We are driven to the White House in an armored convoy.
I wear a sharply creased black suit Stein prepared for me. I wonder if Stein’s sense of fashion admits any color but black. In her dress blue uniform and black beret, Robyn cuts an attractive figure.
Stein leads us to the West Wing.
I’m under no illusions I’m going to meet the President of the United States. Stein went over the morning’s agenda with me. We pass the White House Chief of Staff’s office, and follow a corridor that looks as functional as any working office in the Western world. Discreet Secret Service personnel are everywhere.
Stein leads us to a conference room. Inside, seated at the table, are General Anthony and two Under Secretaries of State. The Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs and the Under Secretary of State for International Security. Stein introduces us, and we take seats.
We don’t have long to wait.
The door opens, and a distinguished man enters. “We’re ready for you now,” he tells Stein. “General Anthony, please wait here with Mr Breed.”
The general looks surprised, and a little unhappy. Stein, Robyn, and the Under Secretaries file out of the room. The door closes behind them.
I settle back in my chair and look around the plain, functional space. A conference table with seats for twelve. Star phone in the middle. Screens for projection briefings. Wires for laptop connectivity and microphones snake out of little holes cut into the tabletop.
“It’s been a long time since you sent me through those valleys into Tajikistan, General.”
The general looks at me. Tries to gauge whether this is small talk, or something more serious. “Yes,” he says. “It is.”
“Those missions gathered a lot of intel. You told me to write you the book on smuggling in those mountains. I did. Chapter and verse. Every player, every route.”
“You were characteristically thorough.”
“I always wondered what you used the intel for.”
“I told you at the time. We used it to interdict opium and weapons caravans.”
“Those of Zarek Najibullah,” I say. “Three times more frequently than those of Abdul-Ali Shahzad.”
“This again.” Anthony snorts, stiffens in his chair. “I told you, Breed. I don’t know that’s true. We bomb them where we find them.”
I take out a small digital recorder, Stein’s, and set it on the table. Press a button. Koenig’s voice sounds loud in the quiet room.
It was General Anthony’s operation. Shahzad paid him to hit Najibullah’s caravans. Air strikes to the north. Gunship attacks and ambushes further south. In some cases, we sold captured opium to the Taliban.
Stein’s voice cuts in. “Who else was involved, Koenig?”
I don’t know everyone. Not many. The general’s adjutant, Colonel Tristan. Myself and Lopez. Tristan was the bookkeeper. He handled accounts and logistics. Lopez and I were assigned reconnaissance missions. Sometimes we went in with ground forces to supervise ambushes. The general didn’t want too many mouths to feed.
The general has gone white. My stomach is hollow. This man was my commanding officer most of my career. A Tier 1 operator himself, he taught me much of what I know. Right to the end, my hunting and shooting partner.
“It’s over, General.” I sit ramrod-straight in my chair. Look the great man in the eye. “Koenig told us everything. You never wanted peace. The deal with Shahzad was hollow, he was never going to put Al Qaeda in a box. That’s why State couldn’t accept it. Such a deal would never permit America to withdraw. That’s the kind of deal you wanted. You didn’t want the gravy train to stop.”
“Koenig’s lying.” The general musters the voice of command. Hard, chiseled, confident. “Lying to save his own skin.”
“No, Sir. Stein’s team has been busy. Colonel Tristan has been taken into custody. His laptop and phone have been confiscated. No one can function today without an electronic trail. We’ve found yours. Traced scores of transactions. All linked to accounts the Taliban and Al Qaeda use to launder drug money and pay for arms.”
“You can’t tie me to anything,” the general says. “Because I’m not involved.”
“You and Shahzad stonewalled the kind of deal America wanted. When you found out Stein and Grissom had created a back channel to Najibullah, you freaked out. You knew the details of Grissom and Trainor’s exfil, leaked them to Shahzad. You wanted Shahzad to kill them, but he got too cute. He decided to keep them alive and use them as bait to lure Najibullah into an ambush.
“The problem was that Stein and Washington demanded action. They wanted a rescue operation. You wanted the rescue to fail, but you had to make it look good. You brought me in, as Stein knew you would. You passed the first test. After all these years, I’m the only one you could get who knows those mountains.
“You couldn’t leak the rescue attempt to Shahzad. That would be far too vulgar, and it wouldn’t work. If Shahzad knew we were coming, he would move Grissom and Trainor, lay an ambush, and wipe us out. You’d be relieved for the fuckup, and Stein would try another rescue.”
“Clearly, Captain Koenig has a talent for fairy tales.”
“No, Sir. Every word rings true. Your best course of action was to put Koenig and Lopez on the rescue mission. Their instructions were to eliminate Colonel Grissom. They weren’t too happy about it. They joined your scam for easy money, not to kill American officers. But they went along.
“Koenig’s initial plan had him and Lopez performing the breach and rescue. Once inside that house, they could get away with anything. But it made more sense for me and Takigawa to go in for the hostages. So Koenig and Lopez had to make their move outside. They exposed the operation by firing on sentries on the upper terraces. Then, in the confusion of our withdrawal, Lopez shot the Colonel. Bad luck—he missed by a couple of inches. Grissom survived.
“Luck washes out. You were lucky Shahzad had SAMs and drove the exfil helos away. He knocked
