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ZAHIR had no formal police training, but he was no fool. He stroked his thick black beard and looked at the bodies. The big man he thought he recognized. He was hard-core Taliban. Unlike Zahir, who was whatever he needed to be to survive, this man had stayed faithful when the Americans swept in and mopped up the Taliban. That was the first time Zahir had done business with Rickman. He had shown up in his village on horseback with a dozen bearded fighters and two American warplanes circling overhead like predators. By then the news had spread. The Taliban had collapsed in the face of the American onslaught. For Zahir, an expert at predicting which way the wind would blow, the decision was easy.
As Rickman laid it out, Zahir could either take twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and contribute some fighters to the cause, or the Navy F-18 Hornets circling above would lay his village to waste. Zahir wasn’t even offended. It was the easiest decision he had ever made. It was made all the more easier knowing that he would likely change sides many times as this war raged on. The Taliban had run to their haven on the other side of the Pakistani border, but they would be back.
Zahir liked Rickman and respected him. Rickman never took it personally when Zahir’s loyalty wavered. He simply looked at it as a challenge to bring Zahir back to his side. That fool Hubbard, however, was another story. He lacked Rickman’s cunning. He had been so easy to push around. Not like the crazy American from two days ago. Zahir had tried to find out who he was, but his resources were limited and he had a feeling that, like so many of these damn CIA men, he had been using a fake name.
For the first time in four years Sickles had refused to take his calls, which was not a good sign. Then Hubbard disappeared, which seemed strange since he was last seen at the air base and there was no record of him leaving the base. And then there was the big gunfight in Kabul. Twenty-one police officers killed in broad daylight by a group of American contractors. It had filled the airwaves for two straight days. He knew that most of it was inaccurate, as Zahir had been briefed that General Qayem and his men ambushed the Americans. The general had fled and the Afghan National Police were reeling from the treachery. It was one thing to siphon off funds for your own personal use, but to use your men to try and kill Americans was madness. Add to it that twenty-one of his own men had been killed and Zahir was willing to bet that the reckless General Qayem would be moved to the top of the Americans’ most-wanted list.
It was total chaos. Why would Qayem do such a thing? Zahir could only hazard a few guesses, but it was likely a mix of large amounts of money and promises of more power when the Americans left. That was the new game—everyone was gambling on when the Americans would pull out and the Taliban would come rushing back in. Zahir wasn’t so sure it was that black and white. The Taliban even at their peak couldn’t control the entire country. Various local factions, including warlords and drug dealers, had consolidated power and armed themselves with the tools of war.
Zahir was a perfect example. Plans were in place to move all of his men and the American-supplied equipment back to their villages. Ammunition and spare parts had been disappearing since the day he put on his uniform. And this time would be easier with the fleet of well-maintained trucks under his command. Zahir had never doubted that the Taliban would be back. They were like weeds, as much a part of the landscape as the rocks and the trees, but Zahir understood their power would be limited this time. The secret to Afghanistan was that anyone could wreak havoc but none could govern. The Taliban had learned that mistake just as countless others had, dating all the way back to Alexander the Great. Even with all of the brutality they employed against the people, they were struggling to maintain their hold on Kabul and other large cities where the people didn’t feel like living under absolute Sharia law. Most Afghans were willing to live under a more relaxed form of the Muslim law, but when men from the mountains start beating your wife or daughters because they don’t like the color of their hijab, resentment and hatred mounts quickly.
There was one very simple reason Zahir would never throw his complete support behind the Taliban: They had no airpower. It was Zahir’s greatest fear. The Americans had killed countless men with their unmanned drones and their high-tech jets. What most people didn’t understand was that the Americans would never truly leave. Those drones would always be overhead, listening and watching, and that was why Zahir wanted so badly to give the crazy American some information that would satisfy him. The future of Afghanistan was uncertain, as it always had been. Alliances would continue to shift, but on this particular day Zahir was sure of just one thing—he had stumbled upon something that would likely save his life. Now he just needed the American to call him back.
When his phone finally rang he was back on the street, smoking and relieved he was breathing fresh air. The house behind him was a mess. The basement so foul, he could not last more than a minute breathing the putrid smells. The small screen on his phone told him the number was blocked. He was both hopeful and nervous.
“This is Commander Zahir.”
“You better have something for me.”
Zahir thought he heard the menacing drone of a propeller overhead. Craning his neck skyward, he searched for the telltale speck of gray. A layer of high clouds made it impossible. He cou
ldn’t fight the ominous feeling that the American had him literally in the crosshairs. “I do,” Zahir started. “Have you seen the tape of Mr. Rick? The one that is all over the Internet?”
There was a pause and then, “Yes.”
“I have found something that you need to see.”
“What is it?”
“I am pretty sure it is the house where Mr. Rick was being tortured.”
“Why do you think that?”
Zahir turned and looked at the two-story stone house. He had one of his people looking into the utility and ownership records. “There is a room in the basement. Two of the walls are covered with sheets just like in the video.”
“What else?”
“A rope attached to the ceiling, just like in the video, and there is lots of blood on the floor.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, two bodies.” Zahir’s pulse quickened. This, he hoped, was what would save his life. “I am certain they are the two men seen in the video who are beating Mr. Rick.” There was another awkward silence. Zahir could barely make out other people talking.
“The men are wearing masks in the video. How can you be certain?”
“They are still wearing their masks. On their heads, not covering their faces.”
“And they’re dead?”
“Yes . . . shot many times.”
“All right, Commander, you’ve made a big step in getting your ass out of trouble, but you’re not all the way there. I need you to text me photos of the bodies and room. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
“Now I’m looking at a screen that tells me you’re close to Mr. Rick’s safe house, is that right?”
“Yes. Very close.”