“Where are you from?”
“I’m a Texas boy. You?”
“Ohio. So you’re the cowboy.”
“And you’re the farmer. I think what you need to do is listen to the CO here. He’s got it together. He understands the delicate balance of power.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not my mission.”
Bronco checked his watch. “You got a minute. I’ve got some friends I want you to meet…”
“Who are they?”
“Men who will provide, shall we say, enlightenment.”
“Oh, I’ve got that up to here.”
“Trust me, Joe. This will be worth your time.”
I thought about it. “I’m not coming alone.”
He looked wounded. “You don’t trust me. It’s not like I work for the CIA or anything. Look, we’re just going into the village. You’ll be fine. My car’s right over there.”
“This is important to you?”
“Very.”
“You think it’ll get me out of your face?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
Maybe I was feeling suicidal, but I told Ramirez to entertain Captain Warris until I returned. I drove off with Bronco to a part of the village I hadn’t visited before, where the brick houses were more circular and clustered in a labyrinth to form curving alleys that opened into courtyards full of fruit trees and grapevines. In the distance lay great fields of wheat, sorghum, and poppy, and off to my right was a mine-sweeping team along with their dogs working the field where Kundi said it was okay to drill the well. At least Harruck hadn’t been a total fool about that. And for all intents and purposes, he could have those minesweepers check the area where Kundi had refused to drill… but he wouldn’t…
Bronco parked along a more narrow section of the road, then led me onward into the dust-laden shadows of the warren.
Several old men with long beards were trailed by children holding a donkey by its reins. The animal was carrying huge stacks of grass to feed cattle penned up in the south. Farther down the street, I spotted one of Harruck’s patrols questioning a young boy of ten or twelve wearing a dirty robe. The soldiers looked like high-tech aliens against the ancient terrain.
We reached a narrow wooden door built into a wall adjoining two homes and were met by a young man who immediately recognized Bronco and let us in. He spoke rapidly in Pashto to the boy, who ran ahead of us.
The courtyard we entered had more grapevines and several fountains along a mosaic tile floor; it was, perhaps, the most ornately decorated section of the village I’d encountered. To our left lay a long walkway that terminated in a side door through which the boy ran. We started slowly after him, and I detected a sweet, smoky smell emanating from ahead.
I was dressed like a regular soldier and still packing my sidearm. I reached for the weapon as we started through the door, and Bronco gave me a look:
“Force of habit,” I lied.
Light filtered in from a windowless hole in the wall as we came into a wide living area of crimson-colored rugs, matching draperies, and shelving built into the walls to hold dozens of pieces of pottery, along with silver trays and decanters. Dust and smoke filtered through that single light beam, and my gaze lowered to the three men sitting cross-legged, one of whom was taking a long pull on a water pipe balanced between them. The men were brown prunes and rail-thin. Their teacups were empty. Slowly, one by one, they raised their heads, nodded, and greeted Bronco, who sat opposite them and motioned that I do likewise. He introduced me to the man seated in the middle, Hamid, his beard entirely white, his nose very broad. I could barely see his eyes behind narrow slits.
He spoke in Pashto, his voice low and burred by age. “Bronco tells me they sent you here to capture Zahed.”
I glowered at Bronco. “No.”
“Don’t lie to them,” he snapped.
“Yes,” said Hamid. “The rope of a lie is short — and you will hang yourself with it.”
“Who are you?” I asked him in Pashto.
“I was once the leader of this village until my son took over.”
I nodded slowly. “Kundi is your son, and your son negotiates with the Taliban.”
“Of course. I fought with Zahed’s father many years ago. We are both Mujahadeen. The guns we used were given to us by you Americans.”
“Zahed’s men attack the village, attack our base, and rape children.”
“There is no excuse for that.”
“Then the people here should join us.”
“We already have.”
“No, I need your son to cut off all ties with the Taliban. There’s a rumor that the workers building the school and police station have to give their money to Zahed.”
“I’m sure that is true, but Zahed is a good man.” Hamid nodded to drive the point home.
“Do you know if he is working with al Qaeda?”
“He is not. He is
“Hamid, forgive me, but I don’t understand why your people support him. He’s a military dictator.”
“He comes from a long line of great men. The people in his village are very happy, safe, and secure. All we want is the same. We did not ask you to come here. We do not want you here. We would be happier if you went home.”
“But look at what we’re doing for you…”
The old man pursed his lips and sighed. “That is not help. That is a political game. I had this very same conversation with a Russian commander many years ago. And he thought just like you…”
A muffled shout from outside wafted in from the window. “Hasten to prayer.”
Bronco looked at me, and we quickly excused ourselves and headed out while they began their prayers.
Back in the courtyard, the old agent turned to me and said, “Do you see the nut you’re trying to crack? These guys are all family, brothers in arms, old Soviet fighters. They bled together. You think they’ll go against Zahed? Not in a million years.”
“Then what’re you doing here?”
“My job.”
“Which is…”
“Which is making sure you dumb-ass Joes don’t fuck this all up.”
“What’s
“What if I told you Zahed works for us?”
“I’d say you’re full of it.”
“Money talks, right?”
“He’s not a terrorist.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because if you do, you have a better chance of staying alive.”
“So now you want to help me stay alive? I thought you wanted me to go home.”
“Going home will keep you alive.”
“Sorry, buddy, can’t help you there.”
“Well, then, Captain Mitchell, I guess we should head back to my car.”
I froze. “How do you know my name?”
“Captain Scott Mitchell. Ghost Leader. The elite unit that”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“doesn’t exist. Top secret. Well, we’re the goddamned CIA, and no one keeps secrets from us.”
I had to smirk. I’d tried to dig up intel on him and come up empty.
His tone softened, if only a little. “Years ago, you rescued a couple of buddies of mine in Waziristan. Saenz
