Pashtun

by Ron Lealos

  “Mihad loved the chance ta’ speak English,” Washington said. “Of course, his AK was always pointing in our general direction, and we had to pass through a half-dozen Taliban checkpoints. The hadjis had all been told two infidels in a 6x6 were allowed through.”

  Miles of white blossoms. For every half-acre, a jerib in Pashto, the farmer could harvest more than 60 pounds of opium, worth about $5,000. If the grower was to plant wheat instead—which is less drought resistant, harder to grow, and more disease prone—he might net $100.

  The farmers, most of whom had gone into debt during the opium-growing ban, were now repaying loans and beginning to get back to a normal life, even if it meant lots of armed men in the neighborhood.

  A cough. Finnen was getting anxious. Surprisingly, he hadn’t asked any questions.

  “Is there an end to this tale?” he asked.

  The storytelling made Washington more relaxed. The longer we listened, the more confident he seemed he would see the sky again. He rubbed his scalp and slouched further.

  “I’m giving ya’all a primer on the industry,” he said. “Background. You might need it to understand what we’re up against.”

  Already part of the team. And he still couldn’t be quite sure he’d been drafted.

  Fidgety, Finnen cracked his knuckles. Unless he was on stage, singing the songs of Ireland, he was impatient with the world.

  “Time and tide awaits no man,” Finnen said. “Get on with it, lad.”

  Washington grinned.

  “Keep your kilt on,” Washington said. “I’m gettin’ to the important stuff.”

  Finnen jumped to his feet, face turning red to the point his freckles disappeared.

  “Kilt?” he screamed. “No good Irishman would wear that faggoty-ass shite. The girly skirts are for Scottish queers. Not men. Don’t you ever be sayin’ somethin’ as distasteful as that again. I’ll have to take your other ear.”

  Turning his head in my direction, Washington winked, making me a co-conspirator.

  “No disrespect,” Washington said, looking at Finnen. “Jivin’ with ya.” He turned back to me. “When we got through the fields, we came to a walled complex. Guards and razor wire. Inside, we were told to park next to a covered area where big drums of opium were being brewed into heroin. All it takes is boilin’ the opium in water and lye. The test of its purity is done with a pH meter. The Afghans used to send the opium direct to Iran, Turkey, Pakistan, and Kazakhstan for processing. But there’s extra money in refinin’ it yourself. Plus, you can ship more heroin than opium. Bigger payday. A half-dozen turbaned mujahedeen were stirring with long tree branches over a fire like they were cookin’ lamb stew for the troops. After the liquid was burned away, they used a car jack to press the opium into bricks and squeeze the last water out. They did that a few times until it was all bone dry. Another group of beards was wrappin’ the heroin in colored paper and stamping it with an old hand press. No women or children around.”

  Back at the desk, Finnen was tapping his bush boots on the dirt floor.

  “So, did you meet the chief?” he asked. “Celebrate a successful deal with a cup of that awful shite they call tea?”

  “There was a man in a full white robe and skull cap watchin’ from across the courtyard,” Washington said. “He was cleaner than the rest of the donkey herders. No one approached him. It was obvious he was the mullah.”

  “Wahidi?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, but I did hear that name in the middle of all the Pashto trash the slaves were talkin’.”

  “Arms?”

  “They were as well outfitted as a squad of jar heads. AKs, H & Ks, mortars, RPGs, M240 machine guns. All the gear for a fun day in the rock pile.” Washington stretched his legs. “There was a guy in the corner. It looked to me like he had bricks of US-made C-4. He was bein’ very careful, sticking it into an old car battery. If somebody would’a turned the key on that one, I wouldn’t be here talkin’ with you.”

  “How many men?” I asked.

  “At least twenty-five outside. Four or five sentries on the walls. Everyone was within arm’s length of a weapon.”

  “What about Thorsten?”

  “Like he was at Hooters. Big dumbfuck eyes wide. Lots of, ‘did you see that?’ and ‘holy fuckin’ shit.’ When we di-di’ed out’a there, he couldn’t stop talkin’.”

  “Any ideas about him?”

  “Wouldn’t trust him even with a distant cousin. The greed was oozing from him like milk from a poppy pod.”

  “What next?”

  “Didn’t take more than an hour. They loaded us up. Used old ammo cans for shippin’ the skag. Covered ’em with empty crates of dried milk and food supplies. Lots of bowing and ‘Allah’ bullshit. Then we hit the dirt road to Zareh Sharan and onto the highway toward Kandahar. Still had to go back through the Taliban checkpoints. No problem. It was scarier gettin’ past the allies’ guard posts. But someone left all the paperwork we needed in the 6x6’s glove box. We were on a mercy mission to a refugee camp south of Qalat, about two hundred miles away. That truck didn’t have no springs, either. My back still feels like it got run over by a BV10 Viking tank.”

  Washington stretched and groaned, the pain of his ear and leg wounds seemingly replaced by the memory of hours in a stiff military vehicle not designed for comfort.

  “We got to the rendezvous just before dusk,” Washington said. “Met up with a couple’a supposed pipeline workers in brand-new Ford SUVs. Stuffed ’em full of dope and threw the other shit out. Never got their names. It wasn’t cordial. If I had to guess, they were Company men. Or contractors. And I think the junk was flyin’ out on one of the cargo planes coming in to keep the pipeline construction supplied. Them planes mostly go in and out of Ramstein in Germany. They directed us to a pipeline camp a few klicks away, and we got some grub and a cot. Left in the morning and were back at the base by mid-afternoon.”

  Not the time and place for a full debriefing. There were lots of details left out. I felt Washington was being truthful. The logistics made sense. Just not who was orchestrating. But the operation likely had the Company’s signature at the bottom.

  The Asian-Pacific Pipeline plans were on hold, but the Trans-Afghanistan natural gas line was being secretly built, linking the Caspian Sea wells in Turkmenistan to India. A consortium of British and other companies were funding the construction. It was rumored the petroleum-pipeline cartel was considering using some of the same routes, abandoning the more northerly Asian-Pacific routes. Where there was money to be made on this scale, American business interests couldn’t be far behind, especially if the word “oil” was even whispered. With Karzai’s history in Unocal and the Company, it would be easy to find cooperation; it was simple to fly out dope with no customs checks and the right people waiting on the German end.

  Several minutes went by. I stared at the wall where the spider had made it to the corner of the ceiling and was waiting for a meal. I hoped he caught one of the sand flies that circled in the gloom.

  “You’ve never heard any names in all this? Or met anyone but couriers or delivery boys?” I asked.

  “No,” Washington said.

  More time. Whatever happened would take some thought and would certainly be extremely dangerous. The Company didn’t like anyone mucking about in their plots. I questioned whether this was a rogue operation or if it was sanctioned at a level many pay grades above mine.

  Finnen emptied his Dasani and watched me.

  “What do you think, Morgan?” he asked. “If what Washington’s sayin’ is God’s truth, there’s nasties out there building a pot’a gold. And sellin’ aid to the enemy. I don’t believe Dunne is up on the scheme’a things. He wouldn’t have sent us to visit Washington if he was. Thorsten might be a problem. He could be plannin’ a hijacking.”

  Too many threads. I scratched my beard.

  “Let’s get Washington back to base,” I said, standing. “Talk it over with Dunne. I think you’re right—Dunne’s p
robably not involved.” I turned to Washington. “You’re now part of this op, Washington. We can try to get you reassigned to the spook team. We’ve gotta be careful. If too many people know, a wrong one might hear. But we can make sure there are operations where you’re requested. In the meantime, you don’t talk to anyone about this. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Washington said. “I want to find out what’s going on as much as you. Who’s been usin’ me.”

  It was still daylight when we walked out the door, rifles in hands and looking as if another patrol was successfully completed with no casualties except Washington’s leg and an inability to hear from his left ear. We met up with the Rangers a few blocks away and mounted up for the short trip to Gardez. This time, Finnen came along.

  Back at the base outside Jalalabad, Finnen and I were alone with Dunne in spook central. Washington stayed in Gardez, checking his email and anticipating a short-term transfer to Tora Bora. Fully debriefed and cleaned up, we drank cold Buds from the small refrigerator and waited for Dunne’s opinion, knowing full well his clearance was higher than ours. He could be aware of some top-secret trickery not worthy of sharing with blue-collar field agents like Finnen and me. If that was so, and we had learned too much, we might be rotated home in a body bag.

  Nothing of any consequence had changed in the tent. The laptop still sat in front of Dunne like it was attached to his fingers. No more snapshots of somebody’s wife and family. The air hadn’t been recycled and smelled of the same sand and sweat as the last time. Outside, Birds came and went, fluttering the tent sides. Only the guards were different, replaced by two helmetless NFL linemen in fatigues without nametags and sporting reflective sunglasses. Bench jockeys, itching to get in the game, but trying to act like they were on the first team. Dunne sat in his folding chair, no smile showing off his years of good dental hygiene.

  “This Washington cat,” he said. “You believe him?”

  The Bud was dry. I crinkled the can and tossed it toward a full wastebasket. Rim shot. It joined the ones Finnen had already drained with a metallic clang.

  “Yup,” I said. “No hesitation in the telling. No false bravado. No darting eyes or sweating. Of course, we didn’t take along any babble juice. Didn’t bring much pain either, if you call a slice with a Ka-Bar and the loss of a chunk of his ear ‘nothin’ much.’ We could ask him in and dust off the waterboard. Everybody thinks we’re experts anyway.” I walked over to the fridge for another beer. “Maybe a lie detector. But it wouldn’t work. I think Washington has a sphincter of steel. Even I can fool the chickenshit things.”

  A night class at Camp Perry taught us how to trick a lie detector in case we encountered the machine before somebody beat us to death. It was a short course. The obvious point was the Agency and our country didn’t want the hired help to divulge any secrets. Die? Better than the dishonor of blabbing out of school. One of the primary methods in fooling the detector was to tighten the sphincter, along with slightly altering breathing and doing times tables in your head for distraction.

  The more I thought about it, the more I believed Washington wasn’t lying. Since field agents often had to quickly decide if a blind date was telling the truth, we spent more time at Camp Perry learning how to detect lies than hide them. Washington didn’t exhibit the typical stiffness of the deceitful or scratch more than any other unwashed grunt. He made eye contact and showed lots of hand movements, even venturing to flip Finnen the finger a few times after his handcuffs were off. Every emotion was timed with the event and met immediately with a natural response. His whole face, not just his lips, smiled. He never turned away or tried to shrink his body. He didn’t repeat our words when responding—“Did you steal any of the money before you delivered it to Chinar?” “No, I didn’t steal any of the money before I delivered it to Chinar.” He just answered no when I asked him. Not a defensive word. If anything, he went on the attack, like when he threatened he was “gonna fuck up your leprechaun ass” after Finnen joked about Washington’s heritage as an Afro-American welfare baby. He contracted his denials. “I didn’t smoke none’a that shit,” rather than “I did not smoke any of the opium.” He did talk more than I sensed was natural for him. But that was at my prodding and to piss off Finnen. Silence is uncomfortable for the liar. It also could have been Washington wanted to eke out a few more minutes breathing the thin air. When I abruptly changed topics by asking him what his golf handicap was, he didn’t go along. “Don’t be talkin’ shit. That’s a white-bread thing.” He didn’t even shove Tiger back in my face.

  Filling time with idle chatter or speculation wasn’t Dunne’s thing. He stood up and went to the map.

  “From what he told you,” Dunne said, “the pick-up must have been about here.” He pointed to a spot southeast of Gardez. Finnen and I walked over and looked past his shoulder. “And the drop-off here.” He moved his finger in a fairly straight line to the northeast of Kandahar. “Somebody was well connected on both sides to get him that far without having his ass shot up or meeting a squad of 31 echoes.” MPs.

  “No doubt,” I said. “That’s more evidence something bigger and smarter than us is afoot.”

  Beside me, Finnen grinned.

  “Fairies and elves across the land,” he said. “And dastardly plots. Who do you think’s behind this, Dunne? It’s beyond the likes of myself and Morgan.”

  Dunne just stared at the map as if it held the location of Murphy’s Gold between the colored pins. Finnen went for another beer, and I walked back to my chair.

  “Before we go much further,” I said, “we better do something about Thorsten.”

  Dunne faced me, tapping a pen on the back of his hand.

  “You’re right, Morgan,” he said. “I don’t think Thorsten has any intel of value. He was probably recruited for muscle, not brain matter. I checked him out more thoroughly when you were in Gardez. Don’t know how he’s stayed out of Leavenworth. They won’t be missing him at Harvard.”

  The beer snapped open, and Finnen raised his can in a salute.

  “Cheers, mates,” he toasted. “I want to cut in on this jig. You boys call the tune, and I’ll dance along. Thorsten sounds like the kinda fella who needs some special attention. The kind I like to give more than Morgan. He’s got a terrible case a’ the conscience lately.”

  It wasn’t so much conscience as doubt.

  In college, I’d taken a poly-sci class from Professor Swartzman, an acknowledged lefty. He often ranted about the evil influence of the Agency on the world and recounted many of the less deadly dirty tricks. Like removing people from the cartoon Hollywood version of Orwell’s Animal Farm and replacing them with pigs so as not to disturb the public. Or pressuring Hollywood to include more wealthy-looking African Americans in the movies to counter the Communist picture of black degradation and exploitation. Or paying intellectuals out of money stolen from the Marshall Plan to further the Company’s agenda. Not to mention the wars started in Nicaragua and other developing countries. And the assassinations. The list of government-sanctioned foul play seemed endless. After a while, we all became shell shocked rather than outraged. But, recently, many of the stories were blooming again . . . like black poppies.

  Back at the computer, Dunne was typing.

  “Looks like he’s still here,” Dunne said. “I can make a few calls, and you and Finnen can team up with him in the morning. What cave would you like to visit?”

  Thanks to an earlier hot shower, I was feeling like a newby. I stroked the thigh of my clean fatigues.

  “Don’t matter,” I said. “You set the itinerary. In the meantime, pull up Thorsten’s bio. It might have something we can use.”

  Dunne typed more keys.

  “From California,” he said. “Out in the valley. Two brothers and two sisters. Parents both alive. High school grad with no distinctions except the football team. Didn’t score high enough on his SATs to further his education other than a few months in a community college. Nothing much here except a couple of
investigations for prisoner brutality and disorderly conduct. No convictions.”

  “Can you hack into his email?” I asked.

  Dunne looked up at me, the first crooked smile of the day showing his fangs.

  “Now that would be illegal,” Dunne said. He returned to the screen and began typing.

  Minutes passed. Finnen sipped his beer, slowing down now that he had a few dead soldiers in the wastebasket. Earlier, I sent the message I had composed to my mother and now wondered if Dunne read it. Probably. Being in the Company didn’t carry any confidentiality provisions, except from my end. Any snooping in my emails would most likely lead to the conclusion they were written in code and I was a counter-agent. They were too saccharine. I started constructing another in my head.

  Hi, mom. Thanks for the message back. Glad to read Uncle Phil is feeling better. Tell him to quit smoking. Dad must be happy getting the truck running again. And that darn cat should stop running away or Mrs. Skinner will have a stroke. Too bad about the Wildcats. I was hoping they would have a better season. That was quite a tale about Bob and Sally losing each other in Disney World. I’m sure their adventure will only make the marriage stronger. I’ve been really busy. With the economy going sour, we’re having to search for more tax breaks and write-downs. Did get out on the Potomac last weekend. Too windy for an amateur like me. Had to make a dash for shore. Visiting a friend from California tomorrow morning. But, mostly it’s work and finding ways to save the company money. Sorry about the cell phone. I’ll try to call you next week. Give my love to everyone and tell them how much I miss those Kansas corn fields and the best bacon in the world.