Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery

by Lyle Nicholson

  “So far, yes. He took the one thousand dollar meeting, so we’re good. He’ll relay it all to Mirwais.”

  The half-faced man went into a house and returned with an older man. From his stature, Bernadette could see it was the warlord. He walked with his head held high. He wasn’t big but he filled the square with his presence and attitude.

  Warlord Mirwais wore the traditional dress of the Afghans with a black turban and black tunic and pants. A bandolier of bullets was slung across his chest and two small grenades bounced off his belt as he walked.

  A small boy walked behind him. He was dressed in a style like he was there to perform. He wore a green turban with a sash that flowed down his trimmed hair. His perfectly pressed blue tunic was set off with a red vest adorned with little mirrors that glittered in the sun. He walked gingerly in flowing white pants with red shoes that bounced with tassels.

  “Is that Mirwais?” Bernadette whispered to Reza, nodding in the direction of the man in black.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the boy? Is that his grandson?”

  Reza coughed in his hand. “No, that’s his boy.”

  “What kind of boy?”

  Reza dropped his head and his voice went to a whisper that Bernadette could almost not hear. “That is the boy the warlord has for sex—this is frowned upon by Afghanis. They steal these boys from their parents or threaten them with death.”

  “That old son of a bitch…”

  Jason put up his hand for the two of them to focus. “Reza, ask Mirwais if he has some information on any of the men that went missing a few weeks ago.”

  Reza made the translation and waited for the reply.

  “He said he will tell us in time. First we must have tea,” Reza said.

  “Of course,” Jason said. “Nothing happens in Afghanistan without tea.”

  The boy wandered around the circle of men and poured tea. As he came closer to Bernadette, she could see he was nervous. He approached, handed her a teacup.

  She realized she had to take it. There was no way she could refuse. But the boy would see her hand was not a man’s hand. She never wore nail polish, but still, how could she offer her hairless hands? But she had to try.

  Taking the cup in both hands like the others, she bowed her head, but made no sound. The boy poured the tea from the large copper pot, staring at her hands as he did.

  A small amount of tea spilled onto Bernadette’s hands, she yelped softly. Then she swore under breath.

  “Ssedze,” the boy muttered. He walked away offering cups and pouring tea.

  “What did he say?” Bernadette whispered to Reza.

  “He said the word ‘woman,’” Reza said.

  Bernadette tried not to panic. If the boy went to the warlord and told him the supposed man in the burka was really a woman, they were done for. She watched the boy pour tea and then sit back down beside his warlord. He put his head down then looked up at her. Did she see him wink?

  The warlord began talking loudly. Reza began to translate.

  “He says he has something valuable, something we want. For two thousand US dollars he will bring this out to show us,” Reza said.

  “Ask him if it is a man,” Bernadette said.

  “Yes, he says it is a man.”

  “How do we know if this man is from Chris’s team?”

  “He will not give that information,” Reza said. He waited for a moment while the warlord continued, then turned to Bernadette. “He says if we have no interest in seeing this man alive, he will have him shot. You can see his body for no price.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bernadette said.

  “Standard warlord bullshit,” Jason added. “He figures you’re here to see someone. He may or may not have him. You don’t pay, he has one of his men shoot him and drag him out. Afghani poker.”

  “Tell him I will pay,” Bernadette said. The thought of them killing an innocent man sickened her. She handed another two thousand dollars she had to Reza. He walked it over and placed it front of the warlord.

  The warlord yelled something to the man with half a face; he walked into a hut and dragged a man out. The man was dressed in black fatigues, similar to what security personnel wore in Chris’s unit. Bernadette had seen Chris wearing the same style of uniform in the video from the mosque. He looked the same size as Chris, but his head was covered in a black hood.

  The warlord spoke to Reza, then pointed to the man and back to Bernadette and Jason. They could see he was bargaining.

  “What does he want?” Bernadette asked.

  “He wants us to give him five thousand dollars to take this man away,” Reza said.

  Bernadette stared hard at the man with the hood. Now, in the sunlight, he looked nothing like Chris. His stature was slumped, no shoulders like Chris, and then she looked at his hands. They were brown.

  “Do you speak Pakistani?” Bernadette asked Reza.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Say a greeting to the man in Pakistani. Ask him who he is.”

  Reza spoke a greeting in Pakistani, the man’s head snapped up. He screamed a reply. The man with half a face slapped him in the back of the head.

  “Looks like we’ve been had,” Bernadette said. “All the men in Chris’s team were Caucasian from the U.S. This guy is probably a Pakistan border guard they captured to make some extra cash. Tell him we have no interest in taking this man away. They should call Pakistan.”

  “But they will kill him,” Reza protested.

  “He’s bluffing,” Bernadette said. “It’s cost me two thousand dollars to find we’ve been duped. I’m not shelling out anything more. Besides, he needs to keep him alive to scam someone else.”

  Reza told the warlord they did not want to take the captive.

  The warlord shrugged his shoulders and laughed. He pulled out his handgun, placed it against the captive’s head and fired.

  “Holy shit. He killed him,” Bernadette said.

  Jason shook his head. “I should have warned you—these guys don’t bluff.”

  The rest of the fighters laughed. The half-faced man pulled off the captive’s hood. A young man with dark skin and dark hair lay on the ground. His blood oozed into the ground.

  “Time to say our goodbyes,” Jason said.

  Reza thanked the warlord for his hospitality and the wonderful joke he had played on them. The fighters were jubilant; this would be a story they could tell for years.

  They rose up from the ground. Bernadette felt the tension in her legs from squatting on the ground. The warlord’s killing of the man sickened her. She realized if she hadn’t been so bold, she could have saved the man. There was another one thousand US dollars in her pocket—she could have bargained him down.

  Jason pulled the Camry around the side of the village, and they followed. As Bernadette got to the car, she saw a small figure by the wheel. It was the boy.

  He said something in Pashto, and Bernadette turned to Reza for translation.

  “He says, please dear lady, take me with you, save me,” Reza said.

  At that point, Bernadette needed no thoughts, no conversations in her mind. She opened the back door, pulled the boy inside and put him on the floor. She had him squat down then covered him with her burka. She perched her submachine on his head. It was the only place for it.

  “You didn’t just do what I think you did?” Jason asked from the front seat.

  “Damn straight, Jason. Now drive this piece of shit car like you stole it.”

  Jason put the car in gear and drove as fast as he could back down the rutted road. The car bucked even more. Bernadette was thrown around in the back. The boy wrapped his hands around her legs to keep from being bounced off the floor.

  Jason looked into his rearview mirror. “I think we’re okay, there’s no one following us. I saw one of the locals pull out a hash pipe to celebrate their warlord’s scam over us. By the time we reach Kandahar the old man will be looking for his boy to tuck him in, then all hell w
ill break loose.”

  Reza looked into the back seat. “This is very dangerous what you are doing. The warlord will kill us all when he finds us. All of our lives will be in danger.”

  Bernadette glared back at Reza. “I let a man be killed back there because I called the warlords bluff. Well, guess what, I’m taking his boy with me. This is a little boy, not a sex toy. And I will defend him with my life if I have to.”

  Jason looked over his shoulder. “Well, Bernadette, it looks like you might get your chance. There’s a roadblock up ahead.”

  19

  Four heavily armed Afghanis stood by the side of the road. A white Toyota pickup truck was pulled half way across the road acting as a roadblock. One leaned on the truck, a grenade launcher by his side, as if he was in a golf foursome and waiting to hit off the next tee with his oversized driver.

  “What’s our move?” Bernadette asked.

  “Stay calm,” Jason cautioned.

  “Do you think they’re the warlord’s men?”

  “I’m not sure. If they were, I’d expect them to have already have that RPG trained on us and their weapons ready.” Jason turned to Reza. “Tell the boy to be very quiet.”

  Reza repeated Jason’s words to the boy. He began to whimper. Bernadette put her hand on his neck and massaged it. She didn’t know what to do. She made soothing sounds like she’d done with her hunting dogs when they were approaching caribou in Northern Canada. She was out of her depth with a child.

  The child muttered something.

  “What did he say?” Bernadette asked.

  “He is pleading with us not to give him up,” Reza said.

  “Tell him I will defend him with my life,” Bernadette said. She took her hand off the child’s neck and racked her machine gun.

  She felt his tears drench her pant legs. She put her hand down and touched his face. He grew quiet.

  The Camry drew alongside the Afghan fighters. Reza greeted them.

  “They want to look in our trunk,” Reza said.

  Jason pulled the trunk lever. Two of them walked to the back and rummaged around in it, then slammed it. One of them walked up to the car. He wore sunglasses and Adidas tennis shoes. His fatigues looked fashionable like he’d picked these up in a Bass Outlet store in the United States. He stood looking down at Bernadette. She dropped her head, remembering that Afghan women were not to make eye contact with men. In this case it was a good thing.

  He wandered back to the man leaning on the truck with the grenade launcher. They entered a muted conversation, then broke into laughter.

  “Any idea what’s happening? I can roll out this door and take out the two by the truck. You think you can get the two in the back before they have to time to raise their weapons?” Bernadette asked.

  “Just hold on,” Jason said.

  The two men from the back walked back to Reza and motioned to Jason to put the car in gear, and they headed back onto the road.

  “What was that all about?” Bernadette asked turning her head slightly to look behind her.

  “That was a shake down for dope. They were hoping to get some free hash or weed from some locals. That’s something I never carry. I do put a small stash of Afghan money in the back, about a hundred dollars’ worth. I saw the two guys put it in their pockets, I’m sure they’ll be happy with their day,” Jason said.

  “You think those were the warlords men?”

  Jason laughed. “Probably. And they were too stoned to pick up their cell phones and check for messages. If he ever finds out we passed by he’ll shorten their life spans. But my guess is they’ll say they never saw us to save their skins.”

  They continued on to Kandahar in silence, with the boy keeping hidden at each checkpoint. Bernadette didn’t draw an easy breath until they reached the city. They breezed through the final checkpoint and drove to the special secure compound.

  Jason put the Camry in park in front of the gates and turned to Bernadette. “Sorry we didn’t really find any intel today. But that’s the way you do things in this country, you turn over a lot of rocks and many times, like today, you find a scorpion.”

  “That’s fine, I’m used to this in detective work. Now, what do I do with the boy?” Bernadette asked.

  “He’s yours. You stole him, you keep him,” Jason said.

  “But I don’t speak Pashto,” Bernadette protested. “How will I communicate with him?”

  Jason winked “Look, he’s a little boy, just like all human little boys, he needs food, sleep, and some love. You give him that, you’ll be fine.”

  “But you have a wife, wouldn’t she want—?”

  “Oh no.” Jason put up his hand. “My wife barely puts up with my childlike antics, and she works full time for an Afghan relief agency.”

  “And I cannot bring this child to my house,” Reza said. “When my wife finds out he is the warlord’s boy she would wail that I have brought disaster to our home.”

  Bernadette lifted the Burka off her head and pulled the boy up from the floor of the car. “Reza, ask him his name, and tell him that he’ll be coming with me. I’ll try to figure out where he’s to go once I’ve had some time to think. Maybe I can find his relatives somewhere.”

  The boy moved onto the seat and looked around his surroundings with interest. His bright eyes took in the soldiers and the heavy armored tanks at the front gate. He smiled at Bernadette. It was a smile of relief. He conversed back and forth with Reza.

  “He says his name is Almas. He wants you to know his name means diamond in Dari and Persian. He has only one name. He is twelve years old, he has only five years of schooling, and he was taken from his village when the warlord attacked. He wants to study medicine and the stars,” Reza said.

  “Okay, Reza, thanks for giving me his background. Now tell him to come with me,” Bernadette said. She looked at Jason. “You have any idea how I get this kid through security and into my compound?’

  “There are two ways. One, you use the Jedi Mind Trick where you say, you don’t need to see his papers, or you just lie your ass off and see what happens, that’s way number two,” Jason said.

  Bernadette unstrapped the Glock from her leg and the machine gun from her chest. She placed both weapons in the back seat and draped the burka over them. “Thanks for the unhelpful info. I’ll see what happens.”

  She took the child by the hand and approached two large soldiers at the gates of the compound.. She showed her ID to them and ushered the child in front of her. “Who’s the kid?” one of them asked.

  “He’s with me,” Bernadette said, staring back into his eyes.

  They let her pass.

  She walked with the boy to her compound. The front door attendant buzzed her in. The attendant was a little man with a thin mustache. His eyes had a furrowed haunted look. His name badge claimed he was Massoud.

  “Massoud, do you know where I can get something for this boy to wear?”

  “Yes, in the market. It is close by. Do you want I get you transport to take you there?”

  “Ah, no, he’s kind of tired, I was hoping to get someone to pick them up for him.”

  Massoud stood there and looked at the boy. It was if he saw him for the first time. He looked at his fine features and costume; a light of understanding came into his eyes. “I will do it myself. My shift is over soon, it will be my pleasure to do this.”

  “Thank you, Massoud. That is very kind of you,” Bernadette said. She took the boy with her to her room. He thanked her many times in his native language and was asleep on one of the beds in minutes. She covered him with a blanket.

  Bernadette took a long hot shower and changed. She crept out of the room so as not to wake the boy and found a small carafe of coffee. She started to scroll through her voice mails on her phone, noting one from Anton. I have some intel on Caprinski and Lund. You won’t like it, Call me.

  20

  Bernadette looked at her watch. It was 1800 hours. The light was fading from the sky, the call to pray
er was sounding from a mosque, and she was beyond tired, but she needed to call Anton. She took another sip of her coffee and dialed his number. It was 0630 in Edmonton, Canada, but Anton was an early riser; she knew he’d be awake.

  “Hey, Bernadette, how goes it out there,” Anton answered with a cheery sounding voice.

  “I’m staying alive. How are you?”

  “I’ve been watching all the intel we’re getting from Afghanistan. There are now two theories of thought from the world’s governments. You want to hear them?”

  Bernadette sipped her coffee. “Sure, I’m all ears, fire away.”

  “Several European countries want to pull out completely. They’ve had enough of Afghan’s squabbles and want nothing more to do with them. And the other one isn’t good either…”

  “Is it worse than everyone pulling out?”

  “Maybe. It’s to have all the NATO forces step aside and let the tribes fight until they’ve exhausted themselves, then work with the winner.”

  “I’m not sure that would be a good idea. Everyone here has more weapons than a Los Angeles street gang. I wonder how the NATO troops could stay out of it. Anyway, what do you have on my two stars, Caprinski and Lund?”

  “Sure, let’s start with Caprinski first.” Bernadette waited while Anton pulled up the file on his computer.

  “Vincent Caprinski is an ex-marine. He has a home in Butte, Montana, but hasn’t returned there in years. He served in Iraq and Afghanistan until he was brought up on charges of killing civilians in Kabul.”

  “What kind of charges?”

  “An entire family was killed in a sweep of a compound. They had no links to any terrorists. The CIA and Homeland Security think it was a hit paid for by one tribe on another and they used Caprinski to do it,” Anton said.

  “And of course, they couldn’t prove it?”

  “You got it. There were no witnesses, only dead bodies and Caprinski and his men to tell the tale. He left the marines and signed up with the personal security company.”

  “What does he do in his spare time?”

  “He heads off to Dubai. That’s a pretty happening city for those with money who want to spend it and party.”