Hafez Sabah stepped out from an adjoining room. "My brothers and I appreciate the very helpful services you are providing us."
"I don't claim to be sodding ethical," Turpin said. "It would be bad for me business if word got round that I was making a bluddy 'abit of buying back cargoes I sold to somebody else after they was stole."
"Whatever the reason for your aid in solving this problem, we remain grateful."
"So wot 'appens to this bloke then?"
"He will be dealt with in the same manner as was done with Batanza," Sabah said.
Turpin shrugged. "Then some other orficer will take his place."
"This time there will be no more Aguilando, Patrol Boat 22, or any of its crew," Sabah said. "Again I thank you, Mr. Turpin. Good-bye."
"Ma'al salama," Turpin said.
Sabah smiled. "Ah! You speak some Arabic, do you?"
"I picked up a bit during me Legion days in Algeria."
.
NORTHWEST FRONTIER PROVINCE
7 0CT0BER
1400 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad was now avoiding all places where he might come into contact with people. He had fresh water, ammunition, an ancient Webley .455-caliber revolver, and some chapattis, a flat, round, unleavened wheat bread he had found in the pouch on the back of the harness and belt he had lifted at the police station. The SEAL moved at a slow but steady gait as he traveled through the scrub-brush boondocks toward the Afghan border to the west. Because of a complete CIA orientation and briefing about his OA, Mike knew and appreciated the adventurous history of the land he now trekked through.
This was where the British fought the warlike tribes of the area in the nineteenth century. A long string of forts were constructed across the territory to contain the native rebels as well as thwart any expansionist activities of Czarist Russia. The biggest problem the British soldiers faced was the fierce resistance of the Pathans. Things got so bad that when the Northwest Province was created, the Pathans were given control of a strip of land along the Afghan border to appease them. This didn't make the warlike people all that happy, and they rebelled in fury at various times, fighting skirmishes with British troops over many decades As late as 1937, the Pathans attacked and massacred an entire British column in one memorable battle.
Now Mike continued to move cautiously through Pathan territory, the pistol loaded and loosened in the holster. As he kept his vigilance at a high level, he caught sight of the plentiful wildlife. Markhor goats, gazelles, and foxes were in abundance, and he knew the place must be a hunter's paradise. He was well into a long afternoon of travel when he suddenly noticed the absence of animals. Obviously something had frightened them.
Then he sighted the horsemen.
Two riders were off to his left, close enough that Mike could see they were interested in him. He opened the holster flap and pulled the pistol out, sticking it in the belt. The thought flashed in his mind of saving one last bullet to put into his own brain like the British soldiers of old used to do if capture were imminent in that part of the world. A movement to his right caught his eye as another pair of riders came into view. Then a few more rode into sight. Mike knew that resistance with a pistol would be futile. The horsemen were all armed with rifles. They could leisurely pick him off without getting within range of the revolver.
Now they began to close in, and Mike put his hand on the weapon, deciding to sell his life dearly. Within ten minutes they had drawn up close to him, grinning with a menacing sort of amusement. One of them came forward. "Chertha zey?"
"Asalam aleikum " Mike said uttering the universal Islamic greeting. "Arabi? English?"
"How do you do? I am speaking English the man said.
"Yes, you are," Mike said agreeably. "And very well too."
"Thank you for such kind words," the man said. "I attended a special school in Peshawar to be prepared for the diplomatic service. It is there that I learned to speak English and Urdu. I am called Sarleh Khey."
"I am called Mikael Assad."
"I have asked you chertha zey in my language," Khey asked. "It means where do you go."
"I am returning to friends near the coast," Mike replied. "I must confess that I am not sure of my exact location at this moment. All I know is that I am in the Northwest Frontier Province."
"It is so named by Englishmen," Khey said. "In actuality, you travel across the territory ruled by my people. We call ourselves Pashtuns, but in the West we are called Pathans."
Now Mike knew he was having an encounter with a tribe that boasted a long warrior tradition. "Since I have so impolitely intruded onto your land, I shall also refer to you as Pashtuns, if it so pleases you."
Khey laughed loudly, explaining to his friends what Mike had just said. Their former insolent grins immediately turned friendly. Khey said, "May I ask how it is that you speak English?"
"I am an American," Mike explained. "It is a long story."
Khey spoke again to his comrades, who did not mask their surprise. "We Pashtuns love long stories. Would you be so kind as to tell us yours?"
"My pleasure."
"Excellent! We invite you to come to our village as our guest. Hop up behind my saddle, Mikael."
Mike opened up his chador to reveal the pistol belt and accouterments. He smiled widely to appear as amicable as possible as he slowly and carefully pulled the weapon from the belt. He reset it into the holster and snapped the flap shut.
This made the Pashtuns laugh again and make remarks among themselves.
"My friends say you were prepared to defend yourself," Khey said. "That is most admirable. You showed no fear."
I was scared shitless, Mike's mind spoke silently, and that would have been bad news for you fuckers!
The Pashtun took his foot out of his left stirrup, and Mike stepped into it, swinging himself up on the horse. He settled behind his new friend as the group rode off, turning southwest.
.
1530 HOURS LOCAL
THE Pashtun village was unnamed, but well organized, with the mud buildings laid out in a zigzag pattern to create narrow streets that would suddenly turn ninety degrees, go a short distance, then turn back in the original direction. Mike Assad had seen this arrangement before during a mission to Afghanistan. Such streets would be easy to defend while attackers, unable to see ahead any great distance, would have to slow down at each intersection where ambushes would be waiting to be sprung on them.
Mike and his escorts went to a central building that was the largest structure in the small community. It appeared primitive on the outside in spite of having glass windows. The interior, however, was much more elaborate. Thick carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall, and several tables, standing no more than eighteen inches high, were arranged in a circular pattern. A raised platform, also carpeted, was at the head of the room. The table on it was twice as long as the others. Mike figured that was where the local board of directors sat during community meetings.
He and his new friends settled down around a table. Within moments three women appeared carrying an urn of khawa green tea, small cups, and a platter of deep-fried vegetables called pakoras. Mike knew enough not to look at the women, and he kept his eyes on Khey.
"I appreciate your hospitality," he said.
"This is a strong Pashtun custom called melmastia," Khey explained. "We are a people who believe in being especially courteous to our guests." He poured a cup of tea, passing it over to Mike. "Many outsiders think of us as murderous barbarians. In truth, we have a civilization unique unto ourselves."