He had deliberated, since his memories had returned. The Office clearly had no use for the man he was. They would probably try and brainwash him again.
They might just kill me.
He could not escape. They would follow him anywhere in the world. No, he was stuck. Eric’s words gnawed at him. If he could help catch Abdullah, wasn’t it his responsibility to do so? Would Abdullah’s victims weigh on his conscience?
He was so tired. He thought for a moment about opening the door of the helicopter and stepping out. A few seconds of blissful peace and his suffering would end.
Eric’s words haunted him, like the victims of the Red Cross bombing who haunted his dreams.
No, Eric was right. They had to stop Abdullah.
The Blackhawk finally came down low and hovered, the downdraft blasting dust and dirt in a hazy circle. Eric signaled to a waiting man, a young Afghani. The helicopter touched down and they jumped out with their gear, the chopper kicking up another cloud of dust as it took off, heading back to Bagram.
Eric smiled broadly at the man. “Ali. It’s been a while.” Eric turned and introduced them. “Ali and I worked together in ‘01. You’ve grown since then. How’s your father?”
Ali grabbed Eric and hugged him, smiling. “He is good, Mr. Eric. He complains a lot, but he eats well.”
Eric laughed. “I remember. It will be good to see him.”
Ali led them through the hills to the largest stone building in the small village.
Once inside, Eric was glad to see Ali’s father, Wahid, sitting at the table waiting for them. He pulled his gloves off and shook the man’s hand. “Peace be upon you.”
Wahid was the leader of the local tribe and a former Mujahideen. His family was well-respected, and while Wahid was a good Muslim, he disdained those who justified murder in the name of Allah. Wahid smiled and shook his hand, then put his hand over his heart. “Mr. Eric. It’s been too long. I thought you forgot us.”
“Wahid, these are my friends.” Eric introduced him to John and Redman, both of whom removed their gloves to shake his hand. “I brought you something.” He pulled a small stash of chocolates wrapped in a silver foil and handed it to Wahid, whose smile grew bigger. “A little something for that belly of yours.”
Wahid laughed and slapped his belly. The man had grown larger, his hair shot through with white, but he still appeared healthy and strong. “Please, sit. Ali, bring us tea.”
They sat in the rickety wooden chairs, drinking, and Eric found the tea exactly as he remembered, sweetened from raw sugar and with a savory aftertaste. The rest followed suit and Wahid nodded approvingly. Eric and Wahid exchanged pleasantries until Eric judged that he had satisfied the Afghani requirements for honor. “Wahid, I need your help.”
“Is it to hunt Bin Laden again? It did not work so well last time.”
“No, it is not about Bin Laden. It is another man. They call him Abdullah the Bomber.”
Wahid’s eyes widened. “I know this man, from a long time ago. He fought with the Mujahideen when he was young, younger than Ali when we hunted Bin Laden. He had a gift. What has he done?”
“He’s attacked our men, here and in Germany. What can you tell me about him?”
Wahid shrugged. “He left after the war. He might have gone back to his country—”
“His country?” John asked.
Wahid laughed. “His grandfather was a very important man in Afghanistan, but after the King was assassinated, he found himself at odds with the new king, so he fled with his family to Saudi Arabia. When the Mujahideen needed fighters, his grandfather sent Abdullah. Abdullah walade Muhammad Younis.” Wahid bowed his head, lost in thought. “A smart boy and devout Muslim. Like his grandfather.”
Finally, a name. Eric smiled. “We need to find him. He’s going to kill a Taliban leader named Azim.”
Wahid’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard of General Azim. Why do you want to help him?”
“We don’t want to help him,” Eric said. “We want Abdullah. We think some of the Mujahideen might help him cross the border.”
Wahid glanced around. “Here? No, he would cross in the South.”
“I don’t think so,” Eric said. “Perhaps you could find out?”
Wahid paused. “Mr. Eric, this is no business of mine. Things are quiet now. Why go looking for trouble?”
“Abdullah is a bad man. He bombed our wounded in Germany, men and women receiving medical care. Hundreds died.”
“Mr. Eric, this pains me greatly. It is against Islam to hurt the wounded. Still, I do not know these people.” Wahid shrugged, but stroked his beard slowly.
“Some of the dead weren’t soldiers. Some were local Germans. Women. Children. They were there for free medical care. Just kids.”
Wahid stopped stroking his beard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Eric. I cannot be seen helping you.”
Eric understood. Wahid was a good and just man, well-respected and well-liked, but he also had a village to feed and protect. His involvement could invite the wrath of the Taliban or Al-Qaeda, the same groups that Wahid and his family had fought against just a few years before.
No, it was not Wahid’s fault. The man had went in to battle with his own sixteen-year-old son to hunt Bin Laden, and now Ali was twenty-one, probably ready to marry, and Wahid himself looked to be approaching fifty. Wahid liked him, but that friendship had limits.
“I understand,” Eric said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“It is no trouble to host a friend, Mr. Eric. You know that. Please, stay and eat. I would be most honored.”
John caught his eye and glanced to the door, but Eric shook his head. “It would be our pleasure.”
They exchanged pleasantries, whiling away the time, and when they did eat, the food was remarkable. The skewers of grilled lamb were exceptionally good, and Eric noticed that John and Redman both helped themselves to plenty, wrapping the lamb in pieces of thin bread. He joined in some banter between Wahid and Ali, and it felt good to spend time with them. He remembered the hours they spent hiking through the western edge of the mountains during the battle of Tora Bora. It was good to see Ali growing into manhood.
“We have to leave soon,” Eric finally said. “It’s an hour back to the extraction site.”
Wahid clasped him by the shoulders. “I hope that you will come back. It is good to see you, Mr. Eric.”
Ali led them back down the mountain to the extraction site. They could hear the beating of the chopper’s blades approaching when Ali handed Eric a slip of paper. He read the note from Wahid and smiled, then turned to John and Redman. “Ali is going with us.”
Ali nodded. “I’ll show you the way.”
John opened the two large plastic cases in the fading light. The VISOR gazed back, its soulless face watching. He stripped quickly to his socks and briefs, shivering in the cold. He was in the mountains, not far from where Ali had led them. Eric and Redman were already on their way to their sniper positions leaving John to suit up.
He pulled on the pants and fastened them at the waist. They were tight, but the advanced composition fabric quickly warmed to his skin. He took some deep knee bends and stretched his legs to get the pants fitted, then pulled on the undershirt and jacket. The modified harness system came next, snapping and clicking into place, providing extra protection in his crotch as well as his chest. He strapped the pistol holsters to both legs and checked the pistols themselves, the modified M11’s lighter than normal, then holstered them. He put on his combat boots, one of the few stock items, then loaded the hard points of his battle suit with his medical kit, extra magazines for his pistols and rifle, and an old fashioned Ka-Bar knife that slid in a molded sheath on his right calf.