by David Hosp
‘If someone was looking for him.’
‘Right,’ Ainsworth said. ‘Which we both know you’re not going to do.’
‘Right,’ Saunders agreed. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out his gun, tossed it in his briefcase. ‘I’m just doing a little sightseeing.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cianna found herself looking over her shoulder as she walked back to her apartment, the bag of groceries held loosely enough to allow her to defend herself if necessary. Walking up the stairs to her apartment, she peered around the corner at every landing, half-expecting to find someone lying in wait for her.
It was silly, she knew. No one was after her. She’d paid whatever debt she owed to anyone, and then some. Those from her past had neither right nor reason to pursue her. All the same, she turned the deadbolt behind her when she got inside her apartment, and latched the chain.
She put the groceries away, sat on her couch, staring at the wall. She tried to put the thoughts of what had happened years before out of her mind, tried to force herself to think about something else. There was nothing else to think about, though. Her life had once meant something. Now . . .
She looked around her apartment, taking in the stains on the rug and the paint-splashed walls stubbled with the dirt and grime of a long line of the destitute who had preceded her in the tiny abode. How had she come to this?
Akhtar Hazara stepped off the plane in Boston with a sense of apprehension and excitement. It felt to him as though every passenger on the plane had regarded him with suspicion and fear, and he was eager to be as far away from the airport as possible. He’d dressed well, in a western suit and collared shirt, but there was no way to conceal his ethnicity, and as he boarded the 747 at London’s Heathrow Airport for the last leg of his journey he could tell that his mere presence made many on his flight nervous.
He didn’t mind, really. He even understood it at some level. After all the images that had been flashed into the American psyche of young men who looked remarkably like him against the background of destruction from the World Trade Center to the Pentagon to Lockerbie to Luxor, he supposed the fear was unavoidable. Rational though it might be, he would be glad to get away from the airport, where he could more easily blend into the background of America’s streets.
He had only one carry-on bag, which contained an empty, ornately adorned wooden box and a change of clothing. The box drew a curious look from the customs official, but only for a moment. Then he was passed through and out into the bustling maul of Logan Airport. From there he headed out to the curb and caught a cab.
The address he gave the driver was for a quiet bar downtown near the TD Banknorth Garden, the enormous arena where two of the local athletic teams played their games. Akhtar had studied briefly in America, at George Washington University in DC. It had cost more money than he could imagine, but his uncle was convinced it was worth it. Gamol had helped out financially, he knew. While there, he’d tried to follow American sports, but he found them pointless and complicated, with their arcane and illogical rules. He preferred European football and cricket.
He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. He’d developed a taste for booze when he’d lived in the States, and he savored the flavor as he sipped. He didn’t drink around his uncle, who still held firm to the Muslim prohibition against alcohol.
The man arrived a few moments later. He was tall, with hair so short the scalp was visible. He wore civilian clothes, but they were clean and pressed and orderly. All that was missing was a rank insignia. He sidled up to Akhtar and put a newspaper on the bar. ‘Have you just arrived?’ It was a simple code.
‘Yes,’ Akhtar said. ‘The flight from London was very smooth.’
The other man nodded. The bartender was far enough away that they could not be heard. ‘He’s here in Boston,’ he said. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s at his sister’s place. You’ll spot her; she’s a real looker.’
‘And Stillwell?’ Akhtar asked.
‘He’s here, too.’ The man stood up, nodded at the paper folded on the bar. ‘There’s an address and a map, as well as some additional information that will be helpful for you,’ he said. ‘We’ve arranged for a rental car, but we cannot be involved beyond this.’
‘I understand,’ Akhtar said. ‘It is better for both of us this way.’
‘Good luck.’ The man stood up and turned. Before he walked away, though, he addressed Akhtar once more. ‘Stay with the girl,’ he said.
Akhtar looked at him, confused. ‘The girl?’
‘Phelan’s sister. Keep your eye on her. The kid’s a fuck-up, but she’s the real deal. I read her file. If things start to go to shit, stick with her, she’ll lead you where you need to be. You understand?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Akhtar said.
‘You will.’ The man walked away quickly, leaving Akhtar sitting alone at the bar. He picked up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm, threw back the remaining whiskey, put the glass back on the bar, pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the bar before he followed the man out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jack Saunders sat on the plane, staring out the window. He’d had to go through extra security procedures to get his gun on the plane, but his suspension had not become official, and his position at the Agency still afforded some privileges.
The flight from Washington DC to Boston followed the bend of the eastern seaboard, tracking the northeastern coastline. It was a crystal-clear autumn day, not a cloud in the sky, and as they passed over the southeastern corner of New York he gazed down at the island of Manhattan.
For a moment, he found it hard to breathe.
Before Harvard he’d gone to undergraduate school in the city, and had lived just across the Hudson River, in Hoboken. Back then, the New York skyline had been as constant as the sun and the stars. Looking up from the south at Lady Liberty, waving in triumph toward the giant Twin Towers that dominated the horizon, he’d always had a sense of security – of certainty that the nation that was his would continue to rise.
Now, looking down from more than a mile up in the air, he could see the hole at the lower end of the island. Building at the site of the memorial had begun, but progress was slow, like the painful formation of scar tissue at the edge of a wound that refused to heal.
He took it personally now. He took it all personally. There had been a time in his life when that wasn’t the case. In Bosnia, and Somalia, and Russia, and Chechnya, and Hungary . . . the missions were important because they would give his country a tactical advantage in the crush for global power and influence. And he’d believed the missions usually had the residual benefit of helping the locals try to build their own lives more free from tyranny and violence. He’d taken his role seriously back then, but not personally. The survival of the United States wasn’t truly at issue, at least not in a way that was felt to his core. Not in the way he felt it now as he looked down from a plane on a crystal-clear autumn day.
Everything was personal to him now. Perhaps that was his problem.
Saunders walked in the footsteps of his guide, Bashar, a 30-year-old Afghan with better knowledge of the mountains in the far eastern reaches of Afghanistan than any American would ever acquire. Jack had been here before, or near here, at least. It was difficult for him to tell. The terrain was so severe he had to keep his eyes on the ground to be sure of his footing. Without Bashar’s aid, he would never survive this far up in the mountains. There were dangers both natural and man-made in the crevasses between the launches of rock that jutted up. A single misstep would be the end of him, he knew, so he placed each foot deliberately. He’d trusted his life to Bashar many times before.
The sun was still behind the highest peaks to the east, and the air was frigid. With each breath a cloud of steam wafted before him. He wore the solid black lungee turban indigenous to the region, and a heavy wool perahan tunban that covered him from his wrists to his ankles. His bushy dark beard helped to keep him warm and g
ave him the look of a native. The strap of his Kalashnikov dug into his lean shoulder.
They moved inexorably up the mountain, pausing only briefly so that Saunders could consult a map. By his calculations, they were still in Afghanistan, but just barely. In any event, borders mattered little in the Waziri no-man’s-land between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Out here, sovereignty extended only as far as a rifle could accurately find its target, and tribal affiliation outweighed any semblance of modern nationalism. His guide nodded up toward the next peak and gave a hand signal that made clear they were close.
‘Are you ready, Bashar?’ Saunders asked.
‘I am.’
‘Do you think it’ll work?’
Bashar shrugged. ‘If Allah wills it.’
Saunders saw the men before he saw the cabin. There were four of them, and they were milling around in a loose, distracted circle 100 meters above the last crest. The flat trodden path along the ridgeline was wider here, perhaps twenty meters between the continuing rise of the mountain to the north, and the sheer drop to the valley to the south. The men on the path reminded Saunders of a klatch of homeless men on the corner of any crumbling US city. They moved in tired, strung out, nervous patterns of boredom, their heads hanging down, shoulders hunched forward.
It was generous to call the dwelling a cabin. It was really more of a lean-to, made of loose flat rocks stacked up against the side of the mountain, held together with mud and straw.
Saunders and Bashar were halfway along the open stretch of wide path toward the cabin before the men outside spotted them. The first to notice them gave a startled, unintelligible grunt to the others, and they turned, watching Saunders and Bashar as they approached. The rifles came off their shoulders, and they held the guns loosely. The demeanor of one of the men changed drastically, though, as Saunders and Bashar drew to within ten meters of the men. His face broke into a wide, crooked-toothed smile. ‘Bashar!’ he shouted.
Bashar smiled back, put his hand out. ‘Symia, my good friend!’ he said in his native Pashto. The two men gave each other a vigorous handshake.
The man with the crooked teeth began speaking rapidly to his compatriots. ‘This is Bashar!’ he said. ‘The one I told you of! He works with our allies in the West, and is responsible for the deaths of many infidels!’
‘Allah is responsible for all,’ Bashar said humbly.
‘Yes, yes,’ the other man said, waving him off. He was short and slight, with a prominent brow and a wandering eye that, combined with his teeth and his enthusiasm, made him seem slightly mad. ‘Have you brought Symia a gift?’ he asked in a conspiratorial tone.
‘Of course,’ Bashar replied. He reached into the folds of his clothing and produced a small paper wrapper. Symia grabbed it greedily, and the other three men shouldered their guns and shuffled in closer.
‘Ah!’ Symia exclaimed to the other three. ‘I told you! Our brothers in the West have the best hashish in the world!’ He unwrapped the paper as one of the other three produced a small pipe.
Symia was scraping the pipe across the resin in the paper when Bashar spoke again. ‘My friend, this is the one I told you might be coming.’ He gestured toward Saunders. ‘He is from the north.’ Bashar’s voice became reverent. ‘He is very important, and he has come with a message for Majeed. His name is Timur.’
Symia paused in his effort to load the hashish pipe. ‘An honor,’ he said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing slightly in traditional greeting. Saunders stood still, fixing the man with a hard stare. The smile disappeared from Symia’s face. ‘Is he too good to greet me with respect?’ he demanded of Bashar.
‘He is Tajik,’ Bashar said with a shrug. ‘He is too good for everything.’ That drew a knowing chuckle from the other men, but Symia continued to glower at Saunders.
‘He should learn better manners.’
‘There are more important things than manners,’ Saunders said in unaccented Pashto. It was one of seven languages he’d mastered over the years. ‘I was sent here to deal with leaders, not with underlings.’
Symia was holding the hashish and pipe in his left hand now, and his right hand dropped to the pistol grip of his Kalashnikov. His finger toyed with the trigger. ‘What makes you think that any leader here would want to talk to you?’ he asked.
‘Because,’ Saunders said, ‘I have been sent by Mullah Durrani Rahman.’ Saunders could see the man stiffen at the mention of the name. It looked as though Symia was going to say something, then thought better of it. He took two steps back, rapped on the door to the cabin and entered.
He was inside only for a moment, and Saunders could hear voices, first quiet, then raised, then quiet again. Symia re-emerged. ‘Abdur Majeed will see you,’ he said. He opened the door and held his hand out to let Saunders pass. As Saunders reached the threshold, Symia began to follow him in.
‘I will speak with Majeed alone,’ Saunders said.
‘I am his bodyguard,’ Symia protested.
‘I will speak with Majeed alone, or I will not speak with him at all.’
Symia took a step back and nodded reluctantly.
The door closed behind Saunders. Slashes of light cut through the gaps in the tiny building’s construction; other than that the place was dark. He could make out the silhouette of a rickety table, a tall, lanky figure bent over it working on some papers. Saunders’s eyes were still adjusting and it was a moment before he could make out the man’s features. He looked younger than Saunders had anticipated. He had a long, aquiline nose and full lips. He looked up from his papers at Saunders and his eyes were piercing.
‘Abdur Majeed,’ Saunders said.
‘Indeed,’ Majeed replied. He looked expectantly at Saunders.
‘I am Timur Isthal,’ Saunders said. ‘I have been sent by Mullah Duranni Rahman.’
‘So I have been informed.’ Majeed remained seated.
Saunders placed a hand over his heart and bowed. ‘Mullah Rahman sends his respects.’
Majeed bowed briefly. ‘Mullah Rahman is a man of great influence. It is said that he is the most powerful man on the Quetta Shura,’ he said, referring to the Afghan Taliban leadership council established when Mullah Omar, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic State of Afghanistan, had been chased from power in 2001. It directed the four regional military commands. ‘I am surprised that the Mullah would send a message for me directly,’ he said. ‘I report to Siraj Haqqani, the commander of the Miramshah Regional Military Shura. My orders come from him.’
‘And by all reports, you follow those orders well,’ Saunders said. ‘In fact, our understanding is that you are often the one who gives the orders in the first place.’
‘I serve Allah to the best of my abilities.’
‘And those abilities are, by all evidence, considerable.’
Majeed was cautious. There were dangerous rivalries within the Taliban. ‘Is there something that Mullah Rahman would like from me?’ he asked.
Saunders nodded. ‘We should speak plainly.’ He began to pace slightly. ‘The Council is unhappy with the inaction in the Miramshah region.’
‘Attacks here are carried out weekly,’ Majeed protested.
‘The Council believes the attacks could be even more frequent and more effective,’ Saunders said. ‘The commitment of the American infidels to Afghanistan is weakening. The more we can do now to make clear our resolve, the faster theirs will crumble.’
‘Has the Council shared these thoughts with Siraj Haqqani?’ Majeed inquired.
‘Siraj Haqqani no longer has the faith of the Council,’ Saunders said. ‘He is without distinction. His only accomplishment in recent days of note has been the attack on the American Camp Chapman.’ Camp Chapman was a forward-operating CIA base in the city of Khost. The day before New Year’s of 2009, a suicide bomber – a Taliban double agent working ‘with’ the CIA – detonated a massive bomb inside the camp, killing eight operatives, including Sam Ainsworth, the son of an influential Assistant Director at the Agency. It
was the worst attack in the history of the CIA, and it had shaken the confidence of many of the United States’ allies in Afghanistan. The Agency had publicly sworn that it would have its revenge.
Majeed gave a scornful grunt.
‘You disagree?’
Majeed’s eyes flashed with ambition for the first time. ‘I agree that it was a great accomplishment,’ he said. ‘I question that the accomplishment was Haqqani’s.’ The man’s pride was finally beginning to show.
Saunders regarded him carefully. ‘You believe that someone else better deserves the credit?’
‘The attack was my operation. It was planned and executed using my strategy and my men.’
Saunders nodded. ‘The Council suspected as much.’ He stopped pacing. ‘Would you accept the role as commander of the Shura here in Miramshah if the Council offered it to you?’
Majeed pulled himself up to his full height. ‘It would be an honor to serve Allah and the Council in that position.’
Saunders moved forward. ‘It will be done,’ he said. He shook hands with Majeed, leaned in to embrace him. As Majeed returned the gesture, Saunders slipped a ten-inch serrated combat knife from his belt. With his lips near the other man’s ear, he whispered, ‘You deserve this.’
Majeed was still smiling as Saunders drove the knife, in a swift, sure motion, into his chest, just below the breastbone, thrusting upward. As intended, the weapon sliced through the solar plexus and punctured the lungs, robbing Majeed of his oxygen and preventing him from calling out to his men. His smile twisted into a grimace and his mouth went wide as he tried to suck in a breath to no avail. Blood was pouring from the wound, drenching the earthen floor.
Saunders held Majeed’s gaze as the life ebbed away from him. ‘They were my friends,’ Saunders said.
Majeed’s arms were reaching out now, grasping at Saunders as though holding tight to something might keep him in the world. Saunders twisted the knife once, pulled it out. Majeed fell to his knees, still grasping at Saunders, looking up at him, his expression wild.
