The Power of Three

by J C Ryan

  Gossip ripped through the city. Could this be a new assault on drugs by the Taliban or another jihadist group? Was it a war of rivalry among the drug lords? Buyers of opium who sold to the drug lords’ operations decided to take a holiday until they knew what would happen next.

  One thing was certain, it wasn’t safe to work for the drug lords right now. Thousands of men suddenly became too ill to report for work. A few turned up dead before the others miraculously recovered.

  The drug lords knew it wasn’t the Taliban, al Qaeda, or ISIS. They’d paid each of those organizations a small fortune to be left alone, and even fanatics knew better than to assault the goose that laid the golden egg.

  By 8:30 a.m., a meeting among a handful of the middlemen was underway. “It must be the US,” one boldly declared. Shouting ensued. One man stood up and declared he’d never trusted the foreign devils. Others, especially one who was well on his way to buying his way into the circle of the major drug lords stated firmly that was nonsense.

  “We have a protector in the US,” he said.

  The others quieted. “Tell us what you mean,” a third said finally.

  “I don’t know his name. I know someone who does, however. If this has been the doing of the US, he will know.”

  “Who in the US would do such a thing?” someone demanded. “Just yesterday I had soldiers guarding my fields.”

  “Who can know what these people think or why they do things? They send disciplined soldiers to ‘protect’ us and ‘help us to democracy’, and then they cry foul when someone hurts the soldiers. What are soldiers for, except to die in war? They talk as if they are the Chosen People, and yet they are the biggest consumers of our products.”

  Several of the others stated similar sentiments until the richest among them spoke once more. “This gets us nowhere. We must demand that they stop this activity. I will speak to my contact and ask him to relay the message.”

  In fact, it took a while to locate his contact, because one of the smaller storehouses Rex and Trevor had hit the night before belonged to the contact. But the self-appointed spokesman didn’t know that yet. Within half an hour though, he’d learned what happened, and he knew that it was more serious than he’d thought at first. Someone, in the US he presumed, had ordered an all-out assault on their stockpiles, and if something wasn’t done soon they’d all be out of business. In the past thirty hours, a major warehouse in the mountains had been destroyed, followed by two smaller ones and the truck just last night. He redoubled his efforts to talk to his contact.

  The man in question was busy making sure his remaining inventory, now depleted by over half, would be secure, no matter what these madmen, whoever they were, did next. It never crossed his mind that all of this damage could be the work of one man.

  IN THE MARKET DISTRICT, the man who’d told ‘Abdul’ about the job loading a truck wondered if he’d gotten his friend killed. The driver of the truck was known, and even now his family could be heard crying and screaming throughout the neighborhood in which he’d lived. Investigators were working to determine which parts belonged to which body as soon as possible, so his family could bury him within the twenty-four hours according to sharia. It wasn’t likely that would happen, though. DNA comparison took time.

  The other two men who, according to witnesses, were standing near the truck when it blew up, were unknown. The owners of the truck had no missing employees, and the owners of the load it carried could not be found.

  ‘Abdul’s’ friend had an even more secret fear. He feared that if Abdul wasn’t one of the victims, perhaps he had loaded something else along with the heroin. He recalled how curious Abdul had always been, how determined he was to work in the heroin trade. The friend kept these thoughts to himself, because if it was true, then he’d been an accessory. He was too keen to keep his head and body connected to each other than to admit he could have pinned a target on that truck.

  To avoid answering uncomfortable questions from others who might have overheard him talking to Abdul, he quietly left the market and returned home, where he instructed his wife to pack for a surprise trip to visit her parents in Andkhoy, as far from Kabul as he could take them. The trip would take several days, and when he returned after leaving his family in a safe place, perhaps things would have settled down.

  WHEN THE SPOKESMAN for the group of minor drug lords in Kabul located his principal, whose name was Karif, his first words were of sympathy for the man’s losses. He was not surprised to find his own concerns about who had executed the attacks were echoed. Humbly, he suggested what he’d been sent to suggest.

  “Is it not time to ask for help among our customers in the US?” he asked carefully. This was not the time to reveal the extent of his knowledge, or that he knew there was only one major customer in the US.

  “It is not for you to run my business for me,” Karif snapped. “I will make contact if and when it becomes a concern.” His thought was to minimize panic by hiding the depth of the sword cut he’d been dealt in the past couple of days. “You may return to your own business.”

  The spokesman bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the rebuke. As he walked away, he calculated whether he was ahead or behind in his goal of joining the major stakeholders. On the one hand, his own wealth had become more valuable by the diminishment of his principal’s. On the other, he’d allowed the man to chastise him for offering an obvious suggestion. He concluded the two factors probably balanced each other out.

  To solidify his growing standing among his peers, he contacted each to report that his contact had matters firmly in hand.

  THE OWNER OF the large warehouse, one of the smaller ones, and the truck was one and the same man, that very man to whom the spokesman had offered an impertinent suggestion. He was torn between rage and despair. All he’d worked for, not only wealth but respect, was threatened by this turn of events. Certainly, he had more wealth than most of his countrymen could dream of or count, even now. However, he was not as rich as some of the others, especially not now, when the wealth represented by the losses he’d sustained was subtracted from his holdings.

  More important was the respect. In a country where no one was safe from the tides of misfortune, if he let it be known how badly he’d been hit, the others would be on him like a pack of wild dogs on an injured fellow. His first impulse was to plan how to conceal his losses. Only then would he seek help from his customer. That would also require finesse. A certain balance of power was involved.

  His customer could not be allowed to know how great the losses were. Otherwise, he’d turn to another region, Colombia perhaps, to purchase product. If that happened, he, the drug lord, would also be in hot water with his compatriots, because their sales would suffer along with his.

  It was all too much to bear thinking about. As soon as the supplier had left, the drug lord decided to relieve some of his tension. He returned home and visited his anger upon one of his lesser wives.

  When he’d left, she began plotting his murder, along with one of the other wives and a couple of concubines. They all bore scars, both physical and emotional, from his temper. This was the last straw.

  REX, OF COURSE, knew none of this. If he had, he’d have known his plan to create enough mischief to force his recall had worked even better than he thought. Having missed two nights’ sleep in a row, he was dreaming peacefully, however. He and Trevor had made it back to the compound just after 5:00 a.m. The guard had let them in, and then notified Frank they were back. Before they got a chance to turn in, Frank had insisted on debriefing them. So, Rex had been asleep for about two hours when the truck exploding woke him just enough to check the clock and smile.

  Mission accomplished.

  He closed his eyes again and went back to sleep because of the adage of every soldier there ever was. Sleep while you can – you don’t know when the next chance will come. He left a wake-up call for noon, though, so he wouldn’t miss chow.

  Trevor and Digger were also asleep
, and for the same reason. When the explosion woke Trevor, he half-heartedly asked Digger if he wanted to go outside. Digger opened one eye and turned his ear toward Trevor, but he didn’t get up. Trevor took that to mean no and gratefully rolled over to go back to sleep.

  5

  Outside Kabul, Afghanistan, June 21, 10:00 a.m.

  KARIF DIDN’T HAVE the chance to go back to his plan after relieving his frustrations at home. Before he’d set foot out the door, he was summoned by a messenger to attend a meeting with the other major players. With dread, he obeyed the summons, expecting to be called to account for his misfortune.

  In that, he was mistaken, because the owner of the second storehouse to be destroyed in the early morning hours had called the meeting. He happened to be the de facto leader of the group, the richest, most experienced, and most ruthless in their industry and therefore also the most influential. His name was Usama, meaning the Lion. The namesake of the martyred founder and leader of al Qaeda took his name seriously, as if it made him as important as bin Laden. He was the only one who did, the others did bow to his authority, even as they were secretly annoyed by his over-inflated ego.

  Compared to Karif, Usama had lost very little. However, the insult was infuriating. Who would dare target his product? He’d heard rumors that the rank and file of farmers, buyers, and minor producers from who he and his four associates purchased their product were targeting each other, and that more than a few farmers and minor labs had sustained losses over the past eight months. It had been of little interest to him, so long as there was plenty of raw material to fuel his own business.

  However, this attack on his storehouse was a slap in the face; it was humiliating. He’d summoned the others to talk about taking control of the situation. He insisted that they must all control their suppliers, so they’d stop fighting among themselves. Karif was surprised by this interpretation. It didn’t match his assessment at all.

  Karif allowed the others to talk and argue, without saying much himself. His brain was busy weighing the consequences if he spoke his mind. Apparently, Usama had not learned that the truck from this morning’s attack was his. And as far as he could tell, no one yet knew of the destruction of his biggest warehouse. If he mentioned his belief that the Americans were behind it, how would Usama and the others react?

  He was so absorbed in the pros and cons of speaking out that he missed it when Usama asked him directly what he thought. He only came to the realization he’d been addressed when the low buzz of conversation stopped, and he looked up to find everyone else’s gazes fixed on him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We are waiting to hear your wisdom,” Usama said sarcastically. “Everyone else has agreed with me that we must stop this infighting among the farmers. It is of no benefit to anyone.”

  Caught off guard, Karif blurted, “But, it is not the farmers and buyers. Surely it is the Americans, is it not?”

  He realized his mistake when Usama’s countenance clouded. “And why would you think that, my friend? What do you know about it that we don’t?”

  “N-nothing, really,” Karif stammered. “I just…” He stopped, unable to go on without being questioned further. But it did him no good. Usama was on his feet, now, striding to Karif’s seat and looming over him.

  “No, I think you do know something. Why don’t you tell us?”

  Lying to him would be worse than not answering, Karif thought, so he tried the latter and just stared at the floor.

  “I am waiting,” thundered Usama.

  In a very small voice, Karif explained. “I just thought only the Americans would have the personnel and materials to do so much damage in so short a time.”

  “So much damage?” Usama said, his voice dangerously quiet, hissing like a cobra before it strikes.

  “Well, your storehouse. My, uh, my truck.”

  “Your truck. And why did you not tell us the truck that exploded was yours before?”

  Karif felt the cobra hypnotizing him, and he was helpless to break away. “I, uh, I thought you knew?” Making his reply a question had been a mistake, he realized, as his words were still hanging in the air.

  “You thought I knew. How would I have known? Are you accusing me of spying on you?” Usama’s voice had raised a little.

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Let’s go back to your words ‘so much damage’. Is there more you’d like to tell us?”

  “I-I don’t th-think so.”

  “How about more you wouldn’t want to tell us? There’s more, isn’t there, Karif? You must tell us, and no more of this game.”

  Karif knew he was defeated. “All right, yes. There’s more.” He explained that one of his small storehouses nearby had been hit a few hours before the truck had exploded. “And then, of course, there’s what happened the night before.”

  He couldn’t believe Usama didn’t know about his large warehouse. But the man’s face told him he didn’t. Now he was going to be in trouble for not reporting that immediately. But there was no turning back now. “My largest warehouse… destroyed… fifty tons gone.” He was so distraught he couldn’t form a complete sentence. But then, a miracle.

  Usama took a step back. He stared at Karif for a moment, then turned on his heel and went back to his own chair. In an even more dangerous tone, he asked, “Does anyone else believe the Americans are involved?”

  Nervously, the others shrugged or nodded, or both. It wasn’t so much that they were unsure. They just didn’t want to contradict Usama’s conclusion. Seeing this, he thinned his lips at their cowardice. Only Karif had the courage to tell me what he believed was the truth.

  Usama turned his thoughts inward for a few minutes, testing Karif’s interpretation of the facts. Yes, it could be the Americans, but it would have been a small, covert operation. He searched his memory for any written or official verbal agreements there might have been. The government of Afghanistan was a joke – he and his compatriots in this room were the real power. They produced the country’s most valuable export, and it ran the economy, including the taxes the government collected, as well as funding the various terrorist organizations.

  The US and a few of their friends, allies, were in his country because of the cooperation of its government. It was true that the Goliath of world governments would be there if they wanted regardless, but he’d observed the giant making concessions, back-door deals, and even contradictory decisions. All in aid of remaining in control, pulling the strings that made all other governments dance. They knew as well as he did that destroying the opium economy would destabilize the country and put it back in the hands of the Taliban.

  Either someone in some US agency hadn’t gotten the memo, or it was a rogue operation. Either way, the major importer would have influence, he thought. However, approaching that man with a humble request for his help would be a mistake in terms of their balance of power.

  Abruptly, he remembered there were others in the room with him. He shook himself from his trance-like analysis and glared at them. “What are you waiting for? Get out! Go and see to your security. Karif, not you. You stay.”

  Everyone else but Karif rose and shuffled from the room, unsatisfied as to what the great man would do for them, but intent on obeying his instructions to redouble their security, and then redouble it again.

  Karif wasn’t sure what to make of the command to stay. He remained in his seat, which was already as far from Usama’s person as it could be and still be in the room.

  Usama forced geniality into his voice. “Karif, please. Come closer. I will call for food and coffee. Tell me more about your conclusions.”

  Karif cautiously moved up the table to sit near Usama. “I beg your pardon? You want to know more about why I think this has been the work of the Americans?”

  “Yes, precisely. You were the only one with the courage to speak up. The others are mere sycophants. If your insight proves true, you will henceforth be my lieutenant.”

  “A
nd if not?” Karif asked, caution overruling his pleasure.

  “If not, you have merely made a mistake. But you still showed courage, my friend. In our line of business, courage is everything. The courage of a lion, you might say.”

  He means his own courage, thought Karif. But this could be my chance to move up in the world.

  “Sayyd, you honor me,” he replied. “In answer to your question, I followed your wisdom in demanding that my suppliers report to me their impressions of these tragic events. Without fail, all suspect the Americans, most specifically either the CIA or perhaps those devils, the Delta Force warriors.” In crafting his reply, Karif meant to both flatter his leader and display his knowledge of worldly affairs. He considered he’d succeeded when Usama nodded sagely.

  “How clever of you. Yes, perhaps I should have consulted my suppliers instead of our group only. I believe your theory has merit, and I will look into it. Will you excuse me, while I make some phone calls? Please make yourself comfortable. I wish to talk more with you over our meal, which will be ready soon.”

  Karif smiled graciously. From disaster to incredible fortune, this day had been like racing a camel – bumpy but exhilarating.

  Usama shouted an order for food to be prepared as he strode to his private office. He gave no thought to the time difference between his city and that of the man he was about to waken, and he spent only a moment considering what he would say. It was imperative to take the offensive. After all, he reasoned, he could find another buyer easily. This man was but a middleman, certain to be selling to the American Mafia, whom everyone knew controlled all drug trade in the US.