The Maverick Experiment (11 page)

Wednesday, January 27
Kabul, Afghanistan
Kampanai Area
1835 Hrs

Omar arrived right on time at the guesthouse, which belonged to a strong Taliban supporter and associate of Malawi Rafiq named Sayed Ahmed Shah. Ahmed Shah was not directly involved in conducting attacks or even providing monetary support but had offered a long time before to house any fighters coming through the area. This was not uncommon and made it much more difficult for the infidels to locate Taliban fighters, even when the military or intelligence services knew the fighters were in town.

Omar was the first of many who would arrive that night.

“
Salaam alaikum.
” Ahmed Shah greeted Omar at the gate to his residence and gave him a hug and a handshake.

“
Wa alaikum salaam
,” replied Omar. “Thank you for having me. Allah is grateful for your service.”

“And yours as well. How many will be coming?”

“I am not sure exactly, but several. We will meet the rest at another home in Pol-e-Charkhi village tomorrow.”

“Whoever comes has a home here.”

“
Tashakur.
”

“You are welcome.”

Wednesday, January 27
Kabul, Afghanistan
King's Tomb
1859 Hrs

Shafi peered between Derek and Randy from the backseat of his Corolla. It was dark, and the wind was blowing just enough to whip up some of the dirt and dust in the large open courtyard by the king's tomb.

“I don't see him, sir.”

Derek remained calm as they sat in their car parked along the tree-lined fence that led up the hill toward the tomb. “He will be here, I am sure. He knows there is money involved. Besides, we are a minute early, and when was the last time an Afghan was on time to a meeting?”

Derek had been to hundreds of source meetings in the country, and none of them had ever gone just as planned. There was always a hiccup of some sort; it was just a matter of what and how big.

Randy interjected, “Who is that over there? There's a dude wandering over near the cliff.”

The tomb was up on a hill with steep cliffs that overlooked several parts of Kabul near the famous Olympic Stadium. Unfortunately, the stadium had never hosted an Olympic event but was known as a location where the Taliban, during their reign, would stone women to death for entertainment at the halftime of soccer games.

“Pull closer, sir,” said Shafi from the backseat.

Derek accelerated slowly toward the cliff and the unidentified man.

“That's him, sir.”

“OK. See? Right on time. Sorta.”

Derek sped up more, creating more of a dust cloud, and pulled alongside the man, who jumped in as the car rolled by.

Randy reached back first to shake Latif's hand. “Hello, I am Randy.”

Shafi translated and introduced the two. Working with a translator was something any intelligence officer or operator had to grow accustomed to in Afghanistan. Very few Americans spoke Dari or Pashto and thus always needed some sort of translation support. The key was to be precise in your words and ensure your translator understood not only exactly what words you were saying, but also the tone and attitude behind them. Shafi was good at all of the above.

“Colonel Latif, it is so good to see you. How have you been?” asked Derek.

“I am good. How was your time in America? It has been a long time since I have seen you.”

“I know, I know. I am sorry. My boss has kept me busy and has not let me travel as much. But it was good to see my family and get some rest, and even better to be back here with you. Thanks for taking some time to meet with me.”

“No problem,” struggled Latif in English as he smiled.

“Ahh. Very good. You are learning well, Colonel.”

The colonel smiled and waited for Derek to speak again. Meanwhile, Derek continued driving down the hill and past the Afghan Air Museum, which was essentially a graveyard for old, downed aircraft of all sorts.

“Well, Colonel, the reason Mr. Randy and I needed to see you is I need some information on a new detainee that you may be aware of. His name is Habib Rahman. He was just arrested by NDS the other day and transferred to your facility.”

The colonel nodded his head and smiled before Derek even finished his sentence.

“Do you know this man? Rahman?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel. “He just got to us, but he is not in my cell block.”

“Which block is he in, sir?”

“Hey, watch out!” said Randy. Derek looked up to see a pedestrian in the middle of the road. He swerved around him and kept driving as if nothing had happened. Folks in Kabul often walked across the road without looking and paid so little attention to oncoming traffic that one might think they actually wanted to get hit. Maybe they did. To complicate things further, a three-lane road often became four or five lanes, so when a driver wasn't dodging pedestrians or a donkey cart, he was trying not to run into another car that was halfway between his lane and the next.

“Drug and Poppy Block,” responded the colonel. “He was in Cell Block Zoon, but they moved him this afternoon to Drug and Poppy.”

Although the name would lead one to believe the Drug and Poppy Block was for drug lords and narcotics traffickers only, it was not always the case. Those types did stay there, but the prison often put others there when they wanted to separate them from other portions of the population. It was their form of isolation.

“Why did they move him?”

“I don't know.”

“Who is in charge of that block now? It has been some time since I was here last.”

“His name is Colonel Rohollah.”

“Is he friendly? Or is he a problem?”

“He is friendly, but corrupt.”

Latif missed the point of the question, but answered it nonetheless. The men laughed.

“Well, will he allow me to come in his cell block and get a tour if you talk to him?”

Latif hesitantly shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. That block sometimes is more strict with their rules and will only let people in with the general's consent and approval.”

“What if we pay him?”

“Maybe.”

“Let's call him. Here is some money for your trouble.”

Derek handed Latif fifty thousand Afghanis, equivalent to one thousand US dollars: quite a gift, especially considering nothing had been accomplished yet. The colonel smiled when he saw the local currency; US dollars could get an
informant or cooperator killed—and often, his family, too. Working with Americans paid well, but the consequences could be steep and sudden.

“Once we get out there and accomplish this, I will give you even more,” Derek said. “I don't even need to see Rahman, but my office wants me to verify that he is there, so this should be easy. Don't tell Rohollah that, though, especially if he is dirty. Tell him the Americans are considering adding onto the cell block but need to do a survey first. Inform him we can't tell anyone, though, since the British built the block.”

“OK. Should I call him now?”

“Yes. Do you ever talk outside of work?”

“Sometimes.”

“OK. Tell him you want to come see him.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“OK.”

Latif dialed Rohollah and chatted briefly with him. After a short explanation as to why it couldn't wait until morning, which Latif fabricated, Rohollah agreed to meet Latif.

“He says OK, but come now.”

“Good. Where does he live?”

“He lives near BelaKhesar.”

Derek knew the area. In fact, they were only about five minutes at the most from BelaKhesar, an area known for its old fort, which looked down upon the village from a hill.

Wednesday, January 27
Kabul, Afghanistan
Pol-e-Charkhi Village
1924 Hrs

Khaled and Fahim put their final touches on the suicide vehicle–borne improvised explosive devices. The Taliban routinely used Toyota Corollas, Toyota Surfs, and TownAces as VBIEDs, but Rafiq had passed enough funds this time to acquire two Toyota Land Cruisers with tinted windows, just like those driven by the Americans and important Afghan figures.

“It is finished,” stated Fahim.

“Do you think Rafiq will be pleased with us?”

Fahim smiled. “I know he will be. Allah will smile upon us, as well.”

Khaled smiled back as they walked toward the compound's guesthouse to relax. “When does the visitor come?”

“He will come here tomorrow.”

Wednesday, January 27
Kabul, Afghanistan
BelaKhesar Village
1933 Hrs

Derek and the men passed the old fort and headed into the village. The villages in BelaKhesar surrounded a large swamp,
which was rather uncharacteristic for Kabul. The homes were built, generally speaking, for lower-class individuals. There were no homes with large amounts of real estate in the village, just several mud-and-brick structures.

“Just tell me where and when to turn, bud,” Derek said to Shafi. “I don't know which house it is.”

The vast swamp in BelaKhesar created a large black abyss, and the fog rolling off the water made it very difficult for anyone to navigate the village at night.

“His house is just ahead on the left, past the fruit stand,” translated Shafi after listening to Colonel Latif's directions.

“OK, listen,” Derek said to Shafi, “I want you and Latif to approach the door first and let Rohollah know we are here, as well. If you sense anything wrong, you have your weapon. Protect Latif and get back to the car. We will be right here.”

“OK.”

Derek pulled up in front of the home, and Shafi and Latif exited the vehicle and walked to Rohollah's door.

“So you think this is going to work?” asked Randy with a slight chuckle.

“I have no idea, man. I think it can. I sure hope it does.”

“You were right about Shafi. He is pretty spot-on.”

“I know, right. Yeah, I would adopt the guy if I could. I really would.”

Derek knew he was never supposed to grow emotionally attached to a liaison partner or asset, but he had. Shafi had saved his ass enough times that the two were like brothers.

A minute later, Shafi returned and waved his hand for the men to come in. Derek turned off the engine, laid his rifle on the seat, covered it with a local scarf he had in the car, and exited
the vehicle. The men would not want to come in with long rifles because that was not exactly an instant rapport builder. Instead, they would carry concealed pistols, hoping their contact would be friendly and the meeting would go smoothly.