Renegade (2013) (4 page)

“No, he’ll settle for what he can get soon. Like I said, we’ve got an election year coming up. He’s going to want to put points on the board. Give this thing another few months, Pike. That’s all I’m suggesting at this point. Another few months and you’ll be done with this.”

Pike took in a deep breath and let it out. Listening to Dundee made him feel good, and what the man said made sense, but Pike felt like ants were crawling all over his skin. He needed to be up and moving. The highway was calling.

And even when he was done with his part of the testimony against the Diablos, Petey would still be gone. Being done with his part didn’t mean winning.

THREE DAYS AFTER HE MASSACRED
the convoy in the Safed Koh mountains, Yaqub led the donkey train carrying the seized cargo down the city’s war-torn streets without being challenged. Parachinar was under the auspices of the Kurram Agency, a part of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan. The military policed the city and neighboring regions and patrolled the border, but corruption ran deep.

For a portion of his cargo, Yaqub had tacit permission to conduct business within the city.

Once, Parachinar had been a beautiful place filled with orchards and breathtaking views of the surrounding snowcapped mountains. During that long-ago time, tribesmen had hiked down out of the mountains to winter their livestock. Goats and cattle grazed on the lush green grass that had filled the valley.

Before that, the Mogul emperors had traveled from Delhi, India, to while away lazy summers in Parachinar. That had been back when the land belonged to Afghanistan. These days, it was on the wrong side of the Durand Line, which had been drawn up in 1893 by the British and the Afghan emir, who had truly not had a choice in the matter. Those august beings had transferred the land to British India as a means of appeasement, but it hadn’t settled harsh territorial feelings.

That division of land was still hotly contested by Afghanistan and Pakistan, who had later claimed the land. But these days, a loose border between countries benefited both.

Al Qaeda could cross the border into Pakistan and remain relatively secure from Western forces. The Pakistani government gave lip service to the United Nations and other countries about patrolling that border to stop drug trafficking and terrorists, but they didn’t strain themselves doing it. In fact, they took considerable profits from those endeavors.

Potholes covered the street like a pestilent disease. Two- and three-story structures lined the thoroughfare, and occasionally Yaqub caught sight of armed men hiding inside rooms. Some of them would be corrupt policemen. Others would be greedy tribesmen looking for an easy mark they could profit from. Some of those would hope for material goods they could take and use or hawk, but others would be watching for information they could sell to the Kurram Agency or to Western intelligence officers on the other side of the Durand Line.

He walked with the AK-47 canted beside him, his eyes watchful and ever moving. Twice before, men in the city had made the mistake of thinking him an easy target. He’d left their bodies lying wherever they had hit the ground, and children had raced out of the shadows to loot the corpses in his wake.

Yaqub had no friends in Parachinar. Only people he did business with.

The air carried the stink of cooked meat and burned wood. Most of the traffic through the city was on foot. A few bicycles whished by on rubber tires, and donkey-drawn carts loaded with sale goods—produce as well as clothing—clattered by on wooden wheels.

Wali halted beside a three-story building that had once housed a hotel in better days. Reconstruction in the city was halfhearted and extremely slow. Spending money to resurrect targets for warring
factions was foolish and wasteful, and it cut deeply into those corrupt profits. The hotel’s outer wall had been blown away years ago, and canvas had been strung over the gaping hole. All the loose stones had been mined from the wall, stripping it down to the supports. Everyone wanted the extra stones to build with, but no one wanted to accidentally undermine the building and make it fall.

These days, Zulfigar and his sons and grandsons kept watch over the building after claiming it as their own. They defended their property with assault weapons and knives and had shed their own blood as well as that of anyone foolish enough to think they could take the building from them. Zulfigar rented the building out to travelers who stayed in the rooms in the top two floors, and he used the bottom floor as a catchall for anything he wanted to sell—usually things that found their way into his possession.

Yaqub nodded at Wali, and the young man immediately disappeared into the building. In a few minutes, he would be on the rooftop with a pair of binoculars, watching the streets for anyone who might be observing them. And he would be scouting for the American military drones as well. Pakistan enforced the border as much as they could against the Western powers, but the Americans still sent their unmanned aerial vehicles across the border to spy. The Americans knew al Qaeda went there to regroup and train, but they couldn’t do much about it without risking an international incident.

Still, if the Americans had a confirmed target that was worth the risk, they would cross the border. Osama bin Laden had discovered that, and he had died for letting down his guard.

As Yaqub neared the canvas-covered wall, Zulfigar stepped out of it into view.

The man was old and fat, but still too mean and canny to die. He was a short man, barely over five feet, but he was almost as broad as he was tall. A fierce mustache and a beard white as the snow on the distant
mountains stood out against his dark face. His two-tone brown
pakol
sat at a rakish angle on his head. His
shalwar kameez
covered him in layers of linen down to the American military boots he wore.

Three of Zulfigar’s sons or grandsons stood in a loose semicircle behind the old man. They were not as trusting as their progenitor. They kept their weapons at the ready.

“Ah, Yaqub, you have returned safely.” Zulfigar peered past Yaqub at the donkeys. “And with so many donkeys.”

“I have been blessed by God with a bounty, my friend.” Yaqub stopped and waved back at the smelly beasts. “Will my good fortune strain your generosity?”

“Of course not. I am charging you by the head, am I not?”

That hadn’t been the agreement, but Yaqub ignored that. The opium cargo had been greater than he’d expected. He could afford to be lavish. He didn’t intend to go into the drug business. That was only the means to an end.

Yaqub forced himself to smile. Things went better with Zulfigar if he smiled, and the old man had been useful over the years. “By the head is better than by the foot.”

Zulfigar laughed joyously, then turned to the men behind him and ordered them to pull the canvas aside. As the first of the donkeys plodded into the building, he faced Yaqub again. “There is a stall we have set up in the back. Your donkeys will be safe.”

“I won’t be needing the donkeys. Perhaps you could broker a deal with someone in town to take them off my hands.”

The old man pulled at his beard, as if thinking on the matter. Yaqub was certain Zulfigar was thinking more about how much he could charge Yaqub and still pad the amount he was going to sell the donkeys for.

“Yes, I can find you buyers. Some will want the donkeys to eat; others will want to use them as livestock. Are they good donkeys?”
Zulfigar walked over and began patting them with knowing hands as they marched by.

“They have been strong enough to walk through the mountains.”

“Good. I should have little trouble finding buyers for such durable animals.” Zulfigar glanced at Yaqub. “How soon can I sell them?”

“As soon as you wish.”

Inside the building’s bottom floor, Zulfigar called out to a half-dozen small boys sorting goods in one corner of the large room. Evidently a fresh load of merchandise had found its way to Zulfigar’s door. The children listened attentively as he told them to scour the city for customers.

Once the children had rushed through the canvas and out onto the street, Zulfigar turned back to Yaqub. “How long will you be staying? We never discussed this.”

“No more than three days. My business here will be over quickly.” These days, Yaqub never dared stay overly long in any one place. The Americans had put a price on his head that was attractive to some who thought they might escape the wrath of the men who followed Yaqub. Zulfigar would never do such a thing because he could make a profit on Yaqub year after year. A one-time payoff wouldn’t suit him.

“Have you eaten? That is a long walk down from the mountains.”

“Not since morning.”

“Then come. Let me feed you.” Zulfigar headed toward the stairs.

“I will wait, my friend, until all of my men can be fed.” Yaqub never took any special amenities. He lived the same way and with the same benefits his men did, and he fought on the front lines. This garnered their respect.

Zulfigar turned and nodded. “Of course. Give me a few minutes and I can arrange a meal for them as well.”

“Thank you.” Yaqub chose to be polite, though he knew the price of the meals he and his men took there would be added to Zulfigar’s bill.

“While you are here, is anyone looking for you?”

“Of course. The Americans.”

Zulfigar waved that away. “They are your enemy. They are always looking for you. Is there anyone new?”

“No. But I am meeting Russians tomorrow.” It was better to get that information out of the way quickly. Zulfigar would know soon enough.

The old man’s eyes gleamed, and he scowled. “Russians. You know what I say about Russians.”

“Never trust the Russians.” It was an old litany with Zulfigar. He remembered the days when the Russians had tried to conquer Afghanistan. Zulfigar had lost family in that war, his first wife and two children. “However, in this case I have something the Russians want, and they have something I want. We’re making a trade.”

Greedily, Zulfigar glanced at the wooden crates Yaqub’s men were removing from the backs of the donkeys before the animals were herded into a makeshift pen in the back. Old straw covered the chipped parquet floor. “You already have a buyer for your cargo.”

“Yes.”

The old man shrugged. “That’s too bad. I’m sure I could have found an interested party.” And brokered a fee for that service as well.

“Consider it an easy profit, my friend. Since I already have a buyer, that responsibility is lifted from your shoulders. You will still get your cut for providing shelter for us.”

“Good. Then because you are my good friend, I will tell you that there is an American CIA team here in the city.”

Wariness thrummed through Yaqub. The old man had held back information from him before, thinking each time to sell it off when the time was right. Once before, the knowledge that Zulfigar withheld had resulted in bloodshed, though Yaqub had lost none of his men.

“It is all right, Yaqub. They do not look for you.”

“Then what are they looking for?”

Zulfigar gave an exaggerated shrug. “They are Americans. Always nosy. Always poking about in things. It is their nature.”

Yaqub thought about that. “How many of them are there?”

“Three. A small team only. They have two Pashtun guides, but the Americans are very good with the language themselves.”

“You know where they are?”

Zulfigar grinned. “Of course.”

“Perhaps we can come to an arrangement for that information as well.”

“I’m sure we can, my friend.”

At nine o’clock in the morning the next day, Yaqub met with the Russians in a building that was in much better condition than the one Zulfigar had claimed. He had met these Russians before, but Yaqub trusted no one. He was waiting for the day they turned on him, so he arrived at the meeting heavily armed.

Faisal and Wali accompanied him—the former because he spoke Russian much better than Yaqub, and the latter because he was death itself in a closed-in space.

Wali was twenty, but a faster man with a gun or a knife Yaqub had never seen. The young man had a killer instinct as well and never spoke unless he had something to say. He had an old burn scar that mottled the flesh on the left side of his face, and he’d never said where he had gotten it, though Yaqub had come to believe it was something from the man’s childhood days. Wali’s father was an evil man and had resented the fact that Yaqub had taken the son but not the sire.

“Yaqub, it is good to see you.” Pavel Borisov was a giant of a man, six and a half feet tall and broad-shouldered. He had been
spetsnaz
, a member of the USSR’s special forces. That had been before the Berlin
Wall fell and before Russia embraced capitalism. Since that time, he had gone into business for himself as a munitions broker, funneling Russia’s overstocked arsenal off to terrorists and drug dealers.

A neatly trimmed mustache and goatee punctuated Borisov’s lean, wolfish face. He wore clothing that let him blend into the city. His breath smelled of vodka and excess. Four armed men sat on the chairs along the back wall. All of them possessed military bearing and were focused on Yaqub and his two compatriots.

Borisov waved to one of the chairs in the small suite he had commandeered for the meeting. Yaqub sat at the table.

“I know you don’t drink, but might I offer you some tea? I have a fresh pot.”

“Thank you, no. I have breakfasted this morning. I would rather get to the business we have.”

“Of course.” Borisov spread his hands. “You have the opium?”

“I do.” Yaqub reached under his shirt and took out a small paper-wrapped bundle. He unwrapped the contents and plopped the grayish-black ball onto the scarred table. The lump was almost as big as Yaqub’s fist.