Page 67

Durrani did not approach the man in the dark suit. He was sitting with his legs crossed on one of the white couches, a magazine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a bulky black pistol next to him. Vazir Kassar was one of his most trusted officers. He was also an insolent son of a bitch at times. He knew that Durrani was dying to know how things had turned out, but he was going to make him ask.
“Well?” Durrani’s eyes were wide with anticipation.
“Well, what, General?”
Durrani was suddenly irritated by the gun sitting on the couch. “Put that away. You are a guest in my house.”
“I thought I was your employee,” the dark, thin man answered in a voice that conveyed ambivalence.
“Don’t play your games with me. How did it go?”
The man remained serious. “It wasn’t easy.”
“But he’s alive?”
“Yes.” Kassar jerked his head toward the hallway. “He’s in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”
Durrani clapped his hands together and stifled a scream of joy. “You will have to tell me all the details later, but first I must see him.” Durrani hurried down the hallway, his black dress shoes clicking on the stone floor. He would have run if his lungs could have taken it. When he reached the door at the end of the hall he didn’t bother knocking.
He threw open the door and froze in disbelief. The blackout shades were not pulled, and the bright afternoon light streamed through the gauzy, white linen curtains. There, in the middle of the king-size bed, filled with white pillows, white sheets, and a fluffy white feather comforter, lay a mass of purple and red flesh. The smile on Durrani’s face vanished. “Good God. What did those fools do to you?” Durrani rushed to the bedside and looked at the swollen and bruised face. “Is it you? I can’t be sure.” The monstrous face slowly turned in his direction. The man was blind. His eyes, swollen tightly shut, looked like two peaches. His lips were cut, cracked, and so puffy the top one touched his broken and deformed nose. Durrani had seen the video on the Internet and assumed that they had used makeup to exaggerate the injuries. “What happened?”
When he spoke he sounded congested. “It’s not easy to talk. I think they broke my jaw.”
Durrani’s entire being stiffened with anger. “I will kill them. I swear to you I will kill them.”
There was gruff laughter from the doorway. “I think you’re a little late for that.”
Durrani looked over his shoulder at Kassar. “How could you have let this happen?”
“It was your idea,” he said, not wanting to own any of this. “All part of your grand plan.”
“This,” Durrani said, pointing at Rickman, “was not my plan.”
“Relax, Akhtar,” Rickman said, reaching out with his left hand.
When Durrani saw the mangled and broken fingers he took a quick step back.
“I’m alive,” Rickman said. “It worked. Vazir took care of your two Taliban dupes. I’m told the entire thing was quite dramatic. Fortunately, I had passed out by then.”
“Are you in pain?” Durrani asked.
It was a relative question, or at least the pain was relative. He was not comfortable, but compared to his pain during the beatings he was at peace. “I’m okay.”
“You are no such thing. You are a bloody mess.”
“I’ll survive.”
“I’m not sure you will.” Durrani looked to Kassar again. “How could you have let this happen?”
“He insisted,” Kassar said. “You’ve told me many times my job is to follow orders. I wanted to stop sooner, but he said we had to make sure it was convincing.”
“To follow my orders.” Durrani hit himself in the chest repeatedly.
“Well, you weren’t there, General. I was following Joe’s orders.”
Durrani found Kassar’s unflappable behavior unnerving at times. Rather than start yelling at him, Durrani turned his attention back to Rickman. There wasn’t an inch of his face that wasn’t bruised, swollen, or cut. “Why did you do this to yourself?”
“I didn’t . . . it was your Taliban flunkies. They were not very smart, by the way. Perfect for the job, really. I must compliment you.”