“Thanks,” McGarvey said, but he didn’t know if he meant that either. He’d always managed to keep his family and personal life in a separate, very secure compartment when he was in the field. Looking across the dark city toward the even darker, bleak mountains, he was sorry that his secret place had been reopened. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, and very much alone out here.
“Watch yourself, Mac.”
“Right,” McGarvey said. “You too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
McGarvey had been on the go for two days, catching only snatches of sleep here and there, mostly on airplanes, but he didn’t feel too bad yet. It was a few minutes after midnight when “be stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. He’d been sitting in the darkness by the window looking down at the deserted street since he’d gotten off the phone with Otto, trying to clear his mind of his family.
A dark blue Volkswagen van appeared around the corner a block away, drove directly to the hotel and pulled into the driveway, disappearing under the overhang. From his position he could not see if anyone was getting out and coming into the hotel. But after a minute when the van did not drive off, he turned away from the window, switched on the bedside light, and put on his bush jacket.
He slipped the safety chain off and opened the door. The elevator was on its way up. His bag was repacked and sitting on the bed with the laptop computer. He pulled the chair away from the window, placed it in the circle of light and sat down, crossing his legs. The first few seconds of encounters like these were always the most dangerous because no one knew what to expect. He was offering them no surprises; sitting in plain view, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his door open. No threat, no menace, no confrontation here.
The hotel was very quiet. He could hear the elevator arrive and the shuffling of several people coming down the hall.
Afghani mujahedeen, warriors of God, were as a rule a kind, but trigger happy-people, made that way because of more than twenty years of continuous righting since the Russians had invaded in ‘79 and the ongoing civil war that had been raging since the Russians finally pulled out in ‘89. Be careful with them, Mac, his DO briefing team had warned him. If you make a threatening move, if you piss them off, they’re going to shoot first and beg your forgiveness later. If you don’t make it in one piece bin Laden might throw a fit, but he won’t blame his own people, he’ll blame you, and expect that if we’re serious we’ll send somebody else who knows their customs.
They don’t separate their religion from their politics, and they don’t understand anybody who does. So watch yourself on that score too.
But if you show a weakness, any sign of it, they’ll jump on that too. Push them, and they’ll react violently. Make a mistake about religion, and they’ll pop off. Cower, and they’ll run you over.
Otto had walked in on one session, and he hopped from one foot to the other. “You gotta act like you know something they don’t, just like stroking my computers, ya know. That’s the secret.”
A husky figure dressed in Russian combat boots, baggy trousers and some sort of long, duty tunic over which he wore a long vest, appeared in the doorway. He was armed with a Kalashnikov rifle, and his face was covered by a dark balaclava. He swept his rifle left to right, then charged into the room. Two others similarly dressed appeared in the corridor behind him.
“You Kirk McGarvey?” he demanded. His English was heavily accented, and he sounded young and angry, perhaps even frightened.
“Yes, I am. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Okay, you stand up now, Mista CIA.”
McGarvey got slowly to his feet, keeping his hands well away from his body. “Is bin Laden nearby, or do we have a long way to go?” One of the others in the corridor handed his companion his rifle and came into the room. A fourth, very slightly built figure came to the doorway, and stared at McGarvey, only his eyes visible behind the mask.
“Arms out, legs out,” the unarmed mujahed ordered.
McGarvey did as he was told, and the young man quickly frisked him. But he missed the gun and spare magazine taped to McGarvey’s thigh. He stepped back. The small one in the corridor motioned to the bag and laptop case on the bed. The mujahed quickly went through the bag, pocketing the phone and lingering for a minute at the computer, his fingers caressing the keys. He looked up. “You will show me how to use this, mista he asked diffidently.
“That depends on how you treat me,” McGarvey said with a straight face. It was like dealing with children in a toy store. Only these were armed and dangerous children who could lash out and kill him without a moment’s hesitation or thought.
The one holding the rifle on McGarvey laughed as if the comment was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Maybe if we treat you like a prince you will give it to us?” he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“What would you do with a computer?”
“Send email,” the mujahed replied nonchalantly as if it was something he did every day.
“What about my phone?”
“No portable phones in Afghanistan. It is not allowed.”
“If you damage it I will expect payment,” McGarvey warned sternly. “I have respect for my possessions, I expect the same from you.”
The mujahed flicked his rifle’s safety catch off.
“Whoever carries my telephone will be responsible for its safety,” McGarvey insisted, not backing down.
The small mujahed at the door said something, his voice so soft as to be barely audible. But the warrior with the phone handed it to him without hesitation.
The one holding the gun on McGarvey safe tied his weapon, and insolently stepped aside. “We go now,” he said sullenly.
McGarvey got the impression that something was going on between them; some power struggle between the one holding the gun and the slightly built mujahed at the door, which made an already volatile situation even more dangerous.
“What about my bags?”
“I’ll take them,” the one who’d frisked McGarvey said.
McGarvey walked out of the room and down the corridor to the waiting elevator, two of the mujahedeen in front of him, and two, including the sullen one, behind him. Downstairs, the lobby was illuminated by only one dim light behind the registration desk. No one was around, but he got the impression that they were being watched. When they got outside, McGarvey looked up at the perfectly clear sky. Because there were so few lights in the city the stars were brilliant, and because of the elevation it seemed as if he could reach up and touch them. There were no sounds in the city. None of the usual sirens you always heard in large metropolitan centers at this time of night; no rumbling trucks or buses, no airplanes flying overhead. Not even any wind tonight, and the air sine I led of burning charcoal mixed with a sweeter, fresher, more fragrant odor of gardens, maybe fruit trees in blossom, or flowers. Pleasant smells.
McGarvey’s bags were put in the back of the van, and he was waved into the middle seat. One of the other mujahed climbed in behind the wheel, the slightly built one in the front passenger seat. The other two got in the back seat behind McGarvey, once again sandwiching him in so there was no possibility of him causing any trouble. They gave him a filthy balaclava and motioned for him to put it on. It occurred to him that his escorts weren’t hiding their identities from him, but from someone they expected to encounter tonight. Perhaps a police or military patrol. The city was officially under curfew until four in the morning.
“When we are stopped you will do no talking,” the sullen one in back said.
“Whatever you say.”
“This is important,” the driver said. “Your life is in danger, and we must protect you. So you do as we say. Understand?”
The truce between bin Laden and the ruling Taliban religious party still ran deep. Bin Laden had left his
