by Jeff Buick
He could only hope.
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Chapter
23
Soho, New York City
Carson woke early on Saturday morning and turned on the coffee machine. For the past two nights sleep had been elusive, the contents of Fleming's e-mail heavy on his thoughts. He had no idea what to make of it.
Received your fee. Team in place. Time frames are tight but should be okay. Crash inevitable.
He wasn't naive. Nor entirely trusting. Wall Street wasn't populated with a bunch of Boy Scouts sitting around a campfire singing Kumbaya. It was a collection of the brightest, most ambitious and brilliant men and women in America who were involved in the most cherished of all commodities. Money. They shaped, or destroyed, the economy of the country, and to some degree, the world. When Wall Street pushed the limits, through derivatives and a host of other complex financial instruments, they were playing Russian roulette. It bothered Carson, but not enough to speak out. That was the last thing Carson was going to do. He liked his job. He needed his job.
He replayed the wording in Fleming's e-mail. Received your fee. Money had been paid for a service. Since the e-mail was addressed to Fleming, the money must have come from him. Carson was acutely aware that Fleming didn't hand money out for nothing, so whatever the service was, it must have had value. Team in place. Whoever was working the deal was not handling things by themselves. They needed other players, which meant it was something complicated. When you were treading close to the edge of the ethical or legal boundary, involving the least number of bodies possible was paramount. Time frames are tight but should be okay. Whatever was happening, it was coming down the pipeline soon. Crash inevitable. Without those two words, he would have simply ignored the communique. With them, it was impossible to ignore.
William Fleming, and Platinus Investments, held incredible sway over the markets. They were comparable to Goldman Sachs and Citigroup. They competed with the big boys and often came away the victor. If Fleming was planning on manipulating a specific slice of the market - causing some part of it to crash - then pouncing on the carcass before its true value was assessed, he could potentially reap tens of millions of dollars in profits. If that was his intention, it extended far beyond unethical. It was illegal.
The final few drops of water trickled through the filter and Carson poured a cup of coffee. He padded through the dated kitchen to the living room. Nicki was still sleeping and he was quiet not to wake her. The last few weeks had been a real struggle. Yesterday had been a good day, but she could slip backwards so easily and be dead in a week if the wheels came off. He didn't know how much more he could take, and wondered every day how she coped.
He leaned against the windowsill and watched the Saturday morning traffic. The world was so much easier to understand when it slowed down. Weekends, even in New York, were more relaxed. Especially in the summer. He sipped the coffee, savoring the taste and the warmth. The caffeine helped arrange the jumble of thoughts and ideas floating about his head. The one that rose to the top was Fleming's e-mail. It obviously wasn't going away.
The cordless phone was on an end table near the window. He picked it up and dialed Alicia's cell from memory. It rang three times and she answered. She sounded tired and he glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. He didn't feel guilty - people should be up by nine.
"Hey, you awake?" he asked.
"Barely. It's Saturday morning. I don't feel like working today." The sound of rustling sheets ebbed through the phone.
"I need a favor. Nothing that has to be done right away. It can wait until Monday if you're not going to be near a computer."
"I'm always near a computer," she said. "What do you want?"
"Can you figure out who owns a specific e-mail address?"
"Usually, yes."
"Why usually?"
"You identify the IP Address and trace the owner. It's not hard unless the person on the other end doesn't want to be found, then it's difficult." She was awake now, and intrigued. "Why are you asking?"
"I need you to find out who sent an e-mail."
"I can try. What's the sender's address?" More rustling, this time paper.
"[email protected]"
She repeated the sequence of characters carefully, one at a time. "Is that it?"
"That's it."
"I'll give it a try later this morning. I'll call you when I have something."
"Thanks."
"Hey," she said. "What's this all about?"
Carson watched a man and woman talking on the street corner as their dog sniffed a tree and peed on it. "International intrigue. Very dangerous stuff. Be careful."
She laughed. "Sure. If I see James Bond or one of the other MI-6 guys I'll let them know where you live."
"You do that," he said, then set the phone back in its cradle. The sound of pressure on a loose floorboard drifted through the room and he turned from the window. Nicki was coming out of the bedroom dressed in a thick bathrobe. No oxygen tank or hoses. He set the coffee on the sill and said, "You feeling better?"
She nodded and snuggled up against him. She was warm to the touch. "A lot better. My breathing is decent. I don't know what happened but I'm not complaining."
"Good news," he said, hugging her.
"My contact at Sympatico called yesterday. I'm on the top of the list. Priority seating, so to speak. They'll fly me anywhere in the country if they find compatible lungs."
"This is exciting. Your life is going to change."
She looked up at him. "Our lives are going to change, Carson."
Silence settled in for a minute, then she said, "I heard you talking to Alicia. Everything okay at the office?"
He made a split-second decision not to tell her what he had seen on Fleming's computer. There was no proof that he was involved in anything and worrying Nicki for no reason had absolutely no merit. "Just some details. One of the evils of being the boss."
She burrowed her head into his chest and they stood motionless. It was a moment when their world was all about them and nothing else. Not his job, not cystic fibrosis, not money or family. It was two people in love, touching each other on every level. It was a moment neither wanted to end.
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Chapter
24
Day 13 - 8.08.10 - Morning News
Outside Spin Buldak, Afghanistan
Decompression.
There was no other way to describe where Russell was. The events in Dabarey the previous day continued to rattle his body and mind. The acrid smell of burnt shells, the pandemonium of the fight for the village, the screams of death. It felt surreal - like it was anchored in the twilight zone and had never happened. One minute the world was in some sort of disjointed harmony - the next it was a demented version of hell.
The harshest moment, when the young Talib took the slug in the face, kept replaying like an image captured in high definition. Russell tried to tell himself the young man was a bad guy - one of the insurgents who planted IEDs in culverts and hid in the bushes, waiting to press the remote detonator and kill ISAF troops. That he was another bin Laden. Nothing but a sliver of human garbage that was intent on destroying any chance the Afghan people had of normalcy in their lives.
How old was he? Seventeen? Eighteen? About the same age as some of the US forces that had stormed the Taliban-infested town. Just a kid. One without a future. Like so many of the American boys who were shipped back to the mainland in sterile metal caskets. No future for them either. Or their families. Parents, sisters, brothers - torn apart by a split-second action a world away. It worked
both ways. This was war, and war provided casualties on both sides.
But the Taliban didn't fight fair. They hid behind cloaks of invisibility by melding into the population. They used their heritage, their skin color and fluency in the language and customs to their advantage. They terrorized the locals who wanted nothing more than peace and murdered those who stood up to them. They played the tribal card, intimidating the mullahs and elders and subjugating the young men. They raped or killed the women. The Taliban had controlled Afghanistan and during that time they had shown their true face. They were brutal, repressive animals, capable of murdering people in public for trivial crimes.
Any vestige of pity he had felt for the young man with the black turban was gone. A vile taste in the back of his throat was all that remained. He glanced up as Andrew James pushed open the door and let himself in.
"You okay?" the young specialist asked. He sat on a wooden chair next to the foot of Russell's cot.
"Yeah," Russell answered confidently. "I'm fine."
"You saw some pretty nasty shit yesterday."
"Nothing I haven't seen before," Russell said. His voice felt detached, like it was someone else talking and he was in the same room, listening. An out of body sort of thing.
"Still, kinda weird seeing someone die like that. Messy business."
"Yeah, it was pretty brutal," Russell agreed. Silence for a minute, then, "It went the right way, though. I'd rather see one of them face down in the dust than one of us."
"No shit," Andrew said, nodding. Another minute passed in silence, then the soldier asked, "Do you have any idea who they are?"
Russell tilted his head slightly, thinking about his answer. The story most North Americans knew, if they had any idea at all, was that the Taliban had formed from Mullah Omar's reaction when a local warlord raped two girls. The one-eyed religious teacher left his madrassa, amassed thirty students and went after the man. Somehow, the Talibs overran the warlord's home base and strung him up from the barrel of a military tank he kept on the property. Omar repeated the violent retribution against other warlords when they crossed the boundaries of what he considered to be acceptable behavior. His reputation grew and two years later, when he draped himself in the Cloak of the Prophet, the people bestowed on him the title of Amir-ul-Momineen, which translated to Leader of the Faithful.
The rest was history. Ugly history. The Taliban slammed the strictest version of sharia law the modern world had ever seen on the people of Afghanistan. No television, no radio, music or dancing. White socks and toothpaste made the list of banned items. Women were required to be veiled outside their home, and even wearing flared pants under their burqa was subject to severe and painful punishment. Men were publicly whipped for trimming their beards. Windows were painted black so no one could see women moving about inside their houses. The list was relentless and grew every week. Afghanistan reverted to the most basic tribal structure, with public beheadings and stonings in the sports stadiums.
Russell thought about the soldier's question. Do you have any idea who they are? Truth was, other than the party line he had been fed over the years, he really didn't know who the Taliban were.
"No," he replied.
Andrew grinned. "An honest answer. Cool."
"I take it you have an opinion."
"I do." Andrew relaxed into the chair and put his boots on the edge of a low table. "You probably know all about that Mullah Omar crap," he said, then kept going as Russell nodded. "Almost from day one, the Taliban have been about money. And drugs. Get this - they outlawed using opiates and manufacturing heroin, but allowed making and trading opium."
"That reasoning seems a bit conflicted."
"Very. Right from the start, back in ‘94 and ‘95, they were involved up to their necks in the drug trade. One of their first financial backers was Haji Bashir Noorzai, who was, and is, nothing more than a successful drug dealer. He's in jail in New York now - something to do with conspiring to import heroin worth about fifty million into the US. Total piece of crap, this guy. Come to think of it, if he's in jail, maybe he's not all that successful."
"At least they caught him," Russell said. "More than you can say about bin Laden."
"Oh, the whole bin Laden thing. What a complete clusterfuck that was. They had him, you know. Had him in their sights and let him go."
"I did not know that," Russell said.
"Bin Laden flew into Kandahar all the time in the late 1990's. He and his friends from Dubai and the UAE went falcon hunting in the desert. The US had teams in place that could have moved in and taken him out, but they didn't. It turns out that was unfortunate, given what happened."
"How could they justify killing him? He hadn't taken out the World Trade Centers back then."
"He was brokering deals between Arab drug lords and the Taliban and using the money - millions of dollars - to establish terrorist camps. The DEA knew what was going on and they fed information back to the intelligence guys in our government. The problem is, nobody acted on it." The army specialist lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up at the ceiling. "Bin Laden's a thorn in our side, but he's not the big fish."
"Who is?" Russell asked.
"Not who so much as what," Andrew said. "Have you heard of the ISI?"
"Of course. Inter-Services Intelligence. Pakistan's answer to the CIA."
"Now those are bad dudes."
Russell shifted on the bed. Andrew was a good conversationalist and this was a very good conversation. "Why do you say that?"
"The ISI was involved in protecting drug smugglers when the Soviets were in Afghanistan. That never changed. Even Pervez Musharraf said that agents inside the ISI were working with the insurgents. And he was Pakistan's prime minister for a number of years. So that intel is coming from the highest possible level. The ISI is dirty - they were back then and they are today. Those pricks are helping the Taliban, all the while their government is pretending to be our ally. It pisses me off."
"If I have my facts straight, the ISI was responsible for helping to form the Taliban," Russell said. "So this is nothing new."
Andrew shrugged. "They helped, but they never had control over the Talibs. Neither did Benazir Bhutto, who tried to nail down a monopoly on trade to the republics that had split off from the Soviet Union."
"I remember that. She and Naseerul-lah Babar went to the Taliban and brokered some sort of deal with a trucking firm that belonged to some arm of the military. Babar was even quoted as calling the Taliban "our boys" in a press conference."
The door opened and both men spun their heads. It was Captain Brian Hocking. Andrew James jumped to his feet and saluted.
Hocking acknowledged the salute, let the door bang shut behind him and said, "At ease, specialist." He turned to Russell. "I understand you were in the thick of things yesterday."
"Pretty much," Russell said.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. No problems."
Hocking stared directly into Russell's eyes for fifteen seconds, searching for any indication the man was lying. When he was sure Matthews had pulled through the firefight okay, he said, "You've done this before, I understand. Somalia. Iraq."
"That's correct."
"You outside the wire on those missions as well?"
"Yes, sir." The reference to the captain as sir sounded strangely normal.
The captain shifted a bit, moving his weight from one foot to another. Most people wouldn't have read his apprehension. Russell did.
"Our intel was wrong yesterday," Hocking said. "More than inaccurate, it was deceitful. We relied on a source who had given us some good stuff in the past, but this time he lied to us. We expected about forty tier three enemy forces. What we ran into were over three hundred entrenched tier two Taliban, and the whole area mined with IEDs. We were set up."
"I kind of figured that out."
"I wanted to apologize for dumping you in the middle of it," Hocking said. His voice was sincere. "That wasn't my intent."
"It's okay," Russell said.
"Will you be writing a story on what happened yesterday?"
Russell looked at the floor for a minute, then glanced back at the captain and said, "What I saw yesterday - and the pictures I took - are important in reporting what's going on over here. That said, I don't see any reason to include graphic violence in the story. I can work with the footage I have that doesn't show Talib being shot in the face. I can certainly report on the high level of professionalism I saw in our troops." He paused, then added, "This has nothing to do with appeasing you or anyone else, captain. It has to do with the story. And that's the story as I saw it happen."
Hocking remained motionless, then nodded slightly. "That's fair, Mr. Matthews." He left through the door as unceremoniously as he had entered.
Andrew stood up. "I have some things to do. I'll talk to you later."
"I hope so," Russell said. "You know a lot about what's going on over here. Talking with you is a real pleasure."
"Thanks." The army specialist retreated to the compound.
Russell gathered his equipment and set to work on the video footage. He edited it down to a thirty second clip that showed the troops moving into position, taking some fire, and cleaning up after. He stored the shot of the Talib taking the bullet in a separate file. Then he sat down to his computer and wrote the copy. Once it was finished and edited, he sent it to his portable printer and read it for timing. With the text whittled down to just over two minutes, he headed out into the sunshine and rigged his video camera up on a tripod. He positioned it just outside the front gate of the FOB. He touched record and walked to the spot where he had marked an X.
