Amadullah tapped one of the steel boxes. “And what do you want for this?”
“Nothing. It’s a gift.”
“I don’t like that sort of gift. Not even stones are free, we Pashtuns say.”
“All right, Amadullah. If you insist, you can give me something in return. Information. Tell me, have any Americans come to see you recently?”
“Aside from this one, no.” Amadullah spit green spit at Miller’s feet.
“Anyone else? Has anyone come to Balochistan? Not necessarily American.”
Amadullah pursed his lips. “Almost two weeks ago, yes. But he was Saudi. He wanted to help fund the jihad. These men appear every so often. They never make any trouble. If they do, we send them home. One way or another.”
“You’re sure he was Saudi.”
“He had a Saudi passport. He came for a day and left.”
Stan reached into his pocket, handed Amadullah an envelope. Amadullah flicked it open with his dirty yellow thumbnail, extracted a photo. He looked it over, grunted in surprise, handed it to Miller.
The photo showed a tall man, handsome and square shouldered. He had wavy brown hair and a crooked smile that was more lips than teeth. Miller didn’t recognize him.
“This is the Saudi. How did you know?” Amadullah said.
“That’s John Wells. One of our agents.”
“He wasn’t American. He couldn’t have been. He spoke Arabic, Pashtun. And he killed four men. Troublemakers. Enemies of my tribe.”
“Sounds like Wells. What did you tell him?”
Amadullah chapped a new plug of tobacco in his mouth.
“Did you give him any phone numbers or e-mail addresses?”
Amadullah nodded slowly.
“Destroy all those phones. Burn them and then burn the ashes and then drop them off the side of a mountain. Never use any of those e-mails again. Destroy all the computers where you’ve ever checked those e- mails. And probably plan to move.”
“The computers, too? My new Apple from Dubai.”
“All of it. Did you tell him about me?”
“No.”
“This is important, Amadullah. That we’d been in contact? Anything?”
“No. I swear to Allah.”
“Did you tell him about the drugs?”
“I told him that we sold drugs to Americans, nothing more.”
“Did you tell him what unit?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him about Daood?”
“No, but one of my nephews did.”
“But no,” Miller said in English, pretending to translate. “I didn’t tell him about Daood. And he didn’t know anything about Daood.”
Miller did not want Stan to hear that John Wells knew his name. He was as certain of that as he’d ever been of anything.
STAN WAS QUIET. His dead blue eyes shifted from Amadullah to Miller. In the silence, Miller heard the wind rustling down the mountain. “You think I don’t speak Pashtun?” Stan said to Miller. In Pashtun.
Stan pulled his pistol. “On your knees, hands behind your back.” Miller had looked at pistols before. He’d pulled them himself. An occupational hazard of the drug business. Usually folks were playing, showing off. This time, Miller felt a sick certainty that Stan would blow his brains out. He went to his knees, feeling the stones scrape his shins through the thin fabric of his gown.
“What did you tell Wells about Daood?” Stan said to Amadullah.
In answer, Amadullah swung his rifle toward Stan. Miller kept his breathing steady.
But Stan said, “I’m no danger to you, Amadullah. We’re partners.” He pulled the magazine from his pistol and dropped it. It clapped against the stone and skittered away. “Just one round in the chamber. For him, if we decide so.”
Amadullah lowered his AK. Miller felt his hope fade.
“What did you tell Wells?” Stan said again.
“Nothing. In truth, my nephew Jaji mentioned Daood to this man Wells, that’s all. Then Wells asked me about Daood and I told him it wasn’t his business.”
“See,” Miller said. “Wells doesn’t know anything about me. You know how many guys are named Daood in Pakistan?”
Stan turned toward Miller. “Has he tried to contact you? Don’t lie.”
“No. I swear. I promise, if he finds me, I won’t say a word. Anyway, Stan, I don’t even know your name, your real name, I mean.” Miller was sputtering, trying to find the magic words.
“You promise.”
“I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t translate right, I should have told you what Amadullah said, but I thought —”
“I know what you thought. If it makes you feel any better, Daood, I probably would have had to kill you anyway. Now that Amadullah and I have gotten to know each other, you’re a liability.”
“Wait. If I hear Wells is after me, I’ll let you know. That way, you’ll have some warning. Besides, if I disappear, my wives will look for me. I’m more useful to you alive.”
For a moment, Miller thought his offer might work. Then Amadullah walked next to Stan, and together they looked down at Miller. Judges from hell.
“The Russians, when they came here, they had a saying,” Amadullah said. “Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.”
“From Stalin originally,” Stan said. “He had another saying, too. The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of one million is a statistic.”
“I think this one wouldn’t even be a tragedy.” Amadullah pointed his AK toward Miller, and Miller knew the time for begging was done. He had to distract them long enough to get to a horse. He looked down, saw two gray rocks on the stone slab in front of him. One was as big as a cell phone, the other an oversize egg. His best chance. Only chance. They could quote Stalin all they liked. Miller would stick with 2Pac.
“Let me pray, then. Please.” Miller began to murmur the first surah of the Quran.
He leaned forward, and as his head touched the stony ground he grabbed the rocks, the bigger in his right, the smaller in his left. He came up throwing, aiming a sharp sidearm right that caught Amadullah on his left cheek. Amadullah grunted and twisted away and fired high. The shots cut rock from the slab behind Miller.
With his left hand, Miller threw the smaller rock at Stan’s chest. It caught him full in the stomach. Stan grunted and fired low and wide. The round sliced across Miller’s right biceps, doing no real damage. Stan cursed and bent over, looking for the magazine he’d dropped.
Miller stood and ran for the big white horse. He didn’t want to go back the way he’d come, not with Amadullah’s son waiting for him. Anyway, the stallion looked fast.
Behind him he heard the stutter of metal on metal and wondered whether Amadullah’s AK had jammed. He heard Amadullah curse and knew it had.
Miller reached the stallion and pulled the reins from the mulberry tree and jumped onto its back. But this horse was taller than the filly he’d ridden, and stronger, and didn’t like him. Miller found himself sprawled across the saddle, perpendicular to the stallion’s body, the missile boxes pressing into his legs and chest. The horse neighed
