"Let me finish, please. I want the complete story—to be released after it happens. After you've done what you're planning to do, after you've gotten away with it—if you get away with it—"
"We'll get away with it."
"Fine. After you get away with it and have safely escaped. When everyone is running around, pointing fingers, blaming everyone else, trying to figure out who did it, how it was done—that's when I want to reveal everything."
"What do you expect to get out of that?"
"A reputation. Stature as a broadcast journalist. A move from radio to television. Perhaps even a position with CNN International."
"I see. You want to be famous."
"I want to be successful."
"You want to be another Christiane Amanpour."
She shrugged. “Perhaps.” From her expression, Morgan knew he had nailed it.
Before they could converse further, an older man entered the restaurant, followed by two younger men, an older woman, and two younger women. They walked in single file, toward a family section in the rear that was configured with larger tables. But as they started to pass the table where Morgan and Lee sat, the older man abruptly stopped, as did everyone behind him. Standing ramrod straight, he glared down at Lee. He did not speak. Lee looked down at the table. Morgan saw that the five people behind the man also had their eyes downcast.
The silent confrontation lasted perhaps forty seconds, but it somehow seemed much longer. Presently, the older man moved on, his entourage following.
"What was that all about?” Morgan asked.
"That was my family,” Lee replied quietly. “My father, my two brothers, my mother, my two sisters.” She looked over at him woefully. “I have been banished from my family, you see. When I took up Western ways, Western dress, got a Western job as a radio broadcaster, my father ostracized me. I am not allowed to go around any member of my family, or to communicate with them in any way, or they with me. None of them may cast eyes upon me except my father, and then only to revile me with his look."
Morgan saw a sadness in her eyes, but it did not seem to be for the painful scorn of her father and the loss of her family. Rather it was a sadness of fear, the kind Morgan had seen in the eyes of many who were about to die; it was a sadness not of something that had already happened to her, but of something that was going to happen to her, and she knew it.
At once, as he looked at her, she became appealing to him, her despair coupled with a longing, all of it concealed to some degree by her effervescent aggressiveness—no, not aggressiveness, he rethought it—more like assertiveness, an anxious assertiveness. Morgan felt something emanating from Liban Adnan that he could not define or understand. But he knew he had to respond to it.
"All right, I'll help you, Lee,” he told her, suddenly deciding. “I'll give you your story."
A glimmer of a smile came tentatively to her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Tenny."
"Call me Morgan,” he said.
* * * *
Later that night, back in the office of the Dingo Club, Morgan again sat across the desk from Michaleen Donahue.
"I want a hundred thousand for myself,” Donahue said.
"You want it now?"
The Irishman's thick black brows went up. “That would be nice."
Morgan unlocked and unzipped the bag that constantly hung from his shoulder, and from it counted out ten banded sheaves of hundred-dollar bills, fifty to a sheaf, and twenty sheaves of fifty-dollar bills, also fifty to a sheaf. “That leaves me with nine hundred thousand, Donny. Will that do us?"
"I think so. I put a pencil to it earlier—” He pushed a yellow lined pad across the desk, which Morgan picked up and began to study. “I figure twenty thousand each for the two guard contacts we'll need on the inside,” he told Morgan. “Four explosives men at forty each is a hundred-sixty. Two rocket-launcher men at thirty-five apiece is seventy. Six ground troops to back up you and me at—"
"You and me?” Morgan interrupted. “You're coming along?"
"Certainly,” Donahue said, taken aback slightly. “You think I took a hundred thousand just to sit on my ass?"
Morgan shrugged self-consciously. “Well, I—I mean—well—"
"Well, hell! A well's a hole in the ground, lad! Your brother's a friend of mine. And so are a few others in that hellhole of a prison. Yeah, I'm coming along. You bet your ass I am.” Donahue cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying: Six ground troops at twenty-five per is another one-fifty. The half-track, used but in good condition, will cost us two hundred thousand. And the two armored Humvees will run seventy-five each, that's one-fifty.” Donahue got out a bottle and poured drinks for them while Morgan studied the figures. Taking a long sip of his own, he sat back and licked his lips appreciatively at the taste. “I make it seven-seventy,” he concluded. “That leaves one-thirty for weapons and ammo."
"One-thirty will be a stretch,” Morgan guessed, frowning.
"Might, might not,” said Donahue. “Depends on where I have to buy. If I can run at least half of what we need from Uzbekistan, we'll be okay. If I have to deal with the Pakistanis, those bloody bastards will try to rob us blind.” He paused for a moment, then said, “It might be possible to steal some ammo from the U.N. forces arsenal down in Qandahar. I don't know how you'd feel about that, you being a Yank and all—"
"Steal it anywhere you can,” Morgan said flatly. “I don't owe the U.N. anything."
"Right. Well, then.” Donahue rose and drained his glass. “I'll get the ball rolling first thing in the morning. You want to interview personnel?"
"Not unless you want me to."
"I'll do it meself then. How do you plan to get Virgil out of the country?"
"Same way I got in. Billy Cone."
"Billy might not be up for anything that heavy. What if he says no?"
Morgan locked eyes with the Irishman. “Then I'll kill him, take his plane, and fly it myself."
* * * *
The next night, Lee invited Morgan to her apartment, where they would have the privacy to talk more openly.
Lee lived in one of the older, modest buildings in a more or less grubby section of south Kabul, but she said she liked the location because it was convenient to the traditional Afghan food markets as well as a newer, Western-style superstore that sold canned items imported from the U.S. Plus, the sparsely but comfortably furnished apartment offered a parking shed for her little green Volkswagen. Morgan noticed at once that the apartment's cracked and pitted walls were colorfully concealed with a variety of posters: Emiliano Zapata, Muhammad Ali standing over a prone Sonny Liston, Mother Teresa touching the forehead of a sick child, Roy Rogers with six-guns blazing.
"Roy Rogers?” Morgan said in surprise.
"Yes. I watch his old films on the new satellite station. They have subtitles, of course. I think his horse is nice. And I like the way he sings."
She had prepared a cold supper for them.
"Samboosak,” she told him. “Cold meat pies with leeks and mild spices. And there are boiled eggs and a spinach-and-chickpea salad with pine nuts. And,” she added proudly, “just for you—” She produced a bottle of Australian wine. “Another reason my father has disowned me: I like a glass of wine now and then."
As they ate, Morgan outlined for Lee in detail his plan to breach Pul-e-Charki prison with a small armed force, an armored vehicle, and two armed Humvees, to liberate his twin brother Virgil from Block One, where the high-profile prisoners were kept, and then how the two of them would escape the country in Benny Cone's plane.
"What about the other prisoners in Block One?” Lee wanted to know. “And in the other blocks?"
Morgan shrugged. “They'll be pretty much on their own. If they can get to the main gate, a lot of them can pile onto the half-track and the Hummers when they retreat."
"And the guards?"
"Most of them at the main gate and around Blocks One and Two will probably be killed in the initial assault."
Lee looked down at the tab
le. “A lot of those men are just ordinary family men, working men, most of them not political at all."
"They chose to work there,” Morgan said evenly. “They knew the risks involved.” He paused, then continued in a softer tone. “Look, Lee, everyone makes their own choices in life. Everyone pays their own prices for those choices. That's just life."
"Or in this case, death,” she amended.
They finished supper and went outside to sit on the building's back steps and drink the rest of the wine.
"I try very hard to understand you Westerners,” she said. “All of you who are here in my country: Americans, British, Irish, Australians, the mixed Europeans. I try to understand the little regard you all seem to have for human life if something stands in the way of what you want."
"I've been trying to understand your people, too,” Morgan said, “since I saw your own father stare so hatefully at you, and you told me how you'd been ostracized by him from your family. I don't understand that. My brother Virgil and I are twins; we were together in the womb, born together. We grew up together as dirt-poor Catholics in a steel-mill town in a place called Pennsylvania. Our father was a drunk; our mother washed other men's dirty, stinking mill clothes to feed us. We got made fun of as free students in a hard-knock Catholic school because of the shabby hand-me-down uniforms we wore. We never got invited to join school teams or clubs, or come to school parties. But we got away from all that. When we were old enough, we joined the Marine Corps. We went through boot camp together, then weapons school, where they taught us to use rifles, pistols, machine guns, flamethrowers, hand-held rocket launchers. Finally we went to sniper school together and learned to kill. We lived by the sniper motto: One shot, one kill. When we left the Corps, we both had confirmed body counts in the high twenties. The day we were discharged, we were recruited for a mercenary team to fight in Zaire. We've been fighting, and killing, ever since."
Morgan fell silent then. The two of them sat there in the shadows, the wine warming them, listening to mixed night sounds of Kabul. Someone, somewhere not too far away, was playing one of the new Western stations on the radio, and the mournful voice of a mournful woman was singing “Blues in the Night.” They listened until the song ended, then Morgan spoke again.
"I know what my brother is accused of doing, and I don't condone what he's done. But he's my brother. I can't disown him like your father has disowned you. It's not in me to do that."
In the darkness, Lee reached out and took his hand.
Later, she moved close to him and he put an arm around her shoulders.
* * * *
Within a week, Michaleen Donahue was almost ready to move.
"The CV-6 Russian half-track,” he reported to Morgan, “is hidden under a camo tarp about five miles from the prison. The Hummers are concealed nearby; we got lucky and stole one of them from the Marines down near Ghazni, so we saved a nice piece of change there. The launchers and rockets are stowed in a house on the outskirts. The K-2 explosives are stashed in another house not far away. All weapons and ammo, including the flamethrower, are at a third location convenient to the other two. And I've got personnel all over the bloody city, paid and waiting to be summoned."
"What kind of men have we got?” Morgan asked.
"Good men, the lot of them. Three have relatives in the prison that they're going to try and spring. Those are Afghanis, of course. Then,” he began to count on his fingers, “I've got two of me own Irish lads from Belfast; two Aussies who've worked together as a team for twelve years; a couple of real killers from Tajikistan who deserted the Russian army; a Pakistani, and two Turks."
"Turks, good.” Morgan nodded. “I'll fight with Turks any day."
"I feel the same way,” Donahue agreed. “We'll put them on the Hummers with ourselves."
"Right. Inside help?"
"Two guards have been bribed. They'll see to it that the Block One prisoners will be let into the courtyard for exercise ten minutes after our mechanized force breaks cover and heads for the prison. All the men will be armed before daybreak and rendevous at two separate locations to be picked up by the Hummers. The K-2 will have been placed on each side of the main gate during the night; I'll carry one igniter switch and one of my Irish lads will have the other one in the second Hummer. Launcher gunners and their rockets will be in slit trenches fifty yards away on each side; they'll take out the gun turrets. The flamethrower man will be on the half-track.” Donahue lighted a fat Cuban cigar. “All's left is for us to set a time."
"You said we had money left?"
"Sure. What we saved by stealing one of the Hummers. What d'you need?"
"I'm thinking some kind of diversion on the side of town farthest from the prison, to distract the civilian law and the local army garrison."
"Good idea. Let's see what we can find here...” Donahue unrolled on his desk a map of the city and began tracing it with one tobacco-stained finger. “Over here we have a sugar-beet plant and a few food-processing and canning factories. There's a rather large woolen mill here. At this point here, farther out, there's an industrial district with some metalworking shops, a lumber mill, a number of woodworking businesses—"
"How big's the lumber mill?"
"It's quite a good size."
"Let's set it on fire."
Donahue frowned. “All the wood's pretty dry this time of year. The place'll go up like a tinderbox. Could spread and burn down a couple square miles of the city. Including a lot of homes."
"Too bad,” Morgan said. “I don't owe these people anything. Let's set it on fire."
Donahue shrugged. “All right. It's your call."
Morgan could tell that the idea didn't sit well with Donahue. But it wasn't Donahue's brother in Pul-e-Charki. “Can you get somebody to do it?” he asked.
"Sure,” the big Irishman said quietly. “I know a couple of Iranian thugs who'll do anything for a laugh."
"Okay. Set that up and then we'll decide on a time."
As Morgan started to leave, Donahue said, “Incidentally..."
Morgan stopped. “What?"
"One of my lads saw you in a restaurant with that radio woman, Liban Adnan."
"Yeah. She's been after me to do an interview on mercenaries. I'm just stringing her along."
"Well, you might want to be extra careful with her. She's a police informant."
* * * *
That night, walking arm in arm back to Lee's apartment after a late dinner, Morgan was trying to decide how to kill her.
Breaking her neck was probably the best way; it was quick, quiet. And with the difference in their size and weight, it would be easy enough.
But he hated like hell to do it.
During the past week they had been developing—something; Morgan wasn't quite sure what. Ever since they had sat in the shadows on the back steps of her building and he had told her about himself and Virgil, and she had ended up with her head on his shoulder, they had both begun feeling—something.
It had started with casual touching, quick, spontaneous hugs, brief kisses on the cheeks, then the lips, lightly at first, barely, then longer, more serious, urgent.
"What are we doing?” she had asked just the previous night. They had stepped into the doorway of a shop to get out of a sudden downpour. She had come into his embrace, her arms crossing behind his neck, her lips and body hungry. And then: “What are we doing?"
"I don't know,” Morgan said. “Are we falling in love?"
Then it was her turn to say, “I don't know."
"I've never had feelings like this before—"
"Nor I—"
"It's a crazy thing to have happen—"
"I know. It's insane—"
"With what's going on and all. It's not rational—"
"No, not rational at all—"
Still, they had kissed some more, and when the rain stopped they had walked with their arms around each other back to her apartment. But she would not let him come in.
"Wait, Morg
an, please. Until tomorrow night. Let's give ourselves a night to think about this."
"I don't have to think about it. I want you."
"And I want you—"
"Then let's go inside.” Gently he took her arm.
"Please, Morgan. Not tonight. Today is Friday. There is a khutba tonight. A special congregational prayer. I want to go to it. To see if perhaps there will be a message in it for me. For us."
"I don't understand,” Morgan said, confused. “I thought you walked away from all that. I thought you were liberated."
"I am. But I still have my own beliefs. So, please. Wait. Until tomorrow night."
So Morgan had waited.
And later that night Donahue had told him she was a police informant.
Now tomorrow night had come. And instead of thinking about making love to this pretty, sad-eyed, anxious young Afghani woman, Morgan was thinking about how to kill her.
At Lee's apartment, she led Morgan into her tiny bedroom and lighted ivory votives in each corner that threw enough flickering yellow light to illuminate a bed made up with pristine white satin hemmed in puce, stitched with gold thread.
"This is our bridal bed,” Lee said softly. “At the khutba last night, the message I got was to follow my heart. That is what I will do.” She touched Morgan's cheek. “You undress while I prepare our bath."
"Our bath?"
"Yes. Before we make love, we must cleanse ourselves together."
At that moment, Morgan desired her with an intensity he had never imagined he could feel. Through the open door to the bathroom, he watched as she ran water into a large old sunken family tub made of blue tiles. Then she began to undress. As did he.
When they stood naked in the now steamy little bathroom, Lee opened a basket and from it sprinkled small red, yellow, and white flowers onto the surface of the bathwater.
"These are wild honisoukes.” she said. “You Westerners call them honeysuckles."
They got into the tub together.
All thoughts of killing her left Morgan's mind.
* * * *
"Everything's ready when you are, lad,” Donahue told Morgan the next day. “The two Iranians are straining on their leash to torch the lumber mill, God forgive us. All the men, weapons, and vehicles are in place, and we're locked and loaded. We just need to give our two inside men one day's notice."
EQMM, September-October 2007 Page 28
