Gravedigger

by Mark Terry

  Abdullah and Mohammed looked at each other, seeming to discuss what Derek was saying. They shrugged, shouldered their assault rifles, and gestured for him to follow them.

  5

  THE FIELDS, FOR THE MOST part, were poppies. Which explained the armed Pakis, he supposed. Afghanistan, when it wasn’t exporting Islamic extremists, exported opium made from poppies. But they were in Pakistan, although as everyone in the governments kept saying, the border was porous.

  There were other plants, but he wasn’t sure what they were. He bent down and studied them. Poppies were easy to identify, but these were low, green plants that almost looked like bunches of onions. He crouched down to look closer, but still didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t poppies.

  Glancing around this part of the field, he saw that a few of them had purple flowers. He walked over to one of the flowers. He looked up at Muhammed, who said, “Kesar.”

  That didn’t help. He shook his head and smelled the flower, which had a very strong, distinctive aroma. Something stirred in his memory.

  Abdulla said, “Zafran.”

  And it clicked. Saffron. The flowers were crocus, harvested for the spice saffron. It was one of the most expensive spices in the world, a very smart alternative to poppies.

  He stood up and looked around the fields. They had dug canals to channel water. Off to one side was a shed. Striding to the shed, Muhammed and Abdullah trotted after him, jabbering away. They were probably telling him to stop. He pulled the door open. Inside were several large red metal canisters. The writing wasn’t in English, but the poison symbol and the chemical structure was.

  “Shit.”

  Turning, he saw Abdullah and Mohammed staring at him. “Thanks guys, I’ve seen enough.” He offered them more candy, then headed back into the village. Johnston, Noa and Abasin were standing by the well talking with several villagers.

  When Derek arrived he said, “What are they growing below the village?”

  With a shrug, Johnston said, “Corn, wheat, watermelon, cucumbers. Why?”

  “Their cash crops are above the village – poppies and saffron. But that’s not the problem.” He gestured to Noa. “Translate carefully, okay?”

  Turning to Abasin he said, “The problem is that your well is contaminated. You’re using some very powerful pesticides on your poppies and saffron. They are called organophosphates and they’re very dangerous to people. The pesticides are getting into your water supply. Probably because the irrigation canals pick it up and wash down into the village or seep into the ground. If you can get the children to a modern hospital, that would be good. If not, I think I can come up with something short term. Unfortunately, if you don’t do something about the well, more and more people will get sick and maybe die, children first, followed by the adults.”

  DEREK SPENT SEVERAL hours with the children, talking to the woman who was caring for them and administering first aid. In his travel kit he kept not only several poison and biological weapons test kits, but various medicines and first aid for the biological and chemical weapons he was hunting. He treated the children with doses of activated charcoal, then with mild doses of atropine.

  He explained to the woman that they should still get the children to a hospital if at all possible. He knew that was difficult. He had grown up with parents who were missionary physicians, in Sierra Leone and Sri Lanka and in Cuba and Congo. Derek knew all about the difficulties that poor people had who lived long distances from modern medical care.

  After two hours the children’s seizures had stopped. Their appetite had returned, at least a little bit.

  When he left the children, the skies had opened up and a pounding rain had arrived. He sloshed through the now-muddy tracks back to the truck. Lightning crackled across the sky. There was a single tent set up, instead of the usual two. He let himself in.

  General Johnston sprawled on his sleeping bag, boots off, leaning against his duffel. He was reading a book.

  Sealing the tent back up, Derek went about stripping out of his wet clothing. “Where’s Noa?”

  “Staying with the women and children.”

  “She happy about that?”

  Shrugging, Johnston said, “She’s not happy about anything.”

  Derek dried off and began throwing on sweats to sleep in. It was going to be a cold night. He was bone tired. He said, “Do you think Abasin’s going to do anything about my suggestions?”

  “Shift the crops around? Dig a new well? Stop using the pesticides above the village? Don’t know. How are the kids?”

  “Recovering. But if they start drinking the water again they’ll get sick again. And they’re the first. It won’t be long before they’re all sick. Or dead.”

  “While you were in with the kids I used the sat-phone and called my contact at WHO about the water problem.”

  Derek nodded, now in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “Find anything?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “Besides the pesticide? No. We can go onto the next site tomorrow. It’ll take us a while with the weather and roads. Way up in the mountains on the other side of the Khyber. Want a drink?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Johnston dug into his duffel and withdrew a bottle of Glenmorangie scotch. “Think what Noa’s missing.”

  Shaking his head, Derek took the proffered three fingers of single malt. Both of the men had found the Israeli to be difficult and unfriendly. Clearly she wasn’t happy working with Americans. “Any idea why she got stuck in on this?”

  Another shrug from Johnston and a swallow. “My suspicion is it’s some sort of punishment or some sort of deal worked out between CIA, the US Army and MOSSAD that I’m not privy to.”

  Derek sipped the scotch and said, “Speaking of which, you want to tell me what a general is doing running around in the field in Pakistan and Afghanistan instead of pushing paper in Washington working on your second star?”

  “We’ve been driving for three days and this is the first time this occurred to you?”

  “It’s the first time I figured Noa wasn’t either in earshot or likely to interrupt.”

  “She does keep her eyes on us, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “Like she doesn’t exactly trust us.”

  “Or she has an agenda different than us.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Derek said, “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Derek sipped more of the scotch. “You’ve managed to avoid my question.”

  “I asked for the chance to work out here.”

  “Fresh out of Desert Storm and you want this? Go be a field soldier again?”

  “I’m considering going into the private sector or to an NGO. I’ve also got a party back in Minnesota urging me to run for the senate.”

  “You’ve never struck me as being terribly political.”

  “It’s not clear to me if the Minnesota Democratic Party thinks that’s a plus so they can boss me around.”

  “Or ‘mold’ you into whatever they want,” Derek said, making finger quote marks around “mold.”

  “That, too. But I’ve also been looking at some other things.”

  “Like?”

  “There’s an opening at State.”

  “At Foggy Bottom?”

  “Moscow, actually.”

  “So this might educate you?”

  “It gives me time to be away from the Army for a while. How about you, Derek? I was shocked when you retired. Make Colonel and promptly retire and join the Agency.”

  “Thought it might be nice to stop killing people for a while.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “Okay, although Cuba was a near-disaster. And I have to say, the Agency seems entirely willing to use their agents as pawns in some political deal. That’s probably what happened in Cuba. They didn’t expect me to succeed with the mission, they just wanted to flush out a mole and I was bait. I’m lucky I’m not rotting in a cell in Havana.”

 
; “Doesn’t sound like you’re completely happy with the Agency.”

  Derek finished his scotch and held it out for more. “Safe to say. We’ll see how things go in Afghanistan.”

  Johnston poured two fingers in each of their glasses. They clinked glasses and Johnston said, “This we’ll defend.” It was the Army’s official motto.

  Derek had been Army Special Forces, a Green Beret. “De oppresso liber.” To free the oppressed, the Special Forces’ motto. He drank.

  The general grinned. “What’s the CIA’s motto?”

  “We’re so secret we don’t even know how fucked up we are.”

  Roaring with laughter, Johnston said, “I’ll drink to that.”

  6

  THE NEXT MORNING FOUND THE three of them driving cautiously along rutted mountain roads in the driving rain. Noa had insisted on driving, but it wasn’t long before both Derek and Johnston demanded one of them take the wheel. She said they were being sexist.

  “No,” Derek said. “It’s because you’re insane. You’re going to get us all killed. Slow down.”

  “Let me put it even more succinctly,” Johnston growled. “Slow down or I will shoot you.”

  Now, with Johnston at the wheel, they were headed to a remote village called Marif. It had been lower on their list, well into Afghanistan, but Noa had spent the evening talking with Abison’s wife, Ghila. The woman had told a story of strange deaths, many of them, caused by evil spirits. And she talked about how the bodies had been thrown into a mass grave and most of the remaining people had left.

  They had hoped to get there before noon, but with the weather and the roads, it was taking almost three times as long. They would be lucky to get there before night fell. As the truck skidded in the mud, sliding toward a nearly vertical drop, Derek closed his eyes and wondered if they would get there at all.

  Noa, currently in the back seat, said, “You have no faith in the general’s driving either?”

  “A little more than in yours. I would prefer to be driving.”

  “Not any time soon,” Johnston snapped.

  “The general,” Derek said, “has control issues.”

  “You should talk.”

  Noa seemed to perk up. “Oh, please, tell me more about Derek Stillwater’s control issues. Entertain me. A CIA agent with psychological problems. What a surprise.”

  Derek grinned. “Hard to argue, actually. But then again, a Mossad agent that would prefer to shoot first and ask questions later. What a surprise.”

  Her eyes sparked. “I am probably the first Mossad agent you ever met.”

  “Before the CIA I was Army Special Forces,” Derek said. “I served in Iraq. I actually spent some time in Israel working with your military a few years back.”

  “Yes. That’s in your file. And you spent time recently in Cuba.”

  General Johnston cocked his head at Derek. “She knows things she shouldn’t.”

  “It’s not general knowledge. You get that from the Home Office, Noa?”

  “We like to know who we’re working with. Your psychological profile is … complex.”

  Johnston snorted.

  “And yours?” Derek asked.

  “Mine is none of your business.”

  Derek turned back to face out the front. It had been like that with Noa the entire mission. Veiled criticisms and whenever you tried to find out something about her, the steel wall came down with a crash.

  “But,” Noa said. “Eli Rosen remembers you fondly.”

  Now he turned back to look at her. A smile did not cross her face, but she did look amused. “How is Eli?”

  “Fine. Has a baby son.”

  “Good for him.” To General Johnston, Derek said, “Eli is a Captain in the Israeli Defense Forces.”

  “A Major now.”

  “Good for him. We spent some time together when I was doing some counterterrorism training in Tel Aviv. Eli is also a specialist in chemical and biological weapons.”

  “He said you are very good at what you do.”

  “I’ll have to thank him. Are you friends?”

  “Israel is a small country.”

  That was a fairly oblique way to answer a question. But since she seemed to be talking, he said, “Did you grow up in Israel?”

  “Yes. My parents were born there. My grandparents came from Germany. And yes, Holocaust survivors.”

  Derek nodded. “You grew up in Tel Aviv?”

  She made a face. “Jerusalem.”

  “Beautiful city,” Derek said. “Brothers and sisters?”

  She stared hard at him for a moment. Then, “One brother, one sister. Both dead. Ari in Lebanon in ’88. Ziva two years ago in the Intifada. They were both in IDF.”

  Derek thought about that. Two siblings dying two years apart, both in the military. Voice level, he said, “You served in the IDF?”

  “Everyone does,” she said. “But I went into Military Intelligence, then transferred to the Home Office.” Her voice was short. Apparently deciding she’d had enough of this conversation, she turned her face away to look out the window. Derek and General Johnston shared a meaningful look, then switched to discussing this year’s baseball season. Both marveled at how well the Atlanta Braves were doing.

  Finally, just as the sun was setting behind the peaks, they pulled into what had once been a small village, but was now more of a ghost town. No one approached them as they clambered out of the truck to look around. It was still raining, although the rain was mixed with snow. It was windy and bitterly cold.

  “‘See the world,’ they said,” said Derek. “‘Be all you can be.’”

  “‘Find the future,’” intoned General Johnston.

  “What are you two babbling about?” Noa asked from beneath a poncho.

  “We’re just not seeing the glamour in our current career choices,” Derek said.

  Her dark eyes glared at him. “Can we get to work?”

  “Well,” Derek said. “Let’s see if we can find someone. And if we can’t find someone, maybe we can find evidence of a mass grave. Or weapons. Or, you know, signs of life.”

  They split up. Derek, figuring a mass grave probably would not be in the middle of the village, opted for hiking around the outer rim of the settlement. Noa and Johnston headed into the town, through the gate of the mud-brick surrounding wall, disappearing into the gathering gloom.

  Derek began a counter-clockwise circuit. Marif was built into the side of a mountain. Terraces had been dug into it, undoubtedly for some crops. Now they acted almost like tiers of waterfalls. The route above the village was rough – scraggly shrubs that bore inch-long thorns that grabbed at his legs. The rutted path was a bog of mud and unstable rocks and gravel. Rain pounded on his poncho. Slipping to his knees, Derek cursed and staggered to his feet. Disgusted, he pulled off the poncho, folded it and stuck it in his ruck. It wasn’t doing him any good. He was already soaked to the skin.

  Stopping to peer around, he realized he was now fifty yards or so above the village. He could see the lights bobbing on opposite sides of Marif—Noa and Johnston. He flicked off his light to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He sniffed the air. Ozone and mud. Something else. Smoke. Squinting through the rain, he studied Marif. A few dozen houses with mud-brick and stone walls. Roofs made of tin or timbers or more mud and wood.

  The wind whipped from behind him, further up in the mountains. Something was burning above him.

  Before investigating further, he donned a pair of night vision goggles. The village below him appeared ghostly and green, the two flashlights causing distortion and flare. He adjusted the NVGs and scanned the area. Further below him, on the opposite end of the village, spread what had probably once been crops. Although the NVGs didn’t allow for great depth perception, the earth where there had once been crops appeared uneven and mounded. It would be his first test site for a mass grave.

  Further along, to the west, looked like a pile of trash. A huge pile. Almost like a dump site. Another plate
to investigate.

  Turning his back on the village, he studied the ridges and terraces above him. No light appeared, but the smell of smoke was unmistakable.

  Time to find out who was home.

  It was slow and treacherous. He picked his way in the dark along a narrow, muddy trail that wound its way up the mountainside. At times it disappeared in a cascade of rocks and erosion, forcing Derek to carefully climb around ledges that crumbled under his fingers and offered twenty-foot drops if he screwed up.

  Finally Derek rolled over the lip of a rocky ledge. He crouched on the hard ground, breathing in the cold, wet, thin air. Below him the village seemed small, easily two hundred meters below. Turning, he scanned the terrace. Wind whipped the rain against his goggles, obscuring his vision. But he had seen shapes forty or fifty yards away against the cliff wall.

  The terrace was dotted with wind-stripped trees, boulders, and what looked like corn and possibly wheat.

  Because the people here had gone to such trouble to stay hidden, his instincts told him not to stroll unannounced into the camp. Certainly they would have noticed their truck coming into the village, heard the sounds of their doors slamming shut.

  Derek calmed his heart and breathing, staying still, extending his senses. He smelled smoke. The only sounds he could hear were the rain and the wind bending the corn and wheat.

  Dropping into the mud, he crawled from his location to a nearby tree. Taking his time, he slithered into the wheat and corn, moving until he was still hidden but could see the camp.

  There were tents and lean-to’s and a cave. A dozen men sat around a fire that was roasting something – he could smell the meat, but couldn’t identify it. They all looked Afghani or Pakistani, wearing traditional clothes – salwar kameez, turbans, coats. They all had long, thick beards. They all had AK47s nearby.

  Continuing to study them, he patiently waited to sort out everything he was seeing. Off to his right was a rough corral with a dozen horses or mules huddling together in the rain. He assumed there must be an easier way off this terrace than the route he’d taken. Horses would never have made it up that trail.