Chapter 13

13

Afghanistan

Though the Russian spoke no Pashto, he picked up a word or two, his ears keen to the tones in their voices as he tore off another piece of flatbread to mop up the juices on his plate. He stole furtive glances at the two Afghanis. The giant was obviously hostile and the more dangerous of the two. It was the chieftain that concerned him, though. Chances were the two men were related. They spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, and Stepan's life hung in the balance of their words.

Thing was, Stepan's Russian hadn't always been much better than his Pashto was now.

Juan's backstory as "Sergeant Stepan Saponov" was unimpeachable. The Oregon team had successfully broken into the Wagner database and planted his false identification. To solidify the ruse, Overholt had instructed the chieftain to vet Stepan Saponov with the Afghan intelligence service for confirmation. In fact, the chieftain believed Juan really was an ex-Wagner fighter, not a mercenary secretly working for the Americans.

Cabrillo's undercover getup was equally bulletproof. The Oregon 's Magic Shop had worked its miracle wonders again, and Kevin Nixon's Academy Award–winning special effects skills were on full display. Juan's puckering facial scar and blinded eye were so realistic that he almost felt as if he had suffered permanent damage. Not that he minded. His terrifying visage acted like a force field, causing even the surliest Afghanis to avert their eyes and slink away.

The special effects also helped him to get into character. Because Cabrillo was a child with an overactive imagination, his mother had always told him he should go into acting. She never knew that he actually followed her advice. The covert training he got from the CIA was more "method" than anything he would have gotten in UCLA acting classes. For him, every performance was a matter of life or death, and Cabrillo valued the ability to breathe more than any stupid Hollywood trophy.

Juan's only real concern at the moment was the chieftain's reliability. He had never met the man, let alone worked with him. But beggars can't be choosers. Overholt had recruited the chieftain decades earlier during the Russian occupation, but the old man had since gone dormant. In fact, the chieftain had been on a dozen prior CIA watch lists of "known terrorists" and "Taliban collaborators" in recent years. But Overholt found a point of leverage, though it was tenuous at best.

Exploiting the notoriously porous American southern border, the wily old Afghani had arranged for his fourth and youngest wife to "immigrate" to the United States with his three children begat by her. The oldest child was currently in his first year at Stanford medical school.

In exchange for arranging today's meeting with the Taliban, Overholt promised not to contact the Department of Homeland Security and have the chieftain's family deported. But sensing Overholt's desperation, the chief extracted a further promise from him. After the mission was accomplished, Overholt would arrange for the chief's three other wives to be issued legal visas as his "sisters" and his herd of grown children as "nieces and nephews." With proceeds from the vast poppy fields under his control, the chief had already purchased a large family compound outside of Roseville, California, where he planned to retire with his clan.

Cabrillo hoped the chieftain's family loyalties were stronger than his ideological ones. Juan's life was hanging by a precariously frayed thread.

He plopped another piece of spicy roasted lamb into his mouth. If he was going to die today, he couldn't think of a more savory last meal than this.

★

Cabrillo took his last bite and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"I am grateful for your kind hospitality and excellent food," he said to the chieftain in Russian. "But I think Commander Yaqoob and I have some business to attend to."

"Yes, of course," the chieftain said. A mischievous spark danced in the old man's weathered eyes. "I shall leave the two of you alone to discuss matters." He stood, placed a hand on his chest, and bowed slightly before heading for the back rooms.

"Thank you for coming, Commander Yaqoob," the Russian began.

"I don't speak Russian very well," Yaqoob said in English. "You speak English. Correct?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then we shall speak in English, Ivan," Yaqoob said. "I learned most of it from the Americans when they hired me as a scout." He laughed. "Gullible idiots."

"No wonder they call your country the ‘graveyard of empires,'" Juan said.

"Theirs and yours." A malicious pride flashed in Yaqoob's eyes.

Juan suddenly wasn't sure if the Afghani was referring to him as a Russian or an American. He swallowed his momentary concern with a casual sip of tea.

Yaqoob's broad hands rested in his lap. He turned his palms toward the low ceiling. "What is it that you want?"

"I serve with a private military unit in the Central African Republic. Mostly ex-Wagner, like me. Russia no longer supplies our weapons or ammunition. I am hunting for both. We pay well."

"What exactly do you need?"

"More than you can supply."

"Try me, Ivan."

Cabrillo rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks in his back from sitting on the floor so long.

"All right. I need seventy-five armored Humvees equipped with either anti-tank guided missiles or M60 machine guns."

The Taliban's eyes softened thoughtfully and his posture relaxed.

"Not a problem. I have equal numbers of both."

"Two hundred pairs of night vision goggles with batteries and cases."

"Also not a problem."

"Five hundred M16A4 assault rifles."

"The ones with the under-mount grenade launchers?"

"Yes. You can do this?"

"No problem." The ferocious Pashtun was now as friendly as a jewelry store salesclerk.

"A million rounds of 5.56 ammunition for the M16s, two hundred thousand rounds of 7.62 for the M60s, and five hundred anti-tank missiles."

The Pashtun shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

"This can all be easily arranged—for the right price. What else do you need?"

"LAW rockets, grenades, mortars, and Claymores."

"Medical supplies? MREs?"

"If you have them."

"Trust me, we do."

Cabrillo eyed him up and down with his one good eye.

"I have my doubts."

Yaqoob scowled with disappointment.

"Without trust, my friend, we cannot do business."

"Ah, yes. Trust—but verify."

Yaqoob let loose a belly laugh.

"You quote Ronald Reagan?"

Juan smiled. "Why not? Cowboys and Cossacks—all the same! Besides, Reagan was quoting an old Russian proverb."

Cabrillo leaned over and laid a hand on his rucksack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the big Pashtun stiffen and his hand slip down to his pistol grip.

"Relax, my friend." Juan reached into his rucksack and pulled out a solid bar of gold and handed it to the Pashtun giant.

Yaqoob weighed the nearly twenty-eight-pound brick of shiny metal in his massive hand. The smile that broke across his face gleamed brighter than the gold.

"For you, personally," Cabrillo said. "A token of our friendship."

"Will the payment for your order be in gold as well?"

"Of course, unless you prefer something else. But what currency is worth anything more than the paper it's printed on these days?"

Yaqoob's eyes fell back onto the gold bar. He'd never held so much wealth in his own hands.

"So, now it's your turn to earn some trust," Juan said.

Yaqoob nodded eagerly.

"Surely, my friend. Surely."