Yousseff was ushered through the terminal and into a large underground bunker complex, at the center of which the American ambassador to Afghanistan maintained an office. He chaffed as he went past the metal detectors and scanners that were common in every American station in the Middle East and stormed into the inner office of General Samuel Eggleston.
“Yousseff, what a pleasant—”
“I have a fortress in the Sefid Koh that has just been invaded by American gunmen. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sam?”
“What are you talking about, Yousseff? No mission has been authorized in that area. I would be briefed on any military action in Afghanistan. Or Pakistan, for that matter. State would ask for my views, or at the very least give me advance warning. The Americans are not involved in any military action in the Sefid Koh.”
“At least thirty of my men are dead,” continued Yousseff, angrily. “The purpose of the mission was to free Kumar Hanaman. That operation appears to have succeeded.”
“It could not have been an American operation, Yousseff. That sort of thing does not occur without my knowledge. What makes you think it was an American operation?”
“The security system at Inzar Ghar is state of the art. My people think that a cell phone was hacked, and from there hackers Bluetoothed into the system. I have technicians looking at it now. But they tell me the signal was transmitted from a drone, an American drone flying in the vicinity. That means it was you. And I want Kumar brought back to me.”
“Assuming it was us for a minute, why the urgency about one particular prisoner?”
“I am not going to tell you the details, Sam. What I will tell you is that the information he possesses has the potential of destroying my business.”
“But what if we can’t find him?”
“There is a simple answer to that,” Yousseff snapped. “A very simple answer. If Kumar is not brought back to me, Bagram will be returned to the Russians. Or the Chinese. Your American business ventures will be expelled from here. The natural gas, the copper, the rare metals, all that is of value here will be taken over by the state. Our state. Afghanistan.”
“Yousseff, that cannot happen. You cannot on a whim, on a suspicion, evict us from our bases, especially this one. We have many billions of dollars invested here.”
“Do not test me, Sam. I own the government of Afghanistan. If Mr. Hanaman is not brought back to me forthwith, a resolution will be passed by our government to expel you. To kick you out of Bagram. You and your military and your companies and your colonialization plans. If you refuse to leave, further motions will be passed declaring that you are now invaders. If you still do not leave, a further resolution will be passed soliciting the assistance of either the Russians or the Chinese to expel you from our lands. Do you really want that?”
General Eggleston was silent for a full minute as he considered the proposal. The rumbling of jet engines could be heard in the distance, and even here, deep underground and in the center of the base, there was a faint smell of jet fuel. Bagram was a vital point in developing the vast wealth of Central Asia. This was far beyond his pay grade.
“Yousseff, the United States values its relationship with Afghanistan. Its wealth is being exploited to our mutual benefit. The president will be advised of this within the hour. We will do whatever is possible to return this prisoner to you.”
“You do not really need to go that far, Sam. If you find him, put a bullet in his head.”
“I will pass along the message,” the general replied. “He will never testify in Washington. We will deal with this internally. There will be no need to involve the Russians or the Chinese.”
“General, he does not need to be in Washington to reveal to the world whatever his theory of the Colorado terrorist attack might be. Your job is to ensure he will never have contact with the media. Any media. Don’t assume that the only reporters and hearing rooms on the planet are in Washington or New York,” said Yousseff. “If Kumar makes a public statement anywhere, General, anywhere on the planet, your days in Afghanistan and in Bagram are done. I trust we understand one another.” Without further ado, he rose from his chair and returned to his jet.
The general turned to one of his senior assistants. “Get the secretary of defense on the line,” he ordered. “On the secure line. Immediately.”
Fifteen minutes later Calvin Jones came on the line. “Sam, I’m still in bed. It’s Saturday. What’s all the commotion about?”
“CJ, we have a problem. You need to notify the president immediately.
We have a serious issue . . . .”
9
Afully uniformed Marine awkwardly marched into the presidential bedroom and saluted. “There is a priority one call from the secretary of defense, sir,” he said. He was attempting to ignore Tyra Baylor, who was sitting in a recliner a few feet away, wearing a white robe and not much else, reading the presidential daily brief. The PDF was a highly classified intelligence document. The president was still in bed, his naked, white-haired chest surfacing above an assortment of sheets and blankets.
“Just toss me the phone, Jonathon,” he said. “You may be excused.” The relieved Marine did precisely that, marching out double time.
“Put it on speaker,” urged Tyra, which the president promptly did.
“CJ, it’s pretty early in the morning. Less than six hours since we talked last. What’s up?”
“Sir,” said the secretary of defense, “there has been a development. I have just received a call from General
