by Eric Meyer
“All right, I’ll tell you about Ishaq Khan. He was a local man, the brother of a prominent Islamic cleric.”
“Which cleric?”
A sigh. “Mullah Mahmoud Khan. He’s the top man in Panjab, a Sunni Muslim, of course. Stoner, the last thing you need is to tangle with Mullah Khan. He is very powerful, very wealthy, and has a lot of support. Plenty of local people would fight to the death to defend him. I beg of you, don’t turn this town into ashes. Put this behind you. Go home to Jalalabad and forget you ever heard the name Mahmoud Khan. You go after him, and he’ll kill you.”
Stoner nodded. “Where do I find him, this Mahmoud Khan?”
“I don’t know. I want to go back.”
“Sure.”
They started back, walking through the trees and past the airstrip. A man was running toward the house. He spotted Lena and changed direction to run toward her. He was shouting something and waving his arms. She went toward him, and they politely waited out of earshot. They talked for a few minutes, and then the man left to return to the airfield. She rejoined them, and her face had aged five years in as many minutes.
As they walked toward the house, Stoner had to ask, “What’s the problem with that guy? Is there anything wrong?”
She stopped and turned to him, her face bitter. Archer whined, as if something had threatened him. “Wrong? Oh, yes, you could say that. I’m ruined, completely ruined.”
“Ruined? But I thought you were wealthy…”
“Yes, that’s right, I was. That was my Chief Pilot, Joseph Chow. We brought in a shipment a few days ago for onward transport to Kabul. A top priority government consignment, I’d only just won the contract, and I had to put up a huge bond as security. Everything I own, the aircraft, the business, the house, everything.”
Greg came alongside her, and the dog walked close to his legs. “What was the cargo?”
She answered with a single word, “Gold.”
“Gold? Has something happened to it?”
She flared at him, consumed with anger, “Yes, you could say that. It’s gone. Someone stole it.” Her anger turned to intense sadness and grief.
“Can’t you...”
“I’m ruined,” she snapped again, “Everything my father built up, everything I own, it’s gone. I’m finished. Bankrupt.”
She stood erect, pride kept her from buckling under the strain. Yet her shoulders shook with emotion. “Ruined,” she repeated, “Why don’t you just go home! I have enough trouble without your stupid vendetta.”
He nodded, understanding her agony.
I’ll go home when I’ve kept my promise. Now I need to find Khan.
Chapter Three
“You failed.”
Ali Mazari, the Shiite Senior Imam of Panjab, stared at Mullah Mahmoud Khan and hated him. Khan was the senior Sunni Mullah and commanded many more followers than he did. Even so, he had no right to frame his words in such an insulting way. After all, Mazari had plenty of good men he could call on, men prepared to die in the name of the Prophet. Which came down to dying for Ali Mazari, the representative of the Prophet here on earth.
“A temporary setback, that is all. If you think you can do better, perhaps you should make the attempt, Mullah Khan.”
The older man heard the irritation and challenge in Mazari’s voice.
They’re useless, all of these Shiites. The sooner the land of Afghanistan is rid of them, the better. In the meantime, they could be useful. Lena Stori is a Shiite Muslim. The only chance of getting control of her organization is through another Shiite, a man like Mazari.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Tell me about the Americans you encountered.”
The Imam’s expression darkened. “They took my men by surprise. It was an underhanded attack. One of them was an American, I am certain. The other was a mongrel Afghan, probably Afghan mother and Russian or American father. Either way, the death of my men must be avenged.”
Khan nodded. “And it will be avenged, my friend. In the meantime, we must concentrate on what is important to our cause. Afghanistan will never be free of the foreign yoke until we force the last infidel from this land. In order to fund that end, our shipments must flow freely, as you know. I am under intense pressure from the Amir al-Mu’minin to get results, and quickly.”
“The Amir al-Mu’minin? Mullah Omar, the Commander of the Faithful still lives?”
Mullah Omar, the one-eyed leader of the Taliban and Afghanistan's eleventh head of state from 1996 to late 2001. A man of mystery, a man wanted by ISAF since the start of the Afghan War, a will o’ the wisp never seen in public. Many doubted his existence. The U.S. State Department had no such doubts. He was on their Most Wanted list, and had been since 2001. The reward for his capture would be sufficient to finance the purchase of an offshore island retreat, with a Bell Jetranger to carry them there.
“He still lives, yes, and he is very much in control of our Sunni legions. He is aware of the need of our fighters for money to provide for their families, parents and children who rely on them. Otherwise, they will go hungry, and these men will desert our cause. They also need money for weapons and equipment. The only way we can provide that money is for our opium to reach the dealers, who are always willing to pay for the product with hard currency. The key to the entire operation is distribution, as you know. We must have Stori Transport, and that means you must increase the pressure on the woman to agree to the marriage.”
Mazari nodded. “I’ve been thinking of nothing else since I returned. Mullah Khan, I have a plan that will bring her to her knees. When I have finished with her, she'll come begging for me to marry her.”
He spoke at length to Khan and explained what he had in mind. Several minutes later, both men shook hands on the agreement. They were smiling, two men who knew they were about to gain control of the largest transport company in the region. From that moment on, the opium shipments would start rolling again. The spigot would open wide, and it would stay open until it became a torrent.
* * *
They almost had to carry her back to the house after she received the news of the gold robbery. Joseph Chow joined them and brought her a glass of cold water from the kitchen. She was sitting slumped on the sofa, staring into space. Stoner gave her a few minutes to get herself together. Then she gave Chow a nod to explain.
“It’s a government shipment imported from Russia,” the short, lean Chinese explained, “Normally, they’d have shipped it direct to Kabul. However, in the past they’ve had too much theft. They decided to bring it into the country by means of an alternative route, which would be kept secret. The plan was to store the gold in a secure part of the warehouse at the side of the airstrip, in an unmarked crate, and carry it on to Kabul on Friday. During Friday prayers,” he smiled, “It’s a time when the streets are quiet, and they could have slipped it in unnoticed.”
“Now they won’t ship it at all,” Lena said, “They’ll come to me for compensation, and the insurance bond is supported by the business and property of Stori Transport. Even then, there won’t be enough to cover the loss. I’m sorry, Joseph, but when they come for their pound of flesh, you’ll all be out of work.”
“You think they’ll take the aircraft?” He stared back at her, shocked.
“Everything, even the aircraft.”
“There’s an answer,” Greg interjected.
She looked at him quickly. “If you have any ideas, I’d be more than grateful to hear them.
“A theft of that size would require a deal of planning and organization. It had to be somebody on the inside. Can you think of a name? We could have a chat with him, persuade him to do the right thing.”
Before she could reply, Stoner added, “We’ve done it before.”
“At gunpoint,” she flared. She shook her head emphatically, “No. Besides, the people I employ are locals. I know them all, and even if they had the inclination, they don’t have the means to pull off a theft on such a grand scale. Do you know the weight of gold in
volved?” He shook his head, “Half a metric tonne.”
“Jesus Christ, that must be worth millions of dollars.”
“If I sell everything I own, I doubt I could raise more than one million. The rest will be part of a bankruptcy that will follow me for the rest of my life.”
Greg leaned forward. “If it wasn’t an inside job, who could it be? You must have some idea.”
She raised her eyebrows at Chow. “Could it have been Ivan?”
The Chinese inclined his head. “It’s possible.”
“He’s the only one man I can think of with the means and resources to carry out such a major crime, and with any hope of getting away with it. Ivan the Terrible.” She looked at Stoner, “Ivan Vasilyevich, he runs the gang out of Band-e Amir. The word is he commands at least a score of fighters, some of them former Mujahedeen or Taliban. The police and military have tried to track him down, but the region is honeycombed with caves. No one knows the location of his base. He appears from nowhere, carries out a theft, often a shipment of opium or weapons, and then disappears.”
She spun around as a figure appeared in the doorway. Max Olin came into the room. She gave him a concerned glance. “Max, what are you doing? You should be resting.”
“I went to get some fresh water, and I couldn’t help overhear what you were talking about. Is it true, someone stole the shipment of gold? The government gold you told me about last week?”
“It’s true,” she whispered, as if reluctant to speak the awful truth aloud.
He nodded. “In that case, I’m going back to the city. My office has a number of resources I can tap into. The least I can do is start asking around. If Ivan has the gold, maybe I can persuade our United Nations contacts to pressure the government in Kabul to mount an operation to recover it.”
“You know about Band-e Amir? They could send in a thousand troops to that place, and he’d see them coming and disappear. He’s done it before.”
“Even so, I’ll give it a go. It’s time they cleared out that nest of thieves and murderers for the last time. My vehicle is around back. I’m going straight to the office of the Commissioner.”
“You’re not up to it!” she protested, “You should stay a little longer.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll give you a call the moment I have any news.”
He limped out of the room, and she let him go. Stoner had noticed the fleeting look of hope on her face when Olin talked about getting help from his UNHCR contacts. It was all she had to hold onto.
They stayed with her for the rest of the afternoon and even gained an invite for dinner. Chow disappeared, muttering something about maintenance schedules on the aircraft. After he’d gone, Greg asked her if she trusted him.
“Joseph? Absolutely. He was the first pilot I recruited, and he’s always been one hundred percent loyal to me and the company.”
“He flew the aircraft that brought in the consignment in. It would have put him in a good position to arrange the theft.”
She shook her head. “No, not Joseph. I told you, there’s only one man could have got away with that amount of gold, and afterward had the means to dispose of it. Ivan the Terrible.”
Stoner smiled at the colorful nickname. “Why do people call him that?”
“The Terrible?” She grimaced, “He’s a robber, no question, but he doesn’t stop at theft. When Ivan strikes, he leaves a trail of bodies behind him. He’s been known to cut off the heads of his victims and leave them on wooden spikes stuck into the ground.”
“So you’re saying he’s some kind of psycho.”
“Exactly, that’s what he is, a vicious, brutal psychopathic killer. Well armed, well equipped, and he’s very, very clever. Not unlike his sixteenth century predecessor.”
“That’s not the man I met in Jbad,” Stoner murmured, “There’s no way. He was a just a regular guy. A businessman, a hustler, sure, but not the kind of guy you’re describing.”
She shrugged. “Obviously it was someone else. All I can hope is that Max has some success with the Commissioner in Kabul. Otherwise I’m finished.”
Her eyes reddened, and she left the room abruptly, saying, “Help yourselves to drinks. I’ll be back.”
Blum stared at Stoner. “The lady needs help, you know that.”
“She does, yeah. Hard being a single woman in this neck of the woods.”
A pause. “We could take a look at this Ivan guy. I don’t like the idea of leaving her in trouble. It wouldn’t take long to locate this guy, put a gun to his head, and persuade him to do the right thing.”
Stoner’s gaze was like flint. “No. I came here for one reason. To honor a promise I made to Madeleine. That’s it. I’ll find this Mullah Mahmoud Khan and put a bullet between his eyes. Period.”
“There could be a reward. This is government business, so there’s a lot at stake.”
“I don’t need a reward, and I don’t give a shit about the government. The answer is no. When we leave this house, I’m going after his ass.”
Blum gave up and went to the kitchen. He came back with a couple of ice-cold cans of Pabst. “Sorry, it’s the Chinese version.”
“Bastards steal everything,” Stoner grumbled, “Give ‘em a chance, and they’ll field a candidate for President of the U.S.”
They sipped at their drinks, and the beer could have been a lot worse. They tried to ignore the sound of sobbing from a nearby room. Ten minutes later, she returned, her face swollen and red.
“I’m sorry, I’m finding this hard to take. I can only pray Max comes up with something.”
They nodded politely. Stoner broke the silence, “Ma’am, I’m leaving. I have business in Panjab.”
She flinched. “Mullah Khan.” He didn’t reply, “I wish you could leave him alone. You’ll tear the town apart.” There was an awkward silence. She went on, “You were going to stay for dinner. It’s not been one of my better days. I could do with the company.”
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but...”
“It’s Lena.”
Stoner flashed her a tight smile. “Lena, right. I need to look up this guy, Khan. Mullah Khan, or whatever.”
She looked disappointed, but Greg came to her rescue. “Stoner, we can spend some time with Lena. She’s had a hard time. You’ve waited long enough for this Khan, what’s a few hours or another day?”
She gave him a grateful look, and Stoner acquiesced. Even Archer, sitting on the floor close to Greg’s boots, gave out a tiny howl of approval.
They sat for a few minutes in silence, and then Stoner nodded. “This gold shipment, how come it was unguarded?”
“Secrecy, that was the idea. If we’d surrounded the place with guards, it would have been obvious we had something valuable in the warehouse. It was packed in a wooden crate, marked ‘water pumps.’ There was no reason to suppose anyone would take any interest, but obviously they did.”
Stoner and Blum exchanged glances. It had all the hallmarks of an inside job, no matter how much she trusted her people. Probably Ivan had got to one of them. It wouldn’t be that difficult. Money or threats, or a combination of both, it never failed.
“I’ll talk to the cook about preparing dinner,” the woman said, rising to her feet. She almost reached the kitchen when the telephone rang. She answered it and listened. They noticed her body stiffen.
“They’re on the way?” She shuddered, “Thank you, Max. I’ll alert my people and tell them to prepare. Do what you can with the Commissioner.”
She ended the call and turned to the two men. “The clerics put a fatwa on my business. Anyone who reports for work will be declared apostate, and in a Muslim country, that’s a death sentence.” She shook her head, and now the tears flowed freely, “Why did I ever believe I could make this work? Damn the Mullah, he’s no better than Ivan the Terrible.”
Stoner looked interested for the first time. “Which Mullah are we talking about here?”
“Khan.”
His smile was cold. “In
that case, it looks like our business coincides with yours. I’ll go into town and take care of him.”
“That won’t solve the problem. He’s whipped up some of the local Sunnis into a religious frenzy, and they’re coming here now. Max said they’re armed, about twenty of them. They’re shouting stuff about burning down my warehouses and destroying my trucks and aircraft. How could this be happening to me?” she cried in an agony of despair.
Greg took her by the shoulders. “Don’t let these people beat you down. When are they due to arrive?”
“Max said about fifteen minutes.”
“Understood. Get onto your security guards and tell them.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She picked up the phone again and dialed a couple of digits. After a minute, she replaced the receiver, “They’re not answering. I think they’ve run.”
The Russian sighed. “You pay them to guard the place, and they lose a valuable cargo. When they’re needed to do some serious work, they run away like scared rabbits.”
“It’s the fatwa,” she explained.
“Fuck the fatwa. Uh, sorry, Ma’am.” He looked at Stoner. “We need to do something.”
The American sighed. It came back to him again, as it so often did, in the lonely hours of the night, his first tour in Afghanistan; armed thugs on the rampage, baying for blood.
Is it going to be another Lashkar Gar? Random butchery, and not a thing I could do about it. Except kill a few of the perpetrators, and what difference did that make? Islamic violence is like a black, satanic tide sweeping the world. Men fired up by the Mullahs and Imams to kill; men with offshore bank accounts, money to build palaces for themselves, and guns and bombs for their gullible followers. Death, poverty, famine, misery, sickness, and disease, those are the products they trade. Small wonder the average Joe in an Islamic country sees Europe and America as the Promised Land. Hate America, until you manage to immigrate and find there’s a better life Stateside.
