Countdown to Midnight

Thirteen

The city of Zaranj lay right on Afghanistan’s border with Iran. Built mostly of traditional mud-brick buildings, it was home to around fifty thousand inhabitants, with another hundred thousand or so in outlying towns and villages. Most of them were members of the minority Baloch ethnic group — a people split between Pakistan, Iran, and Afghanistan. The city, whose roots went back more than two thousand years, was also the capital of the thinly populated Nimroz Province.

Largely ignored by whatever passed for a central government in Afghanistan at any given time, the citizens of Zaranj and its surroundings traditionally relied on a mix of both contraband and legal trade goods for any modest prosperity they enjoyed. Water in this parched land was particularly scarce, so agriculture rarely supplied more than a fraction of the local population’s needs. Instead, for centuries the region had survived thanks to its location on one of the major land trade routes between the Middle East and Asia. In recent decades that meant a steady flow of heroin, illicit weapons, and black market gasoline.

Zaranj’s airport had one runway, a rough 7,400-foot-long gravel strip. Apart from occasional civilian passenger flights from Herat and Kandahar, it saw rare visits by military aircraft belonging either to the distant Kabul government or to the various regional warlords. Even more rarely, the poorly maintained runway was used by commercial charters.

Now one of those charter aircraft — a large four-engine Il-76 cargo jet in the colors of a Ukraine-based air freight company — was parked just off the runway. Two large, open-sided canvas tents had been erected close to its open rear ramp. A number of men in coveralls could be seen working in each tent to assemble two smaller aircraft whose crated components had been flown in aboard the larger Russian-built plane.

The smaller of the two flying machines was a kit-built two-seater BushCat propeller-driven aircraft conceived by SkyReach, a South African company. Constructed around a tubular aluminum frame and covered with a Dacron-Trilam composite fabric in desert camouflage colors, the high-wing, light sport plane weighed less than fourteen hundred pounds when fully loaded. Originally designed for service in Africa’s vast bush country, the BushCat could take off and land on almost any grass or dirt field — and in incredibly short distances, usually around the length of an American football field. The second aircraft was a pusher type, with its propeller mounted in the tail. It was a General Atomics MQ-1 Predator UAV, unmanned aerial vehicle — complete with a bulbous, windowless domed nose, long, thin fuselage, wide, narrow wings, and three down-angled tail fins. Among other less visible modifications, its landing gear and aft engine section had been upgraded to allow it to operate safely on Zaranj’s rough-surfaced runway.

Several men in camouflaged fatigues, baseball caps, and body armor were posted as guards around the tents and the parked Il-76 cargo plane. They were armed with military-grade HK417 7.62mm carbines.

Not far away, a wire fence surrounded several white, flat-roofed buildings that contained offices and other facilities for the airport’s small staff and local government workers. Inside one of those offices, Nick Flynn sat comfortably across a low table from the representative of the ruling local warlord who’d come to meet him.

Squarely built, hawk-nosed, and about the same height as Flynn, Masoud Bokharai was clean-shaven, with a thick shock of curly, dark hair. At the moment, he wore traditional Afghan men’s clothing, a knee-length, open-collared tunic with long sleeves, baggy trousers, and an open waistcoat. Flynn had a sneaking suspicion the other man would be just as comfortable in an expensive Western-style business suit and silk tie.

On official tables of organization, Bokharai was listed as the deputy assistant provincial administrator for development and trade. But the Quartet Directorate intelligence brief on this part of Afghanistan indicated that he wielded a great deal more power and influence than his relatively low rank would suggest. Foreigners interested in doing business in Zaranj and the rest of Nimroz were well-advised to keep on his good side — especially if their enterprises weren’t likely to withstand careful legal scrutiny.

Bokharai finished leafing through the full-color brochure Flynn had brought to their meeting. He looked up with a narrow smile. “A most intriguing concept, Señor Duarte. I confess the idea of Nimroz Province as a potential market for village-centered solar power installations had never occurred to me.” His English was excellent and the irony in his tone was palpable.

Probably because you’re not an idiot, Flynn thought coolly, pretending to wait while the interpreter he’d brought from Kabul translated the Afghan official’s comments into Spanish. The passport he was currently using identified him as Simón Bolivar Duarte, a citizen of the socialist republic of Venezuela. Before flying into Afghanistan, Flynn had darkened his hair even more and let his beard grow out to a rough stubble. Brown-tinted contact lenses concealed his light blue eyes. His Spanish was flawless, and that, plus the Tejano ancestors on his mother’s side of the family, allowed him to pose convincingly as a native of South America.

“It is certainly a revolutionary idea, Administrator,” he acknowledged in Spanish when the interpreter finished. “But my principals see these smaller, locally based power facilities as a natural fit for your region.” He shrugged his shoulders apologetically, as though regretting the need to bring up an unpleasant subject. “That is especially true considering the unfortunate… problems, let us say… that large-scale infrastructure projects tend to encounter here.”

Flynn watched the other man’s eyes closely and saw the quickly hidden irritation he’d been expecting. Bokharai knew only too well that the Taliban, who controlled most of the surrounding countryside, routinely sabotaged power transmission lines, roads, medical clinics, schools, bridges, and other major public works. Even before the recent effective collapse of central authority in Afghanistan, tens of millions of dollars’ worth of international aid to this isolated corner of the country had been reduced to heaps of blackened rubble.

The other man spread his hands. “A perceptive analysis,” he admitted. His expression, if anything, become even blander. “I am somewhat curious about something else, however, Señor.”

“Indeed?”

“Those light aircraft your men are putting together outside,” Bokharai said carefully. “What role are they intended to play in this solar power marketing scheme of yours?”

Flynn heard the edged emphasis in the other man’s words. He concealed a grin. Now they were getting down to the core of what the Afghan official was really interested in. He clearly didn’t believe a word of all the bullshit he’d just read and heard about small-scale solar facilities. “We plan to use that little two-seater passenger plane, the SkyReach BushCat, for maintaining customer contact in remote rural areas,” he explained mildly. “Since it can land and take off again from almost anywhere, we’ll be able to ferry company sales representatives and service technicians out to even the most isolated villages.”

“I see.” Bokharai studied his fingertips for a moment before looking back up with a slightly harder expression. “And the Predator drone you are also assembling? What real commercial purpose can that possibly serve?” He met Flynn’s eyes. “We Afghans have seen much of those unmanned aerial vehicles over the years — and the air-to-ground Hellfire missiles they carried.”

Flynn nodded. The other man’s scarcely hidden suspicions were reasonable. Until they were retired from combat service in 2018, both the U.S. Air Force and the CIA had employed General Atomics MQ-1 Predator drones for reconnaissance and attack missions in Afghanistan and in many other conflict zones around the world. He leaned forward. “Our drone has absolutely no military capability,” he assured Bokharai earnestly. “My principals discreetly acquired it from the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol — as they were phasing out their Predator surveillance fleet. Before we took possession, all equipment of warlike utility was removed.”

“Which still doesn’t explain how you plan to use this vehicle,” the Afghan said bluntly.

Flynn smiled genially. “We see two significant uses. First, the Predator makes it possible for us to conduct unmanned aerial surveys of likely sites for our small solar plants, avoiding the risk of losing lives should your local bandits react aggressively to our plans. And second, our technicians have equipped this particular Predator to carry cargo. So we’ll be able to deliver up to a hundred kilos of machinery and spare parts to job sites in remote villages as needed… at a considerable savings in man-hours and transportation and labor costs.”

“Of course,” Bokharai said dryly. “I can see the advantages.”

Oh, I just bet you do, Flynn thought with the same measure of cynical amusement he could hear in the other man’s voice. In reality, he could tell that the Afghan official strongly suspected “Duarte” and his associates of being smugglers — of drugs or black market weapons or both. In which case, their real plans would involve using the BushCat light plane for covert meetings with suppliers and prospective buyers well away from prying official eyes. As for the Predator drone, its role as a trafficking tool was even more obvious. Being able to covertly transport a couple of hundred pounds of heroin or guns and explosives over long distances, avoiding every government checkpoint on the way, was a criminal’s dream.

This guy Bokharai knows that I’m lying, Flynn thought, fighting down a grin. And I know that he knows I’m lying. And he knows that I know that he knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t know exactly what I’m lying about. Which was good enough.

More relaxed now, the Afghan official folded his hands over his stomach. “You present a persuasive case, Señor Duarte,” he allowed. “I have only one more concern. Do you intend to confine your firm’s efforts solely to Nimroz Province? Or are there plans to expand your reach over time, perhaps to international markets?”

“Naturally, we hope to grow our business,” Flynn said. He smiled. “My principals are ambitious men.”

Bokharai’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And do their ambitious plans include operations in Iran?” he asked pointedly.

“Iran? Not at all,” Flynn said with equal bluntness. “We might find the business climate there… too challenging.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Profits are useless to dead men.”

“So they are,” Bokharai agreed. Tehran’s revolutionary regime trafficked heavily in illegal drugs, but it did so for its own foreign policy purposes and for hard currency. And it dealt harshly with foreigners who tried to horn in on its smuggling business or who sold narcotics to its own citizens. “So then? You are thinking about Pakistan?”

Flynn nodded once. “We believe conditions there are promising. Very promising.”

The Afghan nodded sagely. Like Iran and his own country, Pakistan was a major transshipment point for heroin and other illicit substances. But unlike Iran, the central government had considerably less real control over many of its outlying territories and even some cities. That made it a much safer place for international criminal gangs to set up shop. “Well, then, Señor,” he said at last. “It seems your organization has thought out its plans to the last detail. Naturally,” he continued delicately, “there are certain regulatory and legal formalities that must be observed. Paperwork and other bureaucratic requirements that govern the conduct of business here. A burden, I admit, but still—” He left the rest hanging unsaid.

And there’s my cue, Flynn realized. He’d been wondering how long it would take Bokharai to get to the real purpose of this visit. “Of course,” he said with conviction. “We understand fully that every government has its own set of rules. And my organization would never dream of cutting corners or of subverting local laws.” With a visible effort, Bokharai tried to hide his displeasure. “Still, we also understand the importance of custom in ensuring that these procedures operate smoothly,” Flynn went on. “And with a minimum of red tape.”

The Afghan official suddenly looked more hopeful, and the Kabul-based interpreter appeared to be secretly amused. No doubt he’d seen this same ritual dance enacted a dozen times over in as many different parts of the country. Fluent in at least five languages, his services were much in demand whenever foreign businessmen came calling.

Flynn lifted the leather briefcase he’d brought with him and put it between them on the low table. “It’s extremely important to my principals that we establish good relationships with our local partners,” he said. “So I hope you’ll accept this first, small token of our appreciation… and ensure that it is distributed to some worthy charity.” He slid it across the table.

Almost hungrily, Bokharai flipped the catches open and raised the lid partway. His eyes widened slightly, seeing stacks of U.S. dollars. He must have known that he was looking at a sum in excess of one hundred thousand dollars. Forcing himself to adopt a studied air of carelessness, he closed the case again. “You can be sure of that, Señor Duarte,” he said. His teeth gleamed. “Your gift will bring great happiness to orphans across the province.”

Only if both your parents are dead, you sleazy bastard, Flynn thought cynically. At least Bokharai had a reputation as an honest crook, one who would stay bought. That was what Four’s intelligence analysts claimed anyway. He sure hoped they were right, both for his own sake and for that of the others involved in this high-stakes operation he’d set in motion. Because if the Afghan decided to sell them out to his Iranian counterparts just across border, Flynn and his team were up shit’s creek. And without a paddle to be found anywhere within ten thousand miles.

Resolutely, he pushed his worries aside. There was no going back now. It was time to focus, not to fret over things outside his control.

Forcing himself to smile, Flynn parted from Masoud Bokharai with the flurry of insincere final courtesies common between men who trusted each other only as far as their shared interests would carry them. He walked the provincial official out to his car, a spotless black Mercedes sedan, and waved farewell as the other man drove away.

Then he turned to the interpreter and slipped him an envelope containing a substantial sum of cash, along with an airline ticket for the next flight to Kabul through Herat. “You have my thanks for your services, Ahmad,” he said in Spanish. “I’ve made a reservation for you tonight at the Tamadon Hotel. It’s the best available. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning, and I’ll have one of my men pick you up in time.”

The interpreter stuffed the envelope into his jacket with a nod of thanks. He raised an eyebrow in unabashed curiosity. “You will no longer need my assistance, Señor Duarte?”

“My immediate business is done here, so I’ll be leaving very soon,” Flynn explained. He shrugged. “The associates I’m leaving in charge speak enough English to get by.”

“Ah,” the interpreter said knowingly. “And, after all, this,” he tapped the bulge in his jacket where the envelope of cash rested, “is a form of universal language.”

“That, too,” Flynn agreed. He waited until the interpreter left and then walked back to the parked Il-76. Two of the men on sentry duty moved to join him at the foot of the aircraft’s lowered ramp.

“Any problems?” Tadeusz Kossak asked quietly.

“None.” Flynn said. “Our crooked Afghan friend seems to have bought our cover story hook, line, and sinker.” He grinned. “The implicit one about us running drugs and guns, I mean. Not the upfront solar power scam I pretended to sell him.”

The Polish sniper shook his head with a mock sorrowful expression on his face. “My faith in the evil effects of original sin remains intact.”

Shannon Cooke clapped his taller friend on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Tad,” the American ex-Special Forces operator said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “Sooner or later, we’re bound to run into an honest government official on one of these secret missions.”

“Yes,” Kossak agreed. “And that will be a very bad day for us,” he said mournfully. “Which proves my point, I think.”

Flynn choked back a laugh of his own. He nodded up at the jet cargo plane towering above them. “Speaking of bad days, how’s Laura doing?”

Cooke pushed his baseball cap up slightly to scratch his forehead. “Well, Nick, the last time I saw her, she told me she wanted to see you as soon as you were finished out here. Discretion being the better part of valor, if she said anything else, I was too busy backpedaling away to catch it.”

“That good, huh?” Flynn said with a wince.

Cooke nodded gravely.

Flynn sighed. “Okay, guys. If I’m not back out in time for supper, tell my mother I love her… and to please feed the dog.”

Nerving himself up, he walked up the ramp and into the Il-76’s wide aft section. A curtain had been rigged across the forward quarter of the cargo deck to stop overly curious observers from seeing what was going on in that part of the aircraft interior. Straightening, Flynn cautiously rapped a couple of times on the side of the fuselage. “Y’all decent in there?” he called.

“Oh, real funny, Flynn,” Laura Van Horn said crossly from behind the curtain. “Like I could be anything else while I’m stuck in this stupid gunny sack.” She yanked the curtain aside far enough to let him pass. Clad from head to foot in a shapeless black chador, she looked uncomfortable and mad enough to hit somebody — or maybe just shoot them. Since the presence of a Western-looking woman as part of a gang of supposed drug smugglers might arouse suspicion, she’d been forced to stay out of sight when possible, and to wear the traditional garb of most women in Zaranj.

She ran a skeptical eye over his own appearance. “So, were you trying project a suave, Antonio Banderas — type image, Nick?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Then she shook her head dismissively. “I sure hope not. Because if that was your plan, I gotta say you missed it by about a mile.”

Flynn adopted a hurt tone. “A mile? Really? That much?”

“That much,” she confirmed with a short nod. Then she shrugged. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now, since I’m assuming this stunt you’ve got planned is a go after all.”

“Yes, it is. Just as soon as it gets dark.” He turned toward the other person with them behind the curtain. “Can you have your gear ready by then, Sara?”

Sara McCulloch, a staff sergeant in the U.S. Air Force before she joined the Quartet Directorate, swiveled around in her chair. Unlike Van Horn, the petite redhead wore a flight suit. She’d be staying aboard the Il-76 for the entire duration of this mission — leaving it only virtually, through the cameras and other sensors fitted to the MQ-1 Predator she would be remote-piloting. Confidently, she waved a hand at her console, indicating the large display screen, keyboard, and pair of flight controllers. “No sweat, sir. Once the guys finish bolting my bird together, all we need to do is set up my satellite communications dish outside and connect. Everything else is good to go now.”

Van Horn breathed out. “Glad to hear it. Because the sooner I can get into the pilot’s seat of that BushCat myself, the happier I’ll be.”

“This flight’s going to be risky as hell,” Flynn warned. “Both out and back.”

“Tell me about it,” she said with a half smile. “I’m the one who wrote up the flight plan, remember?” She tugged at the tight neck of the chador. “But as far as I’m concerned, any amount of risk is worth it to ditch this damned thing.”

“That bad?” Flynn asked sympathetically.

She nodded. “You have no idea.” She shook her head. “If I’d been smarter, I’d have just cut my hair off and come in disguised as one of you guys.”

For a split-second, Flynn tried to imagine the curvy, attractive Laura Van Horn successfully passing herself off as a man. His imagination failed him. He grinned down at her. “That might have worked, I guess,” he conceded. “Assuming, of course, that everyone here in Zaranj was blind.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Flattery, Nick?” She leaned closer. “Well, who knows? It may get you somewhere. Someday.”

“But today is not that day?” he guessed.

“Nope,” she said simply. She winked at him. “We’re going to be kind of busy flying tonight, remember?”

“Plus, not crashing into mountains? Or being shot down?” Flynn suggested.

“Yeah, those, too,” Van Horn agreed evenly.