“Real gold. Swiss-made.”
“I’m sold.”
They fell silent. Miller found himself intensely conscious of the ticking of the Rolex. Finally, Amadullah muttered, “Enough.” He shoved a plug of tobacco into his mouth and started up the Ranger. The road rose slowly, following a dry streambed around the flank of a brown mountain, an unpoetic stretch of land, a place to grind through. Behind the mountain, the road forked.
“Left or right?”
“Right.” The marker was reflective tape stuck low on a lightning-scarred tree.
The right fork turned back into the mountain, rising in the shadow of a ridgeline. The pines here were sheltered from the prevailing easterly winds and stood thicker. The road dead-ended at a man-made clearing, the trees cut to stumps. At the far edge, two horses stood riderless, a mare and a gelding, both saddled and tied to a tree. They stamped their hooves and whinnied as the Ranger rolled in. Miller relaxed a little. He’d brought them to the right place.
The CIA officer who called himself Stan had done an extraordinary job of winning Amadullah’s trust, Miller thought. A year before, the United States had created a most-wanted list of forty-seven Taliban commanders, including Amadullah. Thirteen of those men were now dead, and seven more captured. Even so, Amadullah had agreed to leave the safety of Muslim Bagh and come to Afghanistan to meet Stan. He was taking an enormous chance. The Americans could have a company of Special Forces operatives waiting.
But Miller understood why Amadullah was taking the risk. Miller had delivered hundreds of thousands of dollars to Amadullah, money Amadullah could use to control his tribe and build a private army. When the Americans left Afghanistan, Amadullah would be ready to govern a province, maybe even bribe his way into a cabinet position. Then Stan had cemented his relationship with Amadullah by tipping him about the Special Forces raid. Amadullah had told Miller earlier today that Stan had been right, that helicopters had raided the farm a few days after their meeting.
Amadullah slung a short-stock AK over his shoulder. “You’ve never been here before,” he said to Miller.
“All I know is that we’re supposed to follow the path.”
“Then let’s follow it. Find this man I’ve come to see.”
“Father,” Azim said. “Let me come, too, guard you.”
“You think I need to be guarded from
Amadullah walked over to the taller horse, the gelding, and mounted him in a single smooth leap that belied his size. Miller put a hand on the mare’s flank. She was skinny and swaybacked, white except for the gray blaze on her chest. She turned her head, fluttered her big lips at him. She seemed friendly enough, but Miller hesitated. He’d never ridden before. The South Side of Chicago wasn’t exactly horse country.
“Come on,” Amadullah said.
Miller awkwardly stepped into the stirrup and swung himself over the saddle. The horse swayed. For an unpleasant moment, he thought he might fall. Then he jammed his left foot into the other stirrup and grabbed the reins.
“Not too hard,” Amadullah said. “She knows what to do if you’ll let her.” He turned his horse up the trail. Miller followed. The path rose in short switchbacks. The forest was thicker than Miller expected, and crusty branches whipped at his legs. He ducked low, leaning over the mare’s back. To his surprise, he found the ride relaxing. The mare moved at a steady walk and didn’t seem to mind carrying him. Miller looked for a trap, broken branches or footprints made by men waiting to capture Amadullah. But the trees appeared undisturbed.
“Your friend planned this meeting well,” Amadullah said. “Even if I wanted to take him, I couldn’t.”
Amadullah was right, Miller realized. The path could be followed only in single file. No doubt it circled around the mountain and reached another clearing where Stan had hidden his own vehicle.
After twenty minutes, they crossed a notch in the ridge, emerging on the mountain’s north face. The trees stopped suddenly. Patches of snow were scattered in the shadows of the boulders above them. The trail passed through a rock slide, squeezed between two house-size boulders, and opened onto a stretch of flat rock.
And there he was. The CIA officer who called himself Stan. Miller had expected a big guy, a military type. But Stan was skinny. He wore an olive green North Face jacket and a 9-millimeter Glock strapped to his hip, but no armor or sunglasses or beard. At first, he didn’t look like a soldier. More like a lawyer. But his eyes gave him away. They were blue and hard and flat, the eyes of a man who had been shown no mercy and would show none. In Miller’s experience, white folk rarely had those eyes. He wondered where Stan had gotten his.
“Amadullah,” he said in Pashtun. “Meet Stan, the man with the plan.” Like he knew Stan. Like they were friends. Stan didn’t blink. Miller hoped he couldn’t speak Pashtun. Miller would have a better chance of continuing his unbroken winning streak in the life-versus-death sweepstakes if he could play translator, tweak the conversation to his advantage. He knew that he might never get off this mountain. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling weirdly privileged to be here. How often did Talib commanders and CIA operatives meet face-to-face?
Amadullah slid off his horse and offered a hand to Stan. Miller waited for the trap to spring, for soldiers to jump from hidden positions. Instead, the American put his left hand on Amadullah’s arm and patted his own chest with his right hand to show his respect. “Tell him I’m glad he came,” Stan said to Miller in English. “I know it’s dangerous. For both of us. I’m glad he trusted me enough to come.”
“I wanted to see you with my own eyes,” Amadullah said.
“Here I am, then. I wish I could have seen your country fifty years ago, when there wasn’t a war. When we could have met in your home and feasted like men instead of hiding here like beasts.”
“I don’t know anything about you. Not even your name. You know my name and I don’t know yours.”
“My name wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m not famous like you.”
“Still I need a name for you.”
“Call me Stan, then.”
Amadullah considered. “It will do. Tell me why you’ve done all this, at least. You’re a believer?”
“A Muslim?” A gray smile crossed Stan’s face. “No.”
“For money, then?”
“The money’s nice, but not the main reason.”
“Then why?”
“I’m tired, that’s all.” Stan tipped his head up, directing his explanation to the heavens. “The agency I work for, it’s corrupt. My country, my government, this whole war, corrupt, corrupt, corrupt. We tell you we’ve got the answers, but we don’t have anything at all. We lie to ourselves as much as everyone else. It’s time for us to leave here, leave you alone.”
“What do you think,” Amadullah said to Miller, when he’d finished translating. “Is he telling the truth?”
Miller was surprised Amadullah had asked his opinion. “I don’t know why he’d lie. Maybe there’s more to it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Did he say anything to you about it?”
“I told you. He treats me as a courier. Nothing more.”
“Ask him, then, why he’s brought us here.”
Stan smiled, a real smile this time, when he heard the question. He led them to his horse, a thick-legged white stallion tied to a mulberry tree. A white wool blanket was draped over the horse’s flanks. Stan pulled off the blanket with a magician’s flourish, revealing twin boxes. They were about six feet long, a foot square, and covered with Cyrillic lettering.
“You know these?”
“SAMs,” Amadullah said in English. “Russian Stingers.”
“A new model. SA-24s. The Russians started making them about three years ago. The Russian Army says these can take out a Black Hawk, and I think they’re right. Especially if I give them some help. You think you might have use for these, Amadullah?”
Amadullah grinned.
“Now I’m going to tell you something,” Stan said. “The director of the CIA is coming to Afghanistan soon. In only a few days. And American politicians, too. Important ones.”
“You’re certain of this.”
“Yes. I’ll have their flight schedule.”
