by Eric Meyer
"Can you get this started?"
The boy raised his eyes to the heavens. "Can a camel fart?"
He left the boy to it, grinning as he worked. Stoner went to the truck, opened the hood, and found what he'd expected, a gas engine, with spark plugs and cables. It was the work of seconds to rip out the wiring to the ignition system, and he returned to the Porsche in time to hear the throaty roar of the engine, as Javed managed to get it started. He beamed at Stoner, proud of his handiwork.
"I had to damage the instrument panel to break the steering lock. I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"It means we won't be able to sell it. Not for its full value. You won’t get your full share.”
"When we’ve finished with it, it's all yours. Lock, stock, and damaged instrument panel.”
He looked up and down the street, but although he could hear a commotion from the other side of the building, the rear was empty of insurgents. A man walked past, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with sacks of what he assumed was grain, but he took no notice of the American and the boy. In the lawless region of Northeast Pakistan, men learned to ignore other people's business. Those who wanted to live a long and healthy life. They climbed into the soft, leather seat, Stoner moved his hand to engage drive, and paused when Javed said, "Where are we going?"
Where are we going? Jesus Christ, they must've hit me harder than I realized.
They were about to escape the town, but he'd forgotten the reason he’d come, to locate the hostages. For him, there was a single hostage more important than the rest. He was about to go charging out of town, and still he had no idea where they were holding their captives. Except for the man he’d dumped on the back seat.
He was groaning and starting to come around. Stoner punched him hard in the side of the head, and he went out again. Javed climbed into the driver's seat, and he'd no doubt the kid would have driven the SUV away, if he’d let him. It wasn't going to happen. No way was he going to let a boy of twelve or thirteen-years-old drive a high-performance SUV, not when their lives depended on it, and the lives of so many others.
"Move over, pal. I'll drive."
The boy grumbled but brightened when he told him to climb over into the back and keep an eye on the prisoner. "But don't kill him. He'll have information in his head, information that I'll need."
He floored the gas pedal, and the powerful SUV skidded away from the building. Stoner flung the wheel over to turn onto the main street. He was hitting almost one hundred miles an hour when he had a thought.
The Porsche Cayenne has a phone in the central console, and at least I have something to tell Ambassador Adams; the amount of the ransom, where the Haqqanis are right now, and that they can attack in safety, as the women are elsewhere.
He got the number of the American Embassy and made the call, punching the buttons with one hand and holding the wheel with the other. He got through to Adams after several minutes.
“Sir, I’m leaving Chitral, and the Haqqanis are here in the town. If you order the military to attack now, they can wipe them out.”
A pause. “I guess you don’t know the latest. They sent us a video clip. They stoned one of the women to death. They said if they see any sign of mounting a military action against them, or to rescue the prisoners, they’ll execute one woman every hour in the same way.”
“Sir, that just means we have to make sure they don’t see us coming. I doubt they’ll execute more of them, because they’re valuable.”
“Still, I don’t like it. It may be better to call it off.” He didn’t answer. Calling it off when they’d got this far was insane, “What about the women? I gather you don’t yet know where they are.”
“They’re holding them somewhere else. Sir, you must listen to me. If our people move fast, they can end this.” There was another pause, this time even longer, “Ambassador, are you still there?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m still here. So you’re outside of Chitral?”
“Yessir.”
“Uh, huh. Mr. Stoner, that’s in Pakistan. There’s nothing we can do on that side of the border. It’s a diplomatic nightmare, you see. I doubt you can begin to imagine the hard work I have to put in to keep all sides happy.”
Yeah, it must be a real slog, all those Embassy receptions and dinners.
“You need to attack now, Sir. Contact the Paks. Get them moving. The Haqqanis are their enemies as much as ours. Or send our Special Forces in.”
“Our people don’t see it like that. I wish it were that simple. What about Colonel Rahman’s men?”
“They’re working for the other side, for the Haqqanis.”
“Working for the other side? That’s unfortunate.” He sounded like he’d just told him his car had a flat tire, “It looks like we’ll have to pay up, Stoner.”
“If you were prepared to pay a ransom, why send us here?”
He snorted, almost as if with amusement. “We had to do something. Otherwise it’d look bad. What kind of figure are they asking?”
“One hundred million.”
“U.S. Dollars?”
No, Russian fucking rubles, what do you think?
“U.S. Dollars, yes.”
“Hmm, that might be a problem. Okay, Mr. Stoner, get out of there and make a report when you get back inside Afghanistan.”
“That’s it? You want us to pull out?”
He heard another voice in the room, someone whispering to him urgently.
Who’s advising him?
“The advice I’m getting is that would be best. Anything else could risk starting a war with Pakistan. Call me when you get back to Afghanistan, and let me know how you got on. I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”
The line went dead, and he fought to contain his anger. There was nothing he could do. And yet, the women needed saving. Sara needed saving. He concentrated on his driving, and they reached the outskirts of town. The vehicle was Khan’s, so the insurgents were reluctant to shoot at it. Sure, they suspected it was stolen, but they had no way of knowing for sure. No man would want to risk his life by gambling it was an enemy.
He recalled the main road that ran from Chitral to Torkham. There'd be plenty of other vehicles for the insurgents to choose to come after them, and so time was short. Colonel Rahman would be more than desperate, knowing that when word of the deal he'd struck with the Haqqanis got back to Kabul, his career as a Special Forces officer was liable to be much shorter than he'd envisaged. He kept his foot flat on the floor, and several times the vehicle almost left the road, but he corrected it. And reminded himself to send the Porsche Company a thank you note. The off-road performance of the Porsche may have been less than perfect, but the handling on the open road was astonishing, almost like a racecar.
They reached the coffeehouse in record time, and he squealed the Cayenne to a flashy stop. The GAZ 69 was still parked outside, and Archer was on watch. Unmovable, threatening, and radiating danger to anyone tempted to make off with their gear. Greg had rigged a canvas cover to form a temporary shelter for the dog, but Archer was sitting in the driver’s seat. Daring anyone to approach, except Stoner, who he greeted with barks and furious tail wagging. Greg heard the commotion and came outside. He stared at the wounds inflicted by Khan’s men.
“Dammit, Stoner, you look like hell. What happened?”
“They had their fun. The bastards used me as a soccer ball.” He forced a bloody grin, “You should see the other guys.”
“How bad are they?”
“Terminal.”
He grimaced. “At least you acquired yourself some decent wheels."
He frowned. “The Porsche’s not too shabby, but the off-road performance is crap. There’s something else. The car used to belong to General Khan. When he finds out it’s gone, he’ll go crazy."
"Any news on where they're holding the women?"
"We brought someone along who should be able to help. He’s on the back seat.”
Javed had disappeared, but he came ba
ck moments later with the two Talibs, Abbas Noyan and Mohammed Nadiri. They stood outside the coffeehouse and watched as Stoner dragged the prisoner out onto the road.
His eyes were open, and he shook with fear as he waited for the hurt to begin.
"Where are they holding the women?"
He shook his head and mumbled something. Javed strolled over. "He said he doesn't know."
"Tell him that's too bad. If he doesn't know anything, he’s no use to us. You may as well put your dagger through his eye. I’ll let you choose which one.”
Javed spoke to him in Urdu and got nowhere. "He still says he doesn't know where they are.”
"He’ll talk to me."
The growl came from Mohammed Nadiri, and Stoner nodded. "Go ahead."
Nadiri dragged the protesting man out of sight around the back of the coffeehouse, and they left him to it. After a minute, the screams started. They were piteous howls of terrible agony, and he moved to walk around the building and find out what was going on.
Noyan blocked him. "No, you must leave him to do what he does best."
"Torturing a man to death?"
"Would you prefer they torture the women instead? Getting the truth from this man may be the only way we'll find out."
He waited. The howls and screams continued for a few minutes more, and then abruptly stopped. Nadiri came around the corner, with his robe and face covered in blood.
"He was tough, that one. He didn't want to tell me. But in the end, he saw sense. They're holding the women somewhere out in the mountains of Northeast Pakistan.”
Noyan stared at him in consternation. "That is one of the most hostile and inaccessible regions on earth. There is an airfield outside the town, and not a single airline has shown any inclination to fly in there. It’s like the surface of the moon.”
“It sounds like he’s chosen an ideal place to hide his hostages.”
“Yes, he has. Did he say anything about my son and daughter?"
"He said they are there. But when he knew he was about to die, there was something in his expression, it was almost like he was smiling, expecting us to die before we can get them out."
"You've no idea what was in his mind?"
"None, I'm sorry."
"You did well, Mohammed. At least we know where they are, even if getting them out proves to be more difficult than we could possibly have imagined."
"What is this place?" Stoner asked him.
He sighed. "It is about one hundred and fifty kilometers from here, in the middle of the tribal badlands. Even the Pakistani Army is reluctant to go there. The locals support the insurgency to a man. The moment we draw near, every hand will be turned against us. The simple reason we are strangers, and no other. Even the British Army during their occupation of the region in the days of the Raj, suffered a major defeat there. They sent in an entire army, and the local tribesmen fell on them. The attack was so vicious, most of them died, and they never recovered the bodies. After that, they gave the place a wide berth."
"There are two of us," he pointed out, "Not an army. Greg, we’ll ditch the Porsche. At least, we’ll leave it with Javed. It's his property. We'll take the GAZ and hope the engine doesn't fall out on the way."
"You’ll never make it," Noyan snarled, “I guarantee you won’t get more than half way.”
Stoner shrugged. "It's been said plenty of times before, and we're still alive."
"Not this time, American. However, there is an alternative.”
"Okay, tell me."
"We will join forces. I can see you’re a good fighter, and I've no doubt your friend is good with a gun. But you know nothing of what you're up against. I’ve been there before, as has Mohammed. Years ago, we had discussions with local Islamist warbands, with a view to forming an alliance. In the end, we decided not to go ahead. Those people are not devout Muslims. Most of them are bandits, wild, bloody, and brutal."
Stoner said nothing.
In my experience, that description could just as easily apply to the Taliban. Not exactly your local boy scout troop.
When he didn’t reply, Noyan looked impatient. "What do you say, American? If you wish to succeed, and get out alive, you’ll need our help. Otherwise, you will surely die."
He looked at Greg, who gave a faint nod, and gazed back at Noyan.
It seems kind of weird, joining forces with Taliban fighters, but what the hell? There’s more at stake than old enmities, like the lives of innocent women, including Sara Carver.
"Why not? But like I said, we have to ditch the Porsche. Otherwise, they'll see us coming from a long way away. The GAZ is going to be mighty crowded, with all our supplies and two extra two men."
"Three men."
Javed’s face was set in a determined expression. "I saved you back in Chitral. Besides, you need me to get into places where grown-ups cannot go."
Noyan nodded. "The boy's right. He could be more than useful." He grinned, “Besides, now he owns a gun.”
“And the Porsche,” Javed reminded them.
“And the Porsche. Mohammed Nadiri will ask the coffeehouse owner to keep it around the back until we return. I doubt he’ll refuse.”
Stoner doubted he’d refuse either. He could hardly fail to have heard the blood-chilling screams when Nadiri had tortured the captive.
“It'll be something of a squeeze. The jeep is already overloaded with our supplies and the dog."
"The dog?" The two Afghans looked horrified, although Javed didn't seem unduly worried. Nadiri was shaking his head, and Stoner noticed a glimmer of fear in the brutal face, "We cannot take the dog. That is impossible. Dogs are…"
"Dogs are man's best friend," Stoner told him in a tone that brooked no argument, "I don't give a shit what the Prophet said about dogs, this one has more sense, more guts, and more decency than most men I've encountered in this Godforsaken place. The dog rides with us, and if you don't like it, you can stay behind.”
"But, my children…" Noyan said, "I have to find them."
"It's up to you, buddy. If you don't like the dog, you can stay behind. Besides, they’ll love Archer. He’s all heart. When he’s not eating one.”
The Afghans spoke to each other in rapid Pashto, and Noyan nodded to Stoner. "Very well, we have a deal. But I think you're making a mistake with the dog. Nothing good will come out of taking the spawn of Satan with us."
“You’ve got it wrong. The spawn of Satan are the guys we’re going to find, men who make war on innocent women. We need to move out, time’s a-wastin’."
* * *
Lieutenant Ali Mirza, attached to ISI Islamabad, glanced through the reports on his screen. He was conscious of the awe and fear his organization inspired. Many people compared the Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI, to the Nazi Gestapo. Not without good reason. Their reputation for extreme brutality was legendary.
Most of what he browsed through was routine. The usual denunciations, invariably people seeking revenge for some imagined sleight. Often related to land disputes, or arguments over marriage. He dismissed all of them as not worth his time, until he came to a report that was more interesting, from an asset inside the small town of Chitral that suggested a raid by Islamist militants. When they left, he’d followed them as far as the village of Chilas to the east, and they’d been herding a number of captives. All women, and of more significance, they were Westerners. Islamist militants running rampant, Western women hostage, a combination that spelled trouble. There was worse.
Their man had picked up a whisper in a bar. They were saying one of the captives was a U.S. Congresswoman, no less. She was also the wife of the American Ambassador in Kabul. He knew what to do. Pass it up the chain of command, before he got his fingers burned. He picked up the phone and called his duty line manager. The phone took almost a minute to answer.
“Major Mazari.” He sounded breathless, like he’d been running. Or screwing. Senior officers made certain they had first pick of the young recruits to ISI.
“
Sir, this is Lieutenant Mirza. I believe we have a problem.”
A sigh. “Very well, what is it this time?”
He explained about the captives, and Mazari came awake. “What have you done so far?”
“Nothing, Sir. I thought it best to call you.”
“You did the right thing. Let me think.” The line was quiet for several minutes, and then the voice came back. During the silence, Mirza had heard someone talking in the background, a female voice, “Mirza, contact the Embassy in Kabul, and see if this woman is missing. We need to know more; these Islamists are becoming a nuisance. You said they attacked the town of Chitral?”
“Yes, Sir. Then they took the captives to Chilas. At least, that’s what the report says.”
“Chitral and Chilas. You came to us from the Air Force, is that correct?”
“Yessir.”
“Contact the Air Force liaison, and order them to get a reconnaissance flight up in the air. They’re to patrol the region between Chitral and Chilas, and report back to ISI anything out of the ordinary. But make sure you contact the Embassy first. If the wife of the Ambassador is down there, we’ll have to handle this with kid gloves.”
“And if she isn’t, Sir?”
“Then you can tell the pilot who overflies the area he has a free hand. If he spots what he believes to be a hostile group, he is to destroy them. But, Lieutenant…”
“Sir?”
“Check with the Embassy first. Let’s see what we have down there. Don’t screw up. This could have the makings of a diplomatic nightmare. Any sign of a VIP down there, and the pilot is to hold his fire. Clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Call me tomorrow with an update. I’m about to go off duty. It’s time I got to bed.”
I thought you were already in bed. That’s the way it sounded.
“Of course, Sir.”