Nancy’s eyes narrowed, but she motioned Neil and Valerie to the hallway, leaving him with Jaabir.
Once they had left the room, he continued, “My man in Kandahar told you to pass along the message to Azim—”
“General Azim!”
“Sorry,” Deion corrected, “General Azim. The Army will find out who did this. A lot of Taliban could get killed. A lot of innocents, too. General Azim wants what’s best for Afghanistan. He’s a proud man who knows that sometimes you have to work together for a common goal.”
Jaabir frowned, considering that. “You are not like I expected.”
“How’s that?”
“I have seen television shows of America,” Jaabir admitted. “I saw how black men are treated by the Christians who run the country.” His eyes darted to the hallway, then back to Deion.
Deion smiled. The kid was earnest. “It’s entertainment, Jaabir. It’s not a bad place. Someday Afghanistan will be like that. You’ll lay down your weapons and your kids will go to school, get an education, maybe get an opportunity like I did.”
Jaabir nodded. “I think I will probably die fighting before that happens. I am committed to Jihad.”
“Of course,” Deion agreed. That’s the problem with this place. “You never know, though. Look at us right now.”
The boy nodded wisely. “General Azim said you would be very kind to me so that I would turn to your cause.”
He tried a different approach. “I’m just trying to find out who attacked our men. I don’t want a full-blown assault on Kandahar. That wouldn’t be good for your people. I’m betting that General Azim doesn’t want that, either. I’m betting he gave you instructions.”
Jaabir nodded. “He did. The attack was planned by an Arab named Abdullah. He was considered to be a great Mujahideen, but General Azim was always suspicious of this man. Abdullah planned the attack and carried it out without consulting General Azim. General Azim would like you to know that this man is no longer welcome in Kandahar.”
“What else can you tell me about this man, Abdullah?”
The boy considered his words carefully, then spoke. “He is known as Abdullah the Bomber. He disappeared for many years after the war. Some said he went back home and some said he went on Hajj. He came back with a wife but your drones killed her. He has committed himself to Jihad.”
Deion thought quickly. As far as he could tell, the boy was telling the truth. “Jaabir, was there anything else General Azim told you?”
Jaabir nodded. “We have one of Abdullah’s men. General Azim will provide this man to you, as a show of respect.”
“Really? Any what does General Azim ask in return? A gift must be answered with a gift.”
Jaabir nodded. “A gift is freely given, but if answered with a gift it shows respect and honor.”
“And where might this man be kept?”
Jaabir smiled. “Not far from here.”
“Of course,” he said. “I must talk with my people.”
Jaabir nodded. “I will return in one hour.”
He led the boy through the hallway to the front of the building, then keyed his radio. “Status?”
“Clear,” Redman answered. “Freeman, sorry to tell you, but we got a call while you were in the building. We have new orders to return to base.”
“What? In the middle of the operation?”
“Sorry, Freeman. We’ve got our orders. Watch your six.”
“Thanks, Redman. Much appreciated.”
He turned to Neil and nodded. Neil placed a brown leather satchel on the floor and took a step back. Jaabir picked it up, nodded to Deion, then exited the building without looking back. By the time they entered the street Jaabir was long gone, lost in the twilight maze of buildings and alleys. They got back in the Toyota.
“What was that all about?” Valerie asked.
“Azim’s quite the businessman,” Deion said. “Sometimes he plays on the American side, sometimes on the Taliban’s. He knows that sooner or later we’ll pull out and he’s jockeying for position. He’ll fight us if he can, but he prefers to let the other Taliban do the fighting. If he appears weak, Al-Qaeda would replace him in a heartbeat. He confirmed the attacker was Abdullah the Bomber, and he’s got one of Abdullah’s men. We just paid him one hundred grand in cash for Jaabir to lead us to him.”
Nancy shook her head, amazed. “I can’t believe your cowboy routine actually worked.”
“Yeah, but we have a problem.” He paused, considering his words. “I think you really pissed off my old boss, Rumple. If I had to guess, he’s the one who got Delta recalled. We’re on our own.”
Nancy’s eyes widened and her face reddened. “I’ll have his ass for this,” she spat out.
The Delta Operator from the second truck, Morse, came forward to shake Deion’s hand. “We’re out. Redman says sorry and good luck.”
“No problem. Thanks for the assist.”
He watched as the Operators got in their truck and left. The market had cleared out while they were in the building, the bustling throng of people dwindling, many of the carts now missing. A few remaining Afghanis watched them with curios eyes, but most were busy tearing down their stalls in the twilight.
“I’m a little worried,” Neil said.
“Me, too,” Valerie agreed. “We’ve got one drone overhead and no support. I know you like to play cowboy, but this is insane.”
“I can take care of Rumple,” Nancy said, “but it’ll take time. How long do we have?”
“Jaabir will be back in an hour,” Deion said.
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a long time for us to sit with our dicks in the wind.”
He started to speak but she interrupted. “It’s your call, Deion. You know this area and you know the people.”
“Neil? How about you?” he asked.
Neil nodded but his eyes were wary. “I’ll back your play but it’s a hell of a risk.”
“You’re all crazy,” Valerie said, “but if you’re in, so am I.”
CHAPTER TEN
John shook his head. The Rusty Bucket was in a seedy part of town, the name painted in faded black letters, the white exterior dingy gray from age. The sidewalk was cracked and broken, and cigarettes and beer cans littered the front.
They were parked a block away, discreetly watching the entrance, the second van parked behind them. No one had entered or left the building in the thirty minutes they had been watching. “Not a happening spot,” he muttered.
Martin laughed. “I’m glad you white boys are going in. There’s Klan in there for sure.”
“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “We won’t send you in there. You’d stand out like a big black sore thumb.”
“Your lack of empathy over my racial concerns is disappointing,” Martin said, sadly shaking his head.
John liked the Martin’s sly wit, his easy disposition, and his quiet confidence. Kelly and Johnson were both excellent soldiers, but Martin was much like Eric — mature, responsible, and capable.
Eric fiddled with the radio, which was playing an old Hank Williams song, then sighed. “Clark, have you got anything?”
John’s earpieces crackled. “The Rusty Bucket is their known hangout,” Clark said. “Everett Dyer, the APR founder, is the co-owner. We’ve tracked his cell-phone. It’s there now.”
“Are you sure?” Eric asked. “The place looks dead.”
“We’ve backtracked other members of the APR. When they reach that bar, their cell phones go off-network. We tried to remotely activate them and use them as bugs, but they are unresponsive. They must be shielding them, probably in a foil-lined bag or box.”
Kelly sighed through his ear-piece. “I hate it when douchebags become technically competent.”
“I don’t like this,” Eric said. “Doesn’t this seem too sophisticated for them?”