“Why on earth would you follow me?” he asked with feigned innocence.
“My name is Liban Adnan,” she said. “I’m a broadcast journalist. For NKR — New Kabul Radio. I’m doing a series on mercenary soldiers in the city. I’d like to interview you.”
“You’ve made a mistake, miss,” Morgan said. “I’m not a mercenary soldier. I’m a pharmaceuticals salesman.”
“Oh?” Her full, dark eyebrows went up. “When you were leaving the Dingo Club, I saw you shake hands with Michaleen Donahue, a notorious mercenary soldier. Were you selling him aspirin, perhaps?”
“I went into that club to ask directions to the Mustafa Hotel. I didn’t even know the man I was talking to.”
“I see.” She pulled a five-by-seven black-and-white glossy photograph from her purse. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know this man either.”
In the neon light above a lap-dance club, Morgan looked at the picture. It was his twin brother, Virgil, in handcuffs and belly chain, being held between two Afghani policemen.
Taking Liban Adnan roughly by the arm, Morgan drew her into a nearby passageway between buildings, out of the busy sidewalk traffic. Once there, he kept her arm in a grip tight enough for her to know that she could not break away.
“Exactly what do you want?” he asked coldly, evenly.
“I told you. An interview. I want to explain to the citizens of Kabul why scores of heavily armed men prowl their streets at night. I want to try to make the public understand who they are and why they are here.”
“If I was a mercenary, do you think I’d be stupid enough to let you interview me about my reason for being here?”
“It could be an anonymous interview,” she said, squirming in his grip. “We could even use a vibraphone mic to disguise your voice—”
“Look, miss,” Morgan said firmly, “you’ve got the wrong person, understand? I don’t know the man back at the club, and I don’t know the man in that photograph!”
“But he looks just like you. Is it you, or — or are you his brother?” she exclaimed, as if that had just dawned on her.
“Listen to me, lady,” Morgan tightened his grip on her arm, “mind your own business or you might be very sorry.”
Liban squirmed even more. “Please, you’re hurting me—”
Morgan let go of her arm. “Stay away from me,” he warned.
Leaving her in the passageway, Morgan stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued toward the Mustafa Hotel.
Donahue was in the hotel lobby at ten the next morning when Morgan came down. He led Morgan outside to a battered Jeep with no top. Donny was again wearing the double Roto holster, and now was carrying an AR-15 automatic rifle as well. Morgan carried his same two handguns, but also had with him a Mossberg 500 shotgun equipped with a Knoxx folding stock, which allowed him to carry and fire it as a long-barrel pistol. He again had his sea bag slung behind one shoulder, but it was noticeably lighter now.
“Unpacked everything but the money, I see,” Donahue observed.
“You guessed it,” Morgan replied.
“Carrying it around like that, ain’t you afraid somebody might take it away from you?”
“Somebody might die trying.” Morgan jacked a 12-gauge Pit Bull shell into the Mossberg’s chamber and held it between his knees next to the sea bag when he got into the Jeep. As Donahue slid behind the wheel, he observed that Morgan was wearing a flak vest under his jacket.
As they pulled away from the hotel, Morgan noticed a green Volkswagen parked nearby. Liban Adnan was in the driver’s seat. Son of a bitch! he thought angrily. But he said nothing to Donahue. He did not want to alarm him.
The two men drove out of town. As they moved past numerous destroyed buildings and out onto a vast, flat scrub plain, Morgan watched in the outside rearview mirror on the passenger side and saw that the green Volkswagen was following at a respectable enough distance behind not to be obvious. Glancing at Donahue, he concluded that the big Irishman had not noticed it. Cursing silently in his mind, Morgan decided to go with the flow of the moment; there was nothing he could do about it, not just then. But later...
About ten miles outside Kabul they pulled onto a gravel road that faced Pul-e-Charki Prison. From outside, the facility appeared antiquated, its walls crumbling in places, its turrets looking unsteady at best. The Russians had built the place when they occupied Afghanistan, and its upkeep had been inadequate even then. After the Afghan government took it over, maintenance deteriorated even more: the cells, plumbing, toilets, food, and prisoner treatment — all went to hell. Everything except security: That had improved.
Donahue parked where they could get a view of the main gate and outer walls. “Picture yourself looking down at it from above,” he said. “There are four blocks of cells around an inside courtyard. Block One, called ‘Block-e-Awal,’ is there,” he pointed toward one front corner. “That’s for high-status prisoners, foreigners, mercenaries mostly. They’ve got Jack Idema in there. He ran Saber Seven, a freelance outfit that captured and tortured Afghan nationals, just like your brother did, trying to get a lead on Osama bin Laden. Jack’s doing ten years; he was smart enough not to kill anyone. Virgil’s in there too, along with some journalists and photographers who wrote about and photographed some things the new government didn’t approve of.
“Block Two is directly across the center courtyard, over there,” Donahue pointed to the opposite corner. “It’s strictly for political prisoners, nobody really worth mentioning, mostly just ex-Taliban and protesters against the U.S.
“Block Three is back there, behind Block Two. It’s full of common criminals: thieves, child molesters, drunkards, dishonest merchants, people who disrespect the Koran and Muslim law.”
Donahue stopped talking and looked out over the wasteland toward a hazy, indistinct horizon. Morgan waited several moments, then: “You said four blocks.”
“Yes, well.” Donahue cleared his throat. “Block Four is where the executions take place. Some hangings. Beheadings. Occasional lesser punishments: cutting off the hands of a thief, blinding a man who spied on another man’s wife that he coveted, stoning to death of women adulterers—”
“Rough justice,” Morgan commented.
“If you can call it justice at all.” Donahue’s voice, Morgan thought, sounded unusually soft and sympathetic. Especially for a man who had for more than forty years killed for a living.
Glancing off in the distance, Morgan saw the green Volkswagen parked where its driver could observe them. He was going to have to decide what to do about the woman. He could not let her upset his plans to save his brother.
“So what do you think, lad?” Donahue asked, interrupting Morgan’s thoughts.
“You have any guard contacts inside? That can be bought?”
“Maybe.” The Irishman shrugged.
“Can you get me a dozen men — good men — on the outside?”
“Depends. You want specialists?”
Morgan nodded. “Four explosives men, two rocket experts, six tough ground troops.”
“Possibly. Weapons?”
“AR-15s for the ground troops, plus any handguns they want for backup. Thirty-seven-millimeter launchers for the rocket men. K-2 plastics, coils, and timer detonators for the explosives.”
“Ammo?”
“The works. Armor-piercing, incendiary, tracers. The best available. And plenty of it.”
Donahue rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. “Vehicles?”
“One armored halftrack with dual tactical mounted .50-calibers. And a Devil’s Breath with dual tanks.”