Nefarious (The Blackwell Files Book 1) (9 page)

Alton quickly dialed Camp Eggers. “MPs are on the way,” he told his friends after the brief discussion.

Within scarcely three minutes, the troop of insurgents emerged from the Lodge. Alton squinted to see if Fahima was part of the group, but the evening’s inky blackness now worked against him. He simply couldn’t tell.

A woman’s cry penetrated the night. “Tahir!” As a car door opened, a dim light from the vehicle’s interior illuminated a bound woman and man being pushed into the rear seat.

With lightning speed, the remaining militants jumped into three other waiting cars and accelerated away while the trio of soldiers looked on helplessly. Fahima and her guard were now prisoners of Al-Qaeda.

CHAPTER 22

Kabul, Afghanistan

The next morning, Alton watched David emerge from his office, downcast.

“I haven’t been able to find out a single bit of information about Hadir—who he is, where he’s located, his role in Al-Qaeda, nothing.” As a Military Intelligence officer, David had the inside story on most members of the vast terrorist network. For him to have no leads on this case, one in which he had such a vested personal interest, boded poorly for their attempts to locate Hadir and Fahima, his prisoner.

At least Alton hoped she was still his prisoner. Alton couldn’t bring himself to vocalize the possibility that the terrorists had already executed her. Surely the same thought was already running through David’s mind.

Upon David’s recommendation, General Mooreland had assigned Alton to the detail investigating Fahima’s abduction, ensuring Alton’s entire focus—for the next few days, at least—would be concentrated on finding Fahima, and in doing so, rooting out a terrorist leader. So far, though, Alton hadn’t managed to provide much help.

As he pondered how to proceed, Alton formed the faintest outline of an idea. “Do you have a composite artist on your staff?” he asked David. “You know, a person who can sketch a picture of someone from a description?”

“Not on staff, but there’s a local guy we contract with on an as-needed basis. I’ve already called him in on this case, but to be honest, I didn’t get a good look at Hadir.”

“I did. Let me know when the artist arrives and I’ll help. Once you have copies of the sketch, can I have one? I have an idea I can work while you’re in touch with your usual informants.”

“Sure—the more, the merrier,” said David in a failed attempt at jocularity.

“I’ll also need a picture of Fahima.”

“I’ll send you one.” David accessed his smart phone and began scrolling through its picture gallery. Alton peered over his shoulder and observed a score of photographs of the fair barmaid from a variety of angles. David finally selected two to send to Alton: one shot in a close, portrait style, and the other a full-body photograph, taken from a distance. Alton confirmed the pictures had arrived on his phone and switched it off.

“David…my idea is a long-shot. But since you’re the intelligence expert, I might as well try something unconventional.”

“Yeah, I understand,” said David, staring at the photo gallery on his phone as if in a trance. Snapping himself out of it, he added, “Thanks for helping with this. If ever there were a puzzle that needed decrypting, it’s now.”

The composite artist arrived within minutes. Shortly after the artist completed his work, David presented a copy to Alton. “I hope you can do something with this.”

Alton traveled straight to his workstation and scanned the sketch into his computer. He initiated an e-mail message and attached the scanned document. He quickly downloaded the two photos of Fahima and attached them to the e-mail as well. He then typed his message.

Do you know the man in the drawing? His name is Hadir. He is an Al-Qaeda leader, and he has taken a good friend of mine prisoner. My friend’s name is Fahima. She is the person in the photographs. I am worried for Fahima’s life. Hadir thinks Fahima may have given the US information that helped us avoid an Al-Qaeda attack. She did not help us, but Hadir doesn’t know this and might hurt Fahima anyway. If you have any information about Hadir, please let me know. I won’t tell anyone where I got the information.  Your friend - Alton.

With a sense of foreboding, Alton clicked the “send” icon and watched his message disappear. Knowing every minute counted, he hoped his distant friend would read the e-mail soon.

As he waited for a reply, Alton returned to David’s office and helped as best he could. His phone vibrated, and he snatched it from his pocket to read the incoming message. After quickly scanning the reply, he approached David. “I’m going to follow up on a lead. Can one of your guys give me a lift?”

“Should I go myself?” asked David.

“No—it’s still a long-shot, and quite frankly, I’m relying on someone else’s expertise, not my own. Why don’t you stay here and do the tasks that only you can do.”

David nodded, a determined set in his jaw. “Keep me posted, will you?”

“You bet.”

As Alton limped toward the motor pool with Specialist Rowe, his driver, he thumbed an e-mail message on his phone. “Where we should meet?”

The two soldiers climbed into a battered Growler, the Army’s modern incarnation of its storied jeep. After Alton received a reply to his e-mail query, he leaned over to Rowe and asked, “Can you locate the Darul Aman Palace on your GPS?”

Rowe tapped the dash-mounted system for a minute, then replied, “Yes, sir. It should take about thirty minutes or so to get there.”

“Punch it,” said Alton. “We’ve no time to lose.”

When the two soldiers arrived at the historic palace, Alton turned to Rowe. “Wait here. We don’t want to draw any more attention to ourselves than necessary.”

Alton sauntered through the walkways until he was alone, then increased his pace as much as his limp would allow. Eventually, he reached the meeting-place: an antechamber at the rear of the property, seldom visited by guests or staff.

The waiting Mastana raced into his arms and squeezed him tight for a quarter minute. After returning the enthusiastic greeting with his own bear hug, Alton glanced around the room.

“You were thinking to find interpreter?” asked Mastana with a smile.

“What? You speak English? You little stinker!” exclaimed Alton, laughing.

“Yes,” said Mastana. “Ever since I was little girl, my family sell clothing to the Americans. We learn to speak their language.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Mastana cast her gaze down to the paver-stone floor, shame-faced. “I was afraid. I did not know what will happen to me in hospital. I listen to the doctors and nurses talk about me…and I listen to you, Alton.”

“You knew English the whole time?” asked Alton, incredulous. “So, when you listened to our conversations, did you discover what you wanted to know?”

“Yes—that is why I am sad. I see that the doctors and you want to help me. You are not going to send me to a prison like my uncle say.”

“Why would your uncle say that?”

“He is Al-Qaeda. He is always saying bad things about the Americans.”

Alton instantly assimilated this new piece of information into his plan. What was once a vague concept transformed into a specific course of action. “Mastana, I have an idea for helping Fahima. I want you to tell me if the idea is dangerous for you. If it is, we’ll come up with another plan, okay?”

“Okeydokey.”

Alton snickered at her reply and asked her to wait a minute. He stepped aside to place a phone call, spoke for ten minutes, and returned.

Alton spent the next few minutes describing his plan to Mastana. At the conclusion, he asked, “What do you think? Will it work?”

“Yes—is good plan,” replied Mastana. “It is not dangerous for me, I think.”

“Okeydokey,” said Alton. “I want you to tell it back to me so I know you understand everything.” The girl methodically recounted their planned undertaking, requiring only a single, minor correction along the way.

“Do you have a cell phone?” asked Alton.

“I have this,” replied Mastana, withdrawing an older model from her pocket. “It is my mother’s.”

“What is your number? The fastest way to stay in touch will be text messaging.” They traded phone numbers and sent a short message to confirm all information was entered correctly.

“I guess that’s it,” said Alton. He stopped to look at her. “I’m glad to see you doing so well. Please be careful so you’ll stay that way.”

Mastana laughed. “I do good. You will see.” After exchanging another parting hug, Alton remained while Mastana walked toward the exit.

After waiting ten minutes, Alton trudged to the waiting Growler. “Let’s get back to camp.” On the way, he phoned David. “The wheels are in motion. Now all we can do is wait.”

CHAPTER 23

Kabul, Afghanistan

Mastana sat next to her mother at dinner. As usual, her Uncle Dani ate with them.

“Uncle,” said Mastana, “guess what I heard in the bazaar today.”

“What, my niece?”

“I was looking at jewelry, and I heard one man tell another man that Zahid Sohal,
a great Al-Qaeda leader, is very angry.”

Dani’s ears perked up at the mention of his organization. “Why is he angry? Did you hear?”

“I did not hear all of it, Uncle, but I believe the man in the bazaar said one of Zahid’s best informants on the activities of the Americans has been kidnapped—by Al-Qaeda! Can it be true, Uncle?” she asked with wide, innocent eyes.

Dani ruminated for a minute. “It might be. What kind of informant? Did they say his name?”

“The informant is a lady, Uncle. They did not say her name, but they did say she worked in a restaurant where many American soldiers visit. The name of the restaurant is…” She pressed her eyes shut as if in great concentration, then opened them with a look of satisfaction. “…Gandamak’s. It is Gandamak’s Lodge. She listens to the Americans talk and tells Zahid what she has learned.”

“And Zahid Sohal is angry, is he?”

“Yes, Uncle. The man in the bazaar said the informant provided useful information about the Americans almost every day, and now Zahid no longer has the source of information.” Mastana repeated her question. “Could it be true, Uncle?”

“It might be. I do not know this Zahid, but I think I should find out more about this.”

Dani quickly stood up from the table and strode into the next room. From the animated—albeit one-sided—dialog that followed, Mastana knew her Uncle had placed a call, but she could not discern exactly what he was saying. She could only hope the plan was unfolding as expected.

Later that evening in a different Kabul neighborhood, a burly guard entered the locked room in which Fahima had been held prisoner since the night of her abduction. “Come with me,” he grunted.

Fahima followed, wide-eyed. Was she to be executed? Interrogated? Freed? She had no idea.

The guard led her into a large dining room filled with men, one of whom was Hadir. A young girl also sat in a chair against the back wall.

Hadir locked Fahima in a cold stare. “I have some very interesting news. Can you guess what it is?”

Fahima’s eyes darted from person to person. No one seemed to offer a friendly gaze. She held her head erect. Looking directly at Hadir, she replied, “No, I do not know what news you have.”

“I was told you are secretly working for Al-Qaeda. The honorable Zahid Sohal, one of our leaders, says you listen to the American soldiers in your restaurant and pass along information to him.”

Fahima felt dizzy from the torrent of information. What was he talking about? Who was Zahid Sohal? Were they testing her?

“Why did you not tell us this before, sister?” asked Hadir. “Why did you not tell us you were working for Zahid?”

Fahima froze, not knowing how to answer. Her gaze alighted on the girl in the back of the room. The child stared at her with compassionate eyes and nodded, her head moving almost imperceptibly. Somehow, without speaking to the girl, Fahima understood her next step, the only response she could make if she hoped to leave the house alive.

“Why do you think, brother?” retorted Fahima. “The Americans have ears everywhere. How many of our people would I have to tell about my secret role before the Americans discover I am not their friend? I am grieved I have to say this even now, in front of so many, but I have no choice.”

“Those are true words, sister,” acknowledged Hadir. “I now wish I had questioned you alone.” He glanced fiercely around the room. “All who are gathered here, you are sworn to secrecy on our sister’s mission!”

“I thank you,” said Fahima gravely. “I can only pray that the Americans do not learn of my role. Not every jihad is fought in the street, with guns and bombs. Some are fought in the midst of our enemy, quietly, with careful ears and a good memory.”

“Sister, your words ring of the truth,” declared Hadir. “We shall never tell others of your mission. Are all present in agreement?”

“Yes!” they roared in unison.

Fahima bowed her head. “Again, I thank you, my brothers.” The girl on the back wall sat motionless, but she viewed the proceeding with a distinct aura of satisfaction.

“And now,” concluded Hadir, “We will take our sister back to her home.” Turning to Fahima, he added, “Your honor remains intact, daughter of jihad. I will return you to your family. And I return your clueless guard, too. It is clear he knows nothing.”

As Mastana rode home in her uncle’s car, she removed her mother’s phone from her pocket.

“What are you doing, niece?” asked Dani, glancing at her momentarily as he drove through the dark, bumpy streets.

“I am playing a game,” she returned in a singsong voice. When her uncle’s eyes returned to the road, she opened the phone’s texting application and sent a message:
The bird is free from the cage.

All afternoon and late into the evening, David had traveled throughout the city, scouring Kabul’s informant network for leads on Fahima’s location. As Alton waited for his friend to return, he spent several hours texting other associates to assess the progress of his own plan. He attempted to send a text message to David, but it repeatedly failed to deliver. David’s voice service was equally unavailable. Perhaps he was out of range of the city’s unpredictable cell service. At 3:00 a.m., Alton eventually gave up, too exhausted to stay awake. As he crawled into bed and closed his eyes, he anxiously reflected on the surprise that awaited his friend in the morning.