“How’s our next contestant, Jannick Lund doing in the clandestine department?”
“You guessed it. He doesn’t have a head office in Denmark, never has. His NGO is a sham. I checked out all the other places he’s been and in each one there are sacred missing artifacts. Looks like there’s a pattern with this guy.”
“I wonder how this guy ever got into this country. Oh don’t tell me, he bribed someone. Yep, asked and answered,” Bernadette said. She poured herself another coffee and went back to her chair.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Anton said. “I got a copy of the incident report from the NATO military that investigated the attack on Chris’s unit. There’s something I don’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s no satellite or drone images for the time that attack took place. I watched their convoy leave Kandahar and go through several checkpoints, then there’s no footage. One hour later you see the burned out vehicles and the missing men.”
“How unusual is that?”
“Satellites do take breaks to take pictures elsewhere and drones need to land to refuel. Could be a coincidence.”
“You know what I think of the ‘c’ word. There are no coincidences, just connections I haven’t found yet,” Bernadette said. “Who makes the decisions about satellites and drones in Kandahar?”
“U.S. Military Intelligence and the good people in the CIA. That’s kind of the command chain. However, there’s also a representative from Homeland Security as well as an FBI agent, but to my knowledge, the head spook…that be the CIA Station Chief has the ultimate say on getting intel from drones and satellites.”
“Don’t you think it’s convenient that one of the busiest roads in Kandahar Province that’s known to be heavily targeted by Taliban would have no drone that time of day?” Bernadette asked.
Anton paused on the line. “I know what you’re thinking Bernadette. You see shadows behind every tree and intricate plots in every action, but I can’t prove it.”
“Okay, how closely does the Canadian Embassy monitor the U.S. Embassy here in Kandahar?”
“Whoa, now you’re asking me to give up our most important stream of intel,” Anton said with a halting tone.
“And just exactly what is your most important stream of intel?”
“Okay, we all spy on each other. The Americans on the Canadians, likewise the Brits, the Germans, and of course everyone spies on the Russians and Chinese and vice versa.”
“The typical den of thieves out there for you guys, isn’t it?” Bernadette said sarcastically.
“Everyone is afraid the other country is going to find out something deeply critical to the others’ survival…”
“What do they find?”
Anton sighed. “Mostly gossip. Like if a British agent or consul aide is having an affair with someone in the Danish Consulate. It’s pretty mundane stuff really. It keeps the staff up at night when they can’t binge on House of Cards on Netflix.”
“And I thought so much better of you, Anton.”
“Sorry, I wear the title of security analyst, and with that comes taking out the trash.”
“While we’re at it, can you see what you can find on Kandahar’s CIA Chief?”
“Really, what do you want to know?”
“Just any interesting affiliations she might have. There’s something about her that gets my senses tingling.”
“Okay, Bernadette, this may take a few days. This kind of investigation has to be done through back channels and pulling a lot of favors.”
“Sorry for the hassle, but the only way I know how to find Chris is to uncover what his mission was about. I’ve just been out to a village and blindsided by a warlord who thought it was joke to kill a man in front of me—” Bernadette stopped and put her head down. “Sorry, Anton, I’m babbling.”
“No, no, it’s okay. look, I’ll get this done. I know the stress you’re under. If it’s of any comfort, I have a person checking the wires for any traffic on Chris or his people and I have nothing so far, but we’ll keep looking.”
Bernadette wiped a tear from her eye. “Thanks, Anton, you’re the best. I’ll call you again in a day or two.”
She ended her call and then started to scroll for voice messages. She’d always hoped she’d see a message from people who’d captured Chris and his team. There was nothing.
Scrolling down voice mails and texts from friends and fellow police officers that’d left messages of hope and concern, she came across the voice mails she dreaded—the ones from Chris’s mother.
She had six of them. She listened to the first, got the gist of it and sat back in her chair. The thought of talking to Maroula Christakos, Chris’ Greek-Canadian mother, made her stomach churn. Should she go to the bistro and get herself a beer first? Would that be enough—maybe a double scotch? The woman hated Bernadette. She’d never hidden the fact that Bernadette, a xeonos, which was Greek for stranger was not good enough for her son. She was too old, she would never bear him children, and she was not Greek. Bernadette thought she’d said that maybe a million times or it felt like it.
Maroula had been born in Athens and met her husband, Andreas, when she was seventeen, after an arranged marriage. She immigrated to Canada with Andreas where he got a job in a coat factory. Andreas died of a heart attack at work when she was only twenty-seven. With a child to raise, she became a dressmaker; it was all she knew. She remained dressed in black and grieving for her husband and fiercely loyal to her Greek traditions. Bernadette had been a pox on her family and traditions from the moment they’d met.
On one trip to Toronto with Chris, Maroula trapped Bernadette in the kitchen as she was desperately trying to get her morning coffee. She pulled out pictures of every young and beautiful Greek girl Chris had ever gone out with. The message was simple: Why he chose Bernadette over these girls was a mystery to the old woman. Maybe she thought Bernadette held some kind of spell over her son?
She took a deep breath and called Maroula, who lived in Toronto. It would be 0830 hours there. The fiery old woman would have had three Turkish coffees by now and be ready for action. The phone rang three times before she answered.
“Ya su, hello, Maroula Christakos here.”
“Maroula, it’s me, Bernadette.”
“Where are you? Why are you not looking from my Christos?”
“I’m in Kandahar, Afghanistan right now searching for him, Maroula.”
“Why you no find him yet? You say you are detective? What kind of detective you are, you cannot find my son?”
Bernadette put her hand to her forehead, “Maroula, things are different here, I cannot go to the countryside without security…”
“Yes, things different there. My Christos should never have gone there. He go there for you. To show you how big man he is, to make money for you. You are the reason he gets captured there. You hear me? You are the reason!” Maroula yelled into the phone. Her voice ended in sobs.
“Look, Maroula, I know, you’re right, okay? But I’m doing everything I can. I will not leave here until I find him. You must believe me.”
“I believe you. I know you are good police officer—you will try hard. But you must promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“When you find him, you bring him back to me, then you let him go. You are too dangerous for him to be around. He will get killed from being around you. You promise me?”
Bernadette was stunned. She knew Maroula’s word were true. “Yes, Maroula, I promise you.” She clicked off the cell and let the tears flow.
Composing herself, she headed for her room. The front desk clerk had left some clothes for the boy by the door. She picked them up and entered the room and found the boy sitting up in bed.
“Clothes,” Bernadette said with a smile, raising the pile up the air.
The boy smiled, he said the word in Pashto, which Bernadette didn’t understand, and she repeated the words “clothes.”
“Clothes,” he said, he smiled broadly showing perfect white teeth.
Bernadette took him by the hand and ushered him into the bathroom. She put the clothes there and turned on the shower for him, showing him the soap and shampoo. She did everything in sign language while saying the English words for soap and shampoo. He repeated everything.
She closed the door and waited for him. What was she to do with this little boy? How would she find him a home? What was it that Jason had said? All little boys need is some food, some sleep, and some love.
The shower stopped, and a few minutes later, Almas emerged, looking like any little boy. He was freshly scrubbed; his clothes were now those of a regular Afghan child of his age. Gone was the garish costume the warlord had made him wear.
He got back on the bed, smiled at her, and lay down again. Bernadette curled up beside him and put her arm around him. Soon they were both fast asleep.
21
The Loya Jirga was still in session. The many tribes milled around the room trying to make some sense of what was happening. Rumors were raging. Some said the Shia Militia in Iran was massing at the border for an attack. Some said they were already inside the walls of Kandahar City disguised as tribesmen. How would they know?
Imam Sardar Agha surveyed the room. He tried not to smile—he wanted to look grim like all the rest. Things were going his way, the police chief had looked at the tape and it could only be the infidels who had stolen the robe. Sardar Agha had proclaimed the fatwa, the pronouncement of death for them that morning. Soon all the faithful of Afghanistan would be out for their blood, and they would find their precious robe.
The head of the Hazara Tribe, Abdal Ali Balkihi, walked by and threw a glance in Sardar’s direction. They had a mutual hate for each other. He wandered off to another side of the room and went into a deep discussion with another man dressed in white robes. Sardar knew him, his name was Basir Nasab, and considered the worst of the vipers of the Hazara Tribe as far as Sardar was concerned. He watched out of the corner of his eye, he wished he knew what the two were saying.
The two men wandered away out of Sardar’s hearing.
“How goes it with you?” Balkihi asked Nasab.
“Good my friend, by the will of Allah, we will prevail. Do you have any word?” Nasab asked.
He looked quickly from side to side to see if he was being overheard. “Yes, Iran’s elite Ansar-al-Mahide force has offered to come to our aid,” Balkihi said.
“But, how can they? The moment they cross the border, the Americans will proclaim war with them?” Nasab protested.
“They will dress as Pashto tribesmen. They can be here in three days.”
Nasab lowered his head. “How do they think they can defeat the Americans and the British? They have helicopter gunships and armored vehicles. This would be suicide.”
“Once they get inside the gates of the city our tribe will revolt and come to their side. We have thirty thousand fighters; the Americans and British are a small force. They will fall back to the airfield where we will hem them in like rats. Soon they will be leaving the country in droves.” Balkihi laughed. “With our permission.”
Across the room, Sardar watched the two Hazara’s share a joke. He could only imagine what they were up to. He needed to act fast on his own plans.
Police Chief Khan stared across his desk at his three top sergeants. He leafed through their reports and threw them on the desk. “You mean to tell me that in all this time you have come with—nothing?”
The first sergeant, a man with a large moustache and bulbous eyes that seemed to protrude from his head, nodded furiously. “No, Chief, we cannot find the robe as it is not in Kandahar. If it was here, we would have found it.”
Khan shook his head and pounded his fist on the desk. “Not good enough.” The men jumped in their chairs.
The first sergeant put his hand over his heart. “Believe me, Chief, this robe has left Kandahar and is in the hands of the infidels. If it were in our power, we would bring it back. The infidels now hold our precious robe. We can only look to the tribal leaders to help us to get it back.”
Khan wanted to choke the first sergeant. He was a buffoon. He’d bought his commission with the help of the mayor, his first cousin. The man had no sense of police practice and spent his time in coffee shops while his men roamed the streets and got shot at by the Taliban and the warring tribes.
“And how do you expect the tribal leaders will help in this regard?” Khan asked.
“Ah, because of the fatwa, that our great imam, Sardar Agha, has placed on the infidels who stole it, this will bring the tribes together, they will search him out and bring him to us.”
“Excellent. While you have your coffee and stuff yourself with pastries? Is that how it works?” Khan asked with his hands clasped together as he stared at the lump of incompetence before him.
The first sergeant did not reply. His large body squirmed in his chair. He dropped his eyes to his hands as if an answer lay there.
“Get out of my office—all of you,” Khan yelled.
They rose as one. Chairs clattered as they raced away from the wrath of their chief.
Khan sat there and fumed. Why had he taken this job? The last police chief was murdered for standing up to the Taliban and the tribes. He thought of his options. He needed to do some police work, and that required getting all the facts.
The one fact he needed to know, was what did the CIA and the Canadian detective find of interest on his computer? He could not touch the lady from the CIA, but the Canadian detective, she was fair game.
He massaged his temple for a moment as a plan came into mind. He needed to discover what these people had found interesting on the tape and why they wanted it. He would set a trap and see how they would get out of it.
22
Bernadette opened her eyes. The boy was not beside her. A thin stream of light through the window told her it was morning. Rolling over she checked her watch—zero seven hundred. Where was the boy?
She washed her face and went down the hall to the front desk. Almas was sitting on the back counter of the desk, a sticky bun in his hands while laughing in a discussion with Massoud.
“Hi, Massoud. Thanks for looking after Almas. I didn’t know where he had gone,” Bernadette said.
“Ah, no problem, Madame, this little one is a joy. I know he has been through a lot…” Massoud put his hand to his mouth as if he’d said too much.
“Then you know of what he’s been through—did he tell you?”
“Oh, no, Madame, but the moment I saw him in the costume I knew he was the prize of someone. Then last night at home there is a rumor that the Warlord Mohammad Mirwais is looking for his boy that he says was stolen from him. Sorry if I assumed this is him.”
Bernadette looked around the room; there was no one there. “Do you promise you will tell no one?”
Massoud put his hand over his heart. “Please, your secret is safe with me. You must tell everyone that his boy is with you as you are planning to adopt him. It happens all the time, and…” He looked around, “…Do not say his name is Almas, that is the name the warlord is looking for. Tell people his name is Aimal, it will be easy for Almas to remember.”
“Would you tell him that, please?” Bernadette asked. “My Pashto is at please and thank you.”
“Of course,” Massoud said. He turned to Almas and told him of the name, Aimal. The boy shook his head violently. “He doesn’t like the name,” Massoud said looking up in resignation.
“Tell him it is his secret name. This is a game we are playing,” Bernadette said.
Massoud translated to Almas. The boy smiled and took a big bite of his sticky bun.
“I take it we have a winner,” Bernadette said. She stared hard at the boy for a moment. “Did he happen to tell you where he is from, and if his parents are still alive?”
Massoud said something to Almas and the boy jumped off the back counter and shot off down the hallway.
“I told him to get another bun,” Massoud said. “The boy comes from a village in the north near the Iran border. Six months ago he says a night letter was posted on his parents door.”
“What’s a night letter?”
“This is something the Taliban puts on a door in the middle of the night. The letter will warn the people that they need to stop doing something or to obey to their will. The consequences of disobeying the letter are always the same—death.”
“I take it that Almas’ parents did not comply?”
“The boy is not clear on that. He says when he came home from school, his parents were not there. The whole village had been deserted. He says some men took him away. I did not need him to fill in the rest,” Massoud said.
Bernadette blew out a breath, “I can’t imagine what he’s been through.”
Almas ran back into the lobby with his second bun and began munching on it. In between bites he started to talk excitedly to Massoud. He laughed out loud at the boy’s words.
“What’s so funny?” Bernadette asked.
“He says if he is to have a secret name, why can it not be of the pendant around his neck?”
“Tell him to show us.”
The boy wiped his hands on his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled out a shiny silver medallion. On the back was an inscription. He looked at Massoud and said something in Pashto.
“He says you should read it for him, he thinks it’s in English.”
Bernadette looked at the Pendant, a Saint Christopher Medal. On the back was the English word, Christos.
“Where did he get this?” Bernadette asked. Her eyes narrowed—the boy jumped back in fear.
“He thinks you are mad at him.”
“No, no, tell him I’m not angry at him, I just need to know where this came from.”
Massoud asked Almas. The boy spoke quietly making signs of a house with his hands, turning to Bernadette with a smile.
Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery Page 10
