Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“That’s not an option. You of all people should know that.”

“He isn’t ready.”

Connor heard something in her voice. Something that he’d never heard before. “I’m sure you did a fine job, Danni.”

“He needs backup. You can’t just send him in there alone. He’ll never get out.”

Connor looked at her. The job had never sat so heavily upon him. Suddenly he felt very old and very tired. He sighed. “I never expected him to.”

The sale took place in a one-room shack in a settlement one kilometer from the Tajikistan border. Sultan Haq’s annual production of morphine paste would finance the final piece of the transaction. Outside the shack, rolling hills the color of red alkali dust stretched to the horizon. A postcard of desolation.

Inside, the atmosphere was formal but without tension. The parties had done business with one another for too many years to count. If they still did not trust each other, they had long ago settled on a grudging respect. The arrangement was far too profitable for either side to risk anything but the utmost professionalism. To make sure, each had brought a private militia of fifty men armed to the teeth.

Sultan Haq’s counterparty was a man named Boris, chief of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, an organization as intent on ridding its country of despotic rule as Haq and the Taliban were of their own. The two men sat facing each other across a low round table with an ornately inlaid brass serving tray, sharing tea and sweet pastry. Boris had dressed as slovenly as usual, with a sweat-stained T-shirt and a leather jacket concealing his hog’s belly. Haq wore his best robes and had smeared extra kohl beneath his eyes for the occasion. He kept the Kentucky hunting rifle slung over his back as a reminder to all that, unlike Boris, he was a warrior first and foremost and a businessman only second.

“I can offer six thousand dollars a kilo,” said Boris. “It is the best I can do, my friend. The market is saturated. Your country is producing twice the product of last year. It is a question of supply and demand.”

Haq sat without moving, a fierce sphinx clad in black. Six thousand dollars represented exactly 60 percent of what he had earned the year before. Boris’s offer was low, but he could not in good conscience consider it insulting. Production of raw opium had skyrocketed in the past year. Despite the American invasion, total opium production in Afghanistan equaled 6,100 tons, an amount so mammoth that it exceeded global consumption by 30 percent. Countering this, Haq knew that Boris had a growing market on his hands and needed every last ounce of Haq’s morphine paste if he were to satisfy demand. It was Boris’s practice to transport the morphine paste to his own laboratories and refine it into heroin no. 4, after which his organization would smuggle the product into Russia, where drug use was expanding at an astronomical pace.

“Nine thousand,” said Haq, after much deliberation.

Boris scowled and ran a hand with bitten nails over his unshaven jowls. “Seven.”

“Eight,” said Haq, and thrust out his hand.

Boris grabbed it immediately. “Eight.”

The deal was struck.

Boris snapped his fingers and a younger man entered, holding a BlackBerry. Instructions were given to transfer $32 million to Haq’s account at a family-controlled bank in Kabul. Ten minutes later all formalities were concluded.

Haq stepped outside and placed a call. “Hello, brother.”

“And?” said the deep, familiar voice.

Haq related the details of his business with Boris. “Was it enough?” he asked.

“After we pay off our tribesmen, we will be left with twelve million. That should more than suffice.”

“I am pleased,” said Sultan Haq. “Is everything in place?”

“The transfer will take place in two days.”

“And the rest?”

“Our friend has seen to our every need. You will leave for the target directly from Pakistan. Are you ready?”

“As ready as anyone can be to become the enemy.”

“Your language skills will allow you to blend in perfectly. They will not know a viper is among them.”

“There are many things the Americans do not know.”

“And have you chosen the final target?”

Haq looked out across the dun-colored hills of his native land. “In America, there is only one.”

The drive to Kabul took twelve hours over tortuous roads. Haq rested in a safe house overnight. In the morning he rose and made his prayers, then prepared for the journey. A folder had been left for him. He studied its contents: maps of the target, timetables, schedules, and travel documents, including a British passport bearing a photo taken ten years before, when he was still a young man.

In the courtyard, he took a sponge bath and gingerly bathed his burns. Finished, he soaked his hands in a basin of warm water, allowing his fingernails to soften. Each represented a lesson learned on his life journey, and he clipped them with care.

Helplessness, from the younger brother who had died at three of an unknown illness.

Tragedy, from his mother, who had died a year afterward giving birth to the son who would have replaced him.

Surrender, from the boy who had died with her.

Honor, from his oldest sister, raped by the Russian invaders when she was pure; knowing herself to be dirty and unworthy of marriage, she had thrown herself into the river rather than disgrace her clan.

Grace, from his wife, the mother of his six children.

Wisdom, from his father, who had shown him how to lead men.

Humility, from the Prophet, peace be unto him.

Self-respect, from his clan, the noble Haqs, who had resisted invasion for a thousand years.

And finally, hope, from his young only son, whom he loved with a heart as wide as the Afghan sky, and who he prayed would fight for another thousand years.

He did not clip the last nail, for this represented courage, and courage was a lesson he would learn only at the very end.

Afterward, he sat in a chair while a young girl cut his hair.

“Short,” he said. “But leave enough to comb.”

The girl worked quickly, and in fifteen minutes her task was complete.

He shaved his beard and mustache himself, and this took longer. He had difficulty managing a comb. He had never before established a part in his hair. Inside his room, he dressed in the clothing left for him: a dark suit with a white shirt and a necktie. The leather shoes were constricting and painful.

Finished, Haq viewed himself in a mirror. It was then that he saw what he had forgotten. Dampening a cloth, he scrubbed the kohl from beneath his eyes. He stared at the reflection in the mirror, and a Westerner stared back.

Worse, an American.

He wanted to vomit.

He placed a call to Ariana Afghan Airlines. “I’d like to make a reservation on a flight this morning,” he said.

“May I ask your destination?”

“Islamabad.”

“Will it be round-trip?”

“No,” said Sultan Haq. “One way only.”

He had two days to live.

Lord Balfour bounded through the kitchen door and crossed the stone motor court. His stride was long and purposeful. In one hand he carried a mug of chai, and in the other a black leather crop. He was dressed for leisure, in linen pants and his favorite polo shirt, from the Highgrove team (on which Wills and Harry were regular players, along with their father, Prince Charles). Such was his buoyant mood that he’d permitted his hairdresser to straighten and part his coarse hair and to trim his mustache. He had a guest arriving, and guests were rare indeed, especially Europeans. And as he walked, he airily whistled the “Colonel Bogey March.” He did not look like a man at death’s door.