“Jesus, Morgan! A flamethrower?”
“Yes. And two armored specialists to handle the whole rig.”
Donahue sighed. “Anything else?”
“Two armor-plated Humvees for the rest of us, to flank the halftrack when we charge the main gate.” Morgan took a deep breath. “That’s it.”
“You’re sure now?” Donahue asked, a little sarcastically. “Sure you don’t want a couple of fighter jets to strafe the place ahead of time?”
“Can you get it all or not?” Morgan asked flatly
“I’ll let you know. Come see me tonight at the Dingo.”
As Donahue drove them back to Kabul, Morgan watched the green Volkswagen follow them in the passenger rearview mirror.
His lean jaw clenched.
Half an hour after Morgan returned to his room, there was a soft knock at his door. Holding the Sig 230 close to his right leg, he stood to the left of the door and said, “Yes?”
“It is I,” a female voice said. “Liban Adnan.”
Snatching the door open, Morgan jerked her into the room and locked the door behind them.
“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve coming here after following me all morning!” he said angrily. “Didn’t I warn you to stay away from me?”
“I am not afraid of you!” she snapped.
“That’s obvious. What the hell do you want now?”
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice as angry as his, “I came to show you these bruises you left on my arm last night!” Pulling up the sleeve of her blouse, she held out an arm with several dark, purplish bruises on it.
“You’re liable to get more than bruises if you keep meddling in my business!” Morgan threatened.
“Again I say, I am not afraid of you, Mr. Tenny. Whatever you are planning, you surely would not interrupt it to do anything foolish to me. Especially since I have a friend at my radio station who knows I’ve been following you. The authorities would be on you in a heartbeat.”
“If I did do anything to you,” Morgan said confidently, “believe me, nobody would be able to prove it.”
“They could certainly prove you are in the country illegally,” she retorted. “I saw how you came in at the airport with Benny Cone. That alone is enough to get you inside the prison you and your friend Donahue studied so closely this morning.”
Turning away from her, Morgan walked across the room. She had him on that. All he could do now was figure out a way to handle her. He walked back to her.
“Look, I’m sorry about the bruises,” he said as contritely as he could. “But you came on pretty aggressively and I wasn’t prepared for you. Can we start over?”
“Without the rough stuff?” she asked, sounding more American than Afghani.
“Definitely without the rough stuff.”
“All right. I want to talk to you. But not here. Your friend Donahue has ears all over this place. I’ll pick you up out front at six and take you to a little place I know on the edge of the city. We can have supper and talk about a compromise arrangement between us. Will you agree to that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Liban Adnan nodded brusquely. “Until six, then.”
Unlocking the door, she left.
Morgan stared thoughtfully at the closed door behind her. Where in hell, he wondered, was this going to lead?
As Morgan walked out of the Mustafa Hotel, the green Volkswagen pulled up at once and he got in. Liban swung the car back into traffic and headed out the western highway toward Jalalabad. Neither of them spoke at first, until finally Morgan asked, “Have you told anyone else about me? Besides your friend at the radio station?”
“No, of course not.” She glanced at him. “I want this story for myself.”
Morgan nodded. Several minutes later, he said, “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Liban Adnan. Just call me Lee.”
She drove to a small settlement just outside the city and parked in front of a surprisingly nice-looking roadside restaurant, the name of which was written in Arabic across its facade. “This is a respectable family establishment,” she said, “so please don’t flash your guns around.”
“What guns?”
“The ones I’m sure you are carrying. Let’s not play games, Mr. Tenny.”
Inside, Lee selected the table she wanted, off to one far side, and they were seated. “Are you familiar with Afghan food?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then let me explain what you can order. Mourgh is skinless chicken marinated overnight in lemon pulp and cracked black pepper, then broiled. Aush is chopped beef, spinach, and dark makhud — sorry, yellow split peas — fried in coriander and turmeric, and served with dried mint sprinkled on it. Qabili pilau is lamb and yellow rice boiled with carrots and black seedless raisins.” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“I’ll have whatever you have,” Morgan said. She ordered the aush, with sweet red tea and pistachios to munch on while they waited.
“I’m sorry you can’t get something stronger to drink,” Lee apologized, “but alcohol is not served here. You see, in our faith, especially among the Tajiks, who are the predominant population—”
“Look,” Morgan interrupted, “can we get down to the business of why we’re here?”
“Well, yes, of course. I was just trying to be cordial.”
“Forget cordial. Specifically, what is it you want in order to leave me alone?”
Her eyes, dark like ripe plums, fixed on him. “I want the complete story of what you and Mike Donahue are planning and how you are going to go about it—”
“You’re crazy,” Morgan scoffed.
“Let me finish, please. I want the complete story — to be released after it happens. After you’ve done what you’re planning to do, after you’ve gotten away with it — if you get away with it—”
“We’ll get away with it.”
“Fine. After you get away with it and have safely escaped. When everyone is running around, pointing fingers, blaming everyone else, trying to figure out who did it, how it was done — that’s when I want to reveal everything.”
“What do you expect to get out of that?”
“A reputation. Stature as a broadcast journalist. A move from radio to television. Perhaps even a position with CNN International.”
“I see. You want to be famous.”
“I want to be successful.”
“You want to be another Christiane Amanpour.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps.” From her expression, Morgan knew he had nailed it.
Before they could converse further, an older man entered the restaurant, followed by two younger men, an older woman, and two younger women. They walked in single file, toward a family section in the rear that was configured with larger tables. But as they started to pass the table where Morgan and Lee sat, the older man abruptly stopped, as did everyone behind him. Standing ramrod straight, he glared down at Lee. He did not speak. Lee looked down at the table. Morgan saw that the five people behind the man also had their eyes downcast.
The silent confrontation lasted perhaps forty seconds, but it somehow seemed much longer. Presently, the older man moved on, his entourage following.
“What was that all about?” Morgan asked.
“That was my family,” Lee replied quietly. “My father, my two brothers, my mother, my two sisters.” She looked over at him woefully. “I have been banished from my family, you see. When I took up Western ways, Western dress, got a Western job as a radio broadcaster, my father ostracized me. I am not allowed to go around any member of my family, or to communicate with them in any way, or they with me. None of them may cast eyes upon me except my father, and then only to revile me with his look.”