camera despite the veil, she moved leisurely toward the bed.
Collins had ordered Arman’s hair cut and beard shaved so it would be easier to identify him before they left him in the brothel a few days ago. Though some scruff covered his face and he was clearly stoned out of his mind, Arman had a strange, almost leanly, androgynous look about him. He looked like a different person, a twenty-something man-boy with intense hazel eyes and mocha latte skin rather than the dirty, beaten prisoner she had built a relationship with over the past few months.
“Have you bathed?” she asked in Persian, as his head lolled toward her.
“Are you offering?” he purred, a lazy smile appearing on his face.
She frisked him lightly under the guise of caresses, trying to gauge his level of awareness.
“I can tell you’re beautiful. Even under the veil,” he murmured, his head tilting as he considered her. “You remind me of someone.”
“Someone good or someone bad?” she asked lightly, sliding her hands under the pillows beneath him, feeling for hidden weapons.
“Someone both,” he answered with a little laugh, nuzzling her neck as she leaned over him, running her hands along the back of the thin mattress as she continued searching for weapons.
“Tell me about her,” she cajoled, hoping to distract him.
“She’s my angel and my tormentor,” he sighed, sitting up on his elbows to take another hit. “I call her ‘Shaghayegh.’”24
“Are you talking about opium or a woman?”
“She is a terrible addiction,” Arman slurred, dropping the pipe carelessly on the bed stand. “Both lovely and deadly. But what does it matter?” he babbled, head falling back as his eyes closed. “Both are ruinous.”
At this rate, he’d knock himself out, saving her the trouble, she thought, checking under the bed and mattress when she moved to pick up the pipe.
Satisfied there were no hidden weapons in the bed, Sam opened the drawers to the small nightstand beside him. Collected there were drug paraphernalia, condoms, lube, leather bindings, as well as various and sundry sex toys that looked more painful than fun. Sam shut the drawers shaking her head in disgust before she stood and opened the barred windows so she could get a look at her surroundings. Sam took a deep breath of the cool night air as the opium Nazar was smoking filtered through her senses, making her feel a little sluggish.
“Let me pour you a bath,” she told him.
Arman merely smiled, his mind beyond addled off his last drag. She moved back into the bathroom, shutting the door. Sam opened the narrow bathroom window over the toilet. As she struggled to clear her senses, she noted the two-story drop and calculated the proximity to the closest windows and ledges, should a hurried retreat become necessary. Shaking her head to clear her head and stay focused, Sam did a quick gear and comms check, slipping on the earphones and the throat mic under the veil.
“Wyatt checking in,” she stated. “Room secure.”
“Wondered what the holdup was,” Wright answered.
“Had to complete my transformation to harem girl,” she muttered as she loaded and press-checked her weapons, hiding them under her skirts. “Arman’s smoked enough opium to tranq a rhino. I’m surprised I’m still sober from the contact high.”
“Well, at least he can’t cause you any trouble,” Wright responded. “We’ve got eyes on the house. Two of my men just relieved Cartwright and Moon. Collins is watching you on monitor.”
“Did you get the woman and her little girl?”
“Affirmative,” Wright replied. “They’re safe, and the woman has drawn us a map of the building. We’ve got a lock on the interior.”
“We’re in a room on the third floor, four doors down to the left. One point of entry,” she told him. “I think I can make it out of the bathroom window if it comes to that. It drops to the side of the compound near the alley.”
“Got
it. Keep your comms on. I’m right out here, Wyatt,” Wright told her, his gruff voice calming.
“Thanks. It means a lot knowing I’ve got you guys at my back.”
“Anytime.”
Six hours later and well into the dead of night, Arman lay passed out on the bed while she sat in the chair across from him, listening to the night sounds outside and the disturbing noises coming from the other rooms. The discomfort of the chair prevented her from doing more than dozing, and the intermittent moans and grunts reverberating down the brothel halls kept her on edge as she waited for what seemed like endless moments for something—anything—to happen.
“We have movement.” Wright’s disembodied voice startled her as she clasped the arms of the chair tightly, her back tense as she waited. “Three jeeps just pulled up,” he continued.
It could be anyone.
Status updates like this had been happening all night. After all, these were the witching hours for the prostitution business, but something in Wright’s voice set Sam on edge.
“Seven men, Middle Eastern, entering the front.”
“Eyes on Nazar?” she asked in a low voice.
“Can’t tell yet.”
“Shit,” she murmured, standing quickly and stretching, careful to keep her back to the camera as she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. “If it’s Nazar, he’ll be here in a matter of moments.”
“We need visual confirmation.”
“I know,” she answered, deliberating. “I’m taking off my comms. I know it’s risky, but it’ll be worse if they catch me with anything on. Have Collins keep you informed of what’s going on in the room from the video feed. I’ll signal if it’s him.”
“I don’t like it, Wyatt,” Wright responded.
“Sir, I don’t either, but it’s what we’ve got to work with right now.”
Sam slipped off her comms and made sure her knife was secure in the holster strapped to the back of her skirt, hidden by the hip scarf she wore. She pulled the gun from the holster on her leg and shielded it in the fabric of the skirt as she left the bathroom and climbed onto the bed.
Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 17