Library of Gold (42 page)

She felt a chill. “Try again.” She gave him the digits, one at a time.

He entered each carefully. Again the map zeroed in on empty sea. Her shoulders slumped. He tried other public domain maps. The only sound in the room was the clicking of the keyboard. But each map showed the same disheartening results.

They were silent.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she insisted. “The easiest, most direct explanation for the abbreviations and numbers in the book is they’re meridian points. Even if those are old maps, they should show an island.”

He stared at her. “Not true. By God, if I’m right, it’s a real display of the power of the book club.” Again he tapped the keyboard. “Because of terrorism, the government mandated Google and other online map services not show certain places in the world. Sometimes it was a government facility. Other times it was an ‘area of interest’ that was clandestine for one reason or another. Private companies doing defense work could ask the government to make spots off-limits, too.”

“How could the book club get the government to hide their island?”

“An inside source, or maybe someone they bribed. Let’s check this.”

He called up the text message he had received yesterday from NSA, and they read the list of islands that had come close to fitting Robin’s description.

“My God,” Eva breathed as they stared. “One of the islands has the same coordinates as the book has.”

Relieved excitement rushed through her. She flung her arms around Judd’s neck, and he hugged her tight. Feeling the steady beat of his heart, his breath spicy against her ear, she lingered for a moment.

Then pushed away. “You’d better call Tucker.”

The spymaster arrived in minutes, wearing the same rumpled chinos, button-down blue shirt, and sports jacket from the day before. Eva saw the lines on his face were deeper, and the large eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. But his light brown mustache and gray beard were neat, and he radiated hyper alertness.

“You’ve found it?” he said as he bolted the door behind him.

“Damn right she did.” Judd pointed at Eva.

She smiled, pleased. “Took me a while, though.”

They sat around the table, and she explained how they had discovered the answer.

“I’ll get back in touch with NSA for the latest satellite photos and data about the island,” Judd said brusquely. “Eva, is your laptop still working, or did it get doused when we were on the yacht?”

“It was in the main pocket of my satchel, so it’s fine.”

“Good. I’ll forward what NSA sends to it.”

“Does the island have a name?” Tucker asked.

“Just a number,” Judd told him.

“Do it,” Tucker ordered. “Now.”

62

Khost Province, Afghanistan

After a large breakfast, Syed Ullah walked out to the front porch of the redbrick villa where he, his wife, and remaining children and grandchildren lived with the wives and children of his four brothers, all of whom had died fighting the Soviets, the Taliban, al-Qaeda, or local clans and tribes.

Restored from rubble on land his family had long owned, the sprawling villa stood two stories above the hard-packed earth. A satellite uplink dish was behind it next to a rusty Soviet T-55 tank. There was a vegetable garden to one side, with apple, peach, and mulberry trees just as there had been when he was a child. He had planted everything in the last few years. The young trees were like the future, he had told his youngest and last remaining son—strong, but they must be protected.

Wearing turbans and wraparound sunglasses, his gunmen prowled around the rebuilt stone wall that surrounded the expansive property. A dozen tribal elders—striking old men with high-bridged noses and the beards of patriarchs—were lining up in front of the porch to pay their respects. At fifty-four, Ullah had fought off and killed his rivals for this position, but that was the way it had been for decades. Men had little food for their bellies but plenty of rounds for their guns. He could hardly remember when it was otherwise.

The warlord sat down on his tall-backed wood chair on his brick front porch. Adjusting his girth, he nibbled sugared almonds as he greeted the elders courteously, accepted their respectful sentiments, adjudicated neighbor disputes, and assured them of his protection. These were men with large families and sons and grandsons and great grandsons whom he needed.

“It is tomorrow night?” the last elder said. There was impatience on his leathery face, indicating he had expected someone to have asked earlier.

“Tonight,” Ullah corrected him, then he addressed the others. “Stay in your houses with your wives. Your sons know what to do.”

And then they were gone, scattering the chickens and marching off into the mountains and down toward the town of some three thousand. In the hills he could see a small U.S. army patrol driving along a dirt road in two armored HMMWVs—Humvees—painted in camouflage colors. A donkey with a high bundle was being led down a treacherous path.

The warlord stood up, a giant of a man, burly and strong, with a fierce face that could easily break into a smile. But that was the strength of the Pashtun—resilience. He took great pride in his heritage of warriors, poets, heroes, jokesters, and warm-hearted hosts. They loved the land and their families. Centuries of being conquered and occupied had changed nothing, only hardening their devotion. His devotion. His family must survive, after that his clan, and then his tribe.

He studied the vast sweep of rugged mountains, where snow glistened on the high slopes. Serpentine ribbons of smoke curled up from houses in the distance, mostly made of mud bricks with thatched roofs. A maze of smoke tendrils rose over the town, where many of the buildings had been pulverized by fighting and raids. Khost province was a crossroads of trade and smuggling, and in the crosshairs of the Taliban and al-Qaeda, who sneaked in from North Waziristan directly across the border in Pakistan. They came under the cover of night to recruit, do business, and murder collaborators, often local police.

On the far side of the town was America’s secret and highly secure forward base, painted in camouflage colors and draped with camouflage netting to make it invisible from above and difficult to see from the land. No smoke trailed upward, since a huge generator gave them all the power they needed.

Lifting his head, Ullah sniffed. He could smell mutton, hearty and sweet, cooking in the villa’s kitchen. A good lunch. Since he had taken control in this war-ravaged area, he and his family ate well, and if it were not for Martin Chapman, he would have even more funds at his disposal—the overseas account Chapman had frozen. Until the poppy harvests in the autumn, he had little income from opium and heroin. He needed Chapman to release his money, and that meant tonight his men would put on the U.S. Army uniforms Chapman had supplied and eliminate about a hundred locals from the town and nearby villages, chosen because of their opposition to him, and recorded by the cameras of friendly tribal newsmen from Pakistan. Finally he would have his money plus Chapman’s payment for buying the land.

Just then the two army Humvees veered toward his villa. His guards turned and lifted their heads, watching, too.

The warlord called into the house for tea and paced along the porch. As the tea arrived on an enameled tray, he sat in his chair.

The Humvees roared into the compound and stopped in a cloud of white dust. Soldiers sat behind the machine guns mounted on each vehicle, their helmets low against the morning sun, their eyes hidden behind black sunglasses.

The forward base’s commander, Capt. Samuel Daradar, jumped down from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle and strode toward him, taking off his cap and running his arm across his forehead.

“Pe kher ragle.
” Ullah did not stand, but he welcomed him.

“Mr. Ullah, good to see you,” Captain Daradar answered in Pashto as he climbed the steps. “You are well?” In his early thirties, he had golden skin, clear black eyes, and a sober expression.

“Yes, thanks to Allah’s blessings. You will honor me by joining me for tea?”

“Of course. I appreciate your hospitality.”

As his men waited in the Humvees, Sam Daradar took the other chair, the seat and back lower than the warlord’s. It was as if he were sitting next to a king on a throne. He would have found Ullah’s little reminders of power amusing, except each was a deadly signal of the complex weave of loyalties and vendettas among Pashtun tribes, and that Afghans in general were often far more anti-foreign than the West was capable of understanding.

“You are patrolling,” the warlord said, showing benign interest. “Have you found anything?” He poured tea into cups on the wood table between them.

“Nothing but the wind, the sky, and the earth.” Sam gave a short smile.

“Spoken like a true Pashtun. I will never understand why your family moved to the United States.”

“We have our wide-open spaces, too. Visit me in Arizona sometime. I’ll show you the Grand Canyon.” The captain sipped tea. “I got an update today I thought you’d like to hear. Since you helped us oust the Taliban and al-Qaeda, there are two thousand new clinics and schools across the country, jobs are being created constantly, and the bazaar in Khost is completely rebuilt. Nearly seven million children have been educated through primary school, the new central bank is solid, and the currency is stable.”

“It is all good,” Ullah said. “I am pleased.” He smiled, showing a row of thick white teeth. “Still, there are many problems. Look around you. Such poverty. My people go hungry. It is the corruption in Kabul. No one can solve that.”

It was also Ullah’s corruption, but Sam was not about to say that. Developing countries tended to have relatively effective central banks and armies but corrupt and despised police forces, and Afghanistan was no exception. Corruption was also why it was easier to build roads than to create law and order, easier to build a school than a state. No amount of education could help a judge faced with drug kingpins prepared to murder his family. It was almost impossible for outsiders to reform this kind of system, and although Ullah liked to think of himself as operating independently from Kabul, he was part of a very broken system.

“I’m concerned about rumors there are Taliban here today,” Sam told him.

“Ah, so that is why I have been honored.”

“And that some sort of action is in the works, with or without the Taliban.”

The Taliban were mostly Pashtuns, and both, like al-Qaeda, were Sunni Muslims. In a country where men with guns reinvented themselves in loyalty to every new power that came along, it was inevitable former Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters were in their ranks. Even Ullah had once pronounced himself Taliban—until the Taliban had outlawed the drug trade when they took over the country. After that, they were his enemy.

“It is Pakistan’ fault,” the warlord announced. “They should keep the Taliban from crossing the border. They invented them.”

“I agree, but neither Pakistan or Afghanistan is succeeding,” Sam said mildly. “I know you want nothing but the best for your people. Tell me what’s going on.”

Ullah’s heavy black brows lifted, and his broad mustache twitched. A look of complete innocence crossed his face.

“I have heard nothing,” the warlord said. “You can be certain I will call if I receive even a rumor. Would you like more tea?”

The men in the town mosque stood and bowed and stood again, finishing noon prayers. A sense of reverence filled the hall, making Ullah proud. It was his mosque—he had paid for every block and tile.

But then the mullah in his white turban and young face with the neatly trimmed beard commanded all to be seated. They settled themselves on their prayer rugs. Ullah sighed and lowered himself, crossing his legs.

Holding a Koran between his hands, the mullah stood before them, his long black robe flowing. “When the Prophet and his companions went to jihad, they carried black flags because war is not a good thing. When we go to jihad today, it should not be because we want to fight, but because we are compelled to fight for the sake of Islam, and for the freedom of Afghanistan. Still, that is the role of the army and the police—not of private citizens.”

Ullah adjusted his backside, inwardly groaning.

“There is only one Allah, and our life on Earth is to serve Him alone,” the mullah continued. He stared at Ullah. “But the human is weak, and unwise mullahs with wrong ideas have disobeyed the Koran’s laws and sent people onto dangerous paths. This fighting among Muslims and against the West is about power, not about Allah. He does not want our people to be killing. Long ago the Muslim world was under attack in a crusade by Christians who wanted to make all of Islam vanish from the planet. Jihad was about survival then, a last resort. Allah teaches us the greatest jihad is the struggle within each of us for the soul, the jihad of the heart. The heart is a holy place, and we must always take care never to hurt one another.”

When the sermon finished, Ullah pointedly ignored the mullah, picked up his AK-47, and strode toward the door, his two guards close behind. The mullah was new and very young, he told himself with disgust. He had a lot to learn about what the Koran really said.

Ahead of him, the forward base’s commander, Sam Daradar, was leaving, too. The military man must have arrived late and stayed in the back. Ullah slowed, waiting for him to get far ahead. Then he went out to the doorstep and watched Daradar climb into a Humvee. They exchanged nods and smiled.

Ullah waited impatiently as one of his men ran for the car. But when the silver Toyota Land Cruiser arrived, he noticed a strange expression on his driver’s face.

Frowning, he climbed into the passenger seat, and the remaining guard got into the rear, immediately making a small sound deep in his throat. Quickly Ullah turned. Lying on the floor was Sher Chandar, his black Taliban turban beside him, his
shalwar kameez
and vest spread around him like the wings of the angel of death.

“Drive,” the Taliban leader ordered.

“I should have killed you a long time ago,” Ullah rumbled.