“This is our bridal bed,” Lee said softly. “At the khutba last night, the message I got was to follow my heart. That is what I will do.” She touched Morgan’s cheek. “You undress while I prepare our bath.”
“Our bath?”
“Yes. Before we make love, we must cleanse ourselves together.”
At that moment, Morgan desired her with an intensity he had never imagined he could feel. Through the open door to the bathroom, he watched as she ran water into a large old sunken family tub made of blue tiles. Then she began to undress. As did he.
When they stood naked in the now steamy little bathroom, Lee opened a basket and from it sprinkled small red, yellow, and white flowers onto the surface of the bathwater.
“These are wild honisoukes,” she said. “You Westerners call them honeysuckles.”
They got into the tub together.
All thoughts of killing her left Morgan’s mind.
“Everything’s ready when you are, lad,” Donahue told Morgan the next day. “The two Iranians are straining on their leash to torch the lumber mill, God forgive us. All the men, weapons, and vehicles are in place, and we’re locked and loaded. We just need to give our two inside men one day’s notice.”
Morgan nodded. “I’ll set up our exit with Benny Cone. His Kabul contact said he’s flying in with a load of hijacked cigarettes tomorrow at noon.” Pausing a beat, he then added, “And just so you know, I’ll be taking Liban Adnan with Virgil and me when we go.”
Donahue’s ruddy Irish face darkened in a scowl. “How much does she know? And don’t lie to me, Morgan.”
“She knows everything, except the day. And the lumber-mill fire.”
“You bloody fool!”
“Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. She’s on our side. I guarantee it.”
“You guarantee it! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to! I warned you about her! We could be walking right into a trap, all of us!”
“That won’t happen, Donny. Listen to me. I confronted her about being a police informant. She admitted that at times she had cooperated with certain police officials, but only in matters involving drug smugglers, slave traders of children, things like that. Listen, think about it. If she had informed on us, if the military or the prison authorities knew about the plan, they’d already have moved in. They wouldn’t wait until we launched our attack; they’d have to take casualties and structural damage that way. They could have taken us anytime without a fight. All they’d have to do is seize our weapons stockpile and we’d be out of business.” He stared down Donahue. “I’m telling you it’s all right, Donny. You have my word.”
“I need more than your word to risk my life!” Donahue declared.
They fell silent for a long moment. The little office was still as death, as if both of them had stopped breathing.
“I didn’t have to tell you about her,” Morgan pointed out.
“I know that.”
“It should be easy enough for you to find out if there’s been a betrayal of any kind.”
Donahue nodded brusquely. “I’ll do you the courtesy of checking it out. I’ll meet with the two guards I’ve paid off. If anything’s amiss, they’ll know it. And if they try to lie to me, I’ll know it.” He came over to Morgan and got square in his face. “If you’re wrong, lad, you’ll never have a chance to be right again.”
It was as clear and cold a threat as Morgan Tenny had ever heard.
On Sunday at noon, Morgan was back out at the cargo terminal of Kotubkhel Airport. He hung around the Customs area, staying well out of sight so that Moazzah, the agent who had let him into the country, would not see him. Benny Cone’s old Constellation touched down an hour late, at one o’clock, and awhile later Morgan saw him come into the terminal and loiter around Moazzah’s desk for a few minutes while passing along several parcels of bribery goods. There was a cafe in the passenger terminal next-door, and Morgan gave one of the shoeshine boys near the baggage kiosks a handful of Afghani dollars, equal to about one buck U.S., to take Benny a note he had prepared in advance, which read: MEET ME CAFE. TENNY.
After watching to make sure the note was delivered, Morgan went over to the passenger terminal. It was a great anthill of people, long queues trying to check in at the counters of Ariana Afghan Airlines, which consisted of several old Air India airbuses repainted and being flown by Russian contract pilots. The only uncrowded counters were where the VIPs and others were checking in at UNHAS to board one of the modern daily United Nations Humanitarian Air Service jets that served Kabul. The terminal itself was filthy and stank of every imaginable odor; its air was infested with large, aggressive flies, and was smoke-filled by many passengers standing obliviously under No Smoking signs. Security guards, all of them in British Royal Air Force uniforms, stood everywhere, armed with H&K G3 automatic weapons.
Morgan went into the grubby little cafe on the upper level, purchased a bottle of unchilled Fiji water, and found a small table in the back corner, away from pedestrian traffic. Awhile later, Benny Cone sauntered in, located him, and came over to sit down.
“Well?” Benny asked. “Was I right?”
“Right about what?”
“About Kabul. Is it a shit hole or isn’t it?”
“It’s a shit hole,” Morgan agreed.
“Told you so.” The pilot tilted his head. “You ready to get out?”
“I will be, day after tomorrow, Tuesday. Can you be on the ground ready to fly at four in the afternoon?”
“I guess. Where to?”
“Anywhere you can set us down without papers. Karachi, where we can get sea transportation, would be nice; Abu Dhabi, if the Emirates are open; Bahrain or anywhere in the Gulf of Oman. I’ll leave it up to you.”
“Okay. You said us. Who’s us?”
“Me, my brother Virgil, a woman, maybe Donahue, if I can talk him into it.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“An Afghani broadcast journalist. She’s clean but doesn’t have a passport.”
“Who the hell does these days?” Benny grunted. “Baggage?”
“Carry-ons, two or three personal weapons per man.”
“What can you pay?”
“What do you want?”
“What I want is a hundred thousand per person, but what I’ll take is five per. Twenty thousand.”
“Deal. Payment in the air?”
“Deal.” Benny bobbed his chin at the bottle of water Morgan was drinking. “You shouldn’t be drinking that shit.”
“Why? It’s Fiji water.”
“It’s a Fiji water bottle, probably been refilled a dozen times from the tap.” He took a pewter flask from his inside pocket and passed it over. “Here, gargle and rinse your mouth out with this.”
Morgan took a swig, rinsed, gargled, nearly choked, and spat it on the floor behind his chair. “Jesus!” he said. “What the hell is it, cyanide?”
“You’re close. It’s Kazakhstan bootleg vodka. Tastes like hell, but it kills bacteria. I never leave home without it.” Benny rose. “I have to get back or Moazzah will piss his pants. He’s edgy today.” He took back his flask and held out a hand. “See you Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” Morgan said.
Back in town, late in the afternoon, Morgan looked for Donahue at the Dingo Club.
“He ain’t here, mate,” one of the Irishman’s cronies told him.
“Know where I can find him?”
“I do. But he don’t like to be bothered on Sunday afternoons.”
“It’s important. He’ll want to see me.”
The crony studied Morgan for a moment, then said, “You’ll find him at the Italian Embassy, out on Great Massoud Road.”