by C. G. Cooper
He listened to their pleas, nodding at their apologies, even offering them food and drink. Their groveling stopped and his questions began.
They told him that they were part of a larger network of spies and mercenaries who lorded over much of ancient Afghanistan. They told him who the key leaders were, who had the power, where they lived. After half a day of questioning, the father had had enough.
He said his goodbyes to the three men, wishing them a safe journey. Then he quietly ordered his sons to kill the men and dispose of their bodies. His orders were followed, and The Scourge of Hattin retreated to his private chambers for seven days.
When he finally emerged, he laid out the plans for his family. He’d seen the vital importance of information as he’d served his own glorious master, the great Saladin. Without good intelligence they never would have known how many men they were attacking or where the best route would be. Good men with superior intelligence could conquer a superior force nine times out of ten.
And so Kadar’s ancestor methodically set out to take over the network of spies and mercenaries in the region. It did not happen overnight, and there was some bloodshed, but by the time of his death, the Saladin legacy was set, strong enough to weather the ravages of passing centuries.
“There have been many invaders over the years. The Soviets, the British, the Taliban and even you Americans. Along the way my family has stayed in the shadows, fostering my ancestor’s legacy. We do not always ally with the right side, but we try our best, always seeking that which is honorable.
“As a young man, I followed my father as he rode our best horses along the twisting paths of the Afghan mountains wielding Stinger missiles provided by the American government. I am also proud to call your former Congressman Charlie Wilson a friend and a fellow warrior.”
Andy knew all about Congressman Charlie Wilson. Hollywood had even made a movie based on a book written about Wilson’s Afghanistan quest in the 1980’s called Charlie Wilson's War: The Extraordinary Story of the Largest Covert Operation in History. The Texas Democrat was a legend for what he’d done to supply the Afghan Mujahideen with weapons during the Soviet incursion.
“I saved Charlie’s life one day from assassination, and he reciprocated soon after, catching my arm as my horse took a rare misstep and knocked me from the saddle, almost off a sheer cliff face. We kept in touch for many years. He helped strengthen my family’s ties with your best operatives. I was very sorry to hear of his death.”
Kadar bowed his head, closing his eyes, probably saying a silent prayer for the American cowboy. Andy could just imagine the larger-than-life Rep. Charlie Wilson standing next to the diminutive Kadar Saladin.
“Now I am the leader of my family, the humble leader of a vast network run by my father and his father before him. To my knowledge we are the longest standing intelligence network in the known world.”
“I still don’t understand how you found us, how you knew about Andy,” said Cal, the distrust plain in his voice. Andy knew Cal, understood that his friend had listened to Kadar’s tale, but it didn’t mean he’d trust the man. “Do you work for the CIA?” It was an accusation more than a question.
Kadar returned Cal’s stare. Calm. Serene. Andy knew that this man was not used to being questioned. He ruled by blood right and probably by deed. If he’d been on the front lines against the Soviets, he’d more than likely fought against the Taliban too. He was not a man to be taken lightly. But could he trusted?
As if reading Andy’s mind, Kadar said, “You do not trust me Mr. Stokes, and that is good. You and I live in a world of shadows, where one wrong move spells doom. I do not work for the CIA. We have been known to lend them our expertise, but we are not held under their thumb. No, much like you, I have friends in your government. They have pledged themselves to me and I to them. We understand the world as it is, full of cruel men who would seek to grind the rest of us to dust. There are such men in your government as well here in my country. We meet here today because those forces will converge, and soon.”
Cal spoke up again. “I appreciate everything, really I do. You’ve rescued one of my best friends and given us a place to stay. My next priority is getting us on a plane and back home.”
“I am afraid that is not possible,” said Kadar.
“I’m sorry?” said Cal, his tone sharp. “No offense, but for us it’s mission accomplished. I’d be happy to compensate you if you’d like, but we have more pressing matters in America.”
Kadar shook his head, his face grave. “I am afraid you misunderstand me, Mr. Stokes. You are free to leave whenever you like. I cannot keep you here. But I believe it would be in your best interest to stay in Afghanistan and help me do what I plan to do.”
“And what is that?”
“I am honor-bound to kill the men who has stolen billions of dollars from my country, and who will soon run away with much more, leaving our government and people in broken ruins.”
Cal shook his head as if trying to understand. “Wait, who are you talking about?”
Before Kadar could answer, Andy said, “The President of Afghanistan, Cal.”
Chapter 25
Kabul, Afghanistan
11:03am AFT, August 25th
The President of Afghanistan watched as the organized chaos swirled around him. Staff and movers tried to shuffle around his office in a respectful way, but the odd thump from a moving cabinet or scrape from a dislodged picture frame inevitably elicited a grunt from behind the ornate carved desk.
September 2nd was the deadline. He’d told both presidential candidates, in an effort to move the contentious elections along, that he would leave on that day. It was up to them to do the rest. He’d done enough. Survived assassination attempts. Dealt with warring tribal leaders. Brokered economic stimulus packages with foreign powers, essentially groveled at the feet of the world.
He was already a wealthy man, his worth officially reported in the millions. Not a small sum for a man of his background. In 2002, he never would have dreamed where the war might lead. Before the American invasion, Afghanistan was ruled by the squeezing noose of the Taliban.
Their ouster was quick and the flow of aid came soon after. Many Afghans had better lives because of it, but much had simply reverted back to old ways. Tribal lines redrawn or bolstered, ancient rivalries renewed.
Most thought he’d done a good job as leader of the war-torn nation. He thought so. Twelve years in office. Thousands and thousands of miles traveled. Countless contacts made.
But retirement beckoned. As a gift from the people, he’d received an estate and servants, a parting thank-you for all that he had done. He didn’t plan on living there long, if at all. Over the preceding decade, billions of dollars flowed into his country. A good portion went to the people, to school construction, and the payment of poppy farmers to no longer harvest their crop for heroin. It was impossible to keep tabs on where every penny went, and that was a good thing.
The naive citizens of first world countries believed their money was being well spent, accounted for and fully recorded. That was not how things worked. World leaders knew that. Intelligence agencies used it to their advantage, as did politicians and multinational corporations.
The President of Afghanistan did not consider himself a greedy man, but he did feel that he deserved his fair share for the danger he’d withstood and the time he’d spent traveling the globe for the benefit of his countrymen. He told himself that what he was taking was but a pittance compared to the whole.
And so for six years he and an intimate group of advisors had designed a system to shuffle and funnel funds. Shell corporations. Road projects with ridiculously high margins. Payment to warlords with guaranteed kickbacks. And behind it all was the face of Afghanistan, the brave leader who’d stood up for his people, worked tirelessly for their well-being.
He’d learned a good deal from his time with companies like Shell and GE, companies who wanted to invest in Afghanistan. Not only had he taken t
heir money, he also took their knowledge.
He was fascinated to learn that IBM had started as a computer company and was now one of the leading consultancies in the world. They’d learned from their own trial and error, built a system, and then taught it to others who wanted the same success. That was exactly what he wanted.
He was too young to retire, his energy still high despite the sweat and tears shed over the last twelve years. A brief respite yes, but there was a system to sell, his system, and there were those in the world who would pay handsomely for it.
+++
Kandahar, Afghanistan
12:41pm AFT
The raid force swept into the compound. Kadar Saladin had known the exact location. He’d confirmed the number of inhabitants. Nineteen.
Daniel Briggs led the way, Cal right behind. No sounds in the house, dishes littering the dining room table. Scraps and garbage all over the kitchen. Farther they went, deeper into the two story building. Weapons ready, moving left and right, hand signals pointing and motioning with practiced ease.
The stairs were steep. A perfect ambush point. A couple grenades dropped down and they were toast. Cal’s heart pounded, his eyes darting from corner to corner.
They’d taken down the gate guards easily, expecting more inside. No one so far.
Higher they climbed. Narrow hallway above. MSgt Trent and Gaucho were right behind. Kreyling’s countrymen had volunteered to come along. They secured the perimeter, sweeping up behind them. The only thing to sweep up so far was crumbs and trash.
Cal wanted in first. No one objected, except for Daniel, of course. He always took point.
Smooth steps, dirty laundry thrown outside bedrooms. Cal smelled the iron odor of men sharing a house together, too many for one this size.
Still no sounds excepted for the brush of an arm behind him, or the muffled clank of their weapons. Water dripped from some unseen faucet ahead, irregular in its cadence.
They stacked outside the first bedroom, the door hanging open, only darkness inside. Blackout curtains closed. One, two, three.
No flash bangs, just in case. They flooded the room, switching on rail mounted red lights as they entered.
There were three sets of bunk beds shoved against opposite walls. Six beds total. Mounds in each one. Daniel nudged one with his hand. No movement.
Cal flipped his light from red to white, bathing the sleeping man with LED glare. The dark stain ran from the man’s head and onto the mattress, crimson and brown dripping onto the bed below.
Room to room they went. They found the same scene in each one. The hulking brute from the confrontation with Farrago was in the last room, a single.
Eighteen men dead, clean kills, and no sign of Anthony Farrago.
They headed downstairs after a quick search for anything that would point to where their enemy had gone. Nothing.
When they got back to the front of the house, Kreyling reported that his men hadn’t found anything. Farrago had somehow killed every one of his men and slipped away. Maybe Kadar Saladin could find out where he’d gone.
As they exited the front door, Cal scanned what he could see of the horizon. The sun was directly overhead, its rays relentlessly oppressive. He heard a strange humming. Cal turned, trying to see where it was coming from. The proximity of the walled homes made it hard to pinpoint the source of the sound. Then, one hundred yards away, he saw three small shapes pop into view.
Cal cupped his free hand over his eyes and squinted. The objects were coming closer, the buzzing getting louder. They looked like strange birds. Not birds, remote controlled drones with spinning rotors propelling them closer.
Cal lifted his weapon and fired a three round burst. Amazingly the drones scattered. He’d missed but now everyone in the raid force was firing. One went down. A rotor burst on a second, the thing sputtering slower but still crept along.
The third acted, followed a split second later by the damaged drone. In total eight tiny rockets launched, suddenly outdistancing the mother birds, reaching out for their targets below.
There wasn’t anything else for Cal and his men to do but turn and run.
+++
Kabul, Afghanistan
12:45pm
A knock came from the blank wall behind him, a secret entrance.
“Will you please excuse me,” the Afghan president said to the staff who were shuttling and packing. No one said a word, just left what they were doing and closed the door behind them.
The knock came again. The president pushed his lunch plate away and rapped three times on his desk. Without a sound the secret entrance swiveled open.
“Tony. It is good to see you my friend,” the Afghan president stood and embraced the American.
Anthony Farrago returned the embrace with one arm, the other hand holding a black duffle bag.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. President.”
“You will not be calling me that for long.”
“Do you think those idiots will figure it out before the deadline?”
The president shrugged. “They do not have a choice. I am leaving.”
Tony nodded and set the bag down next to the desk. Neither man acknowledged it. The Afghan had made it plain that he despised such crude gestures. It was his traveling money and nothing else. Not a bribe. A small sum compared to what they’d been able to sock away in various overseas accounts. Even tinier than what he would soon inherit. He’d have to remind the American not to bring money with him again. Bribes were reserved for thieves and simpletons.
They sat in the last two chairs left in his office, the flag of Afghanistan staring down at them.
The President of Afghanistan cracked open a gold pocket case (a present from the Chinese ambassador) and extracted a long cigarette, tapping the end lightly on the expensive holder. “So, my friend, are you ready to go into business together?”
Chapter 26
Dubai, United Arab Emirates (UAE)
1:15pm, August 25th
No word. Just over twelve hours and the crew of The Jefferson Group’s Gulfstream didn’t have a clue what was going on. They took shifts sleeping. It was habit. Rest when you could. Luckily the cabin of the G650ER was spacious and more than comfortable. They were hooked up to airport power so it was like staying in a luxury suite. It beat living out of a Quonset hut (something the three had plenty of experience with).
Benny Fletcher was in charge of comms, checking and rechecking the upgraded network Neil Patel had installed prior to leaving the States. Every hour they radioed back to Charlottesville to let the rest of The Jefferson Group staff know they were waiting at Dubai International Airport.
Johnny Powers tapped his brother on the arm. Jim woke instantly.
“You’re up,” said Johnny.
“Coffee?”
Johnny pointed to the galley. “Hot and ready.”
While Johnny settled in to get an hour or two of shut-eye, Jim stood and stretched, going through a practiced routine of pseudo-yoga, something one of his ex-girlfriends had taught him. Came in handy when you lived in cramped quarters.
Benny nodded to him as he entered the cockpit. “No word, sir.”
Jim took the co-pilot’s seat, checking the instrument panel out of habit.
“You know, Benny, if we’re going to be working together you might as well get used to calling me by my first name.”
“Hard habit to break.”
“I know the feeling. Who would’ve thought we’d be sitting in this pretty bird, free to come and go as we please?”
“Most of my friends from the Army are still looking for jobs,” said Benny.
“Yeah. Ain’t what it used to be, being a pilot. We got lucky.”
“Yeah.”
“Just between you and me, I’m going to hold onto this gig for as long as I can.”
Benny smiled then went back to fiddling with the radio.
Jim Powers looked out over the busy runway. In and out as aircraft came and went. Jumbo jets
and private planes. The wealth in the UAE was staggering. Money everywhere.
But right now, the Marine wasn’t thinking about money. He was thinking about his new boss, correction, bosses. Where were they? What were they doing, and were they okay?
+++
Kandahar, Afghanistan
1:44pm AFT
Jonas Layton stood when he heard the vehicles return to Saladin’s compound. He’d stayed behind with Andy, Neil and Dr. Higgins. Not much a billionaire techie could do on a raid except get in the way. He’d spent the time doing what his could via the Internet. Mostly searching in vain for something that could help the team. Zilch so far.
The armored SUVs tore into the complex. They had more dings and dents than Jonas remembered. What the…? Two of the heavy vehicles were smoking, roofs sagging.
MSgt Trent jumped out first, rushing to open the rear hatch. A moment later he reappeared cradling a wriggling form in his arms.
“Put me down you big ape,” protested Gaucho, his arms trying to get free. There was a bandage wrapped around his leg covered in deep red.
“Shut up,” said Trent, marching toward the house, giving Jonas a quick nod.
The rest of the men piled out, some wearing bandages on arms and faces. More than one man needed assistance from a comrade.
Cal and Daniel were talking. Jonas joined them.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
Cal’s eyes were hard, piercing. Jonas had seen that look before, right before the Marine had killed someone.
“We missed Farrago.”
“And the wounded?”
Cal explained the scene and the incoming drones, how the rockets slammed in all around them. Somehow no one had been killed. A miracle really.
“Where’s Saladin?” asked Cal.