by Eric Meyer
Ma Kelly’s was a brothel; some said the best brothel in Jalalabad. Once the men had completed the formalities, a few drinks, a short conversation with the whore of their choice, and of course the money changing hands, they'd disappear to one of the many rooms on the second floor. Presiding over the room was the ample, pneumatic figure of Ma Kelly, a bottle blonde, with breasts most would consider more than ample, some a definite health and safety hazard. She always wore a smile on her heavily made up face, and why not? Business was good.
She ran the establishment with military precision, and those who wished to purchase sex generally agreed there was no finer place in Jalalabad. The girls were content, for there was no better place to work in the whole of Afghanistan. Unlike most brothels, Ma Kelly looked after her girls. She banked every cent of their substantial earnings in a secure place, where they could access it at any time.
Ma Kelly was half-owner of the brothel. The owner of the other half lived in an apartment on the third floor. At that moment, he was at home inside his apartment, stretched out on a wide comfortable bed, surrounded by empty bottles, and lying next to a pretty girl who was also naked.
At first glance, he was nothing unusual, a genuine Mr. Average. A tad over five feet nine inches tall, and when dressed in his usual all black outfit, pants, shirt, boots, leather coat, people described him as scrawny. Although the two heavy .50 caliber Desert Eagles he normally toted on a harness strapped to his chest set him apart from the pack. Naked like he was now, it was a different story. The whipcord muscles were well defined, hinting at hidden reserves of strength.
Something about Rafe Stoner, naked or dressed, told of an inner refusal to conform to the norms of regular society. Men generally avoided picking a fight with him, although it was not always easy to pin down the exact reason. Most women knew the reason instinctively. He was dangerous, wound up tight, like a coiled spring. To underestimate was a mistake. Women found him exciting, bringing a hint of the unknown and the unpredictable to any relationship.
He didn’t look like the part owner of a successful brothel. Unshaven, unwashed, his face, gaunt and lined, Ralph Stoner had turned his back on life. A former junior officer in the U.S. Navy SEALs, he'd first come to Afghanistan to fight the war. When he resigned from the Navy, he returned to make his fortune buying and selling surplus machinery. The business proved to be less than profitable, and so he took a different direction. Years before he came to the rescue of Ma Kelly, helping her solve a few problems with competitors who were trying to put her out of business. He invested money, muscle, and bullets into the business, took a part share in return, and made his home in the spacious apartment on the third floor.
In the early days the profits were sparse, and barely covered the losses on his other business. But he kept the surplus machinery business running to demonstrate a means of earning a living. He also had another line of income. Stoner was more than useful with a gun after years of service in the Navy SEALs. Men knew his reputation and came to him for help, especially when they found he was prepared to work for peanuts if the cause was just. If the client was rich, he took payment accordingly. Some men came to him wanting petty revenge, and he sent them away. He had principles. Not too many, but what he had he wasn't prepared to compromise. In a land of violent, murderous thugs, he was different. He was a murderous thug with scruples.
He was as good with a gun as he was hopeless with women, and after many years, he was alone. He’d dated plenty of girls, and once planned to get married. For several reasons, his plans came to nothing. A Frenchwoman he'd loved more than any other, Madeleine Charpentier, died when her vehicle, an ambulance, struck an IED. He’d come close to other women, but it just never worked out. His latest squeeze, a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Infantry, had finally gone and dumped him. She’d told him she wanted nothing more to do with a man like him. He was still trying to work it out.
Rafe Stoner never lacked for company. As part owner of the brothel, he found solace in one of the prettier whores. Her name was Afifa, which translated as chaste. Despite the name, at the age of eighteen she’d learned more about satisfying men than most women would learn in twenty lifetimes.
His eyes opened, and she was nestling in the crook of his arm, still asleep after the previous night's lovemaking. Her skin smelled fragrant and musky, and her face was elfin, prettier than any of the other girls who worked downstairs. She was also much in demand, but when a man owns a brothel, one of the fringe benefits is he has first choice of the merchandise. He treated her well, and she was more than happy with the arrangement.
He was still staring down at her when her eyes flicked open. Her hand moved toward his groin. "Stoner, did you want to…"
"No. Go back to sleep."
She gave him a faint nod, her eyes drooped, and soon, her breathing was regular again. He glanced at his wristwatch, and it was almost 10.00, too early to get out of bed. Besides, he had no particular business that day. Not that he could recall. He felt hungover and decided to stay where he was, admiring this pretty girl who shared his bed. There were worse places to be, and although part of him felt satisfied, the other part suffered agonies of despair, abandonment, and loneliness.
Afifa would do anything for him, but she what she was. He wanted more, a girl to settle down with. Yet every time he fell for a girl, he lost them, like the last one, Sara Carver, who he was still trying to get over. Thinking of her he felt ashamed, and he briefly considered having a shave. But when he ran his hand over his chin, he estimated the stubble was no more than five days old.
Another few days, and maybe I’ll consider attacking it with a razor, or maybe not. Afifa sure doesn’t mind.
For the first time in days he felt hungry, and he considered making breakfast. He couldn't be bothered to make the effort, so he decided to get the bar to send something up later. He was dozing off again when a hammering on the door brought him back to consciousness. At first, he assumed it was some routine matter from downstairs. In which case they’d soon go away, assuming he was asleep, or he and Afifa were busy. But the hammering didn't stop, and after it became even more insistent, he climbed out of bed. He pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, took his gun belt off the hook, and drew one of the big automatics he always carried.
The Desert Eagle .50 caliber was a heavy, powerful, and lethal handgun. Most men considered them too cumbersome and too heavy, especially a pair of the big pistols, but he liked their stopping power. Put one of those big bullets in a man, and he knew they weren’t going to get up. Not in a hurry. No debate, no argument, and no flesh wounds. A .50 caliber bullet was like that. Lethal.
“What do you want?"
"I need to speak with you, Mr. Stoner. It's very important."
"I'm busy." It was a stranger’s voice he didn't recognize, and he didn't have time for it. He wanted to go back to his warm bed and his warm whore, "Go away."
"Mr. Stoner, this is life and death. My name is Seth Adams, and I’m the U.S. Ambassador. I came here from Kabul."
Is there a problem with my passport? No, it isn’t likely, nor a problem with my visa, because the Afghans would have dealt with it. But why send the Ambassador?
He didn't want to open the door. Neither did he want to have a conversation with some diplomat. To stop the incessant knocking, he reluctantly unlocked the door and opened it. A textbook diplomat stood before him.
Smart, well-cut suit, collar and tie. Precision haircut with just a touch of gray, enough to make him look distinguished, but not so much he needed to use hair dye. Average height, and body starting to run to fat, most concealed by the well-cut tailoring. A bureaucrat. And Stoner hated bureaucrats. They always brought trouble in their wake. The Ambassador tried to walk past the door, but Stoner blocked him. Although he didn't point the gun at him, the guy flinched when he saw the wrong end of the huge automatic in his hand.
"Say what you want, and make it quick."
The words came tumbling out. "It's my wife. They’ve kidnapped her."
“Insurgents.”
He scowled. “I hate fucking insurgents. Taliban, Al Qaeda, ISIS, Lashkar, I hate them all. I never want to see another insurgent as long as I live.”
Adams ignored him. "Mr. Stoner, they tell me you're the best. I want you to get her back."
"Mister, if you really are the American Ambassador, you can call up a battalion of troops and get them to handle your problem. Call in the Navy SEALs, Army Rangers, there must be any number of Special Operations units can handle it. Just crook a finger, and they'll come a running."
"It's not like that, Mr. Stoner."
"Mister, what's the point of being an ambassador if nobody listens to you."
"She's in Pakistan."
A pause. " That's different."
The story tumbled out, and Adams babbled on for several minutes. His face betrayed his obvious worry, and his embarrassment. He was doing his best to hide his discomfort at Stoner's disheveled appearance. Obviously, the stuffed shirt wasn't used to dealing with unshaven men stinking of booze and sex, dressed in no more than shorts and a stained T-shirt, and with a huge pistol in one hand. A new experience for Ambassador Seth Adams, he could now go home and lecture folks on the perils of going native. Especially in the exotic and dangerous city of Jalalabad. This man didn’t even wear a necktie.
"I need your help, Mr. Stoner. I'll do anything. Give you anything."
"Have they asked for a ransom?"
"We haven't heard from them. Nothing yet."
"That’s too bad. I suggest you contact the Pakistanis. They’ll know how to deal with it. It’s their territory.”
“I’ve already spoken to them. I got a heap of bureaucratic nonsense, and any number of reasons why there's nothing they can do at this stage. I dunno, maybe they’re waiting for me to offer them a bribe or something else, or…"
"Or maybe the Pakistanis are not that unfriendly towards these kidnappers. They have a lot of connections to the gangsters and extremists, especially the ones who pay well to leave them alone. Do you know who they are, the kidnappers?"
"A new group, the Haqqanis."
"Never heard of them, but if they’re insurgents, leave it to the military. I hate the bastards. I'm sorry, Mr. Adams, but I wish you luck."
"No, no, you don’t get it. I need your help. If the Pakistanis won't act, and our government can't, I must recruit someone like yourself."
"A mercenary." He didn’t sound eager to accept the label.
He nodded eagerly. “Exactly. I'll pay whatever you want."
“There’re plenty of mercenaries in Afghanistan. I'm busy. Goodbye, Mr. Adams."
He closed the door, relocked it, and went back to bed. Afifa was still asleep, and he lay down beside her. But he couldn't go back to sleep. He thought about calling down for some breakfast, but he couldn’t get Ambassador Adams and his kidnapped wife out of his mind.
A symptom of this lawless land, and after all the billions of dollars and thousands of lives they’ve thrown into it, what have they achieved? Not much.
The Taliban was still active, as was Al Qaeda, and across the border in Pakistan, any number of Islamist groups created mayhem at will. Drug trafficking was worse than ever. In 2001, when America first went after Osama bin Laden, the opium crop was estimated at two hundred tons a year. The annual tally had reached two thousand tons each year and growing. Much of the opium and the refined product heroin found its way into the veins of Middle America.
Violence had escalated, but there was one positive side effect. It gave him a good living. The brothel was doing well. When men measured their lives in such a short space of time, they want to cram a whole lot of living into that narrow space. In a land where relationships with women were fraught with such difficulties, the brothel was the obvious place for them to come to let off steam.
He sent down for breakfast, but it was a late lunch by the time it arrived. Afifa had showered and dressed, and she looked as pretty as a picture.
She saw his gaze and smiled at him. "Stoner, I need to get back to work. Unless you want me for another night?" Her voice was eager.
He considered it, but he was too tired, and not just physically. Mentally tired, tired of everything, of living. He had to be tired if Afifa’s come-on didn’t tempt him. The temporary solution came in a bottle; a bottle that he’d discovered was almost as desirable as this pretty young, adoring female.
"I'll see you tomorrow. Go and earn some money, kid."
"Call me when you need me."
She walked toward the door, and he admired her hips that rolled in a sexy manner. She knew the effect she had on him, and no doubt was trying to change his mind, but he let her go. When she’d left, he relocked the door and started on the first bottle of bourbon. It wouldn't be the last. By late afternoon, he was in a drunken stupor, and during the evening he fell into a deep, troubled sleep. When the knock came on the door the following morning, he was semiconscious, half in and half out of a deep alcoholic sleep. The loud noise awoke him.
"Whoever it is, fuck off!"
"It's me! Ambassador Adams."
"I told you, the answer is no. Find someone else."
"He wants you, Stoner."
A new voice, and one he recognized. The Eastern European accent he knew to be fake. Outwardly he was a Russian trafficker of guns, opium, and anything else that would turn a fast buck. But Ivan the Terrible, nicknamed after the bloody Tsar who’d ruled Russia during the Sixteenth Century, and the legacy he left behind was a mountain of skulls. They awarded him the title ‘Terrible’ after his death.
He was as American as Stoner. When America invaded to capture bin Laden, they soon found they were there for the long haul, and they put certain intelligence assets into place. Ivan masqueraded as a leading underworld figure, in order to collect and pass valuable intelligence back to Langley. The arrangement worked well, and Ivan had become very rich while keeping his masters happy.
"I told you, the answer is no. Get out of here.”
"Stoner, open this fucking door, or I'll kick it down."
"You kick my door down, and I’ll shoot you dead, Ivan."
"I doubt it. Just get the door open and hear what we have to say."
He gave in to the inevitable and opened the door. Ivan was standing next to Ambassador Seth Adams. Over the years, the CIA man had never changed. Tall, lean, and his features looked like he’d been born and bred east of the Urals, even though his ancestors could trace their origins to the Founding Fathers. He wore the same brown leather jacket as always, the same gun holstered at his waist, and the immaculate, pressed khaki chinos over polished jump boots. Almost a caricature of a Russian oligarch, a freebooting entrepreneur, out to carve his fortune wherever the inclination took him, Stoner doubted he’d ever been near Russia.
"I told you, the answer is no."
He went to close the door, but Ivan jammed one booted foot in the opening. "You need to hear us out. What this man has to say is important."
"Say it fast and then go."
“They kidnapped his wife, and they’re holding her in Pakistan."
"I heard."
"She’s an American Congresswoman. It's essential we get her out."
A shrug. "What's stopping you? Like I said to Adams, you have any number of Special Forces kicking around the country. Send them into Pakistan, shoot the bastards who took her, and bring her home."
He was already shaking his head. “It's not possible. Relations between the U.S. and Pakistan are more than difficult, so there's no way we can send in a bunch of SEALs. This isn't like it used to be, in the days when we went in to get bin Laden out of Abbottabad. If the Paks got wind of it, there'd be a war."
"So? They’re always fighting someone. Who gives a shit?”
Ivan shook his head tiredly. "You know we can't do that. Listen, you're good at this sort of thing, and you've done it many times before. Why don't you just help the guy out?"
"Like I said, I
'm busy. Find somebody else and stop bothering me."
Adams tried again. "Mr. Stoner, I’m desperate. I’ll pay anything. Just name your price, and it's yours."
He held the door open for them. "I've heard you out. The answer is still no, so leave me alone."
Ivan gave him a long look. "You're in one hell of a state, my friend. Things not going well?"
“Everything’s fine."
"Sure it is. Think about it, Stoner. Let me know if you change your mind."
"So long, Ivan. Ambassador Adams, good luck with your wife."
* * *
The two men started down the stairs. When they got outside, Adams put a hand on Ivan's arm to stop him. "Are you sure no one else can do this job as well as him?"
He shrugged. "Like I said, he's the best there is. Never fails."
“If I don’t do enough to get her back, people will point the finger and say I didn't try hard enough. It would look bad, and I have ambitions, you know, Ivan."
“What kind of ambitions?”
A pause. "Presidential ambitions. This means I don’t want someone accusing me of doing less than one hundred percent to get her back. There must be someone that can get through to Stoner. Someone who can persuade him to take this on."
Ivan was thoughtful, and after almost a minute, he replied. “There is one man. His name is Grigory Blum.”
“Grigory?”
“Half Russian, half Afghan, everyone calls him Greg. He runs a farm outside a village called Mehta Lam. He and his wife have always been close to Stoner."
"Let's go talk to them."
They boarded Ivan's SUV, a late model Toyota Land Cruiser, of which he was very proud. The vehicle was the uprated model with run-flat tires and lightweight armor plating fitted inside the bodywork, as well as bulletproof windows. Two men were in the front, and Ivan gave them a nod. "Start her up. We're going to see Blum."
