“He says the warlord took them to a village that was close to his own. The warlord said that a secret man was inside. He gave him this pendant, said it was from the man, and that Almas now contained the man’s power as the man would die soon.”
Bernadette looked at the pendant and her hand started to shake. She clasped both her hands together to get a grip on herself. There was only one explanation. This was the pendant that Chris’s mother had given him years ago. He always wore it. The inscription was to Christos, the only name his mother called him by.
“Can he tell me the name of the village?” Bernadette asked softly.
The boy paused. He looked from Massoud to Bernadette and back to Massoud and began speaking quickly.
“If you promise to protect him from the warlord who held him captive, he will take you to the village. He never wants to be near him again.”
“Tell him I understand, but he doesn’t have to go with me, he can give me the name of the village, and I will go there myself.”
The boy shook his head after Massoud translated Bernadette’s words.
“He will give you the name of the village, but he will do so only if he gets to come with you,” Massoud said.
“Why?”
“He feels he wants to give the pendant back to the man in the house. He thinks the reason he is safe now is because he has the pendant. It belongs to the man and he took his power. He needs to return it to him.”
Bernadette hugged Almas. “Never have truer words been spoken. Thank him for his bravery. We will go together to find the man.”
23
Bernadette rushed back to her room and grabbed her computer. The only source for information she had was Wikipedia. The village that Almas gave her was Azau in Farah Province. According to the listing, it was a little village of some thirty families on the Azaw River. All her other Google searches turned up nothing. She needed to call Lackey at the CIA.
Lackey answered on the first ring. “I heard you had some fun with a warlord outside the wire yesterday,” she said.
“You heard about that?”
“You forget, I’m CIA, we have our ears everywhere. I also heard you snatched the warlord’s boy toy. How very noble of you. You just put my relations with him on hold for the next month,” Lackey said sarcastically.
“But you know what he was using the boy for, don’t you? You can’t possibly condone that?” Bernadette said.
“Look, I don’t agree with ninety-nine-percent of the bullshit that goes on in this country. But the Warlord Mirwais keeps the Taliban in check in his area. Without him we’d have to commit an entire battalion of marines and a squadron of the air force to look after the Taliban he keeps control over.”
“So, that’s the price of the boy?”
“Don’t get high and mighty on me, Callahan, we’ve got men and women risking their lives every day in this country—yes, damn straight—it’s the price of the boy until we get those bastard Taliban under control.”
Bernadette shook her head. There was no way to win this. “I’m sorry, Lackey, I know I don’t understand the politics and what you going through…”
“I guess I kind of unloaded on you. Sorry, I’m having a shit day. You called me for something, what’s up?”
“You’re right, I do have the boy. He gave me a lead of a village where he thinks they have Chris. Actually I’m pretty sure he’s there.”
“What’s the village?”
“ Azau, in the Farah Province.”
“Holy shit, you might as well have said on the moon.”
“Why is that?”
“The Taliban took it over last October. The whole place from the town of Farah to Anar Darreh is teaming with those black turbaned bastards. We only have fifteen thousand American soldiers for the entire country, which is not nearly enough to get them out. If you go in there, you’re going to your death.”
“Well, that sucks because I have to go there,” Bernadette said.
“I had a feeling you might say that. Look I can’t make it back to the compound for the next few days. I’ll be bunking here at the embassy working on some projects. Is there anyway your security guy can get you here in the next two hours. I have some intel I can give you on the place. I don’t want to send it over email as I don’t trust the server at the compound.”
“Sure, I’ll call you when I’m on my way,” Bernadette said and ended her call.
Checking her watch, she wondered how long it would take to get Jason from where he lived on the other side of Kandahar; she called him to find out.
“Jason here.” The line was sketchy, gunfire sounded in the background.
“Hey, Jason, I hope this isn’t a bad time, but I need your help to get me to the American Embassy.”
An explosion reverberated through the phone, almost like it was next door.
“Are you alright, Jason?”
“…Ah…yeah, I’m fine…” Jason answered. “There’s a fire fight between two tribes outside my door. It might be some time before I can get to you. Do you have to leave right away?”
“I got a lead on Chris—I think I know where he is. Lackey is going to give me intel on the village—got to be within two hours.” Bernadette said. She found herself toying with the cross around her neck that her mother had given her. It was something she rarely did.
“I think I can set you up with an alternative. Hold tight. I’ll be back to you shortly,” Jason said and went off the call.
Bernadette sat in her room and shut her eyes. She was a somewhat practicing Catholic. Her mother, who had died when she was young, had made her promise to keep the faith on her deathbed. She’d done so begrudgingly. The faith in God never seemed to equal the depths of despair humanity could reach. But just this time, she sent a prayer up to whoever might listen. She needed a vehicle to get to the American Embassy—perhaps someone was listening.
Her cell phone rang—it was Jason. “What have you got?” Bernadette asked, almost forgetting to breathe.
“I got a real ace. He will get you there. Go to the front gates of the compound, make sure you wear some Afghan style women’s clothes, doesn’t have to be a burka, but a hijab that covers your hair. The guy’s name is Mohammad. He may look a bit rough, but he’s the best there is, with the best Taxi service in Kandahar.”
“I thought you were the best?” Bernadette said with a chuckle.
“He’s my Afghan equivalent, he’ll be there in thirty minutes. I’ll get to your compound as soon as the tribes stop shooting the asses off each other, you copy that?”
“Yes, loud and clear. Stay safe, I’ll see you soon,” Bernadette said. She put her phone down and let another prayer go upward and chuckled to herself, “You’re becoming a religious fanatic in this country.”
She went to her closet and looked at the clothes she’d purchased at the bizarre. She took out the long overcoat and the large hijab. She made sure she wrapped the hijab properly over her head so she covered her hair. She would pull it up over her face when she was in the back of whatever car Mohammad was driving to ensure she did not look like a westerner.
She went back to the front desk; Masood was standing there while Almas drew pictures on a piece of paper.
“Massoud, I’m going out to the American Embassy by taxi, can you take care of Almas for a while?”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “You going to take a taxi in the craziness that is going on in Kandahar? You must have a death wish.”
“I’m getting that question a lot lately. I need to meet someone there.”
Massoud shook his head and put his hand to his chest. “I hope Allah will protect you. I will take care of Almas, do not worry about him.”
“Tell him I will be back for him,” Bernadette said.
Massoud translated to Almas. The boy jumped off the counter and rushed to Bernadette. He hugged her hard and talked excitedly.
“He thinks you are leaving him behind,” Massoud said.
“Tell him I am going
to find some information for our journey,” Bernadette said holding Almas and stroking his head. She knelt and kissed both his cheeks and dried his eyes. He smiled and hugged her again and said something.
“He said, God willing, you will return and you will begin your journey together,” Masood said.
“Yes, inshallah, if god wills it, I will return, Almas.” She kissed his forehead and walked away. In just forty-eight hours she had become attached to this little boy. The whole idea of motherhood while becoming a detective had been pushed aside. She thought she had crushed it to become the fierce female she thought she was. This little boy’s hugs had breached all of her defenses.
Bernadette’s thoughts on children were clear—they were good for other people, not for her. Her parents had semi-raised her along with five brothers and then left them as they pursued a life on the road seeking fame as musicians. Her father had turned to alcohol and drugs and died young. Her mother had died of a broken heart. Bernadette wished none of that on any child.
She walked to the front gates trying to suppress her emotions. She needed to get clear to focus. The soldiers at the front gate were waiting for her. They had smirks on their faces.
“Are you the Callahan that ordered a taxi?” one of the soldiers asked.
“Yes, is it here?” Bernadette asked straining her neck to see over the soldiers and the barricade.
“Oh, yeah, it’s here all right. A guy named Mohammed is out there waiting for you.” he said, waving his hand towards the outside.
Bernadette walked out and looked around for the taxi. Instead of a car, she saw what looked like a bright red motorized rickshaw with tassels on the front window and an old man who looked all of eighty hunched over and using the dilapidated vehicle to hold his body up.
“Callahan—Yalla, Yalla, come now, come now!” the old man yelled and motioned with his hands.
Bernadette couldn’t help noticing that one hand had only two fingers left and he wore an eye patch over one eye. As she approached the rickshaw, she saw the old man wore the usual Afghan garments but looked like they’d been cleaned sometime last year. The man looked older than Fazal, her previous bodyguard, who had died protecting her.
“Mohammad?” Bernadette asked tentatively as she approached.
“Yes, come—get in—we go,” the old man responded.
Bernadette squeezed into the back of the rickshaw. Mohammad pulled a cord several times in front that ignited the two-piston motorcycle engine and the little chariot sputtered to life.
The rickshaw lurched into motion. For a moment, Bernadette realized the strange predicament she was in. She thought Jason was sending her a crack Afghan security guy. He had sent her a perfect disguise. What Taliban would suspect any foreigner to be traveling in one of these? At least she hoped his reasoning was right on this.
The back of the rickshaw was totally closed in. She could only see out the front over the head and shoulders of Mohammed. They weaved through narrow side streets with doors shut tight against the fighting that could be heard around the city.
Mohammed seemed to have sixth sense about the journey. Sometimes they went towards the fighting and sometimes he turned away from it. His hands deftly turned the motorcycle handlebars that were the rickshaw’s steering device.
Shocks were none existent. Every pothole in Kandahar radiated upward through Bernadette’s butt and jarred her brain. She wondered just why she’d thought of this scheme and recalled that for the first time in days she had a lead as to the location of Chris. She could feel it in her bones that he was in the village that Almas had named. She had to get there.
The rickshaw putt-putted along, drowning out almost any thought that entered her mind until it came to a screeching stop. The old man muttered, “Taliban.”
Bernadette sat upright and pulled her hijab tighter around her face.
24
Loud voices sounded outside the rickshaw. Mohammed muttered at the Taliban and then began to shout at them. A gun muzzle appeared in the cab, the end of the muzzle resting beside Mohammed’s head. He pushed the muzzle away and yelled at them louder.
She heard laughter outside the rickshaw. The little vehicle revved back into gear and resumed its journey. Fifteen minutes later, it stopped again and Mohammed turned to Bernadette. “America—America Embassy.”
He stepped out of the rickshaw and helped her out. She reached into her pocket to pay him. He motioned her hand away.
“After, after…I wait.”
They were in front of the embassy. Two tanks with a squad of marines behind sandbags now guarded the embassy.
Bernadette walked up to the front gate, opening her jacket as she did to show no weapons. A marine checked her ID and called into the embassy to clear her.
As he handed her back her ID, he said, “Lady, you got some kind of balls traveling in that frigging rickshaw to get here.”
Bernadette took her ID back. “No, the driver does, he stared down the Taliban on the way, I just went along for the ride.”
She walked into the embassy, trying not to show the marine that her legs were still shaking. Lackey was waiting for her just inside the embassy door.
“That’s quite the ride you took. You know who your driver is?” Lackey asked when Bernadette approached.
“No idea. Someone my guy put me in touch with. Said he was good,” Bernadette said.
Lackey nodded in his direction. “Yeah, he was one of the key leaders of the Mujahedeen. I thought he was dead until now. Apparently, he came out of retirement.”
Bernadette looked at the old man. He’d taken out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it. He leaned back against the rickshaw and exhaled smoke into the air. He seemed relaxed, as if he’d just taken a joy ride through Kandahar.
“Follow me,” Lackey commanded. “I don’t have much time.”
Bernadette followed her down the embassy hallway and then upstairs to her office. The embassy was more barricaded and on alert than usual. Sandbags bracketed the doors and windows. Heavily armed marines quick marched down the halls to take up positions behind them.
Lackey sat at her desk and typed on her computer. “I’m glad you made it here. I can give you a copy of the SSE intel I have, that’s the sensitive site exploration document. It contains photographs and bios on most of the occupants of the village you’re going to.”
She sat back from her computer as the printer began to shoot out pages. “Not that I think this will do you any good.” She pulled her bottle of scotch out of the desk drawer and poured two glasses. “You have a snowball’s chance in hell of reaching your destination—as a Canadian you should know what that means.” She threw back her scotch in one swig. “Bad joke, but you get my drift.”
“I’m not leaving this country without Chris. I’ll take whatever chance I need to get him back.”
“You can’t be certain he’s in that village.” Lackey said. She poured herself another stiff one and threw it back.
“No, I can’t, but this is the only lead I’ve had since I’ve been here. I’ve had two attempts on my life since I’ve been here—I have strong feeling none of that was a coincidence. Someone knows I’m on the trail to find Chris and is trying to stop me. Not going to happen.” Bernadette pushed her Scotch towards Lackey. “Thanks for the intel, I’d best be going.”
Lackey took Bernadette’s scotch and threw it back wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Suit yourself. As for people making attacks on your life, an Afghan will kill you for looking sideways at him. I have no idea who you’ve pissed off since you arrived here. Could have been the imam, or even someone who saw you outside the mosque. Remember—they hate women here.”
“Again, thanks for the heads up,” Bernadette said as she stood.
Lackey escorted her back towards the front entrance. “I wanted to warn you that with all the shit that’s going on, your Canadian Embassy is talking about pulling out, and we Americans won’t be far behind.”
Bernadette stop
ped and turned to Lackey. “I thought you CIA types hung around no matter what?”
Lackey laughed. “Yeah, you’re right, we just pull the earth over ourselves and hide deeper.” She patted Bernadette’s shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we captured a high value Taliban asset. It’s essential we interrogate him in the first twenty-four hours before his buddies have time to flee their locations.”
Bernadette walked out into the street. Mohammed was waiting for her beside the rickshaw. She got in the back, taking the document she had received from Lackey and stuffing it into the inner pocket of her coat. The gunfire had ceased.
The rickshaw fired up in a cloud of blue smoke and they began their return journey. She wondered if finally she was on the road to find Chris. Everything in her gut was telling her she was on the right path. All she needed to do now was get back to the compound, get together with Jason and Almas, and they’d be on their way.
The rickshaw rounded a narrow corner and stopped. Bernadette looked over Mohammed’s shoulders and saw a green army truck. Men in helmets and weapons advanced on the rickshaw.
Mohammed said, “Police.”
Bernadette hoped Mohammed could talk their way out of this stop. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of Afghani bills. Perhaps this would be enough to bribe their way through.
The police spoke to Mohammed. He gestured back and forth, finally he turned to Bernadette. “You need show papers—you must get out.”
Bernadette stepped into the ring of police officers. She’d placed the Afghani bills inside her passport. It looked ridiculous, there were so many there they made a bulge in her passport.
A sergeant with bulging eyes and stomach took the passport. He pocketed the money and stared at her. Then he yelled to his men. They grabbed her from behind and lifted her into the back of the truck.
She heard Mohammed yelling behind her. Gun butts sounded, the dull thud of wood on bone as the soldiers beat him into the ground. She lay face down as the truck sped away. She closed her eyes tightly and said a prayer to Saint Christopher, the one who supposedly guarded all travelers. “Okay,” she whispered, “now would be time for a little help.”
Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery Page 11
