Disavowed (11 page)

Chapter 23

Kandahar, Afghanistan

7:14am AFT, August 25
th

Andy barely remembered the meandering trip through the city. Floating in and out of consciousness, the Marine only saw flitting images as they bounced along in the back of the ancient Volkswagen Beetle. No front or back bumpers. The exhaust fumes poured in making him even more nauseous as he tried to sleep. The driver, whom they’d met in the orchard, insisted on waiting until daylight to move from the hidden location.

Andy vaguely remembered Isnard arguing with the man, pressing him to leave sooner. But the man wouldn’t budge, saying that they’d be safer as one of thousands in the swarm of morning Kandahar traffic.

He was right, but the incessant honks and jostling only added to Andy’s discomfort. Instead of stopping, he threw up into a shallow metal bucket. Not that he had anything left in his stomach, but the man driving didn’t want bile stains in his sputtering baby. The thing smelled like a century’s worth of stale cigarette smoke and body odor. Another wonderful addition to Andy’s already overwhelmed senses.

He’d lost all track of time, sometimes hearing Rich Isnard’s voice, sometimes not. Andy had been wounded before, shot, almost blown up, but the gut-wrenching weakness was driving him mad. He’d never felt so helpless. It wasn’t his body. He couldn’t focus on anything, so he took to pinching his upper thigh, as if the gesture would keep him grounded. Reality corralled for another moment.

After what seemed like hours of driving, the old car putted into a walled complex, rocking from side to side as it rolled over a homemade speed bump. Andy registered the presence of guards, both armed, unsmiling as the car made its way in.

Isnard shook his arm. “Hey, we’re here.”

Andy nodded and tried to pull himself upright. His hand shook and it started a chain reaction down his arm and across his shoulders. He almost passed out.

“Let me help you,” said Isnard. He slipped out of the vehicle and hurried around to Andy’s side. With one arm over his friend, Andy shuffled along, willing his body to comply. He made it five steps (he knew because he counted each one) before his legs gave out and his vision shifted, white faded to nothing.

+++

The guards and the driver weren’t going to be any help. Isnard heaved Andy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and followed their guide into the modest home. He could smell the pungent herbs of someone’s breakfast as he stepped across the threshold. His stomach growled as they moved through the main living area, down a narrow hallway and into a courtyard.

A concrete fountain tinkled in the corner, water rushing over a crude landscape that was washing away daily, its once etched facade now smoothed and slick. An umbrella was propped in the corner, under which sat a man reading a book. He looked up, setting the book in his lap.

Isnard was short, but this guy was shorter, probably barely breaking five feet. He had close cropped white hair and a deep tan. Under a flowing white shirt and matching linen pants, Isnard could tell that the man’s build was slight, but his forearms were wiry strong. His face looked vaguely familiar, but then again, members of separate races always said that about the others. Rich had been in the Middle East for most of his career and he’d still have a hard time giving an accurate description of anyone of Arab descent to a sketch artist.

The man nodded to the driver who almost bowed down to the floor.

“Thank you for your service. You may go,” said the man.

The driver didn’t hesitate, backing away as if he was leaving the presence of a demigod.

“How is your friend?” the man asked in English, his accent deep and laced with formality of a British nobleman.

“Not so hot. You wouldn’t happen to have a physician on-call would you?”

The man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and tapped away like an American teenager whose only focus was video games. Who was this guy?

Andy was getting heavier. Rich shifted him a bit to the left, not wanting to interrupt their host. Sweat dripping down his back.

The man replaced the phone in his pocket and regarded his guest. “My physician will be here soon. Why don’t we take your friend inside. Please, follow me.”

An hour later, Andy was a quarter of the way through his second bag of IV fluid. Much needed water and electrolytes pumped into the unconscious Marine’s body, working their soothing magic. The doctor was quiet as he worked, showing extreme deference to the man in white who’d disappeared shortly after the doctor arrived, promising to return soon.

“Your friend is quite dehydrated and seems to have contracted Hepatitis. Hepatitis A is common in the region, and he exhibits the symptoms. Giardia is also a possibility depending on where he has been. Fluids and rest should help. Antibiotics and further medication will be needed, things I do not have. I would recommend a hospital stay if possible.” The doctor’s accent was similar to the man in white. Professional. Precise. Even aristocratic.

“I don’t think that’s gonna be possible,” said Isnard. “How soon can he move?”

Isnard thought the doctor was going to demand further medical attention, but instead he shrugged as if he was used to having his professional diagnoses ignored.

“Whenever you’d like. I would recommend he gets his fill of fluids first. The anti-nausea medication I injected should also help. Simple Tylenol will lower his fever. These things take time. Get him somewhere to recuperate, give his body a chance to heal.”

The doctor pointed to Isnard’s arm.

“Would you like me to look at that?”

The Baghdad station chief looked down at his arm. He hadn’t even noticed the blood on his sleeve and the gash underneath. It must’ve happened when they’d run from the tribal camp. The wound stung but didn’t really hurt.

“Sure. Thanks, doctor.”

The physician nodded and inspected the wound. Mending it as he had with hundreds or thousands before. He even convinced Isnard to sit down and have his own IV line inserted. Two bags later, the Marine felt like a new man. All he needed now was some food and a shower.

As the doctor extracted the needle from his arm, the man in white reappeared. He was smiling like he’d just taken a leisurely stroll through the park. A man totally at peace in the world. He reminded Isnard of the Buddhist monks he’d seen during a backpacking trip through Nepal.

“I think it is time for you to make a phone call,” the man said, handing Isnard a phone that still had the plastic sticky wrapper on its screen.

“Who do you want me to call?” Isnard asked. He didn’t know where he was or who he was dealing with. His gut told him the man meant them no harm, but maybe that was just the hope tingling in his chest.

“Call your American friends. They arrived last night. We have much to discuss.”

It took him a second to understand who the guy was talking about. Cal Stokes? How did he know?

“I’m not sure who you mean,” replied Isnard, still wary of the man’s intent.

“I was told that Calvin Stokes Junior landed in a Gulfstream G650ER at approximately twelve thirty five this morning. They were pursued by another force, but were able to avoid capture with the help of some British friends. Mr. Stokes is now staying in a secure location not ten minutes drive from here.”

The blunt recital was like a punch in the stomach. How did this guy know so much? Who tried to apprehend Cal and who were the Brits that helped? There were too many questions to ask, but Isnard had one that had to be answered first.

“I’m sorry, I guess I never introduced…”

“I know who you are Mr. Isnard. Former Marine and now former Baghdad station chief for the CIA.”

The surprise hit him again, like a sledge hammer this time at the mention of him being the “former” station chief in Baghdad. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of unexpected news..

“And who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of speaking with, sir?”

The man bowed at the waist, formally, like he was greeting a head of state.

“My name is Kadar Saladin. I believe you have already met my brother.”

Chapter 24

Kandahar, Afghanistan

9:49am AFT, August 25
th

His senses returned gradually. The smell of cheap concrete construction. The touch of a thin wool blanket on his finger. Light streaming in from a part in the curtains that made him squint and look away.

When he did turn his head, Andy almost jumped at the realization that someone, no not someone, multiple someones were looking down at him. He could see their outlines, blurry blobs. 

He heard a car door slamming shut.

“How you feeling, Marine?” came the question piercing his muffled hearing. Familiar.

“Cal?”

“Yeah. I’ve got Top, Daniel and some of the others boys with me too.”

It took massive effort for the normally composed Marine major to not give in to his feelings. The level of relief he felt surprised him. The gushing emotion of being reunited with comrades, knowing that no matter what happened next he wouldn’t be alone.

“When…how…” he croaked.

“We got here a few minutes ago. Why don’t you rest up and we’ll…”

Before Andy knew what he was doing, his hand grabbed Cal’s arm, pulling him closer, suddenly desperate.

“Don’t go…have to tell you…”

Cal patted Andy’s hand. “It’s okay, we’re not going anywhere. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. We’re safe here.”

Andy’s body sagged back against the mattress, weary relief fogging his senses once again. Something told him that it was probably the drugs they’d given him, or maybe the realization that someone had his back. It was the last thought he had before he slipped back to his dreams.

+++

Cal held his friend’s hand for a moment longer, not wanting to wake him. Andy hadn’t been imprisoned long, but the lack of proper nutrition coupled with the stress and whatever bacteria he had running through his veins had taken its toll. Dark circles ringed Andy’s eyes, the sickly mustard and slate color clung to his face. He needed a shave and a few hot showers.

He set Andy’s hand back on the bed and stood, looking to his friends who’d said nothing, reverently watching the interaction.

“Let’s talk to Isnard. I want to find out who did this to him.”

+++

For some reason, Anthony Farrago’s temper held. He knew what his boss would say before placing the call. Kingsley Coles had not been happy. Stokes and his men were supposed to be in custody, out of the way.

It wasn’t that Farrago couldn’t take an ass-chewing. Far from it. But screaming wasn’t Coles’s style. He’d evenly reiterated Farrago’s mission and simply said, “Last chance, Mr. Farrago.”

Like a worker bee whose only motivation was a looming deadline, the pressure fed Farrago’s fire. His mind spun in asymmetric angles, analyzing and reanalyzing his options. He would’ve made a helluva card shark if he’d had the inclination. Counting cards and stacking decks was child’s play. He excelled at juggling twenty balls in the air, nary a one falling to the ground.

But now there was a ball threatening to fall from his carefully orchestrated act. In the grand scheme of things, the newest players were a minor inconvenience. There were much bigger things on the horizon that anything less than a full court press by the American government could not stop. The wave was coming and Farrago planned on surfing it into the sunset. Time to get back to work.

+++

1:21pm

Andy woke to an empty room, the IV in his arm no longer there. While he felt far from his best, he felt a helluva lot better than when he’d stumbled into his temporary residence.

It didn’t take him long to find the others. He followed the voices until he entered a large living space, weathered sofas arranged in a circle. His friends were there, Cal, MSgt Willy Trent, Rich Isnard, Gaucho, and Daniel Briggs. Even Neil Patel and Dr. Higgins were in attendance, a fact that surprised him. Was this all for him?

Andy didn’t recognize all the faces, but his eyes locked on a single man, a stranger in white attire. The Arab sat crossed legged like a holy man, his small frame easily fitting in the canvas love seat.

He addressed the others in a level tone, like a patient teacher. The man looked up when Andy stepped into the room.

“Welcome, Major Andrews.”

Andy nodded to the man and the others turned.

The giant MSgt Trent was the first to hop up from his seat.

“Here, take mine,” he said.

Trent patted him on the back as he took his seat. Again the welling of emotion, like he’d escaped the jaws of death and somehow landed back home, amongst his fellow Marines.

“Should I begin my tale again?” the man in white asked Cal.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” replied Cal.

The man nodded, pausing to take a careful sip of his tea. Then, when everyone had settled in, the man in white began.

“Major Andrews, my name is Kadar Saladin. You had the pleasure of meeting my youngest brother Latif in Gereshk.”

Andy had almost forgotten about the merchant. The last time he’d seen the man was after they’d hopped on the nomad’s tanks and left the broken checkpoint.

“Is he okay?” asked Andy.

“He is,” said Kadar, solemnly. “Many were killed in the helicopter attack, but my brother is well. He has always had a gift for walking away relatively unscathed. His mother, my step-mother, used to say he was blessed by Allah with the ability to walk between rain drops. That is Latif.”

He took another sip of his tea and continued.

“Now, for the history of my family…”

The lineage of the Saladin clan stretched back centuries. Its earliest known ancestors spawned from the ranks of the great Saladin who’d warded off the western Crusaders in the 12
th
century. A fierce warrior tested in battle and gifted in rule, Saladin later became the first Sultan of Egypt and Syria. With his power he formed the Ayyubid Dynasty.

Somewhere along the way, a handful of his men began to take his name for their own, honoring their lord by using the surname al-Saladin. Upon his death in 1193, much of Saladin’s wealth went to his most loyal subjects. The majority of this core group of Saladin’s men went their separate ways. Some enjoyed their amassed fortunes in Damascus, others retired to a quieter life in the country and others sought more.

Kadar Saladin’s earliest known ancestor was a fierce warrior known as The Scourge of Hattin, for his valorous actions during the defeat of the Crusaders at the battle of Hattin. The victory served as a tipping point for the renewal of Muslim power in the region and was followed by the recapture of Palestine soon after.

Kadar’s ancestor left Saladin’s capital of Damascus and travelled back to his homeland, what was now known as modern Afghanistan. Family lore said that the warrior searched for a new calling, never quite turning his back on his past.

He settled on a large estate he’d purchased, his brood of somewhere over thirty children and countless retinue in tow. Alone with his thoughts, the warrior pondered his fading future. He was no longer a young man, his bones growing frail, the muscles on his large frame tight. And yet he yearned for a legacy, something he could leave for his children and his children’s children. Riches were not enough. They could be spent in a summer. Deeds on the battlefield passed from memory. No, his family needed more.

According to Kadar, he found the seed one day as he walked through one of his olive plantations, touring the land with the proprietor. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, a group of three men approached, demanding information from the plantation manager, even threatening death should he refuse their request. They were brazen men with the swagger of cutthroats.

Before the man could answer, Kadar’s ancestor cut in, acting the part of a humble servant, a loyal underling of his rich master.

“What information would you like, my lords?” he asked.

Much to his surprise, the men wanted to know about him, The Scourge of Hattin. There were wild rumors of his extravagant wealth, mounds of gold and pillars made of diamond, and these men were hellbent on obtaining their share. They bragged of having a troop of over one hundred men who could take the land and spoils if needed.

While Kadar’s ancestor doubted their boasts, he decided to see where the adventure would lead. It had been too long since he’d felt the tingle of battle, the taste of blood on his curved sword. Even at his advanced age, he could have taken all three men single-handedly, but he held back, bowing in deference, telling them anything they wanted to know.

The men left in barely concealed glee. Kadar’s ancestor saw the greed in their eyes. They would act soon, and his heart beat a tiny bit faster at the thought.

When he returned to his estate, he gathered his eldest sons, those whom he’d trained to be his advisors, his personal guard, strapping young men with sharp minds just like their father. He often quizzed them about the wisdom of this or that action, always preaching the way of the cunning yet honorable warrior.

The sons listened to their father’s tale, more than one probably asking for their patron’s permission to find the rascals and kill them outright. The Scourge of Hattin merely smiled, calming his sons as he’d calmed his men before storming the walled cities of the Crusaders.

He outlined his plan, making each son promise that not a hair on a single attacker’s head be harmed. He never said why, but insisted that there would be a grand lesson at the end.

It wasn’t two days later that the rogues made their play, marching right down the wide dirt path that led to the entrance of his estate. There weren’t one hundred men in the ragtag band, it was closer to twenty.

Appearing as if out of thin air, his sons descended with their own men, bows strung, blades ready for slaughter. The overwhelming force surrounded the men at the gate, daring the intruders to act. Weapons dropped to the ground as the smaller group realized their folly. Not one was harmed as the three men who’d visited the olive plantation were now escorted to the man they’d come to steal from, The Scourge of Hattin.

He listened to their pleas, nodding at their apologies, even offering them food and drink. Their groveling stopped and his questions began.

They told him that they were part of a larger network of spies and mercenaries who lorded over much of ancient Afghanistan. They told him who the key leaders were, who had the power, where they lived. After half a day of questioning, the father had had enough.

He said his goodbyes to the three men, wishing them a safe journey. Then he quietly ordered his sons to kill the men and dispose of their bodies. His orders were followed, and The Scourge of Hattin retreated to his private chambers for seven days.

When he finally emerged, he laid out the plans for his family. He’d seen the vital importance of information as he’d served his own glorious master, the great Saladin. Without good intelligence they never would have known how many men they were attacking or where the best route would be. Good men with superior intelligence could conquer a superior force nine times out of ten.

And so Kadar’s ancestor methodically set out to take over the network of spies and mercenaries in the region. It did not happen overnight, and there was some bloodshed, but by the time of his death, the Saladin legacy was set, strong enough to weather the ravages of passing centuries.

“There have been many invaders over the years. The Soviets, the British, the Taliban and even you Americans. Along the way my family has stayed in the shadows, fostering my ancestor’s legacy. We do not always ally with the right side, but we try our best, always seeking that which is honorable.

“As a young man, I followed my father as he rode our best horses along the twisting paths of the Afghan mountains wielding Stinger missiles provided by the American government. I am also proud to call your former Congressman Charlie Wilson a friend and a fellow warrior.”

Andy knew all about Congressman Charlie Wilson. Hollywood had even made a movie based on a book written about Wilson’s Afghanistan quest in the 1980’s called
Charlie Wilson's War: The Extraordinary Story of the Largest Covert Operation in History.
The Texas Democrat was a legend for what he’d done to supply the Afghan Mujahideen with weapons during the Soviet incursion.

“I saved Charlie’s life one day from assassination, and he reciprocated soon after, catching my arm as my horse took a rare misstep and knocked me from the saddle, almost off a sheer cliff face. We kept in touch for many years. He helped strengthen my family’s ties with your best operatives. I was very sorry to hear of his death.”

Kadar bowed his head, closing his eyes, probably saying a silent prayer for the American cowboy. Andy could just imagine the larger-than-life Rep. Charlie Wilson standing next to the diminutive Kadar Saladin.

“Now I am the leader of my family, the humble leader of a vast network run by my father and his father before him. To my knowledge we are the longest standing intelligence network in the known world.”

“I still don’t understand how you found us, how you knew about Andy,” said Cal, the distrust plain in his voice. Andy knew Cal, understood that his friend had listened to Kadar’s tale, but it didn’t mean he’d trust the man. “Do you work for the CIA?” It was an accusation more than a question.