The Guardian (9 page)

‘Yes,’ Akhtar said. ‘The flight from London was very smooth.’

The other man nodded. The bartender was far enough away that they could not be heard. ‘He’s here in Boston,’ he said. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s
at his sister’s place. You’ll spot her; she’s a real looker.’

‘And Stillwell?’ Akhtar asked.

‘He’s here, too.’ The man stood up, nodded at the paper folded on the bar. ‘There’s an address and a map, as well as some additional information that will be
helpful for you,’ he said. ‘We’ve arranged for a rental car, but we cannot be involved beyond this.’

‘I understand,’ Akhtar said. ‘It is better for both of us this way.’

‘Good luck.’ The man stood up and turned. Before he walked away, though, he addressed Akhtar once more. ‘Stay with the girl,’ he said.

Akhtar looked at him, confused. ‘The girl?’

‘Phelan’s sister. Keep your eye on her. The kid’s a fuck-up, but she’s the real deal. I read her file. If things start to go to shit, stick with her, she’ll lead
you where you need to be. You understand?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Akhtar said.

‘You will.’ The man walked away quickly, leaving Akhtar sitting alone at the bar. He picked up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm, threw back the remaining whiskey, put the
glass back on the bar, pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the bar before he followed the man out.

Jack Saunders sat on the plane, staring out the window. He’d had to go through extra security procedures to get his gun on the plane, but his suspension had not become
official, and his position at the Agency still afforded some privileges.

The flight from Washington DC to Boston followed the bend of the eastern seaboard, tracking the northeastern coastline. It was a crystal-clear autumn day, not a cloud in the sky, and as they
passed over the southeastern corner of New York he gazed down at the island of Manhattan.

For a moment, he found it hard to breathe.

Before Harvard he’d gone to undergraduate school in the city, and had lived just across the Hudson River, in Hoboken. Back then, the New York skyline had been as constant as the sun and
the stars. Looking up from the south at Lady Liberty, waving in triumph toward the giant Twin Towers that dominated the horizon, he’d always had a sense of security – of certainty that
the nation that was his would continue to rise.

Now, looking down from more than a mile up in the air, he could see the hole at the lower end of the island. Building at the site of the memorial had begun, but progress was slow, like the
painful formation of scar tissue at the edge of a wound that refused to heal.

He took it personally now. He took it
all
personally. There had been a time in his life when that wasn’t the case. In Bosnia, and Somalia, and Russia, and Chechnya, and Hungary . .
. the missions were important because they would give his country a tactical advantage in the crush for global power and influence. And he’d believed the missions usually had the residual
benefit of helping the locals try to build their own lives more free from tyranny and violence. He’d taken his role seriously back then, but not personally. The survival of the United States
wasn’t truly at issue, at least not in a way that was felt to his core. Not in the way he felt it now as he looked down from a plane on a crystal-clear autumn day.

Everything was personal to him now. Perhaps that was his problem.

Saunders walked in the footsteps of his guide, Bashar, a 30-year-old Afghan with better knowledge of the mountains in the far eastern reaches of Afghanistan than any
American would ever acquire. Jack had been here before, or near here, at least. It was difficult for him to tell. The terrain was so severe he had to keep his eyes on the ground to be sure of his
footing. Without Bashar’s aid, he would never survive this far up in the mountains. There were dangers both natural and man-made in the crevasses between the launches of rock that jutted up.
A single misstep would be the end of him, he knew, so he placed each foot deliberately. He’d trusted his life to Bashar many times before.

The sun was still behind the highest peaks to the east, and the air was frigid. With each breath a cloud of steam wafted before him. He wore the solid black lungee turban indigenous to the
region, and a heavy wool perahan tunban that covered him from his wrists to his ankles. His bushy dark beard helped to keep him warm and gave him the look of a native. The strap of his Kalashnikov
dug into his lean shoulder.

They moved inexorably up the mountain, pausing only briefly so that Saunders could consult a map. By his calculations, they were still in Afghanistan, but just barely. In any event, borders
mattered little in the Waziri no-man’s-land between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Out here, sovereignty extended only as far as a rifle could accurately find its target, and tribal affiliation
outweighed any semblance of modern nationalism. His guide nodded up toward the next peak and gave a hand signal that made clear they were close.

‘Are you ready, Bashar?’ Saunders asked.

‘I am.’

‘Do you think it’ll work?’

Bashar shrugged. ‘If Allah wills it.’

Saunders saw the men before he saw the cabin. There were four of them, and they were milling around in a loose, distracted circle 100 meters above the last crest. The flat trodden path along
the ridgeline was wider here, perhaps twenty meters between the continuing rise of the mountain to the north, and the sheer drop to the valley to the south. The men on the path reminded Saunders of
a klatch of homeless men on the corner of any crumbling US city. They moved in tired, strung out, nervous patterns of boredom, their heads hanging down, shoulders hunched forward.

It was generous to call the dwelling a cabin. It was really more of a lean-to, made of loose flat rocks stacked up against the side of the mountain, held together with mud and straw.

Saunders and Bashar were halfway along the open stretch of wide path toward the cabin before the men outside spotted them. The first to notice them gave a startled, unintelligible grunt to
the others, and they turned, watching Saunders and Bashar as they approached. The rifles came off their shoulders, and they held the guns loosely. The demeanor of one of the men changed
drastically, though, as Saunders and Bashar drew to within ten meters of the men. His face broke into a wide, crooked-toothed smile. ‘Bashar!’ he shouted.

Bashar smiled back, put his hand out. ‘Symia, my good friend!’ he said in his native Pashto. The two men gave each other a vigorous handshake.

The man with the crooked teeth began speaking rapidly to his compatriots. ‘This is Bashar!’ he said. ‘The one I told you of! He works with our allies in the West, and is
responsible for the deaths of many infidels!’

‘Allah is responsible for all,’ Bashar said humbly.

‘Yes, yes,’ the other man said, waving him off. He was short and slight, with a prominent brow and a wandering eye that, combined with his teeth and his enthusiasm, made him seem
slightly mad. ‘Have you brought Symia a gift?’ he asked in a conspiratorial tone.

‘Of course,’ Bashar replied. He reached into the folds of his clothing and produced a small paper wrapper. Symia grabbed it greedily, and the other three men shouldered their guns
and shuffled in closer.

‘Ah!’ Symia exclaimed to the other three. ‘I told you! Our brothers in the West have the best hashish in the world!’ He unwrapped the paper as one of the other three
produced a small pipe.

Symia was scraping the pipe across the resin in the paper when Bashar spoke again. ‘My friend, this is the one I told you might be coming.’ He gestured toward Saunders. ‘He
is from the north.’ Bashar’s voice became reverent. ‘He is very important, and he has come with a message for Majeed. His name is Timur.’

Symia paused in his effort to load the hashish pipe. ‘An honor,’ he said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing slightly in traditional greeting. Saunders stood still, fixing
the man with a hard stare. The smile disappeared from Symia’s face. ‘Is he too good to greet me with respect?’ he demanded of Bashar.

‘He is Tajik,’ Bashar said with a shrug. ‘He is too good for everything.’ That drew a knowing chuckle from the other men, but Symia continued to glower at
Saunders.

‘He should learn better manners.’

‘There are more important things than manners,’ Saunders said in unaccented Pashto. It was one of seven languages he’d mastered over the years. ‘I was sent here to
deal with leaders, not with underlings.’

Symia was holding the hashish and pipe in his left hand now, and his right hand dropped to the pistol grip of his Kalashnikov. His finger toyed with the trigger. ‘What makes you think
that any leader here would want to talk to you?’ he asked.

‘Because,’ Saunders said, ‘I have been sent by Mullah Durrani Rahman.’ Saunders could see the man stiffen at the mention of the name. It looked as though Symia was
going to say something, then thought better of it. He took two steps back, rapped on the door to the cabin and entered.

He was inside only for a moment, and Saunders could hear voices, first quiet, then raised, then quiet again. Symia re-emerged. ‘Abdur Majeed will see you,’ he said. He opened the
door and held his hand out to let Saunders pass. As Saunders reached the threshold, Symia began to follow him in.

‘I will speak with Majeed alone,’ Saunders said.

‘I am his bodyguard,’ Symia protested.

‘I will speak with Majeed alone, or I will not speak with him at all.’

Symia took a step back and nodded reluctantly.

The door closed behind Saunders. Slashes of light cut through the gaps in the tiny building’s construction; other than that the place was dark. He could make out the
silhouette of a rickety table, a tall, lanky figure bent over it working on some papers. Saunders’s eyes were still adjusting and it was a moment before he could make out the man’s
features. He looked younger than Saunders had anticipated. He had a long, aquiline nose and full lips. He looked up from his papers at Saunders and his eyes were piercing.

‘Abdur Majeed,’ Saunders said.

‘Indeed,’ Majeed replied. He looked expectantly at Saunders.

‘I am Timur Isthal,’ Saunders said. ‘I have been sent by Mullah Duranni Rahman.’

‘So I have been informed.’ Majeed remained seated.

Saunders placed a hand over his heart and bowed. ‘Mullah Rahman sends his respects.’

Majeed bowed briefly. ‘Mullah Rahman is a man of great influence. It is said that he is the most powerful man on the Quetta Shura,’ he said, referring to the Afghan Taliban
leadership council established when Mullah Omar, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic State of Afghanistan, had been chased from power in 2001. It directed the four regional military commands.
‘I am surprised that the Mullah would send a message for me directly,’ he said. ‘I report to Siraj Haqqani, the commander of the Miramshah Regional Military Shura. My orders come
from him.’

‘And by all reports, you follow those orders well,’ Saunders said. ‘In fact, our understanding is that you are often the one who gives the orders in the first
place.’

‘I serve Allah to the best of my abilities.’

‘And those abilities are, by all evidence, considerable.’

Majeed was cautious. There were dangerous rivalries within the Taliban. ‘Is there something that Mullah Rahman would like from me?’ he asked.

Saunders nodded. ‘We should speak plainly.’ He began to pace slightly. ‘The Council is unhappy with the inaction in the Miramshah region.’

‘Attacks here are carried out weekly,’ Majeed protested.

‘The Council believes the attacks could be even more frequent and more effective,’ Saunders said. ‘The commitment of the American infidels to Afghanistan is weakening. The
more we can do now to make clear our resolve, the faster theirs will crumble.’

‘Has the Council shared these thoughts with Siraj Haqqani?’ Majeed inquired.

‘Siraj Haqqani no longer has the faith of the Council,’ Saunders said. ‘He is without distinction. His only accomplishment in recent days of note has been the attack on the
American Camp Chapman.’ Camp Chapman was a forward-operating CIA base in the city of Khost. The day before New Year’s of 2009, a suicide bomber – a Taliban double agent working
‘with’ the CIA – detonated a massive bomb inside the camp, killing eight operatives, including Sam Ainsworth, the son of an influential Assistant Director at the Agency. It was
the worst attack in the history of the CIA, and it had shaken the confidence of many of the United States’ allies in Afghanistan. The Agency had publicly sworn that it would have its
revenge.

Majeed gave a scornful grunt.

‘You disagree?’

Majeed’s eyes flashed with ambition for the first time. ‘I agree that it was a great accomplishment,’ he said. ‘I question that the accomplishment was
Haqqani’s.’ The man’s pride was finally beginning to show.

Saunders regarded him carefully. ‘You believe that someone else better deserves the credit?’

‘The attack was my operation. It was planned and executed using my strategy and my men.’

Saunders nodded. ‘The Council suspected as much.’ He stopped pacing. ‘Would you accept the role as commander of the Shura here in Miramshah if the Council offered it to
you?’

Majeed pulled himself up to his full height. ‘It would be an honor to serve Allah and the Council in that position.’

Saunders moved forward. ‘It will be done,’ he said. He shook hands with Majeed, leaned in to embrace him. As Majeed returned the gesture, Saunders slipped a ten-inch serrated
combat knife from his belt. With his lips near the other man’s ear, he whispered, ‘You deserve this.’

Majeed was still smiling as Saunders drove the knife, in a swift, sure motion, into his chest, just below the breastbone, thrusting upward. As intended, the weapon sliced through the solar
plexus and punctured the lungs, robbing Majeed of his oxygen and preventing him from calling out to his men. His smile twisted into a grimace and his mouth went wide as he tried to suck in a breath
to no avail. Blood was pouring from the wound, drenching the earthen floor.