Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  He ducked inside a Korean supermarket on the way, bought rice and soup and cooked dinner in his apartment.

  He ate by the window, watching the city go by, down below. He rinsed and washed, then opened the file and started reading.

  He turned off the light at one am and went to sleep.

  At five, he was up and heading out to Central Park.

  The fresh air reinvigorated him and when he was on his second lap, he decided to leave for ’Stan.

  Just like that. Which was the way he operated, because he had no one to answer to, no spouse or partner to consult.

  On returning home, he opened a hidden compartment in his wardrobe and extracted a large box.

  In it were thick wads of cash: U.S. dollars. British pounds. Euros and the currencies of several Middle Eastern and Asian nations.

  The file that Kilmer had handed him contained several thousand Afghanis, the currency of the country. Zeb had more of those in his box.

  He considered them for a moment. The American dollar was universally accepted in the troubled nation but there was no point flashing them at a tea vendor. He removed a thick bundle of the local currency and stowed the box away.

  He stashed his Glocks away, too. He wouldn’t need them. He would procure arms locally.

  He went to another compartment and withdrew several passports and identification documents. Rifled through them swiftly and separated out a blue passport: Afghani, suitably torn, with worn documents to accompany it.

  He slapped it all together in a duffel bag, along with his American passport.

  He went to the bathroom and emerged an hour later.

  His brown hair was now black.

  The beard he had started growing right after the interview was black.

  As were his brown eyes.

  His teeth were stained, as if he chewed naswar, the powdered tobacco that Afghanis routinely stuffed in their mouths.

  He took one last look around the apartment and left.

  Caught the night flight to London.

  At Heathrow, he went to the restroom and emerged a half-hour later as Akmal Rahman: black tonbaan, black perahaan, a white waaskat , waistcoat. Large nose and misshapen ears.

  Rahman—Zeb, in his Tajik guise and with prosthetics to change his features—went to the Pakistan International Airlines counter and bought a return ticket to Islamabad.

  ‘Business, sir?’ the woman behind the counter said with a smile.

  ‘Business. I am an importer,’ he told her.

  After eight hours of flying, he was in Pakistan the next day.

  At the busy airport, he took in the various odors and sounds. Stale sweat, perfume; Urdu, English, Pashtun, Hindi, Arabic.

  He searched for a PIA window and bought a ticket to Kabul.

  ‘Business or pleasure, sir?’ The woman scrutinized his documents carefully.

  ‘Home,’ Zeb said. ‘I am going home.’

  Three hours later, he was in Kabul.

  He rented a Jeep at the airport and drove through noisy, traffic-laden streets to Karte Sakhi, a neighborhood adjacent to Kabul University.

  New construction alongside old. Neoclassical feel to many houses. Warm colors. Stone, brick and masonry.

  He stopped outside a metal gate and jumped out of the Jeep.

  A couple of passing women, in full face veil, gave him curious looks. They hurried on when he looked back.

  The gate opened noiselessly and closed behind him.

  He entered the still house, climbed to the upper floor and in the bedroom, bereft of furniture, knelt.

  He fingered a corner of the floor and pressed a natural looking scratch on the surface.

  It was a fingerprint scanner designed to look like part of the floor.

  Several tiles slid back to expose an armory.

  Glocks, mags, a couple of Benchmade, several grenades, two HK416s and ammo for them, two sniper rifles, two grenade launchers … enough weapons to start a small war, or finish one. He drew out night vision goggles, or NGVs, blood packs and medical kits. Several pieces of body armor followed.

  He stripped, put on armor and got back into his clothes.

  He grabbed several more pieces of protection and helmets and, after wrapping them in cloth to keep them from clanking together, stuffed them all in a case.

  He closed the compartment and checked the various security devices in the house. Concealed cameras, motion detectors, it had them all.

  Zeb owned or rented several such houses in the hot spots of the world. Cairo, Mogadishu, Gaza, Bangkok—all had a weapons cache and comms equipment. Feeds from these locations went to his Jackson Heights apartment. Alerts came to him if any house was broken into.

  So far, not one had been.

  Janitors, people he had cultivated over a period of time and trusted, visited the houses regularly. They cleaned them, maintained them and gave the appearance that large companies owned the premises.

  He dumped the case in the rear of the Jeep and padlocked it. Shut the metal door.

  And set off to Badakshan province.

  Chapter Seven

  Zeb went through his cover as he drove.

  Akmal Rahman was originally from Raghi. His family were traders. They bought vegetables from local farmers and sold them in the village markets as well as in more distant towns. They were comfortable but not wealthy.

  A good cover had to be truthful to a large extent.

  The Rahman family did exist in Raghi. They were vegetable and farm produce traders. They had been so, for generations.

  There was a male child, Akmal Rahman, in the family. He had been sent to Kabul and from that point onwards, the truth and lies started to converge.

  The real Akmal Rahman had died when he was twenty-one. He had joined a militia gang and had been killed in a shootout with another gang.

  As far as Joe or Jane Public in Afghanistan was concerned, if he or she cared enough, Akmal was in London. For higher studies.

  His uncle, Abdul Rahman, was a prominent politician in the ministry of transport. He knew Zeb well. The American had done several favors for the minister. Over time, the two men had grown close.

  It was Zeb who had gotten the story of Akmal changed. It had been easy, because he, Bwana and Roger had been first on the scene.

  He had recognized one of the dead men and had called the minister. He had asked him to come alone.

  On seeing his nephew, the politician had been broken. Then pragmatism crept in. His career would be destroyed if it was known the young man had been a militant.

  Zeb promised to keep quiet about Akmal’s killing.

  It wasn’t difficult. The Delta operatives knew how the country worked. A favor to Rahman of such magnitude meant that the politician would be indebted to them forever.

  The story was that Rahman was in Britain.

  The killing?

  Only the Delta operatives and the minister knew that one body was missing when the police arrived and neither side would talk.

  As Zeb drove towards Raghi, four people met in Kabul.

  They were in the minister’s office, late in the evening, when all the officials had retired for the day. The minister came down to escort them past the security measures. Not that there were any of consequence.

  At a nod of his head, the security detail let the three visitors in: two men and a burqa-clad woman.

  The minister took them up his private elevator and gestured them to seats.

  He poured tea for them, and when they had been served, he went behind his desk.

  Before he could speak, the woman lifted her veil. ‘No one ever asks who your visitors are?’ Atash Mohammed wiped sweat that had beaded on his forehead. ‘I should have come without this dress.’

  The Taliban commander was heavily bearded, with unruly hair and eyes that moved constantly. A scar above his left eyebrow gave him a sinister look that helped reinforce his savage reputation.

  ‘No one dares to even meet my eyes,’ the minister boasted. �
�What is the status?’ he turned to the other men.

  ‘We are almost there,’ said Vladimir Bykov, a lean, clean-shaven Russian with sinewy arms, shrugging. ‘The final batch will be extracted, processed and packed. Two weeks, maybe three more. Many of my people are on site. How are you explaining that?’

  ‘Expert contractors. Not that anyone will ask me,’ the minister turned to Colonel Jesse Tucker, an American. ‘Your corridor will be ready?’

  ‘Yeah, all will be taken care of when the time comes. What about our men?’

  ‘They are safe. Well.’ Mohammed spoke good English. His tone was insolent; he didn’t try to hide his contempt.

  ‘You were to release them,’ Tucker said heatedly. He was in his uniform. Of the visitors, he alone had no fear of being seen in public with the minister. They met often to discuss security matters.

  ‘Will happen. Once the consignment leaves. I am releasing some more pictures to the media. Proof that they are alive. Unharmed.’ Insolence in his voice.

  The minister intervened quickly before the discussions got out of hand. ‘Mohammed has given us his word. We should accept that.’

  ‘He gave it before, too. He didn’t stick to it.’

  ‘I release them now and you will bomb us. Consignment cannot leave,’ the Taliban commander said, his eyes gleaming. He had a point and he knew it.

  ‘We are talking of just a few weeks. The rewards are huge. Which is why we are here,’ the minister said, adopting a conciliatory tone that got to the soldier.

  The American nodded stiffly, and the conversation progressed.

  They discussed logistics. How the consignment would move.

  Mohammed and his men would escort it to the Afghan border. From there, Bykov would take over. The American and the minister would ensure that no U.S. or coalition forces would be on its route.

  They all had a role to play. The upside was enormous, which was what had brought them together in the first place.

  The American and the terrorist were on opposite sides. The Russian had his own side. The minister was looking out for himself.

  Greed made them put aside their hostility. Avarice got them working as a team.

  ‘Anything else?’ the minister asked as he stood up, signaling a close.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tucker said, remaining seated. ‘My people are making a rescue attempt.’

  ‘When?’ Mohammed asked sharply, leaning forward. ‘How many men? Air support?’

  ‘They are sending one man.’

  ‘One man? What can one man do?’ the terrorist scoffed.

  ‘His name is Zeb Carter.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘He was Delta. Now he is a mercenary.’

  ‘Delta! I have three of them. Killed more,’ Mohammed sneered.

  The minister waved him to silence. ‘What can he do?’

  ‘He has a record. That’s why they sent him. It needn’t have come to this,’ the soldier flared, ‘if this terrorist had released our men.’

  ‘Colonel,’ Bykov’s voice was soft, and yet it had the desired effect.

  The red flush on the Taliban commander’s face faded. The American unclenched his fists. The minister let out his breath.

  ‘That is in the past,’ the Russian continued. ‘We should focus on the now. You have anything more on this man?’

  ‘No,’ the colonel shook his head reluctantly, ‘my contact … he says this man is a lone wolf operator.’

  ‘You don’t know when he is coming?’

  ‘No. He might already be here.’

  ‘The American knows nothing,’ the Taliban man whispered, not so sotto voce.

  He fell back and raised his hands placatingly when the Russian turned furious.

  ‘This is how he looks,’ the colonel pulled out several photographs from a pocket and circulated them. ‘He speaks Pashtun well.’

  ‘We will find him,’ the terrorist said, fingering the image. ‘He will come to Badakshan and to Sori. We will be waiting for him.’

  Zeb also knew Dari and a smattering of Uzbek. That wasn’t in his file. No one knew of that but for his closest friends.

  Those languages would be of more use to him in Badakshan because the Tajiks in that province spoke Dari, though many of them understood Tajiki.

  The plan fell into place as he drove out of the city early the next day. The roads were good, courtesy of foreign aid and at that early hour, five am, there wasn’t much traffic.

  At eight am, he had his first halt.

  It was involuntary.

  He was following the AH76 towards Baghlan. Green perahaan and tonbaan on his body, sneakers on his feet, and a checkered red and white shemagh across his face. Just his eyes visible.

  His Jeep, green too, was covered with a film of dust. He had the window down despite the cool air.

  Traffic started bunching, slowing him down and when he peered out, he saw nothing but a long line of trucks.

  ‘Police,’ a trucker spat. ‘Americans.’

  Zeb nodded understandingly, as if Americans and police were synonymous.

  He saw it was a military checkpoint. Several armored vehicles and large military trucks had formed a choke point through which all vehicles passed.

  Afghan soldiers were inspecting papers and questioning drivers before they were let through.

  Americans, too, he recognized, when he got closer. Several armed soldiers, alert, clutching their weapons.

  A soldier held out his hand for Zeb’s papers. He handed him the rental documents. Maybe it was something about the Jeep, but a few U.S. personnel came closer.

  ‘Going where?’ the bearded Afghan demanded.

  ‘Faizabad,’ Zeb replied in Farsi.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Boss’s work,’ Zeb shrugged.

  The soldier handed back the papers and was waving him through when an American whistled.

  ‘What’s in that box? In the back, buddy?’

  Zeb put on a stupid grin.

  ‘No … English,’ he replied brokenly.

  ‘Can you step out?’

  Three Afghans covering him. Two Americans. A third soldier joining.

  ‘What’s up, Steve?’

  A female soldier: Lieut. Chloe Sundstrom. 82 nd Airborne.

  It took all of Zeb’s iron control to show no sign on his face.

  The same blank grin as he stepped out. Hands in the air.

  ‘Box in the back,’ Steve told her. ‘Can you open it?’

  Zeb looked at him, uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Box. What’s in them?’ an Afghani snapped in Farsi.

  ‘Guns.’

  ‘What?’ the soldiers tensed. Their weapons raised. The few onlookers who had gathered, scattered.

  ‘Papers,’ Zeb explained. ‘In Jeep.’

  ‘Show them.’

  He moved unthreateningly to the glove box and removed a sheaf of documents. Went to the back, opened the box and waited while the Afghans inspected the weapons and compared them to the list on one of the papers.

  Rahman … Minister … his weapons. He heard snatches of conversation between the Americans and the local soldiers. Sundstrom had her head cocked, half-listening, eyeing him curiously.

  ‘Call it in,’ she said, her green eyes on him.

  They called it in, their shoulders relaxing when the voice on the other end confirmed that Akmal Rahman was the minister’s nephew and that he was transporting licensed weapons to their family home in Badakshan.

  ‘Go,’ an Afghani thrust his papers back and waved him through.

  Zeb bobbed his head in supplication. Thanking the minister for not revealing that Akmal had studied in London and would have known English.

  He took one last look at the petite woman, who had turned to the other American soldiers.

  ‘Last tour, Chloe?’ one said.

  ‘Yeah. Will be going back in a month. For good.’

  And then they were behind him, receding into the distance.

  Chloe here, fancy that!

&
nbsp; He shook his head at himself.

  It shouldn’t have surprised him. ’Stan was a large country, but the world of U.S. soldiers was small.

  He had first come across her in Helmand. They shared the same mess, and he and his friends had seen how she had affected Bear.

  The large man was one of the best operatives Zeb had come across, but at heart, he was painfully shy. He had never told her how he felt and now he was in New York, and she was here.

  Hope’s not lost. It’s her last tour. Will tell Bear when I am back.

  His smile faded.

  If I am back.

  Chapter Nine

  He reached Keshem in the evening with no further incident and hit more traffic, due to road building.

  As he slowed to a crawl, he looked up.

  Another hour to darkness.

  He preferred to reach Raghi during daylight.

  Make a night camp.

  Decision made, he swung off the asphalt road, following a gravel path that took him around the town and in the general direction of his destination.

  He stopped when he was away from habitation of any kind and under the stars, had a cold meal, checked his Glock and settled back in his Jeep.

  He went through his plan again.

  Find out where Mohammed was. Find where he’s stowed the captives.

  Infil. Extract. Exfil.

  It wouldn’t be so simple as that. There would be no flag or mark over the location where the prisoners were held. The terrorists wouldn’t be parading openly.

  Or maybe they will. In that part of the country. All the farmers fear them. The politicians are in their pocket.

  Will Mohammed still be in Sori?

  He thought so. Intel said he was still in the region. The remote hamlet was one of the most impregnable ones in the province.

  He has already survived attacks. There’s cave cover. Why would he leave? I’ll have to check out all the villages in the vicinity. In the dark.

  What if he isn’t there? Or what if the intel’s wrong, and someone else has the soldiers?

  Zeb smiled in the dark when the answer came to him.

  He would work covertly, searching the villages. At the same time, he would stir the waters a little.

  He would hit the terrorists where it hurt them the most.

  He would attack their drug factories and shipments.

  That’ll draw them out. They’ll come out of hiding, hunting for me and when Mohammed emerges, I can backtrack or question him.