Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

Johnson took the map from her and studied it. It was large-scale and had a route marked with the same blue pen, leading from a point outside Wazrar to the location marked by the circle. It looked to be around ten kilometers, by his rough calculations.

  He turned to Jayne and Haroon. “We can give this a go. What do you think?”

  Jayne nodded. “We have to.” Haroon also signaled his approval.

  “Two of Baz’s sister’s boys have gone with Noor and Javed to help,” Nazia said. “But there is another nephew, Imran, who can go with you. He knows where this cave is. That will help.”

  “Thank you,” Johnson said. “That would be very helpful.”

  Nazia wailed out loud again, then tried to apologize to Johnson. “I am sorry,” she said. “We should be burying my husband today. But how can we do that with Noor and the boys and Javed out in the mountains? They do not even know what happened.”

  “Why would you bury him so soon?” Johnson asked.

  “It is our custom. But we can wait.” She wiped her eyes, which were leaking tears.

  Another thought stirred at the back of Johnson’s mind.

  “Nazia, I have another question,” he said, after allowing her a moment to catch her breath. He told her briefly about the covert meeting with Baz and Javed in Jalalabad in 1988 and the outcome of that.

  “Did Baz or Javed ever have a black-and-white photograph of an American man giving a Stinger missile to some mujahideen?” Johnson asked. “They showed it to me, and I often wondered what happened to it. It’s very important.”

  The photograph of Robert Watson had been taken in a place several miles into Afghanistan on a smugglers’ route from Pakistan’s Mohmand Agency. It showed several other missiles on a mule cart and another unidentified tall Western man, also holding a Stinger, from a company called Kay Associates. Johnson had spotted him visiting Watson at the CIA station in Islamabad a few weeks previously, but had been unable to find out his name. On the back of the photograph was the single word TENOR, written in capitals, which Johnson assumed was a code name.

  Another tear trickled down Nazia’s face, but she wiped it away with Jayne’s handkerchief. “No, I never saw anything like that. But Baz told me that when Javed was caught by the KGB and put in Pul-e Charkhi, they took all his possessions, his papers, his identity card, everything he had on him, and he never got them back.”

  Johnson nodded. “Thank you Nazia. You have been very helpful,” he said. “I am sorry to have to ask all these questions at such a difficult time.”

  He stood and turned to Jayne and Haroon. “We should get moving. We have work to do if we’re going to catch up with Javed and Noor. I think Jayne should stay here and act as backup. I don’t want all three of us stranded out there if something goes wrong.”

  He fished out the piece of paper on which he had written contact details for Seb Storey and passed it to Jayne. “Here, you can contact Storey at the army base if you need help.”

  Jayne started to protest but Johnson insisted. “No,” he said. “Haroon speaks the language best and knows the region. It’s better that he and I go, especially if we’re faced with Taliban out there as well as these goddamn Russians, if they’ve gone in that direction.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, June 2, 2013

  Sulaiman Mountains

  The firefight between the Taliban insurgents, holed up in a stronghold to the south, and the US Army in the neighboring valley had continued until late into Saturday night and then resumed at first light on Sunday morning. Gunfire and explosions echoed from the rocky mountainside at regular intervals.

  Javed and Noor decided to sit it out in the cave until the battle was over. It was fairly typical of the scrapping that had continued in the area for years as US forces tried to keep the region clear of rebels and the Khost-Gardez highway open.

  Every couple of hours or so, one or the other of Noor’s nephews would pop back into the cave with an update, have a snack and some water, and then disappear again.

  Javed considered telling the boys to be careful not to put themselves in a risky situation, but he knew they would take that as a personal insult.

  By two o’clock in the afternoon, the gunfire had stopped, and Javed and Noor decided they should load up the mules with the Stingers, RPGs, and associated equipment so they were at least ready to go once his nephews gave them the all-clear. Javed was keen to get on the road back to Kabul as swiftly as possible.

  They spent half an hour loading up the animals, who like most mules, stood with an air of world-weariness. They always reminded Javed of a particularly sullen-looking taxi driver he had often used in Houston. The missiles and other equipment were carried in special canvas holders that were slung across the mules’ backs, balanced carefully on either side.

  When they had completed that task, both men sat on a rock near the entrance to the cave and waited.

  At half past two, Hashim hurried into the cave, out of breath. “There are three men coming up that valley,” the boy said, his eyes wide. “One is Sandjar Hassani. The others, I do not know. They are not Taliban, not soldiers, and not Afghans. They are speaking another language—maybe Russian. I heard them.”

  “Sandjar? Are you sure? And they’re speaking Russian?” Javed asked.

  “I am very sure,” Hashim replied. “It is him. And yes, I believe it was Russian. They’re dressed in black and carrying backpacks with what looks like some kind of gun or weapons inside.”

  “How far away?” Javed asked. His thoughts immediately went to the GPS tracker in Severinov’s phone, which had shown him heading south of Kabul on the highway toward Gardez.

  “Probably three kilometers. They were looking a little lost and arguing between themselves. Then they stopped and were eating food, but I don’t know how long for.”

  Javed looked at Noor. “What is Sandjar doing with two other men? I don’t like the sound of this,” he said. “Does Sandjar know where this cave is?”

  “I seem to remember him coming a very long time ago,” Noor said. “Before you put the missiles in there. We could just kill all of them—ambush them.”

  “No,” Javed said. “They may be armed, and anyway, I don’t want to do anything that could draw in the Taliban—I have to assume they’re still out here somewhere. If we start a firefight, we’ll be asking for trouble. We’ll just get out of here down the other path that runs down the northern valley and back to the Toyota that way. It will be safer.”

  He picked up his backpack and shouldered it, as did Javed, just as Kabir arrived back.

  A few minutes later, the group was heading out. This time, rather than turning right out of the cave in a westerly direction to return the way they had come, Noor led the group east for a short distance and then cut around to the north, on a circuitous route back.

  Sunday, June 2, 2013

  Sulaiman Mountains

  It may have been the adrenaline, and possibly because he had been making a real effort to run and keep fit over recent months, but for the first few miles of their trek into the mountains, Johnson was surprised at how well he coped with the rapid pace set by Baz and Nazia’s nephew Imran. Staying away from cigarettes at home had made a definite difference. He resolved to try harder to do likewise while working overseas as well.

  The heat caused Johnson and his companions to stream sweat, and the dust from the bone-dry mountain path irritated his nose as he walked, but he felt stronger than he had expected. Haroon, who was wiry and fit for his age, also seemed untroubled by the often steep terrain through the mountains above Wazrar.

  Imran did not need the map that Nazia had provided, although at intervals, when they stopped to drink water from the bottles they were carrying, he did use it to point out to Johnson where they were.

  “There was fighting here last night and this morning between the Taliban and the Americans,” Imran said. “But they have all gone now.”

  “Are you sure?” Johnson asked in Pashto.

  “Yes, we know
they have gone,” the youngster said. Johnson didn’t ask how they knew, but there was certainly no sign of fighters from either side along their route. Nevertheless, he kept a strict routine of checking for any kind of surveillance or hostile presence.

  Despite his initial energy, four hours after leaving Wazrar, Johnson was starting to feel fatigued. The downhill sections, in particular, were proving tough on his knees, while his thighs were aching from the climbs. It was with some relief when, not long after negotiating a particularly vertigo-inducing narrow path along an almost vertical rock face, Imran stopped as they rounded a rock pillar. He pointed at a cliff face about half a kilometer ahead of them on the other side of a gorge. “There. See that overhang? That’s where it is.”

  “Good work,” Johnson said, taking another sip of water. He looked at the youngster closely. “When did you last come here?”

  “About four years ago, with Noor.”

  “Did you go into the cave?” Johnson wanted to ascertain how much Imran knew about what was hidden in there.

  “No, Noor did. He asked me to stay outside to just keep a lookout for Taliban.”

  Johnson nodded.

  Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were standing beneath a canopy-like piece of rock that jutted out from the cliff. Beneath it, just visible now that they had gotten up close, was a fissure in the cliff’s surface.

  “It’s in there,” Imran said. He looked down at the ground. “I can see they must have been here very recently. See the mule prints and footprints.”

  Johnson looked, and faintly visible on the stony surface were marks that could have been made by a mule. Clearly, Imran’s eyes were better trained than his.

  “I’m going with Haroon to take a look inside,” Johnson said. “Can you keep a watch out here?”

  Imran nodded. “No problem.”

  Johnson and Haroon strapped on their headlamps and walked through the narrow gap in the rock that marked the cave entrance. Johnson could see why they had chosen it: the cave was enormous inside, bigger than a basketball court, yet almost undetectable because the fissure in the rock that formed the entrance overlapped to conceal it.

  Johnson immediately smelled dung, and sure enough, the headlamps revealed piles of droppings that mules—presumably belonging to Javed and Noor—had left behind. Here on the dust floor of the cave, the hoofprints and the footprints were much more obvious than they were outside. There were two paper bags behind a rock, both containing bread crumbs.

  Evidently the two men had only very recently departed. But now there was no trace of them. Johnson suggested to Haroon that they search it carefully.

  Johnson worked his way around the right side of the cave, Haroon the left. After a couple of minutes, the Pakistani called Johnson. “Here, there’s another gap through here. Looks like there’s another cave at the back.”

  Johnson walked over. Another narrow fissure at the rear of the large cave led to a smaller space. They went through and spent some time examining the ground with their headlamps: there was nothing of interest.

  However, there were rock ledges and recesses above head height. Johnson used natural hand- and footholds in the rock face to lever himself up and directed his headlamp farther upward. On the right side of the cave there was nothing. He twisted around to face the other way, changing his footholds carefully, and looked across toward the left side.

  That was when he saw it. On top of a ledge on the other side of the cave, pushed three or four feet back from the edge, was the outline of a long, straight-edged object. Johnson stared at it.

  “See something?” Haroon said, looking up at him.

  “Think so. I’ll just check it out,” Johnson said. He stepped down to the ground and crossed the cave floor to the other side.

  He again levered himself up using a rock as a foothold until he could see onto the flat ledge in the rock surface. As he raised himself, it became evident that there wasn’t just one object. Lying in a neat row, side by side, were seven green tubes, all about five feet long, covered in clear plastic wrappers.

  “What’s there?” Haroon asked.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Johnson said. “There’s a bunch of Stingers. All in their tubes.”

  The Pakistani grinned. “Well spotted. I wouldn’t have seen them. But if Javed and Noor have been in here, they’ve probably taken some with them. Is there any launch gear?”

  “No gripstocks, no BCUs, nothing.” They both had a good knowledge of the components required to launch the missiles.

  “Let’s not waste time,” Haroon said. “Imran can go and track where they’ve gone. Leave those tubes.”

  As always, Haroon was talking sense. Johnson stepped down to the cave floor. “I agree. There’s no time to waste.”

  They had just moved back into the main cave and were walking toward the entrance when from outside came the muffled sound of a gunshot followed by a long, piercing shriek of agony, then another gunshot and a thud. Then there was silence.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, June 2, 2013

  Sulaiman Mountains

  “If you have guns, throw them on the ground now, then come out slowly, with your hands above your head,” the man’s voice shouted. It was a deep, guttural, heavily accented form of Pashto, spoken slowly by someone who was definitely a non-Afghan.

  Johnson and Haroon looked at each other, both weighing their options. “Russian,” Haroon said softly. Johnson nodded and mouthed a silent curse to himself.

  “If you don’t come out, I will throw a hand grenade in there,” the voice came again. Now the Russian accent was more distinct.

  Johnson shrugged and motioned with his hand to Haroon that they should do as instructed. The Pakistani nodded. Johnson had to assume that given the gunshots and the scream, the grenade threat wasn’t a bluff.

  He put his Beretta on the floor and walked toward the cave exit, hands raised above his head. Haroon did likewise with his H&K and followed.

  The bright glare of the sun blinded Johnson for a moment. Then the first thing he saw was Imran’s body, lying facedown a couple of yards away, with blood pouring from a bullet exit wound in the center of his back and another in his left shoulder. His clothing was soaked red.

  Johnson looked up, and ten yards farther back were three men, two dressed all in black, the other in a gray shalwar kameez. One of the men in black was pointing a Kalashnikov straight at him, the other doing likewise with a handgun.

  “Not Javed,” the man in the shalwar kameez said in Russian, a note of surprise in his voice.

  “No,” the man holding the pistol said, also in Russian. “Who are these people?”

  He looked at Johnson and switched to Pashto. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  It was at that point that Johnson recognized the short, receding gray-black hair and the handsome Russian face that he had seen in photographs. The man with the pistol was Yuri Severinov—the man he was supposed to be investigating, the owner of Besoi Energy.

  Given that Johnson had a wallet in his pocket with a credit card and a couple of other items identifying his name, he could see little point in playing games. “I’m Joe Johnson,” he said.

  In truth, he felt somewhat bewildered. What the hell was it about this Russian billionaire oligarch and the target, Javed, whom he was obviously pursuing, that had driven him from his life of luxury out onto the side of a bleak Afghan mountain, miles from anywhere, holding a pistol?

  “And who are you?” Severinov said, indicating at Haroon with his gun, which Johnson could now see was a Makarov.

  “Haroon Rashid.”

  “From where? Are you a Pakistani?” Severinov asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  The barrel-chested man next to Severinov, holding the AK-47, looked menacing to say the least, like some sort of professional hit man. Which he clearly was. Johnson glanced down at Imran’s lifeless body.

  Severinov spoke to his colleague in Russian, telling him to go into the cave
and check if Javed or anyone else was in there and to also look around carefully for any heavy weapons, guns, or ammunition.

  Johnson understood the Russian perfectly but decided not to show it—it might be useful if he could eavesdrop. He was pleased that Haroon also showed no sign of comprehension. The man with the AK-47 walked to the cave entrance, removed a flashlight from his pocket, and disappeared inside.

  Severinov turned back to Johnson and this time spoke in English. “What are you doing here? If you are also looking for Javed, just explain to me why. You Americans—you just can’t help yourselves, poking your noses in where you’re not wanted. Do you not think you have caused enough problems in this part of the world, provoking extremists and jihadists and suicide bombers?”

  Johnson said nothing. It wasn’t worth wasting his breath on such a hypocrite.

  Severinov took a step forward and eyeballed Johnson. “I know all about you, Johnson—you worked with Javed and the dukhi scum here in the ’80s, didn’t you?”

  Dukhis was the Russian word for “ghosts,” a tag that the Soviets applied to all the mujahideen during the occupation.

  “You gave them the weapons they needed to massacre hundreds of my comrades, you and your CIA rats working with those worthless Pakis,” Severinov continued.

  “You’re Yuri Severinov, aren’t you?” Johnson asked.

  Severinov ignored the question. “I should have killed you in Jalalabad,” he muttered, almost to himself, before continuing. “I’m asking you again—why are you looking for Javed? Are you working with him again? And what is he doing with you?” He indicated toward Haroon.

  “We’re doing nothing that’s going to impact you,” Johnson said. “You’re wasting your time.”

  Severinov exchanged glances with the Afghan in the shalwar kameez, who had stood silently watching. Johnson didn’t miss the exchange. The Afghan was complicit—he had doubtless sold Severinov the information that had brought him up here.