His one good eye watched every movement in the street. When he saw something he didn’t like, he yelled to the cab driver to go around objects or take side streets. Bernadette felt more comfortable with Fazel. He might be old, but he still had the fire of the fighter in him.
The streets were crowded with heavily armed men. They carried AK47s and rocket propelled grenade launchers over their shoulders. They looked casual, like this was an everyday affair, just another day at war with each other. Some bodies lay on the ground, but no one seemed to tend to them, and the cab driver moved on without looking left or right.
They arrived at the headquarters of Chris’s former security company. Bernadette had not called ahead. Phone conversations with Vince Caprinski had never gone well. She didn’t expect to be greeted warmly.
The taxi pulled up in front of the high wall that shielded the building from the street. Two men stood outside in heavy body armor. They looked like the typical security types she’d seen in Kandahar. Large biceps, large chests, and some overlarge stomachs from long hours in the gym with weights and no time running laps like they used to in the military.
Bernadette got out and approached the men. “I’m here to meet with Caprinski.”
The man with the nametag Vincent stared at her out of his Maui Jim sunglasses. “You got a meeting with him?”
“Yes, I do. Tell him Callahan is here to see him. I’m just a bit late.” She didn’t mention she was about six days late, but too much information would be lost on this hunk of beef.
“Okay,” Vincent said. “You can follow me, but your old man and the kid stay out here.”
Bernadette motioned for Fazel and Aaron to stay with the taxi. Fazel took up a position beside the cab, his AK47 now waist high. His limp was gone. He stared at the other security guard as if he was a mongoose eyeing a snake. The man shifted his stance and looked away.
Bernadette followed Vincent down a long barren hallway with bare bulbs and threadbare carpets. An old brown cat stared at them with mild curiosity then moved on.
Vincent arrived at a door, knocked twice, and shouted, “Caprinski, visitor.” He walked back down the hall and back to his post.
Caprinski looked up as Bernadette entered, his eyes went from expectation to dismay then to disgust. “I thought you were done in by that RPG hit last week.”
Bernadette walked into his office and took the unoffered chair in front of the desk. She looked around the room; there was a single poster on the wall. The poster was the Hotel California from the Eagles Album. The caption read, “You can check out, but you can never leave.”
Caprinski glared at her, he was all of thirty-eight, tall with big chest and large arms. He didn’t have the beer gut the others had. He hated beer, drank Scotch. He looked to Bernadette like the typical Jarhead, square jaw, high forehead with shaved head and a neck extended from his shoulders that looked like it was bulging with steroids.
“The rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated,” Bernadette said. She pulled her scarf off her head and stared at Caprinski. “I think that was Mark Twain who said that. But it doesn’t matter. I spent some time in the hospital and here I am. I’m looking for information on Chris’ disappearance.”
Caprinski leaned back in his chair. “You could have saved yourself the trip. I told you everything on the phone. I have no idea where Lund was heading. I can’t help you.”
“Are you his chief security officer?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He wouldn’t tell you what village he was going to or the road he was taking to get there?”
“Nope, he was tight lipped on the whole thing.”
Bernadette stared at Caprinski; his eyes flickered to the left. Such a tell-tale sign of a lie, even a rookie would have caught it.
“And you’re the senior person here, am I right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” His voice was getting tighter.
“Why didn’t you go on the mission?”
“Look, I don’t always go on every trip outside the wire, I mean out of town.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Good, I’m not on every trip, sometimes I just send out a team of whoever we have, and try not to mix in too many shit magnets,” Caprinski said, crossing his arms.
He was getting defensive. She needed to relax him, so she paused before she spoke. “What’s a shit magnet?”
“Guys that seem to always get shot at or run over IED’s when they’re out there.”
“So, who was the shit magnet on the mission?”
“Well, hate to say it, your guy Chris. He had a way of getting himself into trouble.”
“Care to elaborate?” Bernadette asked. She leaned forward; even though it was against her instincts, it got him to lean back further. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound hostile, it’s just the first I’ve heard this term and my fiancé in the same sentence.”
She leaned back in her chair, placing her arms by her side and looked down at the desk. Caprinski relaxed and unfolded his arms.
“Look, I know it’s hard to hear your guy was constantly getting in trouble, but he had no sense of the danger he was in. He’d always go too far ahead of the team, start yacking it up with the locals, and before you know it, some Taliban would fire a couple of rounds in his direction. He was just goofy. I should have sent him back two months ago.”
“And you didn’t, why?”
Caprinski exhaled and placed both hands on the desk. “You have to understand that we’ve been desperate for personnel for some time. The thing about Chris was he had everyone’s back. No matter how bad it was out there, he took all the shit that was thrown at him and stood his ground.”
“Well, that’s Chris, he could definitely take it, and yes he’s quite the talker, always meeting people…”
Bernadette rose from her chair. “I think you’ve answered all my questions, for now. Would you mind giving me a list of the personnel who went missing with Chris?”
Caprinski eyed her for a moment then turned to his computer. “Sure, don’t know what good it will do you.” He printed it and handed her a copy.
“Thanks, you’ve been great. I’ll let you know what I find,” Bernadette said as she turned and wheeled out of the room. She tried to walk as softly as possible down the hall. Clenching and unclenching her fists helped her conceal her rage. She’d never heard a larger spiel of crap from anyone. Caprinski was lying his ass off. She needed to find out why.
The return trip back to the guesthouse was a blur to Bernadette. They made numerous diversions to avoid fighting in the streets. NATO forces had roadblocks to try to keep the warring tribes apart. It didn’t seem to help. Fighters took to the rooftops to fire off rounds at each other.
They arrived at the guesthouse to find Reza waiting for them. Bernadette jumped out of the cab and ran to him.
“Reza, I need you to come with me.”
“But, the curfew is soon. The army will be closing the streets.”
Bernadette almost grabbed his arm, and then held back. “We’re going to the shrine the robe was stolen from. I have some questions I need to ask the cleric. I need you to translate.”
12
The taxi moved into the street. Reza and Bernadette were in the back. Fazel sat beside the driver. He spoke constantly, telling the driver which streets to take, which ones to avoid. The sounds of gunfire and explosions were everywhere.
Reza sat beside Bernadette muttering how dangerous this was. He was also anxious about prayer time. They would be cutting it close. It was 1645 hours. The sunset prayer would happen at 1745 hours.
The Shrine of the Robe was only two kilometers from the guesthouse, but it took a half hour to get there with all the detours. The taxi parked, let them out, and sped away. The driver now cared more for his life than his cab fare.
Bernadette walked up to the wide staircase with Reza. Two policemen armed with AK-47’s stood guard outside the shrine. Fazel had to stay in the street with this weapon. The police h
ad already waved him off the moment he put one foot on the stairs.
The heavy door was open; they walked inside, where they were greeted by a young boy. Reza asked the boy to get the cleric. The boy rushed off to find him.
“You must be very careful here. Please do not offend the cleric by talking to him directly. I will translate all questions you have. Be sure to keep your eyes on the ground as you speak,” Reza cautioned.
“Do not tell him I’m related to the man accused of stealing the robe,” Bernadette said. “Say I’m here to investigate on behalf of the Canadian Consulate.”
“But is this true?” Reza asked.
“Of course,” Bernadette said. She took a breath at the depth of her lie, but at this moment, telling the cleric she was related in any way to Chris would set him off.
When the cleric arrived he made his salaams to Reza and ignored her. Reza made his introduction and told him why they were there. The cleric exploded in a long stream of words that sounded like a man in state of panic.
Reza turned towards Bernadette. “The cleric says if the Canadian Consulate is concerned with the return of the robe, they should have been here weeks ago.”
Bernadette nodded in the direction of Reza. “Yes, tell him we are very sorry for the loss, we seek to do everything possible to have the robe returned.”
The cleric exploded again at Reza’s translation. Bernadette could see this was getting nowhere.
“Reza, ask him if he saw either man leave with the robe.”
There was more explosive words and hand waving of arms from the cleric.
“No, he did not. The robe was here under lock and key when he left.”
“Then who was left here with the robe?”
“He claims that the imam was here. He said the imam let them out and locked the door after them.”
“And the key, who had it?”
“He says the imam locked up.”
“And the door was not forced open?”
“No, he says the door was perfectly fine.”
Bernadette walked to the door they had entered. It was very old, very solid. The locks were old and sturdy, but could also be picked easily.
“Reza, one more thing. Ask him how long the police have guarded the shrine?”
Reza translated and turned to Bernadette. “They have been here ever since the theft. There is now twenty-four-hour security. He says this should have been done long ago.”
“Thank him for his time,” Bernadette said.
They turned and walked out of the shrine. Two lights came on overhead as the call to Muslim Prayer was sounding. A long shadow was cast by a large earthenware jar beside the door. Bernadette looked up to see where the CCTV camera was positioned.
“We must get you back to the guesthouse,” Reza said.
Bernadette looked up and down the street and noted several taxis had arrived, the drivers getting out to go to prayer.
“Why don’t Fazel and you go to prayer, I’ll be okay. Then we can grab one of these taxis after.”
“But it will not be safe in the streets for you.” Reza said.
“I’ll be fine. Tell Fazel I need to borrow his gun while he’s at prayer, he can’t take it into the mosque anyway.”
Fazel was reluctant but handed over his prized Russian AK47. It felt heavy but sturdy in Bernadette’s arms. She watched them enter the mosque next to the shrine then she took up a position inside a doorway across the street.
She could see the entire street and the front of the shrine. She watched as the last of the light faded from the sky. The shrine lit up.
There were few streetlights; the two policemen were backlit by the shrine. They huddled together for warmth and smoked cigarettes. They couldn’t see her from the doorway she hid in. She let her eyes run over the entrance, then out into the street. No other CCTV cameras were visible.
When the men began streaming out of the mosque, Bernadette met up with Reza and Fazel. “I have found a taxi,” Reza said.
The taxi looked like its better days were long behind it. I was a Russian-made Lada, hand painted in yellow and white, with bullet holes and rust spots that had been filled with several attempts of bondo body filler. The poor roads had shaken the body filler out to make the taxi’s body look like something was trying to consume it from the inside. To Bernadette, the taxi looked like a prop for the night of the living dead.
“Yalla, yalla,” the young driver yelled to everyone, the words for move. He was young with curly hair and an easy smile. He looked at ease driving the dangerous streets. His eyes sparkled with a sense of adventure and excitement.
They squeezed into the tiny car, Fazel with his machine gun poking out the window taking the front and Bernadette and Reza in the back. Reza once again muttered under his breath how dangerous this was as Fazel gave instructions to the young man as to what streets to avoid.
A convoy of light armored vehicles appeared ahead. They took a side street under Fazel’s direction. Bernadette wondered why they would do that, and then saw an explosion of rocket-propelled grenades hit the vehicles. The old fighter knew what he was doing. They needed to avoid the armored vehicles. They were a target.
The taxi turned onto the street of the guesthouse and Bernadette felt herself relax. A motorbike with two men on it came racing down the street towards them.
Fazel began screaming something. He jumped out of the cab and shouldered his weapon.
The man on the back of the bike was firing. Bullets hit the cab, shattered the glass. Bernadette felt shards of glass rain down on her.
She could hear Fazel screaming as he fired. The sound of the AK47 shattered the night. The motorcycle zoomed by. A crash sounded behind them.
Bernadette crawled out of the taxi. Fazel lay on the ground, his weapon across his chest, blood poured from his wounds. The motorcycle was burning behind them. One man was limping down the street; another lay dead on the ground.
Reza and the taxi driver rushed to Fazel. Aaron came out of the guesthouse. They spoke to Fazel in low tones. Aaron brushed the hair from his face and tried to comfort him.
Bernadette knelt by Fazel’s side. She wanted to touch him, to soothe him somehow, but words were all she had. “I’m so sorry, I should never have taken us out. This is all my fault.”
Fazel whispered something to Aaron, and then sighed. He was dead.
“No, madam, this is God’s will. Fazel died a happy man. He died fighting like a true Mujahedeen. He told me to thank you.”
Bernadette stood up, looking up and down the street. It was empty, except for the burning motorcycle. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The call was from Lackey.
“Callahan here.”
“Where are you?”
“In the front of the guest house where we’ve just come under hostile fire.”
“I’m sending a team for you. Get packed.”
Bernadette stared down at the dead body of Fazel. “Why? This whole place is a battle zone. I’m as safe here as anywhere else.”
“Your picture and location just went viral on a website. Someone wants you dead. They put a price on your head. Get inside and stay there until an armored vehicle with marines comes to get you.”
13
Bernadette grabbed the things that Reza brought back from the hospital for her and waited inside the guesthouse. She heard the noise of vehicle outside and guessed it must be her ride.
A marine came into the guesthouse. “I’m Private Savinsky. You need to put this on.” He held out a helmet and body armor. He was young, still with peach fuzz and pimples on his face, barely nineteen.
“But I’m just going to the vehicle,” Bernadette protested.
“Yes, ma’am, but we got hostiles out there.”
Bernadette did as she was told. Savinsky helped with the body armor. She felt like a turtle as she walked behind the private to the vehicle. Two marines stood watch beside the vehicle. It was huge, with eight massive tires and heavy metal skin. The back door was open.
“You need to giddy up and get in that door ma’am,” Savinsky said. Bullets hit the wall behind him.
Bernadette needed no more persuading. She ran the last few steps. The other marines climbed in and secured the door. The vehicle lurched forward.
Savinsky turned and smiled, and explained that they were traveling in a Stryker M1128 mobile gun system with a 105 MM cannon, a 50 MM machine gun and a whole bunch of other weapons they could deploy to clear the road. “Welcome to your taxi. We call it the badass MAS. Top speed is sixty-two miles per hour, but today we’ll be threading it carefully through some hostiles.”
“Private, get your ass up here and man the heavy,” a voice yelled from the forward seats.
“Aye, aye, Sergeant,” Savinsky replied. He winked at Bernadette and went forward.
To Bernadette he looked like a kid who was about to jump into the seat of a video arcade. The bullets out there were real, she could hear them pinging off the armor.
The inside was cramped. She found a seat on the sidewall and strapped herself in. A marine with the nametag Hammerstein sat beside her.
“I’m Sergeant Hammerstein, you can call me Hammer for short. We’ll be taking you to the American and NATO compound on the outskirts of the city. Much safer than this area.”
“Thanks for the ride, Sergeant, I’m grateful for you guys sticking your necks out to come get me,” Bernadette said.
“It’s what we do,” Hammer said. “But my swag tells me you’re a high value asset to someone in our organization. We received special orders to pick you up.”
“What’s a swag?”
“That’s a sophisticated wild ass guess.”
“Thanks for clearing that up,” Bernadette said. She leaned back and bounced along as the vehicle got up to speed. A machine gunner in the top turret was radioing targets to the driver and sergeant as they moved. Several times the 50 MM on the turret burst into action. The smell of cordite mixed with diesel fumes filled the vehicle. Bernadette gagged from the smell and placed her headscarf over her nose.
Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery Page 6
