Ted Bell - Warlord

"Good, excellent. Without a problem I hope?"

"The security guards at the airport storage facility were put in place by my ISI friends years ago. All of the guards' families are held at one of my bases in the mountains, under constant threat of death. No one will ever know how we are removing the weapons."

"We are so close now, brother, so very close," Smith said.

"How old is the boy now, by the way?" Al-Rashad asked, sipping from his glass.

"In his twenties."

"Old enough to fight, old enough to die."

"Yes. Old enough."

"I know very well why we, the glorious forces under my command, would glory in this particular invader's death. What I still cannot understand is why you, of all the people on this planet, would want to kill him. There is a good English word for it. What is it? Like a souk, sounds like, perhaps?"

"Bizarre?"

"Ah, yes. Bizarre."

"As I said, I have my private reasons. Deeply personal reasons. To me, they are not the least bit bizarre. It is my life's work. Leave it at that."

"Your precious reasons. All very mysterious. And always your gold to pay for them. It is, I assume, already in my vault at the bank in Basel?"

"Of course. It was in Switzerland a week ago. I'm surprised you received no confirmation."

"I have been out under the stars these last weeks. There are no confirmations there, only the almighty presence of Allah."

"I confirm that one million British pounds in gold bullion now sits quietly in your vault at La Roche and Co. in Basel."

"Your gold, your gold. Old friend, I must tell you something about gold. It is not so effective an inducement now, you know. Over the years, you and all the others-the Americans, Russians, the Chinese-all of you have made me rich beyond imagining. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps in hindsight, you should have kept the tiger hungry."

"Our business tonight is not about gold, brother."

"No. Of course not. Tonight is about…how do you put it in English…your vendetta."

"Are we not fortunate that, on so many occasions over the years, my personal reasons and yours have been in such perfect alignment?"

They both laughed deeply, remembering that they had long shared a certain sense of irony, a thread of humor that bound them, a connective tissue not common between their two cultures. It was one reason Smith was still alive after all these years. The all-powerful Sheik al-Rashad thought he was funny.

"Tell me more. Where is the boy now?"

"Afghanistan. Based in a U.K. forward operating base in Helmand. Serving as a spotter with the Blues and Royals regiment."

"And how do you know this?"

"It is my business to know everything."

"Impossible. My men, both my military and my intelligence operations, would have known of his arrival in the war zone."

"A very closely guarded secret, to be sure. All prearranged with the U.K. print and broadcast media who have entered into an understanding not to provide coverage. But he is here, serving on the front lines, that I assure you."

"Not Iraq? That's what the world was told by the Western media."

"No. At the last minute Iraq was deemed too dangerous. The British Army decided against it. But he was determined to fight. So. He has secretly been deployed to Afghanistan on condition that his whereabouts remain unknown."

"But you know," Al-Rashad said, smiling.

"I do. Known to be in Iraq, he would obviously have become a Taliban target. As the boy himself said, 'I would never want to put someone else's life in danger when they find themselves sitting in a foxhole next to the Bullet Magnet.'"

"The Bullet Magnet?" Sheik al-Rashad laughed. "Delicious! And this delusional Bullet Magnet thinks he is anonymous in Afghanistan?"

"No one knows the Magnet is here. Except, of course, for me. And now, you. With your help, I shall kill him. To maximum political effect, I can assure you."

"You are the strangest of men, my dear Mr. Smith. You know that, do you not?"

"I am not only stranger than you do conceive, brother, I am stranger than you can conceive."

"Tell me what you need, my friend," the Sheik said, "and it is yours."

"Primarily, I will need the sniper Khalid. Where is he now?"

"At my main training base in the Hindu Kush mountains."

"You once told me Khalid was the best Taliban sniper in existence."

"None deadlier, believe me."

"And he has the new weapon I sent months ago?"

"He has not let it out of his sight."

From Kandahar, Smith had arranged for the infamous sniper Khalid Hassan to be sent the very latest British sniper rifle, the L115A3, known by the British as simply the "long range rifle." Now in service with all U.K. combat units in Afghanistan, it was capable of killing with pinpoint accuracy at unheard-of ranges up to one mile. The new telescopic sight had twice the magnifying power of the older model. It could even cut through the heat haze off the desert floor.

"I am glad he received it."

"Received it? I think it receives him! I'm beginning to think he loves that damn gun. The two are never separated, keeps it in his bed when he sleeps. Between you and me, I suspect he fires it all day and fucks it all night."

Smith laughed. "He is having success with it, then?"

"Oh, yes. What a weapon! I tell you, it is devastating to enemy morale when a number of their fighters are suddenly shot in almost the same instant, and they cannot even see where the firing is coming from. They tend to withdraw most rapidly behind their lines. We will need more of these guns for the coming time, many more."

"I shall see that you get them."

"And what exactly will you require from me?"

"I will need provisions delivered to me at your camp in the south of Afghanistan, in Helmand Province near the town of Sangin. Food, water, weapons, and ammunition for a week. Horses and mules. A Furaya satellite phone and an automobile battery in my saddlebag to power it. My target has been under surveillance. He is on patrol most every day. He operates out of a small British forward operating base on the outskirts of Sangin. If all goes well, I anticipate a five-to seven-day mission at most. Weather will be a factor. High winds will delay us. But I am optimistic we shall succeed."

"Inshallah."

"Inshallah."

"Your request is granted. I will speak with General Machmud. Everything will be in readiness when you arrive at my small base camp. I look forward to your triumphant success, my friend and brother in arms. And the death of this…this infidel princeling…this Bullet Magnet, as he calls himself. Let Khalid Hassan's message of lead find the dead center of his heart."

UNDER A TATTERED TENT PITCHED beneath a vast black dome pricked with sharp, ice-white stars, they ate. The two men sat directly opposite each other on the stained Bokhara rug. They were drinking steaming potions of cardamom tea spiked with vodka and eating their meal of boiled mutton, raisins, onions, carrots, and rice. The sniper, his rifle close beside him on the Bokhara, ate in stolid silence.

This was fine with Smith. His man was a shooter, not a talker, and it bode well for the approaching mission.

Dressed in his well-worn Afghan mufti, an anonymous tunic over shapeless cotton trousers and the traditional pako headcover, Smith felt strangely at home inside the tent, the horses and mules tied outside. But there was a strong strain of the nomad in his blood, and he gladly went anywhere in the world his life might lead.

Beyond the tent, the surrounding landscape resembled the far side of the moon. U.S. Air Force B-52 long-range bombers and AC-130 Spectre gunships had been pounding these limestone mountains for days, raining death from above on entrenched Taliban fighters, their military bunkers and strongholds. Not the safest neighborhood perhaps, but fields of battle seldom were. Field was such an odd, incongruous word in the context of war, Smith thought, suggesting vast acres of green clover or bright red poppies, rather than rivers of blood.