Chapter 11

11

Afghanistan

The surly Afghan teenager driving the white Land Rover Defender couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old judging by the scraggly beard he was trying to grow. Unfortunately for the boy, most of his hair growth was spurting between his eyes. He had a unibrow that would have made Frida Kahlo blush with envy. A traditional Afghani pakol sat on top of his narrow head like a mushroom cap.

The Afghani didn’t speak any Russian and his passenger spoke no Pashto or any other tribal language. It didn’t matter to the boy’s Russian passenger. It was clear from the barely hidden contempt on the Afghani’s face he had no desire to speak to a filthy Russian infidel anyway. The jagged red scar on the Russian’s face and the blinded milky-white eye beneath it didn’t endear him to the boy, either. Built like a fighter and bearing the marks of one, the Russian did a poor job of disguising his military bearing. He wore plain work trousers, a baggy collared shirt, and carried a hiker’s plain canvas rucksack.

The Russian’s jarring teeth and twisting spine told him the kid was aiming the British four-wheel drive at every pothole he could find. It felt like they were bouncing on a trampoline inside of a clothes dryer. The boy was driving because he was the son of the village chief and local tribal warlord and was therefore trusted with his father’s prized guest. Without the warlord, the Russian would never have secured today’s meeting.

Trailing a cloud of choking dust, the white Defender climbed the final steep trail and blew past a herd of goats prodded along by a knot of snot-nosed children no older than eight or nine.

Rocketing through the mud-walled village, locals knew to stand aside for the familiar vehicle, apparently a prize seized along with so many others at Bagram Airfield when the British, like all of the other Western powers, fled in a panic.

The Land Rover finally skidded to a stop in front of a walled compound. Two scowling, black-turbaned guards stood outside, AKs at low ready. The boy said nothing, but only stared out of the dusty windshield in a barely contained rage.

Spasibo—thanks—the Russian grunted as he crawled out of the 4×4 truck. It sped away almost the second his booted feet hit the dirt, nearly running him over.

“Stepan! Is that you?” The gray-bearded Afghan chieftain marched out his front door, his hands upraised in a welcoming gesture, his leathered face beaming with a pumpkin’s smile of mostly missing teeth. “Come inside. Please.”

The milky-eyed Russian glanced around the village. A few Afghanis in traditional garb hurried along the dusty road or stood in mud-brick doorways, all of them pretending not to notice the war-scarred, blond-haired stranger in their midst. The Russian knew that behind every one of those doors was at least one loaded rifle, most likely an AK-47 lifted from the corpse of one of his fellow countrymen years before.

The Russian shrugged away whatever misfortune awaited him inside the chieftain’s home, shouldered his rucksack, and limped toward his fate.

---

★The Russian grunted as he struggled to take the place on the floor offered by the chieftain, who sat opposite him. A robed servant brought a teapot of hammered brass patinaed with age and battered with use. The servant poured the tea into chipped porcelain cups, then departed the brightly carpeted room. They were all alone.

The two men sipped their steaming-hot tea in silence for a few minutes.

“My son is good driver?” the chieftain asked in broken Russian.

“I’ve had worse,” the Russian grunted. “And better.” He took another sip. “How long until your contact arrives?”

“Soon.”

The Afghan chief leaned in close and whispered.

“Are you sure about this, my friend? You play a dangerous game.”

The Russian shrugged. “Inshallah.” As God wills.

Fifteen minutes later the tea service was cleared away just as honking horns blared in the distance. It wasn’t long before thick, knobby truck tires crunched to a halt outside the compound.

The chieftain raced outside and shouted a friendly Pashto greeting as the Russian stood by the low table. Moments later the chieftain ushered in a tall Pashtun—six foot six if he was an inch. The man’s thick, shoulder-length hair was streaked with gray. Unlike his host, the ginormous Taliban fighter was kitted out like an American Special Forces operator, including digital camouflage, a chest rig with armor plates, and a holstered Glock 17 pistol. The only thing missing was a bump helmet. He yanked off his Oakley wraparound sunglasses.

The Taliban fighter’s large black eyes narrowed like a falcon’s as he caught sight of the burly Russian.

“Is this the Ivan?” he asked the chieftain in Pashto.

“His name is Stepan Saponov.”

“Does he have a phone?” The Taliban feared the Americans might somehow track the Russian’s phone signal and lead them to this meeting.

“My son tossed it in the garbage at the airport.”

The Russian held out his hand and said in Russian, “You must be Commander Yaqoob.”

The glowering Afghani fighter ignored it.

The Russian’s eyes flared. “My hand not good enough for you?”

“Russians kill my father, my uncles,” Yaqoob said in faltering Russian. He pulled back the collar of his camouflaged jacket, revealing a mass of scar tissue wrapping around his neck like a sleeve of melted plastic. “And a buried Russian mine did this five years ago. I hate Russians. Russians are a plague.”

“War is a plague on Russians, too,” Stepan said. He pulled up his pant leg, revealing a mechanical limb. “Syria.” He then touched his blinded eye. “Bakhmut.” The Russian fixed his good eye on Yaqoob. “Shall we two men cry like women over our sorrows or get to business?”

Yaqoob snorted a grudging appreciation for the wounded Russian fighter.

The chieftain quickly ushered the two men to their cushions on the floor and barked an order.

Stepan and Yaqoob never stopped staring at each other; two scorpions in a carpeted, mud-brick bottle. In short order, servants raced in and set before the three men a large stack of freshly baked flatbread, steaming dishes of lamb, eggplant dumplings, sticky rice, and a bowl of dried fruit along with fresh cups of hot tea. The servants dashed out of the room, leaving the three men alone.

Stepan devoured his food, obviously hungry after his long journey, his lips glistening with lamb fat. Yaqoob ate more deliberately, exchanging glances with the chieftain, who took only measured bites.

“He has no manners,” Yaqoob said to the chieftain, confident the Russian didn’t speak his language. “He eats like a starved wolf.”

The chieftain wagged his head. “The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, ‘Whoever believes in Allah and the Last Day, let him be generous to his guest.’ ”

“And you vouch for this infidel?”

“I vouch for his money. Besides, only a madman or an arms broker would dare show his face around here.”

“Which is he?”

“Perhaps both,” the chieftain said, laughing. “I have a nephew in Kabul. He works for the General Directorate of Intelligence. He checked the Wagner rosters. Our friend ‘Ivan’ here was with Wagner all right, and before that was a sergeant with the 104th Guards Airborne Division. Arrested for acts of criminality and treason, but escaped. According to FSB records, he is presumed dead.”

“He looks at least half alive to me.”

“And you would prefer both halves dead?” the old chief asked.

Yaqoob grinned. “Business before pleasure.”