by Ron Lealos
“They’re joking,” I said. “I don’t carry any disease. Everybody is afraid I might make them explain what they’ve been doing and keep all the receipts. Keeping close watch on the numbers gives most of them a headache, and that means I do, too.”
No way she believed me, but Khkulay didn’t know what else to think. I could tell by the puzzled look.
“Good,” she said. “I didn’t want to catch the spook flu they talked about. They said it could be pretty bad.”
“Ignore them. They’re just jealous.”
We chatted superficially for the next few minutes, and I thanked her for the tea, saying I had to get back to work and would stop by when I could.
No handshake before I left. Still, it was another few minutes I could feed on to get me through the time until we were on the way to The World.
A rms crossed and glowering, Dunne was pissed.
“No need to lie, Morgan,” he said. “I know exactly where you were. If I wasn’t such an enabler myself, you’d be grounded.”
Finnen was back by the fridge, no brewskie in his hand.
Washington had a new station and wasn’t standing at the door looking like he wanted to be the first one out when the frag was tossed in. He was sitting in a chair next to my designated spot, again, enjoying his introductions to the heady world of spookdom.
“Yes, sir,” Washington said. “That’s why you were watchin’ the hardcore action on the Russian Love Slaves website when Finnen and me came in. Looked like you was romancin’ somethin’ alright.”
Finnen belched, not a sneaky one, with enough pressure to bulge the canvas sides of the tent and be heard easily over the noise of the choppers. He didn’t bother to excuse himself—just wiped his mouth with a fatigue sleeve.
Oh, my buddies. Doing the best they could to deflect Dunne.
“Won’t work,” Dunne said, not taking his eyes off me. “You can’t protect him by questioning my love life or making animal sounds. If this were the Army, I’d have you thrown in the blockade, Morgan. You should be concerned with the national interest and your tenuous career. Not moping around the women’s compound like somebody killed your pet gerbil.”
“Speakin’ of gerbils,” Washington said. “Did you hear Richard Gere had ta go to the emergency room with one up his ass? Maybe he could make a new movie. Romancing the Rodent.”
This time it was a fart. The smell immediately overwhelmed the odor of paperwork and used Kleenex. Shockwaves trembled Finnen’s pants and he lifted his leg, scratching his right cheek, not once looking up.
Dunne ignored the sound and the smell.
“Morgan,” he said. “Sit down.”
My regular chair was on station. I sat, feeling like an assassin caught losing track of his target by stopping for a latte at Starbucks. Whatever that felt like. Dunne wasn’t going to intimidate me or pour water on the innocent flame that was Khkulay. There wasn’t much he could do other than send her back to Jalalabad and me out to an ambush, both certain death. I straightened up and tried to focus on something other than a smile.
“First,” Dunne said, “you’re restricted to your quarters or here until this operation is completed.” He put his arms to his sides and bent forward. “Second, if you want the girl to see the shores of America, you will stay away from her until I say the restriction is lifted.”
It wasn’t even worth laughing. That would only make him angrier. He couldn’t really be serious. Part of my training came from Dunne. Just a little slice. In the other sessions and years, I learned how to go pretty much wherever I wanted whenever I chose without anyone knowing. I was no swashbuckling movie secret agent, but there wasn’t a chance Dunne could prevent me from seeing Khkulay if I was anywhere within a hundred klicks.
Finnen came alive.
“What is it, April Fool’s Day?” he asked. “Better check the calendar, ’cause I can’t believe what I’m hearin’.”
Finnen looked down at his watch and thumped it with his finger, then put the Timex up to his ear. “Damn thing must a stopped when Morgan and I were out doing the dirty jobs for our country that no one wants on their résumé. Defendin’ freedom and risking our lives.” He brought the watch away from his ear, shaking it like it was a mischievous school boy and not looking at anyone in the tent.
“Stayin’ up for days and nights because our employer has filled us with little white pills. Committing acts banned by international treaties and punishable as war crimes, as well as bein’ completely illegal by the laws of our own country. And all on the salary of a mid-level secretary.”
He thumped the Timex again. “Fuck all, gonna have ta go Swiss next time, but I don’t think I can afford it. Maybe one a the dead hadjis we run across’ll have a spare Rolex I can borrow. Would that be called the spoils of war?” He smiled for the first time but kept his focus on the watch. “Oops, better not. That might be against the law.”
At least now Dunne was watching Finnen, listening to his patriotic reverie, and not me.
“Finished?” Dunne asked. His arms were crossed again, the sign of maximum seriousness.
“Not quite,” Finnen said. “The world ain’t gonna end because Morgan was a coupla hours late coming home to see daddy. You gotta give him a shot at savin’ the skirt of his life, not spank him like a kid who didn’t put away his toys. Man, I hated that.” Finally, he looked at Dunne. “You been grumblin’ ever since me and Washington strolled in here, and I ain’t even touched the fridge. There’s something eatin’ at you besides Morgan.”
Dunne turned his attention to Washington.
“You got anything more to add before we get to work?” Dunne asked.
In the last few days, it had always been kind of fun, planning the torture and death of bad guys. Washington looked somewhat shell shocked, but he still smiled.
“That about sums it up,” he said. “Am I grounded, too?”
“Oh, please, please,” Finnen said. “Ground me, too. I can’t bear the thought of being away from my fridge again. I missed her so.” Finnen dropped to his knees and began rubbing and kissing the small refrigerator.
It took mounting a major campaign, but Dunne grinned. Granted, a crooked, sardonic one, but it was still progress. He glanced at me before he swung to the laptop.
“Forget everything I said,” Dunne said. “For once, Finnen made sense.” He checked his messages. It was the closest thing to an apology I’d ever heard Dunne make, and I had yet to say a word. I wondered what the whole “restriction” ploy was about and couldn’t figure out the reason.
Dunne went on. “We are under a time constraint. Dostum is leaving for Germany in two days under the pretext of negotiations with the German high command about reported upcoming troop movements. From what I’ve heard from Finnen and Washington, without the input of you, Morgan,” he frowned at me, “Dostum will probably make a side trip to Kassel.”
Nothing of earth-shaking import on the screen, Dunne sat back. “Karzai is going for a State visit to Paris on the same schedule. I want to at least get to Dostum before he leaves and has time to make plans with Herr Schultz.”
Being an observer was something new. It was more normal that Dunne and I did the talking and strategizing, while Finnen drank and burped. Washington was a cherry and had little input, not familiar with spook deceptions. Now that the mood had calmed and Finnen was occupied with caressing his blinking girlfriend, I rubbed my thighs and sat up.
“Have you been able to verify that none of this is being orchestrated by the Company?” I asked.
“I haven’t been able to find any slug trails,” Dunne said, not looking at me. “From what I’ve been told, Schultz and Wintershall were on their own. Is that your opinion?”
“Not necessarily.”
While Washington wasn’t as much of a long-term investment as me, in private, we had agreed to not discuss with anyone the Klaus and Schultz descriptions of a man who sounded a lot like Dunne. I wanted to know what kind of tricks we were into, and Washington didn’t
fancy thinking about any of the intrigue, saying, “I gotta see their eyeballs or tracers before I fire, not a mind fuck. Thought the migraines were cured, but you spooks bring ’em back like dick warts.”
Finnen hadn’t expressed the least bit of concern over Schultz’s American contact in Qalat, and I hadn’t brought it up during the flight back from Frankfurt.
Turning from his laptop screen, Dunne finally looked at me, his blue eyes searching.
“What do you mean, Morgan?” Dunne asked.
Even a short tour of Afghanistan and many months of training with the Company meant I was aware of what lengths Langley would go to achieve success. Sacrificing an agent to attain a higher goal was normal policy, even though it might be considered unfortunate when discussed over a cup of cappuccino. I still needed more confirmation before blabbing to Dunne what I suspected. I leaned forward—our signal it was serious time.
“Just a hunch,” I said. “I think we should have more intel.”
“I don’t know what’s cooking in your brain, Morgan,” Dunne said. “The Taliban will deal with anyone who’ll get them guns, so it doesn’t have to involve the Company. Big oil plays their own game with their own armies, and dope is too much a hot ticket for Langley to make that mistake again.”
“What about Dostum?”
“He’s got history. He uses us when it’s of value. The opposite’s true.”
“Do you know him?”
“Met him during a stint in Kabul.”
“Ever been to Qalat?”
“Sure. It’s part of my territory.”
“Frankfurt?”
“What are you getting at, Morgan? Why the interrogation?”
Vast quantities of early-morning, afternoon, or evening beer would never keep Finnen from paying attention. Most of his slobbering was a ruse like good-old-boy Georgia lawyers who relished using dumb, cracker accents to conceal their Harvard education and intelligence. Little escaped him, no matter how much alcohol flowed through his blood stream or onto his shirt. He was back at his post in the chair, having finished caressing his true love, the refrigerator.
“I think Morgan’s just practicin’ his tradecraft,” Finnen said. “But I don’t believe he’s ready to stick his Ka-Bar in your nuts. Yet.” Finnen yawned. “Let’s get on with it. I feel an urge to go to Kabul and visit the tittie bars.”
Dunne continued to glare at me, and I could almost hear the silicon chips in his brain processing new information. I had wanted to plant the seed of doubt, but I may have gone too far. I sat back and folded my arms on my chest.
“Kabul and Dostum could be the keys,” I said. “Are we gonna open him up?”
Decisions. I had only a small taste of the choices that confronted Dunne every minute. Factoring in the requirements of his masters while dancing with his agents and the realities of Afghanistan. Assuring actions were deniable. He had to make a decision now, and I watched as he stared at me, sifting through fact and suspicion. After nearly a minute, he gave me a slight nod.
Getting ready for the briefing, Dunne got comfortable in his chair. He pushed away from the laptop and rested his hands on his knees.
“Dostum is a true nasty,” Dunne said. “One time, outside Mazar-i Sharif, he put four hundred Taliban in a container until they suffocated. When the doors were opened, a witness said it smelled like a boatload of dead fish. At the Qila Jangi, prisoners he hadn’t been able to starve to death were handcuffed and brought to the courtyard. They were forced to kneel and shot in the head. Those starved or executed were buried in a mass grave just outside the walls. The list of atrocities against Dostum’s own people and foreign insurgents is too lengthy to detail, but the victims total in the tens of thousands.”
Dunne was about to switch gears and cleared his throat, looking at the map of Afghanistan. “As for the Taliban and al-Qaeda, it’s much like Dostum’s on-again, off-again relationship with the Company. If it furthers his agenda of power and money, he goes along. If not, Dostum’s capable of anything. This heroin triangle couldn’t exist without someone in a high position clearing the decks. There’re a lot of people in Karzai’s circle who could or would be involved, but the information you’ve gathered and I’ve been able to track all points to Dostum.”
No matter how distracted by the siren call of Budweiser Finnen looked, I knew he was listening. Washington had sat back and inhaled the lecture, nodding his head every now and then. He was content with his new permanent transfer to the Company and appeared oblivious to the undercurrents. Dunne swiveled back to me from his study of the map.
“Now to heroin,” Dunne said. “Dostum is very likely the biggest supplier of heroin in the history of the planet, making Khun Sa look like a bit player. With the cooperation of the Taliban, he controls the opium fields and refineries almost completely down to southern Afghanistan, where he still is active. The warlords there have established their own shipment routes through Iran and into Turkey. Even though Dostum has murdered thousands of Taliban, his logistical talent and marketing connections give him a pass. The Friendship Bridge from northern Afghanistan, Dostum’s kingdom, to Uzbekistan is the most active heroin border crossing in the world. SUVs crammed with smack, supposedly camouflaged with tar-papered windows, cross in convoys on a regular basis. Lately, the price for cooperation by the Uzbek customs and border agents has increased, as has the cost of protection Dostum has received from the Uzbekistan government in Tashkent. I believe the recent joint project with Wintershall is a response to the escalating price of collaboration and the threatened safety of the transit routes. Also, since Herr Schultz was likely a neophyte in the drug world, it is probable Dostum got a higher price and was able to involve himself more deeply in the oil game as well.”
A moan came from Finnen’s corner. He was nearly slumped to the floor and struggled to look in our direction.
“If I don’t get a beer soon,” he said, “this headache is gonna break through the skin.” Finnen tried to stand with the help of the fridge girl. “All this talkin’ isn’t helpin’ either. Can’t you just get to the point? When are we gonna kill him?”
Washington was cleaned up and smelled like he’d borrowed some of the cologne Finnen stole from me. He seemed more comfortable in loose fatigues than the dress uniform he wore to Kassel. He stuck his legs out in front of his body and leaned back.
“Doesn’t seem like Dostum is contributing much to the well-being of the planet,” Washington said. “I’d sure like to go along when he gets shot in the head. Or do it myself.”
“Make that three,” I said. “It’s too bad you’re so rusty, Dunne, or we could play a foursome.”
“There’s a problem,” Dunne said. “Not with my abilities in the field. As I told you before, Dostum has been on the Company payroll on and off for years. He knows lots of skeletons. If you don’t think people at Langley knew Dostum is mixed up in the dope-for-money-and-guns business, you’re naïve. That’s what’s bothered me from the beginning. When you toss in the oil factor, the picture becomes even murkier.” Dunne had moved from the lecturing pose to the more focused here’s-what-we-need-to-do posture, bending forward to bring us into the conspiracy.
Chameleon. A lizard that can change colors and appearance. It was necessary that field agents be able to morph to someone else in seconds. If for no other reason, it kept the target off balance. Dunne had been a successful CIA operative in many places around the world. Distraction was a tool he found valuable. From the earlier denials of Company involvement, he was now hinting Langley was at least aware of the plot and he would become a co-conspirator in uncovering the truth. Just like a broken mirror, I knew the reflection could be skewed, but I would go along with Dunne’s transformation until I understood what the real agenda was.
Dunne was almost whispering, having beckoned Finnen closer. The four of us were clumped together, listening like gossiping schoolgirls.
“I’m not that far from my twenty years, and I don’t want to go out being called rogue,” Dunne said
. “On the other hand, I’ve been given lots of freedom to act against the Taliban while I’m here. Kind of a blank check. Doing something to slow the Taliban and al-Qaeda’s ability to buy weapons would be an operation I could remember, even if someone will be along to fill Dostum’s shoes before the poppies sprout on his grave. I know you boys have been thinking about this, too, and probably have come to the same conclusions.”
The fridge was rattling. Finnen turned and watched, a look of terror on his face.
“Sure have,” Finnen said, still checking out the status of his treasure. “It’s right up there on the list with how big my hemorrhoid’s gettin’ sitting here listening to you guys yak. Let’s just blow on outta this tent and waste the lad. If the Company can’t handle killin’ someone who’s responsible for supplying the arms that are sending our soldiers home in body bags, fook ’em.”
“Well, I’m the cherry,” Washington said. “And I ain’t up on all the geo-political ramifications, but Finnen’s got my vote.”
“Mine, too,” I said. “The question is, do we kill him or figure out how to turn him while we do some damage to the smack market? And find out who’s running him and for what purpose?”
“Kill him,” Finnen said.
“Yup,” Washington said. “And make it slow and painful.”
”You know, of course,” Dunne said, “we’ll be flying naked. I can’t tell Langley, and they would probably reassign me to Anchorage watching Russian fishing trawlers if I even suggested it. If we present them with a fait accompli, we might even live.”
The Company would look more than amateurish if they didn’t know the biggest dope dealer in the world was from a country that supplied 90 percent of the globe’s heroin. The Agency’s excuses would be wide ranging. Reasons like, how can we stop it? If we spray Agent Orange on the poppy crops, there will be civil war and instability beyond what already exists. If we close the major border crossings, they’ll find other ways to export. If we kill all the high-ranking officials involved, we’ll just have to groom new contacts. Better the devil you know. If we let the Generals and politicians make lots of money, it motivates them to help us. If the Taliban don’t have cash for carbines, then Iran will become even more involved. At least this way, we’re keeping somewhat of a handle on an explosive situation. Opium is the biggest component of the Afghan gross national product. Well above camel trading and goat herding. People have to eat even if the fruit of their labor blossoms on the graves of dead Americans. Status quo was better than chaos quo. Geo-political reasoning well beyond me. And Dunne was still suspect even with his selfless gesture.