by Ron Lealos
The real question was how—and why—I was being used and only fed enough intel to keep me in the game. The growing concern was the old Company policy of deniability. If things went sideways, Washington, Finnen, and I would take the fall. We were hands-on agents, not diplomats or strategists. And there was at least one person, Dostum, who needed to die for more than just drug running. He was a mass murderer. The Company would have to recruit a new Afghan military asset. In the immortal words of Finnen, “fook’ em.”
Three more wild cards beyond my doubts. Khkulay, Karzai, and oil.
The dirt floor was pebbled with smalls clods that made it look like brown, pimpled skin. I hoped the bumps weren’t really alive and moving around the way they seemed to be as I stared down.
“We’re all seeing it the same,” I said. “The Company has a history of supporting dictators and murderers. It always seems to backfire, but the policy of expedience continues. This time, we can do something about it and probably help the Company even if they’ll shit when they find out, if they don’t already know. And we can rid the human race of another mutant killer.”
“Ya think?” Finnen asked. He was approximately sitting up, slouched in his chair like he was liquid. “Ya think I like all this drinking? Ya think I enjoy spendin’ fifty hours awake, hunkered down and waiting to grease someone who’ll be replaced in minutes with all the applicants on the list? Ya think I like the stink of goats and unwashed pajamas? Ya think the limericks and Irish routine are real? Or just somethin’ to make me forget what I’m doin’ and fly away, even for a moment?”
“As to the first one,” I said. “Yes.” I realized then that it was going to be a while before I could steer things around to Khkulay.
“And yes to all the rest,” Washington said.
“Ditto,” Dunne said.
Finnen’s head lolled to his shoulder, eyes closed. But his lips still moved like he was among the talking dead.
“You grab ass and ‘ooh and aah’ like you just found the Holy fookin’ Grail,” Finnen said. “I been in this shit hole rock pile longer than all of ya together. I grasp the fact there’s a steep learning curve. You fellas, with all the evidence in front of your eejit faces, are just gettin’ to the top. It’s a long ride down, boy’os, and my skids have been oiled with God’s blood. Maybe you oughta join me.”
Finnen opened his eyes.
“Yum, that sounds like first call.” He walked across the tent and reached for the fridge door. “Ya know, before I came here, I wasn’t such a cheerful drunk. Just a drunk. It’s either laugh or eat a Hush Puppy.”
The Bud foamed at the top, and Finnen lapped up the bubbles before he tipped the can. He sank back, head facing the ceiling.
“When you decide what time we’re leavin’ for Kabul, call my personal assistant. Bud will put it down in my day book.”
“Did you just call me an eejit?” Washington asked. He was watching Finnen empty the can and start the crushing ritual. “Is that like an elf?”
“No,” Finnen said. “It’s a fairy that slapped you and whispered, ‘Stop bein’ so fuckin’ stupid, eejit.’”
Once it started, the mocking could go on for a very long time. I needed to change the direction. Dunne was the driver, and I focused on him.
“Khkulay,” I said. “I think we should finish our business in Kabul and fly that Gulfstream out of Bagram right after, non-stop to Andrews. Khkulay can be waiting on the plane. I assume you’ve already cleared her visa?”
“Of course,” Dunne said. “Anything else I can do to assist in your life?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Are we paying a visit to Karzai while we’re near the palace?”
“That would be truly suicidal,” Dunne said. “He’s really not such a bad guy, and he’s very well protected. Word is he’s the only official around here who hasn’t had anybody killed or murdered anyone himself. An angel coated in oil.”
Dunne smiled. Twice in two days.
“But if we exterminated everyone who stands to make money from burning the remaining fossil fuel, we’d have to train a legion of assassins. He’s the elected president of a sovereign nation. We don’t assassinate leaders of democratic countries.” A pause. “Besides, it’d be almost impossible to get near Karzai. He’s guarded not only by his people but Dynacorp agents. They’re as tough as anyone in the Agency. And just as smart. If we get anywhere close to Karzai, the Company will know, and there won’t be a Gulfstream waiting for us at Bagram. It’ll be a firing squad.”
Okay, so we weren’t going to quench the planet’s thirst for oil. That wouldn’t have been achieved even if we wasted Karzai. But we could save Khkulay and rid the earth of a genocidal maniac. And, hopefully, I could cover my ass and the others’, too.
“We flyin’ or drivin’?” Finnen asked. He popped a third can. “If you fellas are gonna jack your lips all day, I gotta pace myself for the ride.”
Again, Dunne motioned us all closer. Even Finnen staggered over.
It was “here’s what we’re gonna do” time. After he checked all corners of the tent, Dunne leaned back over, like someone might be listening and everything was still strictly classified “ears only.”
“As much as I’d like to tag along,” Dunne said, “it’s better if I manage things from here.” No surprise. “You boys take out Dostum and get on the flight. I’ve already got the three of you scheduled for some stateside R & R. When the shit hits, I’ll do my best to keep you from getting splattered.” He looked at me. “And yes, Morgan, she’ll be on board. Gives you an incentive to get out alive.”
“What’s my incentive?” Finnen asked.
We all chuckled and shook our heads.
“What’s so funny?” Finnen asked.
“Another chance to visit the Emerald Isle?” I asked.
“Another chance to drink it dry?” Washington asked.
“Can’t be done,” Finnen said. “Tried that.”
“Another shot at a world record skid mark on your shorts?” Dunne asked, for the first time joining the fun. The lizard was putting on new skin.
“Another opportunity to blow out your eardrums belching?” Washington asked.
“More time to reach the high notes in ‘Danny Boy’?” I asked.
“I can take all the shite you hand out about drinkin’, fartin’, and belchin’,” Finnen said “But I won’t tolerate any raggin’ on my fine tenor.” He started to hum, tuning up for a repeat stanza.
“That’s enough,” Dunne said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
It would be a nighttime op, the way we liked it.
Kabul. Twelve hours later.
We decided it was better to drive than fly. The traffic wasn’t an issue, and there were no frequent-flyer miles for a chopper ride. Parked in a vintage King Cab Toyota pickup a few blocks from Dostum’s sentried castle, Washington and I checked our arsenals and high-tech gadgets while Finnen continued his nap.
A vehicle in the best neighborhood of Kabul late at night was still like a flying saucer in Manhattan. Dunne had enlisted a driver, and the three assassins would soon have to leave the truck to start our recon and assault. We would be extracted in less than two hours, well before dawn.
The most popular building material in the city was canvas, and the Toyota had driven through miles of makeshift tents and mud walls. Hills could be found on the fringes of Kabul, climbing swiftly to the lower mountains and soon into the Himalayas. In the dark, clear sky, we could see the outlines of the peaks and the snow glistening in the moonlight. The color here was brown, not the pastels of Jalalabad. Normally, non-natives would be surrounded by beggars and amputees, but it was well into the hours of shadow. The time of the Taliban.
Bearded and unsmiling, the turbaned driver pulled as close as he could get to a tarped overhang and waited for our final preparations. Not even a grunt had escaped his throat during the ride, and he avoided our eyes as if he didn’t want to remember. No street lights, and, if there were, they would most likely be
unlit in a city where the flow of electricity was rarer than the sight of a camel spitting. I swiveled to Finnen snoring in the back, while making the third Hush Puppy ammo check.
“Killing time, Finnen,” I whispered. “Wake up, sleepy spook.” Washington shook Finnen’s arm at the same time.
Finnen’s eyes snapped open, and he twisted his head in panic.
“My sweet Jaysus,” he said. “Where am I?”
“Close to the gates of paradise if you don’t get ready,” I said.
Finnen sat up and began patting the pockets in his black pants and thin jacket.
“And here I thought I was on my two-hundred-foot yacht in Monaco harbor,” he said. “Enjoyin’ a chilled bottle of Canard-Duchêne champagne, served on a gold platter by two topless Vogue models.” He looked around, examining the scene outside the truck windows. He frowned. “Have ta wait until tomorrow.”
If Finnen had been asleep, he was probably dreaming of dead hadjis, not nearly naked women or luxurious yachts. It was more likely he was visualizing the op in his mind, rehearsing every step. Behind all the jesting, he was keenly aware of the intricacies and fall-backs of an operation and knew what a poor outcome meant. There was nobody better to have along, except maybe Washington.
All three of us were cloaked in black from head to toe. Black crepe-soled shoes, loose black jeans, black spandex turtleneck shirts, black buckle-less belts, black wool stocking caps, black windbreakers with lots of pockets, and black charcoal smeared on our faces—except for Washington. Cat burglars on the way to the ball. Or assassins.
It wasn’t a movie, and there was no “let’s go through this one more time.” No communal hug or hand slap. We got out of the truck and silently waited in the gloom for ten minutes after the Toyota left, scanning every inch of the surroundings. I was the team leader, and, after making sure no eyes were watching, we began the assault, staying in the shadows as much as possible.
Anything that would clank was taped to our bodies—knives, pistols, grenades of different flavors, climbing gear, and some of the latest Company wizardry. No rifles. If we had to lug H & Ks around and use them, we were dead. The only chance for survival was stealth.
Jay Leno wasn’t playing on TVs as we passed boarded-up windows or closed flaps. It seemed as if we were slinking through an endless construction site. What passed for porch overhangs were canvas or plastic coverings draped over variations of scaffolding. No dogs, thank goodness. It took us half an hour to cover two blocks of sleeping neighborhood. Then the first challenge.
Back at base, Dunne had displayed aerial photos of Dostum’s heavily guarded compound. Either bulldozers or nature had cleared the hundred yards surrounding the castle. It was most likely a combination, and the only path providing cover was still open and surely mined as well as planted with sensors. Lookouts would be stationed on the turrets. Not the kind who would light up a cigarette or fall asleep, either. These were highly motivated army professionals who knew if there was any kind of breach, they would be killed even if they survived the attack.
Nothing we could do about the mines in the dark except pray we didn’t encounter any. It would take days to do a sweep, and little more than an hour remained before our ride to Bagram returned. We’d be crawling anyway, and I would be on point, Finnen and Washington following my exact path.
A few boulders and scraggly bushes were on the chosen route, and I didn’t hesitate or give a final “good luck, fellas” when we reached the last building. I dropped to my knees and started to inch toward the walls, night-vision goggles over my eyes. A few minutes before, Finnen had used a small black box the size of a pack of Camels and pushed a button. If it worked, all the sensors and movement detectors would still be on green, sending the “all clear” to whoever was monitoring even when we broke the laser beams. The Company nerds had just introduced the device—the XX Beamer 1. If it didn’t work, the bullets whumping into our bodies would let the techies know further updates were required.
Communication was made through hand signs. Any noise would be easily heard across the empty expanse as well as picked up by the listening equipment, which we didn’t know if the XX Beamer 1 had correctly jammed. It took us fifteen minutes to crawl and duck our way to the base of the wall.
Washington’s turn. He took out a titanium line wound around a graphite spool with padded hooks attached at the end and mounted on an air gun. The whole package was smaller than a softball. By the photos Dunne had shown us, we were in the best spot for scaling the twenty-five-foot high walls, farthest away from guard towers. Washington aimed toward the moonlit sky and pulled the trigger. A gentle whumpf, and the line sped toward the top of the mud and stones. If he had to do this more than once, it would heighten the risk of being heard many times over. Nothing fell back, though, and Washington put all his weight on the line and yanked down a few times. He nodded his head and began to climb, using his black-gloved hands to keep the sharp wire from slicing into flesh. Above, there was a narrow walkway just over the top that would give him a place to wait and motion the “clear” signal.
Besides snakes, mines, and women, what scared me the most were heights. Planes and choppers didn’t count. But rappelling was something I had to force myself to do, and I followed the instruction of “don’t look down” by the letter. Washington was watching, bent over the edge and waving me up. I took a deep breath and started the scramble, nowhere as fluid as he had been.
At the top, Washington helped me over, and I crouched with my back to the stone, scanning for anyone who might have detected our presence. Washington beckoned Finnen, and the Irishman squatted beside me in seconds. We left the line in place, knowing if we used it again, we weren’t dead.
A lit courtyard was below with a least five new black SUVs parked in a straight line. A marble statue of an olive tree spouting water out of the branches took up the middle of the cobblestones. This time, it was turned on. A castle, not out of place in the Rhineland, filled most of the compound. Dostum must have more in common with Schultz than I thought. Five stories, topped with an Afghan flag blowing in the mountain breeze. Turrets and carved frescoes. Arched leaded windows. Smoke billowing from rocked chimneys. I half-expected knights on horses to appear from behind the wooden gates.
The walkway only allowed us to move toward the castle in single file. There was no railing, and I kept my focus on the nearest guard tower, not daring any more glances below, or I might faint. I took out the air-powered ID 12 dart gun, and we duck-walked forward, me in the lead. Anyone hit with a treated projectile would instantly be asleep from the mixture of barbiturates and polymers strong enough to drop a charging lion. There would not be time to rub the sting.
No door on the first guard tower. A bearded, uniformed man was intent on the scene below, resting his AK47 on the jutted stones, his back to us and his head slightly turned to the left. The sentry was blowing on a hot cup of tea, a Thermos at his feet. I stepped into the small covered room and shot him in the neck. Washington helped ease him to the rock floor and kept the rifle and cup from clattering when they fell. He would be dozing for at least three hours.
Twenty yards ahead, a thick wooden door led inside the castle. If it had been locked, it wouldn’t have mattered; we carried the tools to get in anyway. But it was unlocked, doubtless to let more men through without delay. I gently swung the door open, and we stepped inside; Finnen closed it behind him.
Always with helpful answers, Dunne had informed us the guards didn’t change hourly. Late-night shifts were all graveyard. Only daylight brought fresh troops. Dostum was under constant surveillance wherever he was, and the job of observing him helped a number of Afghan CIA assets earn a living. We also knew there were inside patrols and that Dostum’s bedroom was on the corner of the fifth floor. We were on the third.
The low, muted rumble of generators. Bronzed, serpentined wall lamps dimmed by brown shades. Tiled floor with long rugs running down the hallway. The smell of kerosene and rock dust. A high ceiling, crisscrossed
with wooden beams. Dark-colored tapestries without human figures. Heavy doors on both sides. Beyond, a staircase as wide as an Abrams tank. I moved slowly forward, knowing Finnen was on trace, his back to Washington.
We had to get past the stairwell, climb two floors higher and down the hall on the right to the far corner. If anyone came out of their room or a patrol appeared, we would have to take them out silently, or the shooting would start. There was no way we could stay alive in a firefight.
The first obstacle was the stairs. The banister was carved wood. Again, with swirling designs. No animals or people allowed to falsely worship Allah. The floor changed from local stone to what must have been Italian marble covered in thick woven Afghan carpet. I looked down and saw a guard with an AK climbing the stairs toward us. Stepping back into a shadow, I pressed against the rough stone wall. Washington did the same, while Finnen froze and continued to watch behind us.
From the braids on his shoulders, I could tell the man must have been the chief of security, not just the average guard. He was definitely an officer in the Army of Afghanistan. His mustache curled around the edges of his mouth, and he wore a red beret. His black boots had been laced nearly to his knees, and his pants bagged out at his thighs. He was looking down at his feet as he came up.
When the man rounded the corner, I walked soundlessly to him and pressed the tip of the dart gun to the skin above his collar. Again, Washington helped ease the man to the rug, and we carried him to the side of the stairwell, doing our best to stuff his body behind a large vase holding dried elephant grass.