Swanson read the folder and gave it back to Atkins. “No, he’s taunting you and me, Luke. Daring us to try and find him.”
“Okay by me. Let’s go to Paris, partner.”
“He won’t be there. He killed this poor woman as a misdirection play. We pour our resources into France and he pops up somewhere else.”
Gibson stared above Atkins toward the massive stone likeness of Jefferson. “Afghanistan, then. Nicky has worked there for a long time and has contacts. If we want to get ahead of him, let’s go talk to his old special-ops buds.”
Swanson liked it. “Sounds like a plan. What about it, Marty?”
The director of intelligence stood and brushed the seat of his pants. “Nicky Marks is a vicious animal. He used this poor woman as cover and then killed her only to force our attention on him. Go shoot the bastard dead.”
The farmer Farida Mashaal led his little caravan safely into town and parked in the walled compound of Mohammed Azad, the local opium merchant. The men had tea and spoke of their families and other subjects while the brown-black cakes wrapped in plastic were unloaded under guard and the product was weighed, counted, and sorted in a warehouse. Mashaal’s nose twitched at the harsh smell of chemicals.
“You have heard, of course, about the fate of our good friend Mahfouz al-Rashidi?” asked the broker, looking appropriately solemn. “He and all four of his sons went to paradise in a huge explosion recently.” He paused.
Both men understood the significance of this: someone else would have to collect the tax for the government. With no one watching, it would be easy to shave the amount due, particularly since the Taliban was already satisfied with its tribute. The farmer proceeded cautiously.
“My crop this year was stricken by an unexpected blight,” he said, nodding his head. “That is why it is small. And bad weather. We were also caught at the edge of a battle, and that threw us behind schedule.”
“Terrible. Terrible. Such is the fate of a farmer. I am hearing the same from many other farmers. It is increasing my own costs.”
“Has a replacement been chosen yet?”
“Yes. In fact, it is a mullah whose son is a close friend of mine. We have already agreed that the tax this season should be thirty dollars per acre of land. Your four acres will be assessed only one hundred and twenty dollars.” The broker looked smug. The government’s tax this year after the unfortunate demise of the Lion of the Wakham was really $25, but he would pocket the extra five. The rest would be shared all the way up the line. In a country in which the average annual income was less than $700 a year, everybody benefited from the poppy.
The farmer had expected to pay the usual $60 per acre, so this was a financial windfall, although he knew the broker would take some of the difference. The combined total tax to both the government and the Taliban came to only $520! Praise be to Allah! “I wish the mullah and his son long life and great success,” he said.
Mohammed Azad turned as an assistant came in with the official tally, and he ran the numbers. “To business, then,” he said, handing the figures to Farida. “You did very well.”
The farmer took a deep breath. All the hard work had paid off. The broker showed forty-three kilos, which meant that at $150 per kilo the farmer would get $6,450, less the taxes and a $500 credit he had borrowed from the broker a few months ago. It was a heart-stopping moment for Farida Mashaal, who was totally unaware that the quality of his pure product would be cut many times and its value increased hundreds of times before it reached the final consumer. The pipeline was full and flowing. The farmer was happy. The broker was happy. The Taliban was happy. The government was happy. And Sergeant Jules Mason of the U.S. Army would be the happiest of all.
Jules hummed to himself as he headed for one of the dark sections of the fence line toward the dim spot known as Alice’s Restaurant, a place where the folksinger Arlo Guthrie proclaimed you could get anything that you want. Same here. Alice was always open for business. An F-16 fighter jet burst down one of the long runways, afterburners sizzling, and leaped into the sky, trailing fire. Jules ignored it. The war was out there beyond the wire, and he had seen more than his part of it. Hell, man. Third fuckin’ tour.
The base was huge. Some six square miles and thousands of people, from élite fighting soldiers like himself down to paper-shuffling bureaucrats. He had his M16 on his shoulder, the helmet, and the usual flak jacket, only without the ceramic plates. In fact, he looked like a guard himself.
All he wanted tonight was some relief after being out on a long patrol over toward the tall mountains for the past three days. Not a shot had been fired, but he knew the bad guys were out there, everywhere. The pressure was enormous, for not only did he have to get back safely to base himself; he also had to keep his squad safe. Everybody goes home, he told them. Once back at the base, it was time to reflect and rest, and deal with the terror he felt.
The first tour had been all business, and he could hack it. In fact, he kind of enjoyed being at the sharp edge of the spear. Second tour, not so much. Scared when he saw American bodies, scared when the mortar rounds came diving down, terrified when he killed his first jihadi — some kid with an AK-47 who ran straight into the squad’s fire zone. Third tour was like coming home to hell, and he was introduced to the needle by his best friend, another sergeant.
Dude, what a rush! Made everything better immediately, and he could envision getting through tomorrow. The Army didn’t approve, of course, but once Jules broke the code, he found that he was a member of a pretty damn big fraternity. Sometimes he thought everybody on the base was high. After more than a decade of war, the original luster of the mission had tarnished. Nobody wanted to be the last American soldier killed in Afghanistan. Nevertheless, they did their jobs and didn’t let the drugs impair their overall combat readiness.
He reached the fence, a spot in the wire where the searchlights that had been put up to deter rapes didn’t overlap. A figure stood on the other side, wearing those baggy pants and the funny mushroom hat. “Hey,” said Jules.
“Can I help you?” The voice sounded young and confidently experienced in the business.
“Heroin,” said Jules.
“How much? Thirty dollars?”
“Do a trade?” Jules Mason was short on cash.
“What?”
“Flak jacket. Worth more than thirty bucks. Give me fifty.”
“Not without the ceramics. I see from over here it doesn’t have ballistic plates. Thirty dollars top.”
“Deal.” Jules put down his rifle and shrugged out of the jacket and flung it over the fence. Hell, he’d stolen it anyway, so this was really a freebie.
The dealer picked up the jacket and looked it over. New. “Okay,” he said. He pulled a matchbox from a vest pocket and flipped it back to the American. It was filled with heroin.
Jules smiled when he opened it. Perfect piece of heaven. “See you later,” he said, and ambled off to find his buddy. Tonight they would do a bit of spoon-cooking, load the syringe, watch the silver needle pierce purple-green veins, and feel the warm, soothing rush. They would ride the dragon for a while and let Afghanistan go away. Tomorrow they would be up in time for reveille, once again the tough noncoms on top of their jobs, backbone of the Army. Neither man considered himself a heroin addict. Just needed a little help now and then until the countdown calendar flipped over and they could go back home.
Janna Ecklund had a bone to pick with Kyle Swanson. The Washington office manager of Excalibur Enterprises was feeling disrespected. At six feet, more with heels, and a thick mane of hair, with a stylish cut, that was almost white, the former FBI agent didn’t like being overlooked. So when her secretary announced that Swanson was finally back in his office she torqued up her considerable courage and marched in. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” she declared, taking one of the padded chairs before his desk.