“You going into Amir Kahn’s neighborhood?”
Hawkins shrugged.
Murphy pushed at the air with his big hand. “None of my business, mate, but I’ll tell you what you’re dealing with. Amir is probably in his late sixties now, but tough as nails. He was a non-political teacher, but became a mujadeen during the Soviet war. Killed lots of Russians on his own long before the CIA stuck a Stinger missile launcher in his hands. He probably turned the tide on his own from what I hear.”
“What happened after the war?”
“He was wounded in action and went to the U.S. to recuperate. The CIA brought him back to fight the Taliban, but he got disgusted with both sides. He went back to his home province and started raising opium. He’s one of the biggest dope producers in the country.”
“You’re DEA now. Have you tried to stop him?”
“Whole program is about interdiction now. Tried wiping out the poppy fields and the farmers got mad as hell. Now they grow all they want, they get paid and we plug the holes where we can. Amir is a special case.”
“In what way, Murph?”
“He’s related to the ruling family. Cousin or something, but still close enough to make sure there’s a protective shield over his operation. On top of that, he supports a private army of about two hundred tribesmen.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Once. We were after a miserable sonovabitch who had tried to kill one of our guys. Unfortunately for him, he tried to move in on Amir’s territory, which adjoined his. When I caught up with him Amir had just turned him and his men into shish kebabs. When I thanked the old bandit he just looked at me with the coldest set of eyes I’d ever seen and asked me to spread the word.”
“What word?”
“He said that anyone who entered his territory without invitation would be killed on sight.”
“Guess we’d best stay away from Mr. Friendly,” Calvin said with a drawl.
“Wise decision. The countryside is rugged as hell. Lots of ravines, canyons, gullies. Great spots for ambushes.” Murphy leaned back in his chair and looked first at Hawkins, then at Calvin. “I’d suggest that you have a guide.”
Hawkins shook his head. “This was designed to be a pretty tight little operation, Murph.”
“A third person shouldn’t make that much difference,” Murphy said.
“That would be a fourth person,” Abby said. “I’m part of this mission, too.”
Murphy stared at Abby for several seconds and took a deep breath. “Guide who knows the country will help you move faster. Otherwise, you’ll spend a lot of time running around in circles.”
Hawkins turned to Hayes. “What do you say, Cal? Do you have room for a fourth?”
Hayes shrugged. “Sure, if we pack the desert vehicle the right way.”
“Thanks, Cal. Who is this person who knows the area so well?”
“Guy grew up around the warlord’s territory. He’s been working as a civilian security contractor. He knows how to handle himself.”
“Could he be ready by tomorrow?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s in the lounge.”
“That’s a coincidence,” Abby said.
“Not really. He comes here every night to make connections with the movers and shakers.”
Murphy made a quick call on his cell phone. Moments later, a man wearing a dark suit and white shirt with no tie approached the table. Murphy pulled over a chair and gestured for the man to sit down.
“This is Rashid,” Murphy said.
Murphy’s friend was in his mid-thirties. He was short and stocky and had a friendly grin that puffed out the plump cheeks on his wide, clean-shaven face. His head was shaved as well.
Hawkins quizzed the man about his background. He answered politely in a soft-spoken voice. His English was very good. He had been born in a nearby village and moved to Kabul in his teens. After a stint in the Afghan army he was hired by a contractor to provide security to government officials. Hawkins asked Rashid if he knew about the lake.
“The Valley of the Dead? Oh yes. I lived in a village around fifty kilometers from there.”
“Is there a way to get to the lake without being seen?”
“Many ways. Some better than others.”
Calvin asked specific questions as to terrain features he had seen on the satellite photo, and when he was finished, he said, “Man knows his stuff.”
Hawkins said, “What do you think, Abby?”
“I said the mission is yours from now on.”
“I don’t want to put either one of you in unnecessary danger. Looks like you’re joining the team, Rashid. Meet us at four am tomorrow at the airport.”
Hawkins rose from his chair to signal that the meeting was over. He thanked Murphy for his help and said he would look him up when he got back to Kabul. On the elevator ride to their floor, Calvin said that he had double-checked all their weapons and gone over their survival gear. Everything was ready.
Hawkins said he would see Cal and Abby in the morning then he wrote a quick email to Sutherland, set the alarm clock, slipped beneath the sheets and quickly fell asleep.
Murphy was in a glum mood.
He was hardly a Victorian gentleman, but he loved women. Especially pretty ones like Abby. Hell, he could hardly keep his eyes off her! After leaving the dining room he had gone into the lounge. It was hard to get a real drink in Kabul, so he carried a hip flask with him. He ordered fruit juice and spiked it with bourbon. He downed the drink and ordered another, which he also doctored. The alcohol was giving him the illusion of acute mental clarity.
He looked up from his glass into Rashid’s moist brown eyes. He had hired Rashid for a number of jobs. Despite his warm manner, the guide was a cold-blooded killer whose efficiency was marred only by his sadistic penchant for torturing his victims. Especially women. Murphy figured Rashid’s mother must have done a real number on him. Oh well. Can’t have everything, Murphy thought.
Speaking in a low voice, Murphy said, “When you take care of the woman, I want you to do it fast. No hanky-panky. Make it clean. Get me?”
Rashid’s friendly grin was out of synch with his words. “I’ll kill her so fast she won’t even know it,” he whispered.
Murphy stared at the Afghan for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. “See that you do,” he said.
Rashid returned the nod, slid off his stool and headed for the exit.
Murphy watched him leave then poured another stiff shot into his glass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Pakistani plane refueled in Paris and took off on the second leg of its long journey. The professor slept. Ate the meals served to him. Watched a couple of bad movies on the small screen. Got up to stretch and chat with the army officers about their training experiences. He stayed away from the back of the plane, using the restroom near the flight deck.
When the plane landed in Islamabad, a waiting shuttle bus picked up the passengers and dropped the officers off at the terminal. The professor and Marzak were driven a short distance to a helicopter with no markings on the fuselage.
They climbed into the helicopter and buckled up. Marzak eyed the professor’s civilian clothes. “Who are you?’
“I am Saleem. I’m with the intelligence services. I believe we have mutual friends we are about to see.”
Marzak raised an eyebrow, but made no reply. The professor was relieved when the engine started and the spinning rotors drowned out the possibility of conversation.
The helicopter rose above the city and headed west, flying for ninety minutes before setting down in a field where they disembarked with their luggage. The helicopter took off and left them standing there in silence until a dust-covered old Chevrolet Impala raced across the field and slowed to a stop.