The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Jack told the girls, "You two go on ahead. We need to go back and check out some things first."

  "Oh, I'll come with you," said Millie. Her eyes sparkled with that look — the look some women have in the first naive moments of enchantment.

  "No go on, we'll catch up later."

  Julie, clearly irritated, blurted, "Jocko said one hour. It's past time already—"

  Jack cut her off, "Don't worry about it." He gave me a shove. "Come on, let's get outta here."

  "What about—"

  "Don't say anything about us. You haven't seen us. Understand?"

  "Are you in trouble?" pleaded Millie on the verge of tears.

  "The man in uniform is Russian and there'll be trouble if he spots us."

  Tony began a spirited exchange with Suslov. Seconds later, he pointed towards the bazaar. Before Suslov had a chance to react, we hustled around the corner.

  I hissed, "Little bastard sold us out."

  "Looks like it." Jack remained calm and removed the pistol from under the jacket he bought in Kandahar.

  "Lucky you kept the Tokarev."

  "Yeah, but five rounds ain't gonna last long in a shootout." He replaced the pistol and canted his head in the opposite direction. "Let's get lost before he comes looking."

  Again, Jack was right. We were in a heap of trouble. We scurried down the street, not daring to break out in a dead run, cut a left at the next street, and reentered the busy market.

  Jack halted to speak to an old man. The man pointed down a side street and muttered a few words. "He says the bus station is only a few blocks away, may be our best bet. What ya think?"

  I checked back down the street. No one was following, yet. "Let's give it a try." A thought occurred to me: Hope we don't have to ride on the roof. We'll be easy pickings.

  When we arrived at the bus station, a bus for Kabul was ready to leave. A ten-dollar bill secured us seats inside at the rear.

  30 ~ Kabul

  Tuesday, 13 February: Road to Kabul

  Snow appeared at higher elevations on the mountains before Kabul. The narrow road wound unrelenting through the hills.

  The vehicle rattled and vibrated a bone-shaking ride down the almost smooth pavement. Like the bus to Herat, the suspension system but a distant memory. Wooden bench seats added to the discomfort. The passengers, turbaned men in robes and women in black burkas, sat impassively paying no attention to the passing scenery. Several men carried rifles. The bus was cold even with the steaming mass of humanity aboard. The roof supported a hodgepodge of cargo including three bleating fat-tailed sheep.

  Our driver, a henna bearded man with a hooked nose, stared straight ahead and ignored oncoming traffic, choosing to take the center of the road. Occasionally, the bus halted to pick up local travelers. We drove without a break before stopping at a chai shop for tea and afternoon prayers.

  Jack tugged on my sleeve when I stared to get up. "Let's stay on the bus. Don't need to attract any more attention than necessary."

  "You're probably right." I craved fresh air, the aroma inside of the bus was ripe. My not-too-cured vest wasn't helping the situation. "How much longer to Kabul?"

  "Couple hours. He's making good time, should arrive late afternoon, at least."

  "It's gonna be interesting if old red beard continues to hog the road." We had already had several close calls.

  "Yeah, the guy leads a charmed life, must rely on Allah's will to keep it between the ditches. His driving is about like your flying." Jack punched my ribs. "Tango at two o'clock."

  A vehicle pulled up to the chai shop, a Russian Gaz jeep. A man in military uniform swung out and surveyed the area with the cold impersonal eyes of a predator seeking prey.

  Jack growled, "It's him." He shifted in his seat, ran his hand inside his shirt, and pulled out the Tokarev.

  My world slowed down. The fight-or-flight instinct kicked in: that's when the brain changes gears in response to lethal threats. Beyond fear, I inhaled a deep breath. Trapped — flight not an option; I fingered the butterfly knife, ready to flick it open at any moment.

  Suslov strolled into the shop. The driver, an Afghan soldier, remained by the vehicle. His eyes nervously followed the Russian.

  The passengers from the bus streamed out of the teahouse. They appeared to be upset. The bus quickly filled. With everyone aboard, the driver took his seat and started the engine.

  Suslov appeared at the door and scanned the area once more. His eyes focused on the bus, appearing to study every window. With a gesture to his driver to follow, he strode confidently across the dirt patch. The bus driver's assistant yanked the lever to close the door. Suslov's hand jerked the door open and ascended the steps. The soldier remained outside.

  We both hunkered down. I peeked between the men sitting ahead of us. Suslov glanced around with a tense, predatory look. The wolf like visage brought a chill to my spine. Jack deftly racked the slide on the Tokarev. I flipped open the Ballisong knife.

  The hooked-nosed driver shouted at Suslov. People in front joined in. Suslov called to his driver who joined him inside the bus. The nervous soldier spoke to the passengers in a normal voice. No answer. Suslov growled an order in Russian. The soldier called out to the passengers, men in the front rows roared back with outrage. A turbaned man leapt up, howled a defiant cry, and shoved the soldier. Everyone joined the frenzied uproar.

  Suslov drew his pistol, a Makarov. An old man raised an Enfield rifle, then a second man, followed by a third. The soldier shirked and descended the steps. Suslov barked a command to the soldier to halt. He paused at the bottom step.

  The standoff lasted only a few seconds but seemed to go on forever. Time stood still. We held our ground, out of sight behind the now standing passengers, awaiting the outcome.

  Without a word, Suslov retreated, gun drawn, and backed out the door. The bus driver's assistant jerked the door shut with a bang. Rage morphed into victory, everyone cheered. A man pulled a window down and screamed, followed by another, and then every window facing Suslov was open, spilling invectives, insults, and rude gestures.

  The soldier scurried ahead of Suslov, who continued to retreat, gun in hand, not diverting his eyes from danger. He paused beside the jeep, holstered his weapon, gave the bus one last defiant look, and slipped inside. Seconds later, the Gaz started up and drove off towards Kabul. Men poured out from the teashop and joined in, cheering as Suslov disappeared down the road.

  Relieved, I slumped back on the hard seat. "What was that all about?"

  Jack explained, "The soldier said they're looking for a foreigner, but the passengers told them to get the hell off the bus. It appears a lot of them are coming from Herat and don't think too highly of the Russians."

  The young man in the next seat twisted around and spoke in broken English. "You much lucky."

  * * *

  The frantic cascade of activity and adrenalin over the last few days left me tapped out, ready to crash. I drifted off, dreaming of home and Lisette. Fingers kneaded into my back, her special massage—

  Jack elbowed my ribs, jolting me awake. "Look up there."

  The orange truck sat parked beside the road. Everyone out and bunched up behind the tailgate.

  "Thought they'd be in Kabul by now, guess they're taking a break."

  A few seconds later, a Gaz jeep came into view, parked crossways ahead of the truck. Suslov's Afghan driver leaned against the orange truck. Suslov stood beside the cab speaking to Jocko and Tony. Tony didn't appear to be a happy camper. In fact, he seemed to be highly agitated. I hoped Tony was getting the full treatment, a first-hand experience of the Soviet way. He deserved it.

  The bus accelerated, the hook-nosed driver deliberately swerved to get closer and roared past with about a yard to spare. The men on the bus hooted and hollered. One enterprising soul managed to fire off a round, out the window, from his Enfield rifle.

  The truck's passengers scattered, along with Tony, Jocko, and the Afghan soldier. Suslov remained un
fazed, ignoring the shot, and didn't even look back.

  "He's one cold blooded SOB," I said, almost in admiration. He was a brave one all right. That made him even more dangerous.

  Jack snapped, "Yeah — too bad I didn't have the rifle. He'd be one dead SOB."

  The man in the next seat said, "Rusi," and drew his hand across his throat in a cutting motion.

  Jack patted him on the shoulder and said, "Inshallah," meaning if God wishes. Everyone laughed in agreement.

  Less than five minutes later, a shout from the driver caused a commotion among the passengers. Hard looking turbaned men lowered windows and peered back down the road. Angry shouts echoed through the bus.

  I asked, "What's up?"

  "Sounds like some fool's trying to overtake us and these guys don't like it. They're egging the driver on to keep him from passing. This may get interesting."

  A Gaz jeep pulled up alongside. The passenger looked up — our eyes met. I froze, he recognized me, my breath stopped. Hatred burned in his eyes. The driver swerved left. The Gaz dropped back. Everyone cheered.

  "Its Suslov … he saw me."

  They tried to pass on a curve overlooking a short drop-off. The driver cut them off yet again. More cheers. A man on the third row leaned out the window and flashed an obscene gesture even I didn't recognize.

  "Let me have the pistol."

  Jack protested, "We only have five rounds. Let's wait 'till we need 'em."

  "No, give it to me. This may be our best chance." Suslov was at a disadvantage and I didn't want to wait. "I'll just pop off a few rounds. Maybe I'll get lucky. Just like shooting rattlesnakes from the saddle."

  Jack hesitated.

  "Give me the gun."

  The look in his eyes was different, less defiant. He passed the Tokarev butt first. "Round's in the chamber … make it count."

  "No problem." I grabbed the weapon with my right hand, jerked the window down with my left, and peered back down the road. The Gaz accelerated for another try. I leaned out, raised the barrel, and snapped off two quick shots.

  The first round pierced the radiator sending a steam plume beneath the vehicle, the second round passed through the windshield narrowly missing the driver. The Afghan swerved, tried to regain control, but overcompensated and scraped a stone barrier post overlooking the drop-off.

  A new chorus of cheers erupted, the bus driver slowed as we curved around a bend. Suslov's jeep ground to a halt beside the barrier. The bus screeched to a standstill. Another round of cheers, a man jumped into the aisle and shouted at me, followed by two more, the eruption of cheers interrupted when a man fired his Enfield out the window. Suslov and his driver scurried for cover. More shots, four men fired wildly at the jeep. The guy behind us fired off a shot from his Mauser. Jack yelped in pain.

  "You hit?"

  "No — hot shell casing down my collar." I stared to laugh … Jack's face contorted in distress, melted into a hesitant grin. "Barker was right, you can shoot. We'll make an operator out of you yet."

  The man in front of us wheeled around and spoke with enthusiasm, "You good."

  * * *

  An hour later, we arrived on the outskirts of Kabul. Houses and people walking beside the road became more frequent. Truck traffic increased. A haze hung over the horizon from cooking fires for evening meals.

  "Do you know where the embassy is located?" I asked. Jack told me back in Kandahar about his trip to Afghanistan three years before. He was reluctant to reveal details, but it involved something to do with opium smuggling interdiction.

  "Yeah, they'll stop near the center of town. We can walk the rest of the way, shouldn't be too far. Sure be good to have a hot shower and a warm bed."

  I agreed and maybe I'd have a chance to call home. Surely, Lisette was back. The mission was almost over. We had the tape and my notes. Was it worth it? I thought of Amadeo.

  "What do you think happened to Amadeo?"

  Jack hesitated. "Been wondering the same thing. He's probably holed up somewhere with a bunch of Amazon women."

  "Yeah, think I read that story in True Action magazine one time at the barbershop."

  "Hope he did too." We rode on in silence.

  Without warning, a commotion broke out. "What now?" I said to no one in particular.

  Jack leaned into the aisle and gazed forward. "Another roadblock ahead."

  "Hope Suslov don't have a radio. If he does, we're toast."

  Passengers began to shout at the driver, turbaned men jerked down windows, and the bus sped up. It appeared he didn't intend to stop.

  A long tree limb served as a barrier, soldiers on both ends. An Afghan officer standing beside a Gaz jeep raised his arms, signaling for the bus to halt. The driver gave it the gas, rifles appeared at the windows, and we broke through the barrier with a hail of gunfire. The soldiers scurried for cover and dropped their weapons without firing a shot. The officer dived under the jeep. Seconds later, we were home free on our way into Kabul.

  Jack nudged me. "I'm beginning to like these guys."

  Wednesday, 14 February: Kabul

  We stepped out to the street. The pungent smell of wood smoke filled the morning air. Dogs barked somewhere up the street, people wandered unhurriedly doing whatever Kabul residents do in the morning.

  We had spent the night at the home of Ali, a fellow passenger on the bus. The driver realizing the authorities would search the bus at its intended destination let everyone off on a side street. Ali insisted the situation was too dangerous for us to go into town so soon. We agreed. Jack gave the Tokarev to Ali for helping us. He figured the chances of being stopped by the police were too high.

  "Know where we're at?"

  "Ali said go down this street to the main road and we can catch a bus or taxi."

  "Think it's safe?"

  "Why not? We're just a pair of travelers. All you have to do is look like you belong."

  "Hope you're right. I look like I belong. You look like a Boy Scout in comparison."

  "If we're questioned, I'll tell 'em we just arrived and ask where we can score some hash."

  "You'd ask a cop?"

  "Sure, they know all the best deals. That's why they’re cops."

  Wasn't sure if he was joking or not. Jack's like that sometimes.

  * * *

  The taxi halted opposite the American embassy. Three dead serious Marine guards dressed in ERDL pattern camouflage outfits and armed with M-16 rifles, motioned for the driver to move with an abrupt wave of the hand.

  I rolled down the back window. "We need to go into the embassy."

  The Marine lance corporal snapped back, "The embassy is closed," and then shouted to the driver, "Get the hell outta here. — Go, now." He raised the muzzle and the driver popped the clutch and burned rubber for half a block.

  I peered back through the rear glass and asked, "Wonder what that was all about?"

  "Not sure. It's unusual for armed guards to be out in full combat gear. Must be serious. Did you notice their selectors were on auto?"

  "No, didn't…" Jack was good at noticing the little things.

  Jack spoke to the driver, who gestured with one hand as he responded in an excited manner. Fortunately, traffic was light.

  "He says, he don't know what's it's all about. Thinks it's just some crazy American thing. What now?"

  "We don't have a lotta options, do we? If we go back downtown, we might be spotted. Suslov could be out looking this very moment."

  "Right…" Jack was thinking or more accurately processing the situational awareness thing. He leaned over and spoke to the driver. The only thing I understood was Chicken Street. Jack leaned back. "We're headed to where all the hippies congregate. We'll have a better chance to blend in and maybe find out what's going on."

  "What's with the chicken thing?"

  "Seems they used to sell chickens, now it's a hangout for Westerners. If Suslov does see us, it'll be less likely he'll try anything."

  I wasn't so sure, didn't know wh
at to say, but my sixth sense was starting to itch again. A few blocks later, the cab pulled over. Jack spoke to the driver and paid.

  Four kids rushed up yelling for baksheesh. Out of habit, I told them to get lost in Ethiopian. We walked down the street and entered the third shop from the corner. It sold leather goods. I wandered around, pretending to shop while Jack kept an eye out the front window, surveying the scene.

  A few minutes later he called, "Come on, time to leave."

  "Wait a sec, just about got this guy down to a good price on a leather hat."

  Jack shook his head and we left.

  Outside, I asked, "Now what?"

  "The place down the street is attracting some hippie trade. We'll pop in, get a coffee, and see what we can find out."

  We passed a street vendor setting up a blender on a small table and entered the non-descript cafe. The morning still early, few customers, the shop about a third full, almost all Westerners of various nationalities. We found a table to the rear of the shop.

  Jack glanced around and canted his head towards a back door. "If we see Suslov, we can hightail it out through there."

  "Where does it lead?"

  "Away from Suslov."

  A lethargic waiter ambled up to the table. After a series of questions about the non-existent menu, we ordered coffees and some sort of pastry.

  Curious about the goings on at the American embassy, Jack asked around the shop, but no one knew anything. He returned, and I gave him a questioning look. He shrugged and said, "We wait."

  A petite hippie girl sitting at a near table reminded me of Lisette. Today was Valentine's Day, a special day for us, the day after I rescued her from the Cubans in Kenya. The day I first realized she loved me. The day I first realized she was more than just an innocent young ex-nun. In fact, she was a strong willed, self-reliant woman.

  All I had to do was survive. Survival seemed to be a re-occurring theme in my life. I patted the tape bundle under my vest and vowed, when we get home, if we get home, to tell Wilson to stuff it.