EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Morgan nodded. “I'll set up our exit with Benny Cone. His Kabul contact said he's flying in with a load of hijacked cigarettes tomorrow at noon.” Pausing a beat, he then added, “And just so you know, I'll be taking Liban Adnan with Virgil and me when we go."

  Donahue's ruddy Irish face darkened in a scowl. “How much does she know? And don't lie to me, Morgan."

  "She knows everything, except the day. And the lumber-mill fire."

  "You bloody fool!"

  "Listen to me. It doesn't matter. She's on our side. I guarantee it."

  "You guarantee it! Who the hell do you think you're talking to! I warned you about her! We could be walking right into a trap, all of us!"

  "That won't happen, Donny. Listen to me. I confronted her about being a police informant. She admitted that at times she had cooperated with certain police officials, but only in matters involving drug smugglers, slave traders of children, things like that. Listen, think about it. If she had informed on us, if the military or the prison authorities knew about the plan, they'd already have moved in. They wouldn't wait until we launched our attack; they'd have to take casualties and structural damage that way. They could have taken us anytime without a fight. All they'd have to do is seize our weapons stockpile and we'd be out of business.” He stared down Donahue. “I'm telling you it's all right, Donny. You have my word."

  "I need more than your word to risk my life!” Donahue declared.

  They fell silent for a long moment. The little office was still as death, as if both of them had stopped breathing.

  "I didn't have to tell you about her,” Morgan pointed out.

  "I know that."

  "It should be easy enough for you to find out if there's been a betrayal of any kind."

  Donahue nodded brusquely. “I'll do you the courtesy of checking it out. I'll meet with the two guards I've paid off. If anything's amiss, they'll know it. And if they try to lie to me, I'll know it.” He came over to Morgan and got square in his face. “If you're wrong, lad, you'll never have a chance to be right again."

  It was as clear and cold a threat as Morgan Tenny had ever heard.

  * * * *

  On Sunday at noon, Morgan was back out at the cargo terminal of Kotubkhel Airport. He hung around the Customs area, staying well out of sight so that Moazzah, the agent who had let him into the country, would not see him. Benny Cone's old Constellation touched down an hour late, at one o'clock, and awhile later Morgan saw him come into the terminal and loiter around Moazzah's desk for a few minutes while passing along several parcels of bribery goods. There was a cafe in the passenger terminal next-door, and Morgan gave one of the shoeshine boys near the baggage kiosks a handful of Afghani dollars, equal to about one buck U.S., to take Benny a note he had prepared in advance, which read: MEET ME CAFE. TENNY.

  After watching to make sure the note was delivered, Morgan went over to the passenger terminal. It was a great anthill of people, long queues trying to check in at the counters of Ariana Afghan Airlines, which consisted of several old Air India airbuses repainted and being flown by Russian contract pilots. The only uncrowded counters were where the VIPs and others were checking in at UNHAS to board one of the modern daily United Nations Humanitarian Air Service jets that served Kabul. The terminal itself was filthy and stank of every imaginable odor; its air was infested with large, aggressive flies, and was smoke-filled by many passengers standing obliviously under No Smoking signs. Security guards, all of them in British Royal Air Force uniforms, stood everywhere, armed with H&K G3 automatic weapons.

  Morgan went into the grubby little cafe on the upper level, purchased a bottle of unchilled Fiji water, and found a small table in the back corner, away from pedestrian traffic. Awhile later, Benny Cone sauntered in, located him, and came over to sit down.

  "Well?” Benny asked. “Was I right?"

  "Right about what?"

  "About Kabul. Is it a shit hole or isn't it?"

  "It's a shit hole,” Morgan agreed.

  "Told you so.” The pilot tilted his head. “You ready to get out?"

  "I will be, day after tomorrow, Tuesday. Can you be on the ground ready to fly at four in the afternoon?"

  "I guess. Where to?"

  "Anywhere you can set us down without papers. Karachi, where we can get sea transportation, would be nice; Abu Dhabi, if the Emirates are open; Bahrain or anywhere in the Gulf of Oman. I'll leave it up to you."

  "Okay. You said us. Who's us?"

  "Me, my brother Virgil, a woman, maybe Donahue, if I can talk him into it."

  "Who's the woman?"

  "An Afghani broadcast journalist. She's clean but doesn't have a passport."

  "Who the hell does these days?” Benny grunted. “Baggage?"

  "Carry-ons, two or three personal weapons per man."

  "What can you pay?"

  "What do you want?"

  "What I want is a hundred thousand per person, but what I'll take is five per. Twenty thousand."

  "Deal. Payment in the air?"

  "Deal.” Benny bobbed his chin at the bottle of water Morgan was drinking. “You shouldn't be drinking that shit."

  "Why? It's Fiji water."

  "It's a Fiji water bottle, probably been refilled a dozen times from the tap.” He took a pewter flask from his inside pocket and passed it over. “Here, gargle and rinse your mouth out with this."

  Morgan took a swig, rinsed, gargled, nearly choked, and spat it on the floor behind his chair. “Jesus!” he said. “What the hell is it, cyanide?"

  "You're close. It's Kazakhstan bootleg vodka. Tastes like hell, but it kills bacteria. I never leave home without it.” Benny rose. “I have to get back or Moazzah will piss his pants. He's edgy today.” He took back his flask and held out a hand. “See you Tuesday."

  "Tuesday,” Morgan said.

  * * * *

  Back in town, late in the afternoon, Morgan looked for Donahue at the Dingo Club.

  "He ain't here, mate,” one of the Irishman's cronies told him.

  "Know where I can find him?"

  "I do. But he don't like to be bothered on Sunday afternoons."

  "It's important. He'll want to see me."

  The crony studied Morgan for a moment, then said, “You'll find him at the Italian Embassy, out on Great Massoud Road."

  Morgan frowned. “The Italian Embassy?"

  "That's what I said, mate. But don't expect him to be in a jolly mood. Like I told you, he don't like to be bothered on Sunday afternoons."

  Outside, Morgan found a dilapidated taxi whose driver, incredibly, knew exactly where the Italian Embassy was located. But what in hell, Morgan wondered, would Donahue be doing there? He was an Irish Free State national traveling on Swiss and Swedish passports, none of which had anything to do with Italy. Just what, Morgan puzzled, could the old Black Irishman be up to?

  When he got to the embassy grounds, Morgan found it to be casually guarded by several carabiniere wearing sidearms but without heavier weapons. He was courteously directed toward a small group of people congregating in a flowery ornamental garden near a small chapel. One of the people was Donahue, clean-shaven, wearing a starched white shirt, appearing unarmed, talking to two nuns. When he saw Morgan, he smiled, excused himself, and came over to him.

  "What the hell are you doing here?” he asked irritably. Morgan, seeing a priest join the two nuns and go into the chapel, quickly said, “Going to Mass. You?"

  "Well, I'm going to Mass too,” the Irishman growled. “But I didn't expect to see you here.” He squinted suspiciously. “How'd you find the place anyway? It's the only Catholic church in the whole of Afghanistan."

  "Taxi driver told me."

  "I've a feeling you're lying."

  Morgan shrugged. “Why would I lie?"

  "Well, tell me, then, Morgan Tenny, if you go to Mass, who will you pray to?"

  "The usual people. Jesus. Blessed Mother Mary—"

  "No, no,” Donahue challenged. “I mean, who specifically?"
>
  Morgan caught on quickly and outsmarted him. “St. Philomena,” he said confidently.

  "Ah,” said Donahue, surprised, a little chagrined. “The Patroness of Desperate Causes. A good choice."

  Morgan tilted his head. “And you, Donny? Who do you pray to?"

  "Me?” The big Irishman shrugged. “I go straight to the top. Jesus himself. I used to pray to St. Michael the Archangel, you know, to protect me in battle. But he let me get shot by an Orangeman in Derry some years ago, so I dropped him. Now it's between me and Jesus on the Cross. My best hope at this point is to get into purgatory.” He patted Morgan on the shoulder. “Yours too, I'd wager."

  "I'm not even counting on purgatory,” Morgan said. “I expect to go directly to hell.” He put his own hand on Donahue's shoulder. “And you will, too, Donny. Neither of us will ever see heaven."

  From inside the chapel, chimes sounded. The two men fell in behind others and entered, dipped a fingertip in holy water, walked down the narrow center aisle, genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and entered a pew made of hardwood where they knelt and closed their eyes in prayer.

  There was nothing much different about them from the rest of the mixture of U.N. employees, Europeans, and Americans in the congregation, except for the few whispered words they exchanged upon entering.

  "Are we set?” Morgan had asked.

  "We're set,” Donahue said.

  "Okay,” Morgan told him. “We go day after tomorrow."

  "Tuesday?"

  "Tuesday. At noon."

  Their killing schedule was on, now firmed up in the little Catholic chapel.

  * * * *

  Morgan spent all day Monday and Monday night with Lee.

  During the day they walked around, exploring the parts of the once-great city that were being rebuilt after being pillaged, looted, and desecrated first by Russian soldiers, then by Taliban officials, finally by rogue mercenaries from around the world.

  "Not all of it is the wreckage you see around you,” Lee told him. They were having a Western lunch at the new Marco Polo restaurant. All the patrons were Westerners, with not an Afghani to be seen. “I will show you something very beautiful that is still intact after four centuries."

  After lunch she took him there, to Babur's Gardens, a terraced hillside resplendent with flowers, leading up to a pristine white mosque and a small marble gravestone, and two others on the terraced garden just above it.

  "This is the burial place of Babur, who founded the Mogul Empire—not,” she emphasized with a pointed finger, “the dreaded Mongol Empire, which was something altogether different. Of course, it is true that Babur was a great warrior and led his people in overcoming Turks and Indians and many others, but he was also a very gentle man, a poet, a writer of history. Nearly everything good in our culture began under his rule. This,” she drew in the gardens, the mosque, the gravestones with a sweep of her arm, “he designed himself more than four thousand years ago as the final resting place for himself, his wife, and their daughter."

  "It's very beautiful,” Morgan said, impressed.

  But the memory of the place became tainted in his mind later that day when they walked past the ruins of the Kabul Museum and Lee said sadly, “It was once one of Asia's greatest museums. Now see what unscrupulous men, vulgar men, have reduced it to."

  Men like me, Morgan thought, oddly uncomfortable.

  In the evening they had dinner at the elegant Khyber Restaurant, eating a mixture of Western and Afghan foods. They were both aware now that the hours before Tuesday were passing quickly.

  "At times like this,” Lee asked, “do you worry much?"

  "No,” Morgan said. “Worry is like thinking about a debt you may not have to pay.” It was a lie. He always worried. Before a battle, he felt as if live things were crawling around in his intestines, eating away at them.

  Later he told her, “Tomorrow pack only a small bag. Stay home all day. I'll come for you in the afternoon.” And he asked, “You're still sure about going?"

  "Yes, still sure."

  "You may never see your family again."

  "I never see them now."

  Walking to her apartment after dinner, he admitted, “I lied to you earlier. I do worry.” For some reason he felt sad. “Can we bathe together again tonight?"

  Lee touched his face with both palms. “Of course, my love."

  Going into her building, neither of them suspected that they were being watched.

  * * * *

  At ten the next morning, Morgan strode into the Dingo Club, two pistols and ammo in a belt around his waist, an Uzi 9mm machine gun and web belt of extra magazines slung over one shoulder, carrying the Mossberg shotgun in one hand.

  The club, not yet open, was empty except for Donahue at his usual table. Halfway back to it, Morgan stopped cold. Donahue had a glass and bottle in front of him, telling Morgan that something was very wrong. No professional soldier drank before a fight; you didn't want alcohol in your system if you might be wounded. Walking on up to the table, Morgan stood there, waiting for Donahue to speak.

  "The operation's off, lad,” the Irishman finally said.

  "What's happened, Donny?"

  Donahue looked up at him forlornly, his expression desolate, eyes mournful.

  "Your brother Virgil was put on trial at seven o'clock this morning. He was found guilty at eight. And he was hanged at nine."

  Morgan was thunderstruck. “Virgil—? He's been—hanged?"

  "I just got the news a bit ago. I'm sorrier than I can say, lad."

  Shock overwhelming him, Morgan sat down heavily on one of the chairs, laying the Mossberg on the table, dropping the Uzi and web belt to the floor next to him. His lips parted wordlessly, incredulously.

  "One of the guards I bribed got word to me,” Donahue said. “I'm truly, truly sorry, Morgan. I really wanted to have a go at this one. With you. Your brother. I was gonna make it my last big raid. I really wanted it—” Tears came to the big Irishman's eyes. He poured a drink, but did not raise the glass. Instead he angrily propelled both glass and bottle off the table with the sweep of an arm. “Oh, damn them! God damn them to hell!"

  The two men sat in silence, not looking at each other, for what seemed like a long time. Around them, club employees began to straggle in and begin making the club ready for its noon opening.

  Hanged, Morgan thought, shaking his head dully. It was almost too heinous to imagine. Virgil, hanged.

  Finally, Morgan rose from his chair. “We're set to fly out with Benny Cone at four, if you want to come along."

  Donahue shook his head slightly. “Thanks anyway, lad."

  Leaving the Mossberg and Uzi and ammo, Morgan walked out of the club.

  * * * *

  At Lee's apartment, the door was ajar. Frowning, Morgan drew his Glock, thumbed the safety off, and eased inside. Lee's father was sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead as if in a stupor.

  "Where is she?” Morgan asked.

  The father smiled slightly. “I watched you last night,” he said. “I saw you come in here with her and I waited all night until you came out this morning. I know that you have dishonored her and she has dishonored my family. Shame has been cast over me. Now that shame is erased."

  Morgan's already ashen face blanched even more pallid and horror clouded his eyes. He went into the bedroom.

  Lee lay on her back, still wearing the plain white cotton gown she had pulled on to say goodbye to him at her door. Her face was whiter even than Morgan's, whiter than the white cotton gown, whiter than the pristine white satin sheets on the bed. Her throat had been cut and the blood in which she lay had dried almost black under her head.

  Morgan sighed a great, hollow sigh and thought: This is my punishment for the life I've led. He felt deep remorse that Lee had been punished too.

  Walking back to where her father sat, Morgan raised the Glock and put the muzzle between the man's eyes.

  "Shoot me,” Lee's father said. “Kill me. I do no
t care. I did what was right. I face death without shame."

  Morgan thumbed the safety of the Glock back on. “No,” he said. “You live with it."

  He left the man sitting there.

  * * * *

  Stretched out on the empty cargo deck of the Constellation about five minutes after it was airborne, Morgan heard Benny Cone call back to him from the cockpit.

  "Hey, Tenny! We got off by the skin of our teeth! They just closed the airport!"

  Morgan went forward to the cockpit. “What happened?"

  "It just came over the air from the tower. There's some kind of rebel army attacking Pul-e-Charki prison. The place is under siege. Prisoners are escaping like ants."

  Son of a bitch, Morgan thought. Donny's doing it anyway. He's getting his last big raid.

  "The radio say anything about a big fire on the other side of the city? A lumberyard?” he asked Cone.

  "Nope. Just the attack on the prison."

  Good for you, Michaleen, Morgan thought. Just you against the prison, with no diversionary tactic. One on one. Way to go.

  Going back aft in the plane, Morgan stretched out again. For a brief moment, he felt guilty about not being there with Donahue. Then he thought of Lee and the guilt faded.

  Lee would forever be with him.

  And he would never kill again.

  (c)2007 by Clark Howard

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  SCREAM QUEEN by Ed Gorman

  Booklist recently called Ed Gorman a “modern master,” and his latest Sam McCain novel, Fools Rush In (Pegasus), received a starred review in Library Journal. The following Gorman story will also appear soon in the limited-edition collection Midnight Premiere, edited by Tom Piccirilli (CD Publications). An advance review from Booklist raves: “There isn't a single unrewarding entry [in the book]!"

  Allow me to introduce myself. My name's Jason Fanning. Not that I probably need an introduction. Not to be immodest but I did, after all, win last year's Academy Award for Best Screenplay.

  Same with my two friends: Bill Leigh, the Academy Award-winning actor, and Spence Spencer, who won the Academy Award two years ago for Best Director. People with our credentials don't need any introductions, right?