Pashtun

by Ron Lealos

  The blood was already coagulated, leaving a stripe with bubbles around his neck. Schultz crossed his legs as if we were having a friendly discussion on the superiority of the Aryan race.

  “Proceed,” he said.

  “I’m willing to trade truth for truth, not lies,” I said. “As you probably suspect, we are from one of the intelligence services of the United States government. We know there is no connection between you and anyone in power in Washington.” No rapid blinking or tic on my face. “We are not on a social visit, only to get information. I wrote the book on modern torture, and you wouldn’t be a successful candidate. What I will do, now that I’ve been honest and cutting your balls off won’t work, is tell you what is going to happen if you don’t cooperate.”

  I leaned forward and took the Hush Puppy off my thigh, still pointing the barrel at Schultz’s damaged face.

  “My organization will present undeniable proof that Wintershall, directly through your personal management and coordination, has been buying heroin from the Taliban and selling it to drug lords to distribute throughout the country and the world. The money delivered to the Taliban has been used to buy weapons that have killed Coalition forces, including German. The profit made in marketing the heroin has kept Wintershall operating and allowed the pipeline construction to continue. It is about greed. And treason. Every one of those is a statement of fact. Correct?”

  No smirk. No protest. Just a stare as if Schultz believed his eyes could blow me away like a frag.

  “And if there is involvement by an intelligence organization inside the United States government?” Schultz asked.

  “We both know there is not,” I said, even if I didn’t. “If there were, it is too heinous to believe, and it could be denied with incontrovertible proof, all focused back at you and Wintershall. You must know how it works. Germans have never been as good at spin and public relations as American intelligence branches. In the US, it’s called CYA. Cover Your Ass. And spy agencies are the experts.”

  The time for Schultz’s next meeting might be approaching. I had no idea how long his ten o’clock was scheduled to last. But I didn’t want to stay much longer.

  Rubbing one of his scars, Schultz was in no rush, considering his options. I looked at my watch and whispered, “Tick tock, tick tock.” After nearly a minute, Schultz put his good hand down.

  “I will give you answers under one condition,” Schultz said. “None of this must ever come out. I understand the project has been terminated on your end. We will act as if none of this happened, including today. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I said, wondering how he knew so quickly. His couriers could have experienced an unfortunate rocket attack in a land known for such incidents. I didn’t believe Abernathy would be stupid enough to inform him. “But I have one more condition. We know your contact in Afghanistan is General Dostum. We do not want him to hear the news that anything has changed. Clear?”

  “Ja.”

  “You have not spoken to him in the last few days and he doesn’t realize the project is compromised?”

  “I have not, and I just found out myself a few minutes before your arrival. There has been no communication with General Dostum.”

  “Who else knew about this at Wintershall?”

  “No one above me. I brought in the money, and it was deposited in a special fund that was not questioned. No one wanted to know.”

  “Who did you sell the heroin to?”

  “The Russian Mafia.”

  “There are American oil companies supporting the pipeline. Was anyone from any of those in on the scheme?”

  “No.”

  “Was Karzai involved?”

  “I do not know. General Dostum has a Swiss account where his percentage is deposited. I am unaware of how he distributes the money.”

  “There is an American soldier named Captain Abernathy who was monitoring things in Afghanistan. Was there anyone else?”

  “He was the only one we used. More people would have brought unacceptable risk.”

  “No other Americans were involved in any capacity.”

  “None.”

  “You didn’t meet anyone from the US Government when you were in Qalat?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Name.”

  “I wasn’t given one.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Average height. Good condition. Short brown hair.”

  “Blue eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “Some of the American couriers had died. He was concerned about that and other logistics.”

  “Did he tell you to stop the killing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “Nein. I left it up to Klaus to decide if the couriers were trustworthy. He claimed they were not and needed to be eliminated.”

  It was just a slap. But it was with the barrel of the Hush Puppy across Schultz’s ugly scar. He pulled his head back, not crying out. At best, I should have knee-capped him. No time and the wound would surely lead to a red alert from Helga or whoever entered the room next.

  From his position by the window, and having been unbelievably silent for longer than I’d ever seen except when he was passed out, Finnen said, “Boss, there’s a limo that just pulled up. Four very well dressed men got out and are headed for the lobby. I think they could be Schultzy boy’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Final questions,” I said, making sure Schultz could see the pistol pointed at his head. “You have no connections to any intelligence agencies of the United States?”

  “I do not,” Schultz said.

  “But you believe they are aware of this conspiracy?”

  “I do.”

  “This is what’s going to happen,” I said. “We will walk out of here having completed a successful and productive meeting. We will not be needing transportation to the airport or anywhere else. You will clean yourself up in the executive bathroom I’m pretty sure is through the door at the far end and carry on with your day. You will not put out an alarm to detain us. You will assume further instructions from anyone using the password “Gertrude” came from us and will be strictly followed. That includes answering any questions. If you do not, our contacts within the BND go to the very top, and there are publications around the globe that would just die for this story. You will be under surveillance, and any deviations will be immediately noticed and punished. If you are a good boy, your stellar reputation as a patriot will remain intact. So will Wintershall’s. Agreed?”

  No hesitation.

  “Agreed,” Schultz said.

  “There’s another American saying you should get to know. You’re my bitch.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. Close your eyes,” I said, lifting the pistol and standing.

  “What?”

  “Close your eyes. Now.”

  He did.

  “Turn your head and press your face hard against the back of the chair.”

  Awkwardly, he did.

  I stepped to him and jammed the tip of the Hush Puppy into his right ear and covered his left with my other hand.

  I nodded at Finnen.

  Soundlessly, the Irishman walked to his open briefcase. Dunne had sent us with other surprises, including a package of shaped C-4, a remote detonator, and a roll of duct tape. There wasn’t enough plastic explosive to demolish the entire building, but, if the right button was pushed, the structure would no longer have a fourteenth floor.

  First, Finnen sliced off a few lengths of tape with his Ka-Bar. Then, he picked up the C-4 that had been molded like a flat cutting board and the detonator. He quietly walked to a portrait of a man with a silver beard, gold-buttoned tunic, and unframed glasses like Schultz’s. He could have been a long-dead Kaiser or Schultz’s great grandfather. The painting was at the far end of the room, away from the windows. Within seconds, Finnen had attached the bomb and the detonator behind the artw
ork and gave Washington and me a bow just like Helga’s. He went to the briefcases and closed them, taking both and joining Washington by the door.

  Pulling the pistol out of Herr Schultz’s ear and my other hand away, I stepped back.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  He did.

  “In case you were thinking of disrupting our departure,” I said, “there is a bomb hidden in the room. It will kill anyone on this floor if it explodes and probably those a few floors down. If we are prevented in any way from leaving, it will be detonated. You will find it soon enough, but not before we are far away from the blast area. We have also concealed a listening device. If you give orders to evacuate, leave the room, or make any move to have us stopped, the bomb will explode. The range of the detonator and the bug is several miles, so don’t think about intercepting us after we are off the premises. Thank you for your time. I believe your eleven o’clock is waiting.”

  We stuffed our guns and Ka-Bars under our uniform tops and went out the door.

  Outside, there was no sign of Helga. She was probably greeting the new arrivals. Not wanting to chance that Schultz would trap us in the elevator, we took the stairs. In the lobby, Helga and the eleven o’clock were just entering the lift.

  Finnen couldn’t resist. This time his wolf whistle was piercing.

  The rain hadn’t stopped. We bypassed the chopper and walked to Schumacher. In two minutes, we were at the corner of the boulevard where it intersected with Weserstrasse. The car was exactly where it was supposed to be.

  No Globemaster. A company Gulfstream was waiting for us at the private-jet section of the Frankfurt airport. Again, no passport or customs control. We boarded and were on our way to Afghanistan within two hours of leaving the Wintershall headquarters. This time, there was an open bar.

  Finnen went straight for the hard stuff, forsaking his darling Guiness. The bottle of Bushmills was half empty before the jet could reach cruising altitude. There was even ice in a silver canister, but Finnen drank whiskey neat, claiming if he wanted “piss in it, I’d do it meself.” Washington had a vodka tonic with a slice of fresh lemon, while I nursed a chilled Diet Coke. Not a righteous abolitionist, I wanted to think without dissolving into the plush leather seats like Finnen was about to do.

  If the Globemaster was utilitarian, the Gulfstream was decadent. The cabin would luxuriously house two Afghan families. No pissing in a slit in the floor, either. The restroom was equipped with soft cloth towels, designer colognes, hair spray, shaving gear, tooth paste, Burt’s Bees soap, and more rich-people consumables than most residents of Kabul would see in their lives. When it was sleep time, the soft chairs reclined to flat, and feather pillows were available on a wooden cabinet at the front below copies of the most important daily newspapers and a sprinkling of magazines like The Economist and US News and World Report. No glaring overhead lights. The cabin was muted, and the Monet print on the front wall was barely visible. Finger-food platters were set out on the bar and provided for anyone with a vegetarian taste or enough meat to fill a lioness. Finnen was drinking his supper.

  “Say Finnen,” I said, “Did you think your covert skills mean you have super powers? The Invisible Spook?”

  “What do ya mean, lad?” Finnen asked. He was sprawled in his seat as if his bones were liquid, taking care not to spill a drop of his whiskey. That would be considered heresy.

  The ice and Diet Coke–filled glass was getting low. I poured in more and tossed the empty into a bronzed waste basket.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t believe I saw you carving on those very expensive and classy cherry wood walls at Dieter’s office,” I said.

  “Saw it, too,” Washington said. He was now holding a Grolsch in his hand, the vodka drained, and the cold not yet evaporated on the green glass. He smiled. It was his first since we touched down on German soil hours ago.

  “Twas nothin’,” Finnen said, adding another splash of Bushmill’s to his tumbler.

  “So what does P.O. stand for?” I asked. “I know who Helga is. But you carved ‘P.O. loves Helga’ inside a heart with an arrow through it.” I took a sip of my non-alcoholic drink. “Are P.O. the initials of your real name?” I put the glass down on a pewter coaster engraved with the logo of the Central Intelligence Agency. Finnen had already snuck two into his pocket.

  “If I told you, you’d just call me a poofter,” he said.

  “You know, of course,” I said, “that was childish and unprofessional. Like the time you shit on the rug in that hadji’s apartment in Jalalabad. I half-expected you to smear it on the wall with a note that read ‘Finnen was here.’”

  “I always want to leave ’em with somethin’ to remember me by,” Finnen said. “Besides, my stomach was actin’ up from that lamb kebab we had for lunch.”

  Washington was staring at his beer, not really engaged in the conversation until this point.

  “Fuckin’ krauts,” he said. “Hate them people. Egotistical, self-righteous bastards. The whole damn country is nuthin’ but neo-Nazis.”

  Turning to his now scowling face, I asked, “Do I sense some inner turmoil? A hidden agenda buried deep in your psyche?”

  “You ain’t no shrink,” Washington said, his eyes on me. “And I wasn’t molested as a child. My momma breast fed me, and Daddy didn’t abandon us to live in no crack house. So, fuck off, Morgan.”

  The back of the leather seat sighed in pleasure when I sat up straight.

  “I detect a level of anger that’s not healthy to keep bottled up, Washington,” I said. “Would you care to expand on your feelings?”

  “Yes, Washington,” Finnen said. “Who pissed in your suds?”

  “Don’t wanna talk about nuthin’,” Washington said. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

  “It’s a long flight to Kabul,” Finnen said. “And we don’t charge by the hour.”

  “At least talking it through might shed light on some of the issues that are holding you back from your true essence,” I said.

  “If I needed to have this conversation,” Washington said, “it wouldn’t be with you two freaks. I’d go have a chat with a bartender. One of ya shits on the rug, and the other shoots people in the nuts.”

  “I only did that once,” Finnen said. “Usually I just piss.” He rubbed his stomach. “Tummy problems.”

  “Can’t say it was only the one time for me,” I said. “But they all were bad guys.”

  The ride was smooth and felt like we were skiing in the Alps, not even enough turbulence to make waves in my drink. I waited for Washington to say more, but he was lost in the cloth-covered ceiling.

  “Since the moment you heard we were going to Germany,” I said, “you’ve been as grumpy as my grandfather after his chemo treatment. We’re just trying to help. Give the assassin’s perspective.”

  Washington slumped. Maybe it was the impact of the Grolsch bottles he’d chugged to chase the vodka. Or it was my skills at interrogation even without a Ka-Bar pressed to his balls. For whatever reason, he looked at me with his eyes nearly closed.

  “In the Korengal,” he said, “we were training a squad of Germans from the Coalition forces in pacification procedures. Trying to get the fuckin’ pig-headed pricks to understand killin’ every man, woman, or child wasn’t the key to winning hearts and minds and only led to more slaughter.”

  He slid up, his massive back flush against the leather.

  “We used to argue policy at night. Sometimes even on patrol. That’s where I improved my German. Our orders were not to fire unless fired upon. Made everyone jumpy. The Kraut Captain, Schramm was his name, spit every time an Afghan walked by. And they weren’t Taliban or al-Qaeda. Without using the words, it was obvious he believed Germans were the superior race, certainly better than any black mongrel like me. The men in his squad weren’t much better. I’d catch them makin’ monkey grunts when they thought I couldn’t hear. Laughin’ and slappin’ each other on the back.”

  He stared at the thick carpet on the
floor.

  “After a few weeks and against my recommendation, the Germans were sent out alone. It was supposed to be an easy sweep. Just check in on a nearby village where there hadn’t been any trouble in months. The place was Laniyal, a group of wooden huts on the valley slope. Lots of kids and women in shawls. A few dogs, chickens, and goats. Old men smokin’ on the porch. Nothin’ much in the way of conveniences. People trying to scratch a living outta the rocks in a war zone.”

  He looked up, and I might have imagined a tear in his eye.

  “We came in behind the Germans. By the time we got there, fifteen villagers were dead. No German wounded. They claimed someone fired on them from the mosque. No weapons were found or anyone to back up their story. Only bodies. Mostly women and children.”

  Washington finished his Grolsch and opened another, stalling before he told the worst part.

  “There was this one girl. Sandara. Her name meant ‘song.’ She was ten, and I got to know her when we helped her mother plant some carrots. I used ta’ bring her candy and little trinkets I found in the Korengal markets. Like her name, she was always singing. I couldn’t understand the words, but the spirit was there. One of the Germans, Corporal Koch, was draggin’ her body into the street. Her mother, Nazo, was cryin’ and pullin’ on Koch’s arm. Sandara had been hit in the throat. Koch kept pushin’ Nazo away, and she fell to the dirt and sobbed. I fired over his head. He stopped and let her go. Captain Schramm saw what I did and ordered his squad to make an arrest. My men surrounded me and there was a standoff, rifles on auto and leveled at each other. Schramm kept yelling ‘Ficken schwarzer affe!’ Fuckin’ black monkey. It all ended fairly quickly, and Schramm reported it as an ambush. No matter what I said, that’s the way it went down. On the march back to base, Schramm’s squad started singin’ ‘Deutschland Uber Alles.’ That night, I made sure he wouldn’t be leading men into battle against kids again.”

  Washington closed his eyes and sunk into his chair.

  No jokes. Nothing for Finnen or me to say. Another insanity. We were quiet, trying to let the roar of the twin jet engines drown the noise in our heads.