Дэвид Балдаччи: King and Maxwell

He looked up at the driver and appraised him keenly, then he handed back the papers. The man’s gaze went to the back of the truck, his look a curious one. The driver’s hand closed around the small black box and he pressed the switch on the side, engaging it. The man spoke again in Pashto. The driver shook his head and said that opening the truck was not possible. It was locked and he did not have a key or the combo required.

The man pointed to his gun and said that that was his key.

The driver’s finger pressed down on the red button. If they shot him, his finger would release and this “idiot switch” feature would detonate the explosives and kill them all.

He said in Pashto, “The tribal leaders were clear. The cargo could not be revealed until its final destination. Very clear,” he added for emphasis. “If you have a problem, you need to take it up with them.”

The man considered this and slid his hand down to his holstered sidearm.

The driver tried to keep his breathing normal and his limbs from twitching, but being seconds from getting blown into oblivion did certain physiological things to the body that he could not control.

Five tense seconds passed during which it was not clear if the turban would stand down or not.

The man finally withdrew, climbed back into the truck, and said something to the driver. Moments later the truck sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust behind its rear wheels.

The driver disengaged the detonator and waited until they were nearly out of sight before putting the truck back in gear. He drove off slowly at first, and then punched the gas. His weariness was gone.

He didn’t need the music anymore. He lowered the AC because he suddenly felt rather cold. He followed his directions, keeping to the exact route. It did not pay to stray out here. He scanned the horizon for any other pickup trucks with armed men coming his way, but saw none. He hoped that word had been communicated along the route that the cargo truck was to be given safe passage.

Nearly eight hours later he arrived at his final destination. The dusk was starting to gather and the wind was picking up. The sky was streaked with clouds, and the rain looked to be a few minutes from bucketing down.

When he arrived here, he had expected one precise thing to happen.

It didn’t.

THE FIRST THING TO GO wrong was his running out of gas as he pulled through the stone building’s open overhead door. He had extra fuel tanks, but apparently someone had miscalculated.

The second thing to go wrong was the gun being shoved in his face.

This was no turban toting a subgun. It was a white man like him with a .357 pistol, its hammer already pulled back.

“Is there a problem?” the driver said.

“Not for us,” said the man, who was heavyset and jowly and looked closer to forty than thirty.

“Us?” He looked around and saw other white guys creeping out of the shadows. They were all armed, and every gun they had was pointing at him.

This many white faces here stuck out like a planet going out of its orbit.

“This is not part of the plan,” the driver said.

The other man held out a cred pack. “There’s been a change in plan.”

The driver studied the ID card and badge. It showed that the man’s name was Tim Simons and identified him as being an agent with the CIA. [3] CIA – Central Intelligence Agency. He said, “If we’re on the same side, why the gun in my face?”

“In this part of the world I’ve learned not to trust anybody. Out, now!”

The driver slung his fully loaded knapsack over his shoulder and stepped down onto the dirt floor holding two things.

One was his Glock, which was useless with so many guns centered on him.

The second item was the black box. That was entirely useful. In fact, it was the only real bargaining chip he had. He engaged the detonator and pressed down the button.

He held it up to Simons.

“Fail-safe,” he said. “Red button gets released, we all get vaporized. Truck is wired all the way around with cakes of Semtex. Enough to make this just a hole in the ground.”

“Bullshit,” countered Simons.

“Guess you weren’t entirely wired in on the op.”

“I think I was.”

“Then think again. Look under the wheel wells.”

Simons nodded at a colleague, who drew a flashlight and ducked under the truck’s right rear wheel well.

He backed out and turned. His expression said it all.

The armed men looked back at the driver. Their superior numbers had just been rendered irrelevant. He knew it, but he also knew this advantage was precarious. A game of chicken could only have, at best, one winner. But it could likely also have two losers. And he was running out of time. He could sense this in the fingers gliding to triggers, in the backward steps the men were trying to make surreptitiously. He could read their minds in every movement.

Get out of the Semtex’s explosive radius and either let him detonate and kill himself or take him out with a kill shot and hopefully save the cargo. Either way they would live, which would be their primary objective. There would be other cargo to hijack, but they could not conjure additional lives.

“Unless you can run a lot faster than Usain Bolt, you’ll never get outside the blast zone in time,” he said. He held the box higher. “And we’ll have an eternity to think about our sins.”

Simons said, “We want what’s in the truck. You give us that, you go free.”

“I’m not sure how that would work.”

Simons nervously eyed the box. “There’re two pickup trucks parked in the far corner over there. Both are fully fueled with extra cans in the back and each has a GPS. They were our rides getting here, but you take one of them. Your choice.”

The driver eyed the black truck. Next to it was a green pickup.

“And where exactly do I take it?” he asked.

“I’m assuming out of this shithole.”

“I have a job to do.”

“That job has changed.”

“Why don’t we just end this?” He started to lessen the pressure on the button.

“Wait,” said Simons. “Wait.” He held up his hand.

“I’m waiting.”

“Just take a truck and get out of here. Your cargo is not worth dying for, is it?”

“Maybe it is.”

“You’ve got a family back in the States.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. And I have to believe you want to get back to them.”

“And how do I explain losing the cargo?”

“You won’t have to, trust me,” replied Simons.

“That’s the problem, I don’t trust you.”

“Then we’re all going to die right here. It’s that simple.”

The driver eyed the pickup trucks. He didn’t believe anything he had been told. But he desperately wanted to get out of this alive, if only to make things right later.

Simons said, “Look, we’re obviously not the Taliban. Hell, I’m from Nebraska. My creds are the real deal. We’re on the same side here, okay? Why else would I be here?”

The driver finally said, “So you want me to just withdraw quietly from the field?”

“That was my offer.”

“How do you propose doing this?”

“First thing, don’t release the button,” advised Simons.

“Then don’t pull your triggers.” He edged toward the pickup trucks. The men parted to allow him passage.

“I’ll be taking the green truck,” he said abruptly. He saw Simons give a nearly imperceptible flinch, which was good. He’d made the right decision. The black truck was obviously booby-trapped.

He reached the green truck and eyed the ignition. The keys were in there. There was also a GPS mounted on the dash.