What guy wants that? Not him. No way. Not with Libby. She did things to his insides, got him tangled up and left him wanting. He turned restless just thinking about her, restless like something in his life was missing. Mark grunted and adjusted his backpack one last time. Somewhere off in the dark, a jackal yipped, followed by the gentle bleat of the sheep in Arzad’s corral. The lonely sound echoed the ache in his soul.
A falling star blazed across the midnight sky, fading back into oblivion as quickly as it came. So, we are like those children in the sky, huh? Arzad’s a funny guy. What did he mean by that? Was he talking about mankind being as numerous as the stars?
Mark stared at his celestial family, a silent observer in the dark wondering how he fit into the grand scheme of things. We are like these children. Constellations spread across the universe like diamonds thrown across the sky. Some glittered brightly while some were barely visible. Even the crescent moon hung like an ornament of thinnest sliver set in blackest velvet. The sky was full of treasures. He grunted. If Arzad had meant that mankind was a treasure, then Mark was the dimmest star out there. He knew his place. Libby was the brightest. No doubt about it.
Besides, he wasn’t kidding himself. She had loved Jon; she would need a long time to grieve. Maybe years. Maybe a lifetime. Mark knew he had better man up and face the truth. No way could he measure up to Jon in her estimation. He was just – that guy. The one no one really saw, least of all Libby. She had said as much at the lake. He was a friend. Nothing more.
Another small meteor flashed at the corner of his eyes. He sighed, his arms still behind his head. Anything was possible. His mother had taught him that. Maybe, just maybe, a young lady might be staring up at those same stars tonight. The notion comforted him even though he knew there was a huge time-zone difference between them. This tiny hovel in a third world country might somehow be linked to a pristine clapboard farmhouse a world away in the dairy state through this family of stars beaming down on him now.
A man could always dream.
Eight
“He wants what?” Libby couldn’t keep the spike of annoyance from her voice.
“Washington D.C.,” Marcy replied brightly. “You leave in two weeks.”
Libby blew an errant strand of hair off her forehead, totally exasperated with this sudden change in her schedule. As a student nurse, she excelled. If the truth were known, she was obsessive about her chosen profession. She couldn’t get enough of the work, clinicals, or the studying. If she wasn’t up to her neck in exams and reading, she wasn’t happy, not that she cared about happiness anyway. It wasn’t on her agenda. She didn’t intend to go looking for it.
Marcy’s news brought Libby back to the problem at hand, another conference with Dr. Wonderful, also known as Dirk Clements. He was fast becoming a problem. This was the second trip he had wormed her into without prior notice, and all because, according to him, she was the sharpest in her class. It was getting old.
“He’s got the hots for you, girlfriend.” Marcy chuckled.
“You think?” Libby tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“I’ll go in your place if you want. All you have to do is say the word.”
“I wish I could. Oh, Marcy, how can I get out of this mess?” Libby faced her friend. “Can’t you tell him I’ve got an exam or something?”
“He’s already booked the flight.” Marcy scrunched her shoulders and grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Darn. I guess that means I’m going. What’s this one about?”
“I hate to tell you, but there are actually two, one on Endocrinology and Metabolism, and the other’s on Infectious Diseases. Real snoozers if you ask me.” Marcy rolled her eyes. “The good thing is they’re both in Georgetown. That ought to make them interesting, huh?”
Libby watched Marcy read the conference details off the sticky note in her hand. Marcy Buffington was her confidant, study partner, and best friend all rolled into one. They had joined the College of Nursing in Chicago on the same day. Libby could have continued at the local clinic in Marshfield, Wisconsin, but after Jonathan’s funeral, she had felt suffocated. Everyone knew her circumstances. The pitying stares got old fast. The day she left, she dropped her wedding dress in a Salvation Army donation box and never looked back.
“You do know all the other nurses wish they were going instead of you, don’t you?” Marcy reminded. “Besides, you get to travel to Washington D.C. You ought to be happy.”
“I would be thrilled if only he wasn’t so, umm, friendly.”
Marcy didn’t understand her dilemma. Libby hadn’t told anyone about Jonathan or his untimely death, not even her closest friend. While most of the student nurses were looking for Mr. Right, Libby was not. She had already been down that road. Besides, there was something creepy about Dr. Clements. He took liberties. During a previous conference in Des Moines, he had splurged on a bottle of champagne on their first and only dinner together. At that point, she’d explained her personal rule about not mixing business with pleasure. Obviously, he hadn’t taken the hint.
“Did you say in two weeks?” Libby whined again, but Marcy smiled that dreamy, sappy smile of hers, already lost in fanciful imaginations of the darling Dr. Clements.
“I’m still looking for Natasha.”
Harley’s reference to Boris and Natasha from the Bullwinkle cartoon of bygone days made Mark smile. He’d seen the reruns. Unfortunately, the only one in sight was Boris Seinkevitz, and Arzad was right. The man was huge. With arms as thick as small tree trunks, he was a giant compared to the impoverished men in the village. A black beard and aviator sunglasses covered his ugly face.
To help blend in, Mark and Harley had changed into the traditional shalwar kameez, the brown dress-like shirt of the common man pulled over their pajama-style trousers. Both men wore a thin overcoat as well, more to disguise their very American stature than anything else. Since neither sported much hair on their heads or chins, they already stood out like two tall sore thumbs. Caps, scarves, and upright collars finished the camouflage.
“Looks like he stepped out of a Saturday morning wrestling match.” Mark peered over his dark glasses to the spectacle across the street. “Old Boris likes bling.”
Ropes of gold glittered off the cartel boss’s muscular neck while each finger sported more nuggets of shine. He walked like a heavy man though, not one in athletic condition like most television wrestlers. Dressing in military olive drab did nothing to hide the prodigious belly that hung over his belt. A flash of gold glittered off the hilt of the sword in the scabbard at his side. Other than that, the Russian did not appear armed.
“And ink.” Harley shielded his eyes from the sun. “The man’s got enough tattoos, doesn’t he?”
Mark switched to his rangefinder for a closer view. “Looks like a bunch of snakes and naked women from here.”
“We must be careful,” Arzad whispered anxiously as they watched from behind a delivery truck on the street opposite the Russian’s building.
Mark stowed the rangefinder, but maintained careful observation as they continued their stroll around farmers and other vendors selling their wares. All manner of fruits, nuts, and vegetables were laid along the street in big baskets and carts. Heavily laden trays of baked pastries, baskets overflowing with spices and herbs, and brightly colored scarves and rugs were everywhere. A donkey stood patiently with a wooden cart stacked high with bright orange and purple carrots while his young owner sat beneath the cart in the shade. He smiled, offering a shy wave Mark couldn’t help but return. A kid was a kid no matter which part of the world he was in.
The variety of Afghanistan always surprised, not only with all the goods and merchandise, but the people as well. Young boys ran past him dressed in school clothes similar to many American children while their mothers wore the traditional burka, their faces hidden behind layers of gray and blue fabric. Rainbow colored skeins of dyed wool hung from the doorway of one shop while woven onion, garlic, and peppers of all co
lors hung from the very next one. It would have been picturesque except for the mountain of trash piled at the end of the street, its unlovely odor wafting over everything. Mark pulled his scarf up to cover his nose. The smell could be much worse. It could be from the open sewers that ran behind the buildings.
The Russian’s garish hangout stood out from all the rest. Flaunting freshly painted white walls with gold trim, tinted windows lined the lower level while wrought-iron railings on the second story offered an overview for two armed guards. A dusty black Hummer parked in front of the building where Seinkevitz stood with two more soldiers and a single village elder. No vendors trespassed near the building.
Mark watched the elder man with the Russian. Dressed in simple brown attire, he stood with his head down. Seinkevitz poked a finger into the older man’s chest, causing him to take a step backwards. Mark detected the Russian’s threatening tone. The distinct need to lock and load irked the back of his mind.
“How many men does he have in town?” Mark asked.
“Many.” Arzad wanted to leave. “Come. We go to his villa next. You see then.”
“His villa?” Harley stopped walking. “This guy’s got a villa?”
Arzad took a few steps back to take Harley by the arm and hurry him along. “Come. We must go.”
A bellow jerked Mark’s eyes across the street where the older gentleman was on his hands and knees in the street. Only Arzad’s hand gripping his arm held Mark in place. “No, no, Mr. Mark. Come. We go now. Is not safe here.”
“What’s he saying? Tell me.”
“I do not know his words. He speaks Russian.” Arzad was clearly unnerved. “Maybe he angry because harvest was small. Please. We must go.”
“Who’s the old man?”
“Nasim.”
“Who’s Nasim?” Mark hadn’t moved a step.
“Nasim is father of Mohammed Khan. He was village leader. Now he is missing.” Arzad hyperventilated. “Please, Mr. Harley. Mr. Mark. This is not safe place. Come with me.”
“It’s okay, Arzad. We’re just watching. Don’t worry.” Mark rested his hand an Arzad’s shoulder to placate him. All the town’s people had moved further away from Seinkevitz, though many continued to watch the confrontation from a safe distance.
“Hey, Mark,” Harley said. “Look around. We’re all by ourselves right now. Arzad’s right. We need to move.”
“Yes,” Mark agreed, taking one step into the street. “You’re absolutely right.”
“No, damn it,” Harley growled, but by then Mark had secured his scarf over the bottom half of his face. With his back straight and eyes forward, he walked to where Seinkevitz stood berating the elderly man. Nasim cowered, his hands raised over his head. Mark crouched near him and used the few Pashto words he knew.
Nasim stared at him, then nodded, his eyes flitting back to Seinkevitz. Cautiously, he placed a gnarled hand in Mark’s open palm. The Russian didn’t say a word when Mark pulled the elderly Afghani to his feet. It wasn’t until they had completely turned that Seinkevitz charged, kicking Nasim in the back and shouting something derogatory in what sounded like Russian. His guards laughed while Mark and Nasim sprawled face down onto the street.
Nasim shook his head and groaned, waving Mark to leave him.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, too. “I will not leave you.”
Seinkevitz bellowed another string of harsh rhetoric. Mark froze. One more kick like the last, and it was all over; he would clean this guy’s plow and be glad to do it. Seinkevitz might be a big guy, but Mark was no pushover. He could give the Russian a taste of his own medicine.
Apparently, bullies were the same the world over. Seinkevitz backed off, laughing with his gang of thugs at the sport of kicking an old man in the back.
Mark glanced up and caught the unspoken order in Harley’s eyes to not retaliate. Walk away, Mark; live to fight another day. He gritted his teeth and focused on the better part of valor.
Halfway across the street Harley and Arzad ran to assist, but by then, Mark was pretty much carrying the older man. They quickly hauled Nasim around the corner and deposited him into the back seat of the van. Mark climbed in and pulled the van door shut behind them.
Poor Arzad looked like he was having a heart attack, his face white and his hands shaking. He climbed into the driver seat, repeating for the umpteenth time, “Please. We must go now.”
“That was dumb, Houston.” Harley got into the front seat, slamming his door behind him.
“You’re just pissed you didn’t think of it first.”
“Come on, buddy. Time to roll.” Harley drew his pistol out of its holster under his arm while he urged Arzad to, “Step on it.”
Mark watched out the rear window in case any of Seinkevitz’s men followed. Arzad drove through the alley, turned sharply at the corner, and sped away. Once they made their getaway, Mark tended to Nasim. The older man’s lip was bloodied, but otherwise he was okay. He spoke hoarsely to Arzad while he straightened his robe and adjusted his turban, resisting Mark’s attempt to help.
“He says you are fool, Mr. Mark,” Arzad translated for Nasim. “No need for you to die to help an old man.”
“A man shouldn’t have to die in the street like that.” Fool or not, Mark would do it again. “You tell him I said that.”
Arzad relayed his words. They drove through the back roads until they were out of town and on their way to Nasim’s home. No one followed.
“I fear Russian will remember you.” Arzad’s eyes focused on Mark’s in the rear view mirror.
“Good. He should.”
“Nasim says you call him Baabaa.” His voice softened.
“Yes.” Mark calmed. “I told him it was time to come home, Grandfather.”
Nasim clenched Mark’s hand tighter, his dark brown eyes glistening through deep wrinkles.
“He is proud to be your Grandfather,” Arzad said gently. “But you and he are both fools.”
“Tashakur,” Nasim said hoarsely. He bowed his forehead to the clenched hands.
Mark nodded, a hard knot of compassion in his chest. “No, Nasim. Thank you.”
“What’s behind the walls?” Mark peered at the concertina wire across the high concrete block walls of the Russian’s residential compound. After Arzad had taken Nasim home, they had continued the tour of Seinkevitz’s holdings on the other side of the city.
“I do not know.” Arzad drove slowly past the compound. “Maybe that is where he keeps his men.”
“We’ll find out,” Harley replied. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Could we talk with some of the farmers who work for this guy?” Mark asked.
“They are waiting for us.” Arzad turned south and drove a ways out of town. He stopped the van at another collection of mud-brick buildings very much like the ones Arzad lived in. “Please. We go in here.”
Mark grabbed his gear bag as they piled out of the van. Besides his trusty .9mm, he also carried a couple bottles of water, a bag of hard candy in case they ran into any children, an industrial strength version of Imodium, and his first aid kit. It never hurt to be prepared.
He followed Arzad and Harley into the center courtyard of the homes where several men of all ages were waiting. They seemed happy to meet Arzad’s friends. Their wives had baked and cooked the same as Gulnar had the day before. Once again, Afghanistan hospitality surrounded Harley and Mark as they sat with the men of the village and discussed the situation of the Russian cartel. Despite the friendly welcome, Mark detected an undercurrent. Distrust and suspicion had replaced the friendly welcome.
Arzad translated their stories.
“This is Rahmin.” He introduced a tall man with a dirty, red and white-checkered turban. Rahmin directed his words to Arzad, then watched intently while he translated. “The government promised wheat and fertilizer if he and other farmers would stop growing poppies. That was five years ago. He knows it is illegal, but what is he to do? There is no wheat. There is no ferti
lizer. The government tells him to wait; it will come. But he is a man. A man must care for his family.”
Rahmin spoke rapidly. Arzad translated again. “His father taught him how to grow the poppies and make opium paste when he was little boy. It is easy thing to do. Takes four months.” Arzad held up four fingers to Mark and Harley. “When Seinkevitz came, he gave all farmers big cash for promise to give him all opium. That was good day. Rahmin was rich. He bought much for his family. They grew the poppies in the winter, harvested the bulbs, and made many bricks. Rahmin gave all bricks to Russian men. More cash. But this year crop no good. Rahmin does not know why. Some say it is the drought. Others say it was a bug that eats bulbs in the ground. It is not his fault, but Russian demands same number of bricks.”
Mark nodded patiently. Arzad interpreted for another farmer. “This is my good friend, Mukhtar. When the Russian sent his men to collect, they cut off one of his fingers. See him? How can a man work if they take a finger when crop is bad?”
Mukhtar held up his right hand, the red stump of his missing digit clearly inflamed and swollen. But it was the way he held up his other fingers and the blatant look of hostility on his face that spiked the tension in the group. Mark caught the intended insult. Mukhtar might as well have flipped him the American version of a derogatory hand signal. The American visitors were suddenly in a group of angry men who wanted to hold someone accountable for the Russian’s abuse.
Mark stared Mukhtar down through the chaos. Mark raised his hand palm forward to speak. Arzad shrugged apologetically, so Mark ceased trying and pulled his first-aid kit out of his gear bag, his eyes intent on Mukhtar. If he accomplished nothing else today, he needed to help this particular man. Mark opened the container and gestured toward the tray of sterile medical supplies.
The angry Afghani cocked his head, his lip curled in a sneer. Mark held his breath. An offer of help meant nothing unless it was accepted it. Mukhtar looked away.
Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2) Page 7