by Eric Meyer
Stoner didn't reply, and the man sighed. "It's not difficult to work out. Khan’s animals have taken your loved ones, and they want a massive ransom to return them. And I right?"
"You could be. What business is it of yours?"
The man sighed again. "Perhaps I should explain. My name is Abbas Noyan, and I promise you I have nothing to do with the Haqqanis. They as much are as much my enemy as they are yours. These are my companions. My second-in-command, Mohammed Nadiri."
He nodded. “Nadiri.”
The scarred man gave him a cold stare. Noyan pointed to the boy. "And this young man is Javed."
"Javed who?" Stoner understood how much importance the Afghans attached to their family name.
"His name is just Javed. He’s an orphan. His parents were killed during a gunfight between government troops and insurgents. Afterward, he spent many months starving and living by his wits. When I found him he was almost dead. Since then, he became part of my family."
The boy grinned at Stoner, and he immediately felt some empathy for him. Another loner, washed up on the battle and corpse-strewn wastelands of Afghanistan. Just like him. No family, and just his wits to keep him alive.
"There’s one thing about Javed," Noyan went on, "I must warn you to keep your hand on your wallet and your watch when he gets close to you. He's a good kid, but he's a thief, and a very good thief. People say he can remove your wristwatch even while you're looking at it to read the time."
"I’ll bear it in mind. Tell me something. You seem to know my business, but why are you here?"
"My business is also with the Haqqanis. You should know these people are animals. They give the Taliban a bad reputation."
Stoner couldn't for the life of him see how anything could give the Taliban a reputation worse than the one they'd earned for themselves, but he just nodded.
"I hear you.”
Noyan grinned. "You're wondering how I could know so much about them? I’m am regional commander of the Afghan Taliban. Mohammed here and I have much experience of these things."
Stoner tightened his grip on the Desert Eagles. So far, there was no sign the shooting was about to start, although when meeting Taliban veterans, it was never a bad idea to be ready for anything, anything being and exchange of shots, with a side dish of IEDs.
Noyan frowned. "This Khan kidnapped my two children. A boy and a girl, aged seven and six." He waved a hand in the air, a gesture of dismissal, "Of course, they’re not my only children, and the boy is not my oldest son. But still, I want them back."
"That shouldn't be a problem for the Taliban. Call up a battalion of fighters, cross the border, and go get them."
Noyan shook his head. "I wish it was that easy. Khan has them sequestered in a hidden place, and he told me they have a gun to their heads every minute of every day. If we attack, my children are as good as dead."
He took in a breath, as if forcing the words out, "The children are from my third wife, and I have made her a solemn promise to get them back. She has also made a solemn promise. If she cannot be reunited with her children, she will kill herself. She said she’ll take a grenade and pull out the pin, or perhaps take my pistol when I'm asleep. She would put the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger.” A shrug, “I love my children, and I love her. It's as simple as that."
Stoner found it hard to put it all together. This tough, rugged Taliban veteran, hopelessly in love with what was undoubtedly a young and pretty wife. He was fond of the kids as well, and why not? One of Stoner’s greatest regrets was never having kids of his own. He’d never had the opportunity, never been able to settle down for long enough with a decent girl. They either died, or they left him.
Noyan sipped at his coffee and pulled a face. It had gone cold, and he shouted for the guy behind the counter to bring a fresh pot. They waited until the coffee appeared, and Stoner called Greg over.
"These aren't the guys we came to meet, but you should hear what they have to say."
He nodded. “I'm listening."
Noyan took over. “First, you need to know about the Haqqani leaders,” Noyan continued, after he'd emptied the next cup of coffee.
"So tell us."
"Their leader is General Khan, a deserter from the Afghan National Army. General Ishaq Khan, and as far as I know, there is still a wanted notice out in his name. He has a second-in-command, a Colonel, but these ranks are nonsense. Khan was a junior sergeant, and his second-in-command is an American, formerly a member of the U.S. Navy SEALs. "
He decided not to mention he'd once been a SEAL. Best he didn't know.
"What’s his name, this former SEAL?"
“His name is Colonel Bruce Griggs."
Stoner stiffened, and his mind went back over the years. He'd known Griggs, although he hadn't served in the same unit. The guy was a hard and bitter fighter, and for that reason his officers allowed him to get away with a number of vicious actions that sailed close to the wind of war crimes. Griggs was a Petty Officer Three. He used his time in Afghanistan not just to satisfy his thirst for blood and brutal violence, but to stuff his bank balance. Wherever he went, there were always reports of looting.
His crimes became too much even for his long-suffering and forgiving bosses, and they put him under open arrest and arranged for court martial charges to be brought. Griggs saw his cozy lifestyle about to hit the buffers, and he deserted. He wouldn’t just disappear into the hills. There’d be no profit in that. Instead, he stole an ambulance carrying supplies of drugs destined for a front-line unit. The ambulance carried two crew, a paramedic and a female driver.
He gutshot them both and left them bleeding out on the floor of the ambulance. While they were dying, he drove the vehicle to an Afghan merchant. There, he negotiated the sale of the consignment of drugs, and helped unload the cartons while the two soldiers were bleeding out on the floor. Both were aware what was going on around them, and conscious their lives were about to end.
After that he disappeared, although they sent Stoner with a platoon of men to go after him and bring him back for trial. He never found him, although he pieced together the details of how he'd tortured the ambulance crew and sold the drugs. He shot the merchant dead and vowed that one day he'd cross paths with Bruce Griggs. And he’d kill him. Men who tortured and murdered nurses and medics deserved no less. Stoner found himself looking forward to meeting his old nemesis.
He suddenly realized the boy Javed had disappeared, and he looked around for him. A moment later, he slipped through the front door, like a shadow as he crossed the darkened room. He made no noise, moving in total silence, and Stoner smiled to himself.
One day, the kid will make a good soldier, given his ability to move with absolute stealth.
He said something to Noyan and repeated it to Stoner. "They’re here."
"They?" At first, he'd assumed he meant the Afghan troops, but the boy added, "General Khan and his men."
"We’ll leave," Noyan said quickly, "If they see me here, they’ll suspect something is wrong."
A moment later, the door opened, and four men stalked into the bar. They poked around with their rifles, checking out everybody in the room. Noyan and Nadiri had disappeared out the back along with Javed.
One of the men came up to him, and in strongly accented English, said, "The guns. You will put them on the floor."
"Forget it, buddy. I don't give up my guns to anyone, least of all a shithead like you."
The man scowled and brought up his rifle, but a word of command made him lower it as two more men entered. One had to be General Ishaq Khan. He sported the traditional leggings, robe and turban of the insurgent, but over his clothes he wore the richly decorated tunic of a general officer. Complete with rank badges and rows of medals. The impression he gave was of comic opera, and he could have been the star of a movie about an African banana republic. But the eyes did not display any warmth or amusement. Despite the light smile on his face, the eyes were as cold as a deep Arctic pool.
Behind him, Stoner recognized the man who walked in. If his boss Ishaq Khan was a pudgy, comic figure, almost the image of a favorite uncle, this man was all business. He was also the man he'd sworn to kill. The man who'd killed so many and avoided every American effort to track him down. Khan planted himself one meter in front of Stoner.
"My name is General Khan. This is my second-in-command, Colonel Griggs."
He stared at the American. “Griggs."
The eyes squinted at him through the gloom of the coffeehouse, and he was trying to put a name to the face, until the penny dropped.
"Lieutenant Rafe Stoner, I remember you from my Navy days.”
"That was a long time ago, Griggs, before you went over to the enemy."
His expression was frozen. "General Khan is not my enemy, pal. You are."
“That’s true. Griggs, I promised to kill you, and one day I will."
"Any time, Stoner. Just name the place."
"Enough!" Khan hissed, "We have come here to negotiate a small sum to compensate us for taking care of the American women. Let us discuss a figure. You can bring the money to a place of my choosing, and the women will be free to go home. There is no need to squabble. There’s profit enough for all of us, and I might even cut you in for a share."
"You can stick your share up your ass, Khan. Tell us the price, and where you want the money taken. I'll also need proof of life before we hand over a ransom."
He snorted in derision. "I may decide not to give you proof, and where would that leave you? You want to take a chance the women are alive? And your intransigence results in their deaths?"
"Where are they?"
He laughed again. "Where you will never find them. As for the ransom, I decided to keep the sum reasonable. Shall we say one hundred million dollars? In cash, of course, and they go free."
"You're insane," Stoner said, "There's no way the U.S. government would hand over that kind of cash."
He shrugged. "Then they will die. Although I doubt it is your decision whether to pay or not. I suggest you take the message back to the man who sent you. Presumably Ambassador Seth Adams, am I right?"
"I'll take the message back," he muttered, “But like I said, until I have proof the women are alive, there's no question of a ransom being paid. You want the money, that’s the deal."
He stared back at him for what felt like several minutes but was probably several seconds. He was that kind of a man. Stoner had met them in the past. Not like Griggs, who was an out and out psycho, a stone killer. You knew where you were with such men, kill or be killed. Khan was different. Sly, sneaky, and extremely clever. When you thought you'd bested him, he'd always have something held back in reserve. Something you wouldn't know about until it fell on your head like a collapsing skyscraper.
“The handover will be in Chitral ten days from now. That’s enough for you to know. Assemble the money, and I will find a way to prove they are alive. Perhaps a photo with one of the women holding the newspaper for that day, would that satisfy you?"
"It might. We'll decide when we see the photo."
“If you do not pay the ransom," Khan said, his genial expression turning sour, "Then the women die. Make no mistake, American. Soon, your Embassy will receive evidence of what awaits these women if you fail to obey my instructions. Their lives are in your hands. Griggs, give him the number."
The American handed over a slip of paper on which was written a cellphone number.
"You can contact us on that number in seven days’ time. Until then it will be switched off. It is a satphone, and so the party who answers could be anywhere in the world. Call in seven days at midday, and you will be told how to view the photograph that proves the women are alive. At the same time, we will give you instructions on where to hand over the money."
"Listen, Mister," Stoner started to speak, but he was already turning away. As he headed for the door, he said. "No, you listen. I will not negotiate. Seven days and you call that number, and you will see proof they are alive. On the tenth day, you deliver the ransom. There will be no negotiation, and you will do exactly as I have said. If you try to alter the arrangement, the women die. Fail to bring the money, and the women die. That is all."
The meeting was over, and he stepped outside with Griggs. The coffeehouse was almost empty, except for the old men still sipping their coffee, as if nothing had happened. Noyan returned the kitchen and approached Stoner.
"I heard what he said. Will your people pay the ransom?"
He thought about the Ambassador, a man with little to gain by getting his wife back. And the American government had made their policy on paying ransom money clear. No dice.
"I doubt it. But it won't make any difference. I'm getting them back, one way or the other."
"What do you plan to do?"
“I’ll follow them.”
“But, they’re leaving right now.”
“So am I.”
Blum didn’t look happy. "I'll come with you."
He'd known he’d make the offer, and he shook his head. "No way, this is a job for one man. Wait here. When I know where they're going, I’ll come back, and we can plan how to get the women out."
“You think he'll lead you to them?"
"It's a possibility. But if he doesn't, there's another option. I can grab one of his men. He’ll talk to me. I know he will."
"Sure he will. But, Stoner, what you're planning is crazy. They'll be expecting someone to follow, and you'll be on your own, with no backup."
"I can handle it."
Noyan had adopted a cruel expression. “I want to kill this man myself, this General Khan. If you find out where they're holding the hostages, I will help you to free them. Perhaps my children will be with them. When they are free…” He looked at the rifle he held in his hand.
"I hear you."
Despite the cold, Stoner removed his black leather coat. He wanted to travel fast and light, and besides, the cold would keep him alert. He fussed with Archer for a few moments and looked for the rest of his gear. His M4A1, and he made sure he had several spare magazines. He left the four Claymores in the jeep.
"I don't need anything that heavy. I have my satphone, and I'll call you.”
"We'll be waiting," Greg said, "me and Archer.
"We'll be waiting, too. Good luck, Mr. Stoner."
Noyan put out a hand and they shook.
It was quite likely that over the years they’d tried to kill each other. Yet here they were, behaving like the best of buddies. Well, maybe not quite that close, but they were two men who shared a mutual respect for the other’s fighting ability, and a mutual target. Noyan had lost a son and daughter, and Stoner had lost a girl he’d treasured beyond anything. The hostages would be trapped in some stinking Pakistani basement, no place for civilized women.
He had one task to take care of before he left, and he called Ivan on the satphone to explain about Noyan and Nadiri. Just in case it came to a firefight, it was good to know who was on your side. He was about to leave when a vehicle drove up, an anonymous truck with the name of some Pakistani merchant painted on the side, and a man stepped out of the shotgun seat. He approached Stoner, and his face wore a look of recognition.
"You must be Stoner. My name is Colonel Rahman. I’m sorry we’re late. We were delayed.”
So this is the leader of the Afghan Special Forces unit, trainee unit, actually.
They shook hands. The Colonel shouted an order, and men erupted from the rear of the truck. They looked like a bunch of cutthroat insurgents, wearing a mix of civilian and military items of clothing, and clutching a variety of assault rifles.
The President of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan had assigned these men to help recover the hostages, and he hoped they were fitter than Colonel Rahman. He was fleshy, his face smooth and unlined, and his hands when he shook were pudgy. He looked like the spoiled son of some rich banker or politician. A man brought up to expect everything handed to him on a plate, without ever havin
g to work hard or fight for it. He had little doubt Colonel Rahman had earned his senior rank for no other reason than family connections.
If his unit’s ever unfortunate enough to be caught in a firefight or a hot pursuit, I doubt the Colonel would make more than a few hundred meters before he’s out of breath, and his flabby muscle tone slows him to a crawl. His troopers seem tougher, like they've seen some action, although something about them worries me, maybe because they look shifty and can't meet my gaze.
He broke off the train of thought when a man shouted, and he heard the snick of men cocking their rifles. Men called out in anger, threatening voices. A fight was about to start, and if he didn't intervene, shooting was about to start in the next few seconds.
Rahman’s twelve Special Forces troopers were glaring at Abbas Noyan and Mohammed Nadiri. They were pointing guns at the two men, and he walked between them. Holding out his hands in an open gesture to defuse the situation and show he was no threat to either side.
"Put down the guns.” He kept his voice calm, “We don't want any shooting. These men are here for the same reason as us. To free the hostages from the Haqqanis."
A voice rasped out from behind him, "They are Taliban! The enemies of Afghanistan.”
“I just told you, they’re on our side. And this isn’t Afghanistan. This is Pakistan. We need their help.”
Another man shouted, “There is a bounty on their heads. If we take them back, there’ll be a substantial reward. We can be rich.”
"You're not taking them anywhere. This man's son and daughter are prisoners of the same people who took Congresswoman Barbara Adams and the other women. Leave them alone."
The air crackled with tension, and for several minutes it could have gone either way. The Afghans scented blood and loot, but eventually Rahman snapped an order and sulkily, they turned and walked away. The soldiers disappeared around the back of the coffeehouse, and he relaxed. Although Javed had gone the same way, he guessed the kid was sensible enough to make himself scarce.
He turned back to Rahman. "General Khan left before you came, and I intend to follow them. With any luck, I’ll find out where they’re holding the women. As soon as I know anything, I'll call Greg," he nodded at Blum, "Then you bring your men in, and we’ll get them out."
