Page 21

Chapter13

Ahmad Khan shivered on the marble bench, not used to the chill in the room. Sitting in a large foyer of a mountain chalet the size of a castle, there was one other person seated across from him on a duplicate marble bench, the hallway large enough to drive a car through. A younger man of about twenty-five, he didn’t fit the décor—but then neither did Ahmad, his rumpled suit showing the stains from his flight out of Afghanistan.

The guy was dressed in a denim jacket, jeans, and a T-shirt proclaiming some rock band’s tour, with greasy black hair that came down to his shoulders and a pockmarked face from childhood acne. The man never looked up, simply staring at his cell phone as he scrolled through one app after another.

The same Russian with the scar who’d transported him from Tajikistan had brought him here, and like he’d told him when he dropped Ahmad off at the hotel after the final flight, he was simply instructed to wait. Ahmad had plopped down on a bench, and had been sitting ever since.

At this point, Ahmad was willing to give up any claim or payment for the treasure. All he wanted now was to be let go, but he was worried the men he’d crawled into bed with would consider that option to be permanent. Outside of Jahn, he was the only one who knew he’d left Afghanistan with the treasure. And he was sure his friend was dead.

After Jahn had left them in the airport, the Russian with the scar had transported the treasure to a private Learjet, a small team of men appearing out of nowhere to conduct the manual labor, all of them hard, with scars like the leader.

The Russian had forced him to board the aircraft, ignoring all questions about where they were going. Eventually they’d landed at an airport somewhere, hopefully in Europe. All Ahmad could see were mountains covered in snow in the distance. As they taxied to the hardstand for private aircraft, he’d seen signs for the Zurich airport in Switzerland, giving him some relief. For a minute, he’d thought they’d landed in Russia.

They’d transferred from the jet to a helicopter, and then had taken off again. Thirty minutes later, they’d landed at a helipad, and Ahmad was taken to a fancy hotel called the Park Sonnenhof. He was told to simply wait until someone came to get him.

It was a full day and a half before he even learned he was no longer in Switzerland, but instead in Liechtenstein, a small microstate sandwiched between Switzerland and Austria and known as much for its loose tax laws and a preponderance of expat billionaires as its spectacular alpine views.

Eating breakfast at the included buffet, he asked the man cooking omelets how far it was to the airport in Zurich, and was told it was “fairly close, just across the border.” Seeing the confusion on his face, the chef had said, “The border to Liechtenstein. To us.”

Acting like it had all become clear, Ahmad had smiled and nodded his head, now completely confused. A day later, the Russian with the scar had returned, putting him in a fancy Mercedes SUV and driving him on a winding road into the foothills. They stopped at a spectacular chalet that looked as if it were built into the mountain itself. Led into the foyer, he’d been seated on a marble bench across from the younger man. The pockmarked, greasy-haired man showed no fear, like he belonged in the palatial estate.

Ahmad wished he could generate the same feelings.

The guy finally looked up from his phone and seemed to notice Ahmad for the first time. In English, he said, “You look a little worn out.”

His accent was Eastern European, and Ahmad assumed he was from Russia. He let out a tired smile and said, “Yeah, it’s been a little bit of a trip.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Afghanistan.”

“No kidding? I didn’t know Andrei was working in Afghanistan. What were you doing?”

Ahmad didn’t want to continue the conversation, not knowing who he was or what he had to do with Andrei. And then he thought the opposite; this man could be useful. It might help if Ahmad learned whyhewas here.

He said, “I was doing this and that. Came here on the jet from Tajikistan. You?”

The man smiled and said, “Yeah, same. From Zagreb. That’s a pretty good perk, but he’ll make you pay for it in the end.” He chuckled, then said, “Are you one of those refugees I see on the news?”

“Sort of. Not really. Not with Andrei.”

The man nodded, interested in the story. He said, “That’s true, that’s true. So you do computer work?”

Ahmad chuckled and said, “No. I wish I had that skill. You do?”

The man nodded and said, “It pays the bills, no doubt. But you left Afghanistan for good, huh?”

“Yes, unfortunately, it was time.”

“No kidding.” He said, “I’ve had my share of not being wanted, trust me. But that was just my parents.” He laughed again at his joke and said, “My name’s Branko. If you get to Zagreb, look me up. I’ll show you a good time, courtesy of Andrei.”

He theatrically looked left and right, then whispered, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Ahmad smiled and said, “I’m not sure where I’m going next.”

He held up his phone and said, “Let me pass you my number. Call me if you get to Zagreb. I’ll show you the town.”

Embarrassed, Ahmad said, “I don’t have a phone. I lost it.”