by Sean Black
Having encountered no one since we had left the village, my captors had begun to talk among themselves again. It was a good sign. The more comfortable they felt, the better. Less reassuring was that they were discussing who was going to kill me. The chance to kill a Westerner in cold blood was clearly a valuable opportunity. The only snag seemed to be that, having encountered no resistance, from me or anyone else, other than the villagers, they were less certain of who I was than they had been. They were sure I was American, but they believed I might be Muslim and allied in some way to their greater cause. Mostly, though, they seemed confused.
I kept my head down as I walked and tried not to give any hint that I was listening to everything that was being said. They began talking about a similar situation they’d encountered. They had captured an ISAF soldier who had wandered outside the wire of his forward operating base. He had been European. Not British, maybe Italian or French, they thought.
They had taken the man alive. He had been so scared that he had lost control of his bowels. As they talked, they seemed to find this detail amusing. They had held the soldier in an abandoned compound for several days. His capture had drawn several search parties from his base. This had provided even more sport as their comrades in arms had ambushed several more ISAF patrols, killing at least three more soldiers. In that regard, a hostage was invaluable. Even though his capture had been a stroke of luck on their part, it had cemented their reputation as specialists in this type of operation. Hence their being tasked with my detention.
They stopped suddenly. I was yanked down into a sitting position and the conversation fell away. I felt a hand on my shoulder, then the cold metal of a canteen of water pressing against my lips: another good sign. You didn’t rehydrate someone you plan to kill within the next few hours, unless it was their equivalent of a final cigarette.
I could hear another voice close by now. It was male and verging on high-pitched. He was talking to the insurgent leader but ushered him away before I could catch much more than ‘This is him? This is the one?’
I drank the water that was offered. It tasted good. I hadn’t realized I was thirsty until it had been offered. Even in this cold, the forced march had left a trail of sweat running down my back all the way into the crack of my ass.
‘You have enough?’ one of the younger men asked me.
I stayed quiet. Answering in Pashtun would let them know I could understand every word they said, but answering in English would confirm their suspicions. I had decided that until they reached their destination, which I guessed wasn’t too far away now, given the arrival of the other man, I would keep my own counsel and thereby keep them guessing.
Time passed. They didn’t move. I wondered if we were staying there overnight. The mountains didn’t lend themselves to moving after dark unless you had the benefit of night-vision goggles, and even then it was easy enough to step over a ledge.
The leader was back – alone. He hauled me to my feet and we started to walk again. The terrain grew steeper and rockier. They had moved from mountain pass to meadow and now they seemed to be climbing. I fell again, this time landing on my face. There was a harried discussion as I lay there. I felt someone untie the rope, and my hands were free. I pushed myself up, a jab from the AK-47 at my back reminding me that I was still a hostage.
The blindfold was yanked from my eyes. We must have been walking for a lot longer than I had estimated because it was light. The sudden exposure made me wince. I blinked, allowing my eyes to adjust to a flare of sunlight from a patch of snow to the left. We were higher than I had guessed, and standing on a broad ridge that tapered to a silver ribbon up ahead.
Beneath us were the slopes of the Hindu Kush. These were the mountains that had, at least for a time, shielded Bin Laden. On either side was a near-vertical drop.
Up ahead, the ridge line widened, then ended. I was pushed toward it. It seemed unlikely that they would bring me all the way up here just to push me over the edge. Then again, people in general, and religious fanatics in particular, didn’t always behave in a way that was either predictable or logical.
I listened more carefully to the footsteps behind, gauging their relative positions. If they stopped walking while I continued to the edge that would be the giveaway.
As I got within ten feet I saw that what I had thought was a sheer drop was nothing of the sort: the ground fell away sharply, then evened out and two tracks curved back around the peak.
I climbed down and my captors followed. They prodded me toward the northerly path. It was about ten feet wide. Up ahead, two hard-faced men wearing black Taliban turbans stood guard outside a slit in the mountain. It was about six feet high and tapered from ten feet wide at the bottom to four at the top.
The two Taliban stepped to me, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me through the opening. I had to duck quickly to avoid hitting my head. The momentum carried me forward into a cave. It opened out to reveal a main chamber of around two hundred square feet. Passages ran off it in about half a dozen different directions. I could smell goat stew and freshly baked bread.
From the smoothness of the walls, I knew that this passageway was man-made. The air was so smoky that I coughed.
The cave was bad news. In a dark passageway with walls so thick that all contact and knowledge of my position would have been lost, I was off-radar, no satellite able to pick up my location. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps I hadn’t given the man they were looking for, the man for whom I had been live bait, enough credit. I had been relying upon live comms. Now a decision would have to be made.
To follow me into near-impregnable terrain and risk the entire operation, or to wait it out? It was no easy call. The cave systems had so many rat-runs and exit points that, short of carpet-bombing the entire mountain range, taking someone alive from within them was a near impossible task guaranteed to generate multiple special-forces casualties. Not that special forces balked at taking the risk, I knew from experience that they lived for missions like this, but there was always a political dimension. It was a call that could only be made by the President and, right now, Stars-and-Stripes-draped coffins being unloaded from the back of C-130s were not in fashion.
There was light ahead from another chamber. It seeped yellow around the edges of a piece of cloth that had been draped across it. I pushed it to one side and stepped through. Carpets had been spread on the rough stone floor. Paraffin lanterns hung from hooks on the walls. The remnants of the meal I had smelt when I walked in lay in the middle of the space.
In the center of the room there was a man. He was fat, with plump lips and eyes that twinkled above a lavish black beard. I recognized him immediately. I doubted that anyone in the Western intelligence community wouldn’t have known who he was. This was the man I had come to find.
FOURTEEN
Khazin Masori was well named. ‘Khazin’ translated as ‘the treasurer’ and, like Bin Laden, Khazin Masori was a man of wealth who had turned his back on a privileged life to wage war against the West. Unlike Bin Laden, he was, despite America’s best efforts, still breathing. He was just as dangerous, though: he had directed and funded multiple operations against American interests in Afghanistan and beyond, including atrocities in Africa, Asia and Europe. He had been one of the first within the world of Islamic terror organizations to recognize the propaganda value of social media and was believed to have personally dispatched several kidnapped Westerners on camera. Not that any of it showed in his eyes as he smiled warmly, motioning for me to sit opposite him.
I wondered why I was alone with him – it was an almost unbelievable breach of security. I was three quick steps from him, close enough to dispatch him before anyone could step in.
Masori leaned forward and, as he did, I glimpsed the edge of the suicide vest that was strapped around the cleric’s torso. It was standard operating procedure for someone at Masori’s level to be able to guarantee his own demise if there was any risk of his falling into enemy hands. Uncharacteristicall
y, he wasn’t a man to waste time on the usual pleasantries.
‘Who are you, and why are you here?’ he asked in English. ‘And, please, don’t insult my intelligence by telling me the story you gave the people of the village.’
‘It wasn’t a story.’
‘Everything in this world is a story, my friend.’
My job now was to buy as much time as I could. Even if the guys on my side couldn’t be sure that Masori was here, my own value as an asset meant they would still be moving into position. They might not be able to penetrate the cave system to observe the situation but they would be taking up exterior positions in preparation for whatever call came.
‘You know who I am, of course,’ said Masori.
I had been briefed for this question. ‘Of course. I’ve been waiting to meet you.’
If Masori was surprised, he didn’t show it. His smile must have been cemented in place. ‘You have?’
Masori was right when he said that everyone had a story. Right now I had at least three. The true story of why I was there. The story I had told the villagers. And, finally, the story that had been painstakingly prepared for Masori.
The key to engaging someone like Masori was to pinpoint what he desired most. He couldn’t be tempted with anything material. He could have had that in his old life. Houses, cars, women, none of those held any allure.
No, Khazin Masori craved something far more exciting and long lasting than anything of that nature. He wanted to secure his place in history, and the way to do that was to change the world in the same irrevocable way Bin Laden had when his recruits had flown planes into the World Trade Center. You could bomb all the embassies you wanted and the Western world shrugged. Masori understood that the power of a terrorist atrocity lay not in the body count but in the imagery.
In three weeks the President of the United States was due to visit India. I had been given the details of the visit, from the main itinerary to the routes he would take, how long he would stay at each location, and his security. The plan was genuine.
I kept eye contact with Masori as I spoke. He was suspicious. A man he had never met had turned up out of the blue to hand him on a plate his best shot at murdering the leader of the Western world, and therefore taking his place alongside Bin Laden.
He didn’t believe me. I knew that for certain. I wouldn’t have believed the story either. That was why the boys in the back room had spent months carefully seeding the story of an American agent who had gone rogue, and who, over the past few weeks, had fallen off the intelligence services’ radar. Masori might not have been aware of it, but when he started asking questions it would swiftly rise to the surface.
Having listened to me politely, he nodded. ‘And these plans for his visit. You have them with you?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘They’re close by. I can take your men to them but first I need to know if you’re interested.’
Masori’s smile was back. ‘You’re selling them?’
‘Ten million dollars.’
The mention of money seemed to settle him a little. Now at least he had some kind of insight into a possible motive. It was beginning to make sense. Masori pressed his hands together. ‘After the action has taken place and is a success. If, of course, such an action can be successful,’ he said.
‘No. I already took the risk in getting the details. Whether this works for you or not, I’m a dead man without access to this money.’ I held Masori’s gaze. ‘Half up front. The rest when it’s done. Whether you kill him or not is down to you. I give you the bullets. I can’t be held to account for how well you use them.’
‘It’s a lot of money,’ said Maori, rising to his feet and giving me another glimpse of his suicide belt. He smoothed down his robes. ‘Allow me time to consider it.’
‘The visit is in three weeks. If you’re going to have everything in place, you shouldn’t delay. And,’ I added, ‘there may be others who would be interested in what I have.’
That part was bluff. There were perhaps three or four groups or organizations with motive, funds and the know-how to use such intelligence, and two wouldn’t go anywhere near it. The reality was that, just as during the Cold War, certain actions wouldn’t be countenanced for fear of the scale of reprisal; the same balance existed now between the West and other regimes that could be described as anti-imperialist or jihad-friendly. Iran in particular knew that any involvement in something like this would almost certainly result in a nuclear strike against Tehran. Pakistan had been a hair’s breath away from the same fate after 9/11. Geopolitics was in a constant state of flux but a line of equilibrium ran like a seam through most of it. That left one or two rogues such as Masori, who wanted to throw a hand grenade into the middle of the deal. The Taliban’s strategy had been one of attrition aimed at the slow sapping of political will in the West to maintain a counterweight to them in Afghanistan. Masori, though, was in another league. His aim was chaos. A world ablaze – the Western world.
I stayed seated as Masori stood over me, wearing the benevolent grin with which he had greeted me. The other factor I was relying upon was his isolation. He was, after all, a man of action. Holed up in this remote region, shuttling from one location to the next, boredom had no doubt begun to set in. My appearance had probably been the most exciting thing to come his way in months.
‘Give me a moment,’ Masori said, and disappeared into one of the side passages that ran off the main chamber.
I sat and waited. A few moments later one of the younger men who had taken me from the village appeared and sat where Masori had. He stared at me but said nothing. I returned the compliment.
Masori would be somewhere in back, busy working his own intelligence channels to establish the veracity of my story. Minutes passed in silence, then fell away into hours. Another of Masori’s men brought me food and some water. Then I needed to pee. I asked his companion and was led through the passageway to an opening at the back of the cave system. It was around three feet wide by four feet deep and seemed to be a sheer drop. I did what I had to do, then was led back to the main chamber where Masori was waiting for me.
‘You will take us to these plans,’ Masori said.
‘Fine,’ I answered.
Masori pursed his lips. ‘No. Maybe it is better if I wait here.’ It had been a test.
‘And the money?’ I asked.
‘When I have the documents, and I can verify that they are genuine, you can have the first two million.’
‘That wasn’t the deal. It’s five up front.’
‘Three.’
We were discussing an American citizen handing over intelligence that could lead to the death of his president, and Masori was haggling like a carpet salesman in a tourist bazaar. It was a good sign, though. It meant that whatever checks he had made had confirmed the story I’d fed him.
‘Four up front, six on the back end, and we have a deal,’ I said, putting out my hand for Masori to shake.
He reached out and clasped both of my hands. ‘My men will go with you. When they confirm the papers, I will arrange for the first payment to be made. You have an account ready?’
I tapped my temple. ‘More than one. The numbers are all up here. Sure you don’t want to come with me?’
Masori tugged at his beard, pensive. ‘No. I trust you.’
A sound behind us. I half turned as his smile widened. His eyes twinkled even more brightly, the yellow glow from the lantern dancing across jet black pupils. I counted three sets of footsteps. His honor guard was approaching – the older man and his two younger companions.
‘So I don’t have to be blindfolded with my hands tied?’
‘No need for that. I have something better to make sure you are a man of your word.’
Another sound from behind me. A whimper. I turned. The two bodyguards were standing behind me. They were holding something between them – a limp bundle of rags shaped like a doll.
FIFTEEN
Fear is something you can smell
. I didn’t have to look at Sasha’s face to see the terror in her eyes.
‘Go and get what you came to give me,’ Masori said. ‘The child stays with me.’
‘If the plans are good, I want your word that you will use them. Do you give me your word?’
His face betrayed a look of surprise at the question. He had been expecting me to ask about the little girl.
‘You have my word,’ said Masori.
‘When I return, she comes with me.’
Masori shot me a leering smile. ‘You’ve taken a fancy to her?’
I wanted to throw up but it was better to play along. Explaining I planned to find her a safer life would have seemed more suspicious than allowing him to think I intended to take her as a wife. ‘I have plans for her, yes.
‘I won’t be long,’ I added, motioning for one of the bodyguards to follow me. ‘I take it one of your men will come with me.’
As my escort moved toward me, he was between me and Masori. I had the old Soviet pistol tucked into a cloth tie that ran around my waist.
My left elbow came up fast, smashing into the man’s jaw so hard that blood spurted from his mouth as he bit clean through the tip of his tongue. The pistol was now in my right hand. I grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and yanked his head down, simultaneously bringing up a knee into his face and breaking his nose. He folded at the waist and I held him there with one hand as I brought the pistol up with the other and fired two rounds into his companion’s head from a distance of less than six feet. The man slumped forward, letting go of Sasha, who screamed.
Masori stumbled backwards, his eyes fixed on me as I headed for one of the passageways. There were more shouts from within the cave system as Masori’s other bodyguards scrambled to get to me. I counted six separate sets of footsteps moving towards me.
Masori’s hand had slipped inside his robes to the ripcord attached to the detonator of his suicide vest. He could have pulled it and taken the girl and me with him but he hadn’t. It was one thing to talk someone else into martyrdom, another to do it yourself.