EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Sit, boyo, sit,” Donahue said, dropping his bulk into a swivel chair behind the desk and retrieving a bottle of Gilbey's and a pair of metal canteen cups from a bottom drawer. He poured two doubles.

  "Cheers,” they said in unison, and took their first swallows.

  The swivel chair creaked as if in pain as Donahue leaned back. “I'm afraid you've made a trip for nothing, lad. What you're here for is a lost cause."

  "That doesn't sound like the Donny I've known all these years,” Morgan said.

  The Irishman shrugged. “As a man gets older, he gets wiser. Wiser about everything: women, drinking, killing. He tends to realize there are some things he simply can't do anymore."

  "Aren't you the one who always said life was doing what couldn't be done, and the rest was just waiting around?"

  "Like I said, I'm older now."

  "Well, maybe I'm wasting my time with you, then,” Morgan said. “Maybe I should look for someone with more grit."

  Anger flashed briefly in the big Irishman's eyes, but he quickly suppressed it and leaned forward, folding his thick fingers on the desktop. “Look, Morgan, I know there's a fine edge to you right now, with your twin brother Virgil being held in the Pul-e-Charki prison. But he's been charged with the torture and killing of three Afghan citizens while attempting to get information from them as to the whereabouts of Osama bin Laden—all so he could collect the twenty-five million bucks bounty on the son of a bitch. Virgil's going to be tried before an Afghan judge named Mehmet Allawi, who is as anti-Western as they come. He has stated openly that Western influence since the fall of the Taliban is ruining his holy land, and he's the leader of a party that wants all non-Muslims thrown out of the country. Your brother is the first Westerner to be charged with a capital crime since the U.S. invasion in 2001. Allawi intends to use him to make a statement against the U.S., the U.N., and all other foreigners who are here. Virgil is going to be found guilty and hanged. And that, my boy, is that."

  "I intend to break him out,” Morgan said simply.

  "Break him out?” Donahue grimaced in disbelief. “Out of Pul-e-Charki? You're dreaming, lad. It's not possible. There's no way to spring a man from there."

  "I don't plan to just spring a man. I plan to liberate the whole damned prison, Donny."

  Donahue grunted. “That would take a small army."

  "I want to raise a small army. A strike force of trained mercenaries."

  "You're crazy. It would cost a million dollars."

  "I've got a million dollars,” Morgan said. Reaching down, he patted the sea bag on the floor next to him. “Right here."

  "You serious?"

  "Dead serious.” Morgan leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I know about that prison. I know men who've been in it. I've heard stories. It's a filthy cesspool. Whips, chains, rats, vermin, slop for food—it's a nightmare. They've even got torture chambers—"

  "Your brother Virgil is in there for torturing people,” Donahue reminded him.

  "The three men Virgil tortured—"

  "Two men,” Donahue corrected. “One woman."

  That gave Morgan pause for thought. But only momentarily. “Makes no difference,” he said. “They were all al-Qaida. No telling how many innocent people they'd killed. Whatever the case, I want to blast open Pul-e-Charki prison.” He locked eyes with Donahue. “You with me or not?"

  Donahue took a long sip of gin, then pursed his lips for a moment. Finally he said, “Tell you what. You and me'll go out and have us a good look at Pul-e-Charki in the morning. Then you can tell me how you'd plan to go about doing it. After I hear your plan, I'll decide. Good enough?"

  "Good enough,” Morgan agreed.

  They toasted again and finished their gin. Then Donahue asked, “Got a place to bunk yet?"

  "No."

  "Down the street to the right. The Mustafa Hotel. Use my name. Tell the desk clerk to give you an upstairs room in the back, away from the street noise. I'll come by for you about ten in the morning."

  * * * *

  With his sea bag again slung, Morgan left the Dingo Club and turned right down the busy street, his senses alert to everything around him. He knew before she got there that a young woman was hurrying up beside him.

  "Excuse me. May I speak with you for a moment, please?"

  "Not tonight, honey,” Morgan said, thinking she was street girl. “I'm dead tired, just in from a long flight."

  "I know,” she said. “I followed you from the airport."

  Morgan stopped, his right hand instinctively going to the automatic in his belt. “You followed me from the airport?"

  "Yes. In my car. I wanted to talk to you."

  Looking more closely, Morgan now saw that she was definitely not a street girl. She was, he guessed, Afghan; modern Afghan: smallish, attractive, wearing a stylish pantsuit, carrying a large purse over one shoulder. He decided to play dumb.

  "Why on earth would you follow me?” he asked with feigned innocence.

  "My name is Liban Adnan,” she said. “I'm a broadcast journalist. For NKR—New Kabul Radio. I'm doing a series on mercenary soldiers in the city. I'd like to interview you."

  "You've made a mistake, miss,” Morgan said. “I'm not a mercenary soldier. I'm a pharmaceuticals salesman."

  "Oh?” Her full, dark eyebrows went up. “When you were leaving the Dingo Club, I saw you shake hands with Michaleen Donahue, a notorious mercenary soldier. Were you selling him aspirin, perhaps?"

  "I went into that club to ask directions to the Mustafa Hotel. I didn't even know the man I was talking to."

  "I see.” She pulled a five-by-seven black-and-white glossy photograph from her purse. “I suppose you're going to tell me you don't know this man either."

  In the neon light above a lap-dance club, Morgan looked at the picture. It was his twin brother, Virgil, in handcuffs and belly chain, being held between two Afghani policemen.

  Taking Liban Adnan roughly by the arm, Morgan drew her into a nearby passageway between buildings, out of the busy sidewalk traffic. Once there, he kept her arm in a grip tight enough for her to know that she could not break away.

  "Exactly what do you want?” he asked coldly, evenly.

  "I told you. An interview. I want to explain to the citizens of Kabul why scores of heavily armed men prowl their streets at night. I want to try to make the public understand who they are and why they are here."

  "If I was a mercenary, do you think I'd be stupid enough to let you interview me about my reason for being here?"

  "It could be an anonymous interview,” she said, squirming in his grip. “We could even use a vibraphone mic to disguise your voice—"

  "Look, miss,” Morgan said firmly, “you've got the wrong person, understand? I don't know the man back at the club, and I don't know the man in that photograph!"

  "But he looks just like you. Is it you, or—or are you his brother?” she exclaimed, as if that had just dawned on her.

  "Listen to me, lady,” Morgan tightened his grip on her arm, “mind your own business or you might be very sorry."

  Liban squirmed even more. “Please, you're hurting me—"

  Morgan let go of her arm. “Stay away from me,” he warned.

  Leaving her in the passageway, Morgan stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued toward the Mustafa Hotel.

  * * * *

  Donahue was in the hotel lobby at ten the next morning when Morgan came down. He led Morgan outside to a battered Jeep with no top. Donny was again wearing the double Roto holster, and now was carrying an AR-15 automatic rifle as well. Morgan carried his same two handguns, but also had with him a Mossberg 500 shotgun equipped with a Knoxx folding stock, which allowed him to carry and fire it as a long-barrel pistol. He again had his sea bag slung behind one shoulder, but it was noticeably lighter now.

  "Unpacked everything but the money, I see,” Donahue observed.

  "You guessed it,” Morgan replied.

  "Carrying it around like that, ain't you afraid som
ebody might take it away from you?"

  "Somebody might die trying.” Morgan jacked a 12-gauge Pit Bull shell into the Mossberg's chamber and held it between his knees next to the sea bag when he got into the Jeep. As Donahue slid behind the wheel, he observed that Morgan was wearing a flak vest under his jacket.

  As they pulled away from the hotel, Morgan noticed a green Volkswagen parked nearby. Liban Adnan was in the driver's seat. Son of a bitch! he thought angrily. But he said nothing to Donahue. He did not want to alarm him.

  The two men drove out of town. As they moved past numerous destroyed buildings and out onto a vast, flat scrub plain, Morgan watched in the outside rearview mirror on the passenger side and saw that the green Volkswagen was following at a respectable enough distance behind not to be obvious. Glancing at Donahue, he concluded that the big Irishman had not noticed it. Cursing silently in his mind, Morgan decided to go with the flow of the moment; there was nothing he could do about it, not just then. But later...

  About ten miles outside Kabul they pulled onto a gravel road that faced Pul-e-Charki Prison. From outside, the facility appeared antiquated, its walls crumbling in places, its turrets looking unsteady at best. The Russians had built the place when they occupied Afghanistan, and its upkeep had been inadequate even then. After the Afghan government took it over, maintenance deteriorated even more: the cells, plumbing, toilets, food, and prisoner treatment—all went to hell. Everything except security: That had improved.

  Donahue parked where they could get a view of the main gate and outer walls. “Picture yourself looking down at it from above,” he said. “There are four blocks of cells around an inside courtyard. Block One, called ‘Block-e-Awal,’ is there,” he pointed toward one front corner. “That's for high-status prisoners, foreigners, mercenaries mostly. They've got Jack Idema in there. He ran Saber Seven, a freelance outfit that captured and tortured Afghan nationals, just like your brother did, trying to get a lead on Osama bin Laden. Jack's doing ten years; he was smart enough not to kill anyone. Virgil's in there too, along with some journalists and photographers who wrote about and photographed some things the new government didn't approve of.

  "Block Two is directly across the center courtyard, over there,” Donahue pointed to the opposite corner. “It's strictly for political prisoners, nobody really worth mentioning, mostly just ex-Taliban and protesters against the U.S.

  "Block Three is back there, behind Block Two. It's full of common criminals: thieves, child molesters, drunkards, dishonest merchants, people who disrespect the Koran and Muslim law."

  Donahue stopped talking and looked out over the wasteland toward a hazy, indistinct horizon. Morgan waited several moments, then: “You said four blocks."

  "Yes, well.” Donahue cleared his throat. “Block Four is where the executions take place. Some hangings. Beheadings. Occasional lesser punishments: cutting off the hands of a thief, blinding a man who spied on another man's wife that he coveted, stoning to death of women adulterers—"

  "Rough justice,” Morgan commented.

  "If you can call it justice at all.” Donahue's voice, Morgan thought, sounded unusually soft and sympathetic. Especially for a man who had for more than forty years killed for a living.

  Glancing off in the distance, Morgan saw the green Volkswagen parked where its driver could observe them. He was going to have to decide what to do about the woman. He could not let her upset his plans to save his brother.

  "So what do you think, lad?” Donahue asked, interrupting Morgan's thoughts.

  "You have any guard contacts inside? That can be bought?"

  "Maybe.” The Irishman shrugged.

  "Can you get me a dozen men—good men—on the outside?"

  "Depends. You want specialists?"

  Morgan nodded. “Four explosives men, two rocket experts, six tough ground troops."

  "Possibly. Weapons?"

  "AR-15s for the ground troops, plus any handguns they want for backup. Thirty-seven-millimeter launchers for the rocket men. K-2 plastics, coils, and timer detonators for the explosives."

  "Ammo?"

  "The works. Armor-piercing, incendiary, tracers. The best available. And plenty of it."

  Donahue rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. “Vehicles?"

  "One armored halftrack with dual tactical mounted .50-calibers. And a Devil's Breath with dual tanks."

  "Jesus, Morgan! A flamethrower?"

  "Yes. And two armored specialists to handle the whole rig."

  Donahue sighed. “Anything else?"

  "Two armor-plated Humvees for the rest of us, to flank the halftrack when we charge the main gate.” Morgan took a deep breath. “That's it."

  "You're sure now?” Donahue asked, a little sarcastically. “Sure you don't want a couple of fighter jets to strafe the place ahead of time?"

  "Can you get it all or not?” Morgan asked flatly

  "I'll let you know. Come see me tonight at the Dingo."

  As Donahue drove them back to Kabul, Morgan watched the green Volkswagen follow them in the passenger rearview mirror.

  His lean jaw clenched.

  * * * *

  Half an hour after Morgan returned to his room, there was a soft knock at his door. Holding the Sig 230 close to his right leg, he stood to the left of the door and said, “Yes?"

  "It is I,” a female voice said. “Liban Adnan."

  Snatching the door open, Morgan jerked her into the room and locked the door behind them.

  "You've got a hell of a lot of nerve coming here after following me all morning!” he said angrily. “Didn't I warn you to stay away from me?"

  "I am not afraid of you!” she snapped.

  "That's obvious. What the hell do you want now?"

  "Perhaps,” she said, her voice as angry as his, “I came to show you these bruises you left on my arm last night!” Pulling up the sleeve of her blouse, she held out an arm with several dark, purplish bruises on it.

  "You're liable to get more than bruises if you keep meddling in my business!” Morgan threatened.

  "Again I say, I am not afraid of you, Mr. Tenny. Whatever you are planning, you surely would not interrupt it to do anything foolish to me. Especially since I have a friend at my radio station who knows I've been following you. The authorities would be on you in a heartbeat."

  "If I did do anything to you,” Morgan said confidently, “believe me, nobody would be able to prove it."

  "They could certainly prove you are in the country illegally,” she retorted. “I saw how you came in at the airport with Benny Cone. That alone is enough to get you inside the prison you and your friend Donahue studied so closely this morning."

  Turning away from her, Morgan walked across the room. She had him on that. All he could do now was figure out a way to handle her. He walked back to her.

  "Look, I'm sorry about the bruises,” he said as contritely as he could. “But you came on pretty aggressively and I wasn't prepared for you. Can we start over?"

  "Without the rough stuff?” she asked, sounding more American than Afghani.

  "Definitely without the rough stuff."

  "All right. I want to talk to you. But not here. Your friend Donahue has ears all over this place. I'll pick you up out front at six and take you to a little place I know on the edge of the city. We can have supper and talk about a compromise arrangement between us. Will you agree to that?"

  "Yes."

  "Good.” Liban Adnan nodded brusquely. “Until six, then."

  Unlocking the door, she left.

  Morgan stared thoughtfully at the closed door behind her. Where in hell, he wondered, was this going to lead?

  * * * *

  As Morgan walked out of the Mustafa Hotel, the green Volkswagen pulled up at once and he got in. Liban swung the car back into traffic and headed out the western highway toward Jalalabad. Neither of them spoke at first, until finally Morgan asked, “Have you told anyone else about me? Besides your friend at the radio station?"

 
"No, of course not.” She glanced at him. “I want this story for myself."

  Morgan nodded. Several minutes later, he said, “I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

  "Liban Adnan. Just call me Lee."

  She drove to a small settlement just outside the city and parked in front of a surprisingly nice-looking roadside restaurant, the name of which was written in Arabic across its facade. “This is a respectable family establishment,” she said, “so please don't flash your guns around."

  "What guns?"

  "The ones I'm sure you are carrying. Let's not play games, Mr. Tenny."

  Inside, Lee selected the table she wanted, off to one far side, and they were seated. “Are you familiar with Afghan food?” she asked.

  "No."

  "Then let me explain what you can order. Mourgh is skinless chicken marinated overnight in lemon pulp and cracked black pepper, then broiled. Aush is chopped beef, spinach, and dark makhud—sorry, yellow split peas—fried in coriander and turmeric, and served with dried mint sprinkled on it. Qabili pilau is lamb and yellow rice boiled with carrots and black seedless raisins.” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

  "I'll have whatever you have,” Morgan said. She ordered the aush, with sweet red tea and pistachios to munch on while they waited.

  "I'm sorry you can't get something stronger to drink,” Lee apologized, “but alcohol is not served here. You see, in our faith, especially among the Tajiks, who are the predominant population—"

  "Look,” Morgan interrupted, “can we get down to the business of why we're here?"

  "Well, yes, of course. I was just trying to be cordial."

  "Forget cordial. Specifically, what is it you want in order to leave me alone?"

  Her eyes, dark like ripe plums, fixed on him. “I want the complete story of what you and Mike Donahue are planning and how you are going to go about it—"

  "You're crazy,” Morgan scoffed.