WEST OF QUETTA
A stunned Alexandra stared at CSM Primo's profile as he explained the possible outcomes of the mission to save the Afghan peace emissary and his wife. "Are you saying that I may have to deliberately leave Colonel Nobriega behind, CSM?"
"Miss, our primary objective is to get Sangar out of that nest. Everything else is part of the price we may have to pay. The Colonel knows that. So you leaving the Colonel behind is one of the potential outcomes. There are four others and it's my job to make sure you're ready for any eventuality. And if you're wondering if the Colonel is aware that you may have to leave him behind, let me assure you that he is." He retrieved several wild almonds from the ground near his boots and arranged them in a pattern on the dark soil.
Several small birds twittered in a small bush as he continued. "Ever look at the shots that television likes to show of Afghanistan? They always show dun coloured sand, craggy mountains and blowing winds, very rarely do you ever see these lush valleys."
"What are the other potential outcomes, RSM?"
Primo arranged the almonds into four rows. "In the event of Shababa's capture, either you or the Colonel will have to administer the coup de grace to ensure that she isn't tortured. Notice I did not which side captured her."
"What do you mean?" a pale-faced Alexandra demanded.
"If she is in danger of being taken prisoner by NATO or Taliban forces, you will administer the shot that kills her, if you have the opportunity. Look at me!"
The rough edge in Primo's voice caused her to glare at him.
"Can you do that, Miss?"
"I don't know," Alexandra whispered.
"Then let me help you. If either side captures her, she will be raped in front of her husband. They will use foreign implements and will do whatever they can to elongate her suffering to extract information from Sangar..."
"...we wouldn't do that..."
"...did I say that a soldier would do it, miss? It won't be. It will be done dispassionately for profit and clothed in a double layer of protecting the world from terrorism." He shifted the almonds into an arrow head pattern. "Which of the names of the corporate employees of several NASDAQ listed firms would you like? They do this on a daily basis at Bagram Airbase and call it enhanced interrogation techniques. They've been doing it for the last nine years. It took until 2010 before the International Red Cross could finally get the names of the six hundred men incarcerated in there." He paused and took a deep breath. "That's against the Rules of War and all four of the Geneva Conventions that we're supposed to observe. The Afghan Security forces are even worse. That's why NATO forces are not permitted to hand over prisoners to the Americans or Afghans without follow up communications to the IRC. Not that it helps; it just salves our guilty consciences. Or do you really think that the two or three hundred men who have escaped from that cursed place make up these stories? Remember, miss, the Colonel and I were both in the original unit that captured that airbase before the Americans arrived two days later in 2001. Three months later, as we came back from Tora Bora, we could hear the screams as the spooks and contractors arrived with their rubber aprons and gloves. I will advise the Colonel of your position."
"Wait!"
"Why? There're no second chances—too many lives at stake." Primo stood up and dusted the soil from his pants. "You would also have to shoot yourself."
"I will do it," Alexandra responded quietly. "Tell me the rest and then I want to know something that's been puzzling me."
"No bargains, Miss. What do you want to know?"
"You don't know me very well, RSM. The psych profile in my personnel file isn't all of me. I know how to play that game just like you and him. You will answer all my questions about the Colonel since I have to go into that hell hole with him. Do I have a deal or not?" Alexandra stared off into the distant green valley.
"What do you want to know, Miss?"
"Call me Alexandra, for God's sake!"
BROWNS HOTEL
BOND STREET
ENGLISH TEA ROOM
"William, would you mind explaining to me your byzantine thinking?" Commander Ronan Hawthorne rumbled as the waitress delivered the tea service.
"Ronan, do you remember when we were based in Northern Ireland during the troubles?" Sir William lifted the top of his teapot to check the brew. "When we were facing our own breed of terrorism. Remember the French and the OAS? Italy? Germany? Aden? Mau Mau? Malaysia?"
"William, what are you getting at? Rattling off the various asymmetric wars of the last century merely displays your ability to recall long lost causes. What's the point?" Ronan retrieved the clotting cream and a scone from the three-tiered tray.
"I'm just ruminating about our inability to learn from our misguided mistakes and our ability to continue the carnage because of our inbred ignorance, Ronan."
A delicate nibble of the scone accompanied by a sip of his tea caused Ronan to pause before spouting out his objections. "Now hold on, William. That's a hell of a broad brush you're painting the world with. What do you expect when people feel threatened? They react to the source of the threat."
"And that's precisely what I mean, Ronan. That is a total falsehood. If that were the case, we would have declared war on the United States for funding the IRA in the seventies and eighties. They didn't do a damned thing to stop the flow of funds from New York and Boston into IRA coffers despite our appeals for twenty years. Of course any declaration of war by us would have been ludicrous, but that double standard is why we can't gain any coordinated actions from an international community. We're all so damned hypocritical. Pass me the lemon curd, please."
"William, what are you getting at? What does this have to do with the steam room and Mark Jacobsen?"
The elderly barrister consulted his pocket watch before responding. "Shouldn't you be checking on how your teams are doing ..."
"William, answer me."
A wan smile creased Sir William's face. "When I left the Ministry of Defense, I knew that the missions we were engaged in would fail unless we took extraordinary measures, Ronan. When young Nobriega sent me his missive from Quetta, I place the final pieces in place to end this fiasco. We shall for a brief period eliminate the pressure on the delicate balance of Middle East peace."
"William, what did you do..."
"...let's just relax and enjoy one of the few things we British have contributed to humanity." He gestured at the tea service. "All will be known to you in two days, Ronan."
WEST OF QUETTA
"Ask away." Primo resumed his seat.
"What was the message I sent to Sir William from Quetta for the Colonel?"
"That's a 'need to know' piece of information, Alexandra, and you don't need to know, but I will tell you that it triggered the endgame. In thirty six-hours, this entire mission ends."
Alexandra stared as the RSM continued to re arrange the almonds. "Then perhaps a poor anti-Terrorist Police Inspector can speculate? Just jump in and object if I get any of this wrong." She stood up and leaded against one of the gnarled trees. "Somewhere in 2006 or sooner, you, Sir William and our Colonel over there decided that a political solution was the only solution.
You started recruiting your agents around that time beginning with Miriam, our murder victim in London. How am I doing so far?"
A smile was her only response.
"Then you got ambitious and started a program in Kandahar, Helmand and possibly northern Pakistan. I don't think this is the only program you're running. Along the way, Sir William recruited his extraction teams, with King Abdullah's permission, from retired Jordanian Pathfinders – men who you and the boy wonder over there had trained. Wondering how I guessed that? I was wondering why so many camel thieves happened to be loitering in the south of Jordan. And their weapons? Those miraculously appeared as extra kit in the Parachute Regiment's armory. What a miracle in the Holy land,' she added sarcastically. "How am I doing, Primo?"
The RSM smiled and gestured for her to continue. "I don't know of any operations in Helmand or Western Pakistan, Alexandra."
The Inspector retreated from his vicinity feigning fear. "Keep that up and the big guy up there is going to send a lightning bolt down to strike you for lying. Shall I continue?"
"Please."
"We would have started in Helmand and the truce in Musa Qala in 2006 would have been our first experiment. That's when the American Generals got all upset and huffy, but we persevered and started planting agents in Kandahar so we could ensure our supply lines. As we both know the day those two roads are closed, NATO including the Americans, couldn't supply their troops after forty-five days. The complete transport air fleet of all nations would be required to meet the need of 200,000 men, if we include the contractors and spooks. So you had to quietly ensure that from Quetta to here was secure."
"That's very good strategic thinking, Miss. I wish our political masters had learnt that lesson in 2001 and 2002." Primo grinned and cracked one of the almonds. He offered the kernel to Alexandra. "But you realize there is a flaw in your thinking."
Alexandra smiled and pulled her jacket tighter. "I didn't finish, RSM. You're only extracting Sangar temporarily and under a pretext." She grinned. "It's actually very clever. Get Sangar to Quetta. Have the drone base attacked by Pakistani soldiers dressed as irregulars and Sangar will emerge as a leader who is not only willing to deal with the infidel, but who is ready to strike if the enemy doesn't meet his demands. He'll be a bloody hero among the Pashtun councils."
"Go on."
"Quetta has a very large population of Hazaras and that's where his wife comes into play. She's the daughter of a tribal leader, isn't she? Quetta is the lynchpin to this region and you had to secure it with a marriage alliance, didn't you?"
Primo chuckled. "So you think we someone convinced a beautiful young lady to marry a hairy, bearded, bad-smelling Pashtun who was working for us in the name of peace? Do you have that low an opinion of Muslims or just those in this region?" He grinned. "No romance, no hanky panky? She has her Masters from the Sorbonne, Miss. It's a true marriage."
"I did not imply that! I have lots of Muslim friends!"
"Get to the point, Miss. Are you in or out?"
"I have one more series of questions and it concerns Prince Galahad over there." She nodded in Christopher's direction.
"If I can answer, I will." Primo continued his assault on the wild almonds. He tossed several fragments into the bushes where the twittering birds resided.
"Why does he hide his feelings? To me, that is an indication of a kettle waiting to burst under all that psychological pressure."
"Miss, if you will pardon an older man for his bluntness, you're full of it. You want to know why you're attracted to him and why he doesn't respond." He waited patiently for her response while arching his eyebrows. "Correct?"
"Maybe." Alexandra swiveled to study the camel thieves and Christopher as a rapid exchange in Arabic and laughter ensued.
"No easy answer, Alexandra. You've touched something in him. I can tell you that. However, he has no clue what to do next. He's afraid because the last time he exposed his emotions, he had them twisted and torn and spat back into his face." He smiled at her facial expression. "You're a keeper, lass. He senses that, but the poor lad is overwhelmed by you and his previously submerged emotions. So he's going to retreat and study you. He's been burnt too badly. And that's what he does when he's unsure. So if you want to make a go of it, you'll have to make the first move, but please wait until the mission is finished."
"But it was almost nineteen years ago since he had that fling with the Sloan Ranger."
"When some men like the Colonel love, they love deeply. I know," he responded quietly.
Alexandra gently touched his arm. "I got the feeling that you were very devoted to your wife, CSM."
"I was more than devoted, Miss. I'd eat the ground she walked on if she asked it of me and she presented me with two wee bairns who are her spitting image. Mind you, they're all grown up now." A wistful smile emerged on his craggy face. "The colonel's also bound by his duty and responsibilities to his people. Sometimes that creates a conflict for him."
"His people? What are you talking about RSM? He's British ..."
"... and South American. He is the descendant of an ancient warrior race, the Chachapoya. He inherits his grandfather's role as a clan leader in the next three years which is one of the reasons he's retiring."
Alexandra stared at Christopher's profile across the clearing. "He doesn't look like an indigenous South American Indian," she whispered.
Primo shook his head. "The Chachapoyas are one of those mysterious races that seemed to populate six or seven areas of the world in Ancient times. He once showed me the documentation from Spanish histories that described his people as more Caucasian than the Spanish Conquistadores with more aquiline features. They do not resemble any tribes in South America and are still a mystery despite all the DNA analysis. They're known as Warriors of the Clouds and are all on average taller than six feet. Of course, they've married outsiders like his Mom, but I think they still maintain their customs and beliefs." Primo chuckled at the astonished look on her face. "I know most people believe that such things are not possible, but if you ever meet true Aryans, you'll realize that it's not what the Nazis, White Supremacists and the Skinheads blither about. What else would you like to know, Miss?"
"One final question. How close was I in my estimations of the situation?"
"Close, but not complete. It's a little more elaborate than you think."
Alexandra stood up and gestured to the cluster of men at the other end of the clearing. "It seems like we're ready to move out. I'll get my section of the mission done, CSM."
"I know you will, Miss. Good luck." He stopped and turned. "And be gentle on my Colonel when you share that sleeping bag. Don't tease him too much."
A widening grin was his only response.