Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 793 & 794, September/October 2007

Blues in the Kabul Night by Clark Howard

© 2007 by Clark Howard

A professional writer for more than 30 years, and a contributor to this magazine for almost as long, five-time EQMM Readers Award-winner Clark Howard is most often associated with the crime genre. He has, however, written more than 200 short stories in other genres. And it isn’t only fiction that he excels at. His true-crime books have brought him equal acclaim. This time out he writes of soldiers. It’s a world he knows well.

The old four-engine Constellation cargo plane dropped down out of the darkening Afghanistan sky shortly after flying over the border from Pakistan, and received landing instructions from the tower at Kotubkhel Airport outside Kabul. Morgan Tenny, hunched in a jump seat behind Benny Cone, the pilot, looked down on the squalid outskirts of the Afghan city as the runway lights came into sight.

“You sure I’m not going to have any problem at the airport?” Tenny asked.

“Trust me,” said Benny Cone. “I been sneaking people in and out of this country for three years and haven’t lost a client yet.”

“What’s your secret?” Tenny asked.

“Hershey bars,” Cone replied.

“Hershey bars?”

“Yeah, with almonds. Afghanis are nuts about almonds. Excuse the pun.”

The old plane’s landing gear bumped hard against the blacktop runway, rose, bumped again, harder, then settled roughly into a jerky, lurching landing and decreased speed as it rolled toward the cargo terminal. When it came to a stop, Morgan Tenny followed Benny Cone through a narrow aisle between large, cable-secured wooden crates, to a high, wide cargo door which Cone unbolted and slid open on ball-bearing runners. Four forklift off-loaders were already driving toward the plane. Opening a hatch next to the cargo door, Cone unfolded an aluminum ladder that reached to the ground. Swinging a carry-on over one shoulder, he climbed down.

“Hand me your duffel,” he said.

Tenny lowered an ancient sea bag on which could barely be distinguished four stenciled letters: USMC.

“Ain’t seen one of these in a long time,” Cone said. The closure of the bag folded in quarters over a steel hasp through which a combination padlock was fastened. “Heavy, too,” the pilot observed. “Whatcha carrying?”

“The usual things,” Morgan Tenny said as he climbed down. “Guns, ammunition, laundered currency.”

“Everything a tourist in Kabul needs,” Cone said with a smile. He nodded toward the terminal. “Follow me. Keep your mouth shut and do what I say. You ever been to Kabul before?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a real shit hole. It’s like no place you’ve ever seen, man.”

“I’ve seen a lot of places, Benny,” said Morgan Tenny. “Zaire, Saigon, Nairobi, Angola—”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t seen noplace like Kabul. It is a real shit hole. The whole place.”

“I thought the U.N. was cleaning it up after the Taliban got bounced?”

“The U.N. is a joke, brother. Wait and see.”

The two men entered the Customs and Immigration section of the shabby cargo terminal and found a heavyset, droopy-eyed Afghan man browsing through a U.K. edition of Playboy.

“Moazzah, my friend!” Cone greeted him jovially. “How are you?”

“Passports and visas,” the man named Moazzah said, without looking up from the magazine.

“Moazzah, look what I have for your lovely wife,” Cone announced, pulling a carton of two dozen Hershey bars, with almonds, from his carry-on.

Moazzah looked up and took the carton. “Very nice, thank you.” He held out a hand. “Passports and visas.”

“And,” Cone further declared, “look what I have for your beautiful mistress!” He produced half a dozen packages of black pantyhose, held together by a thick rubber band.

“Such generosity I do not deserve,” the Afghan official said. His free hand was still out. “Passports and visas.”

“Moazzah,” Cone pleaded pitifully, “you know I am a stateless person without papers. All I want is a permit to unload. I won’t even be leaving the terminal.”

“And your friend?” Moazzah inquired.

“A tourist, that’s all. He missed his commercial flight from Karachi and out of the goodness of my heart I gave him a ride. But his passport is still at the Arabian Air desk back there. Be kind, Moazzah. He just wants to spend a few nights with the China girls at the Escalades.”

“I see,” said Moazzah. The Escalades was the most notorious of Kabul’s brothels. It was currently being run by a White Russian woman who called herself Madam Kiev, who had the best body in the brothel but never sold it, and had two former sumo wrestlers at her side at all times to keep the peace in her busy establishment. Moazzah knew the place well. He eyed Morgan Tenny for a long, solemn moment. “Pray tell, what do you have in your duffel?” he asked.

Morgan shrugged. “The usual things: guns, ammunition, laundered currency.”

For a split second Moazzah frowned, then laughed out loud and pointed a finger at Morgan. “Your friend,” he said to Benny Cone, “is a very funny fellow.”

“Yeah, a million laughs,” Cone agreed, smiling nervously. He handed Moazzah a British fifty-pound note.

“Take him to the taxi queue,” the Afghan official said. “But you remain in the terminal.”

“Blessings on your house,” Cone said as Moazzah put the candy and pantyhose into a deep desk drawer and locked it.

The pilot led Morgan outside where several rattle-trap taxis waited. “You’ll find Donahue at the Dingo Club,” he told Morgan. “He’s partners in the joint with an Aussie ex-pat. Tell him I said cheers.”

Morgan nodded. “Thanks for the help.”

“Thank you,” said Benny, “for the stack of hundreds. Good luck.”

I’ll need it, Morgan thought, getting into a taxi.

The Dingo Club was on Chicken Street, one of Kabul’s main potholed thoroughfares. Night had fallen now and multicolored neon lit up the sidewalks and the milling people entering and exiting shops selling handicrafts, carpets, pastries, hijacked Western food, pirated DVDs, and, farther along, bars, clubs, brothels, massage parlors, fast-food joints, tattoo kiosks, and the like, all of it reminding Morgan of the last week before Saigon fell. Slim and slung Asian girls wearing purple and orange makeup plied their trade to passing mercenaries, war-zone hangers-on in combat fatigues, along with contract laborers in denims, U.N. workers in dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves and neckties stuck in trouser pockets, and a few young U.S. Marines on liberty. All of them were armed: automatic rifles held casually, shoulder holsters holding Walther PPKs, revolvers tucked under bullet-filled cartridge belts. It was a totally dangerous street, but no one seemed to be bothered by it.

Morgan stepped inside the entrance to the Dingo Club. During the taxi ride to town, he had unlocked and opened his sea bag, and now had a Sig P230 automatic pistol in his waistband under his coat, an extra magazine of 60-grain bullets for it in his coat pocket, and a smaller automatic, a Kahr K9, in his belt at the small of his back. Standing just inside the club door, the big sea bag slung over one shoulder, he scoped out the noisy, raucous, smoky scene before him. Like a cautious falcon in unknown woods, his eyes flicked along the packed bar, the booths lining the walls, the tables in between, looking for familiar, especially unfriendly, faces among the patrons, bartenders, waiters, and pimps for the China girls who were working the room. Even after he spotted Donahue, the man he was looking for, his light-blue eyes kept moving, shifting, searching, until he had satisfied himself that he had no enemies there — at least none on the surface. Only then did he make his way to a back table where Donahue sat with three other men.

“Hello, Donny,” he said when he got to the table. Donahue looked up.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “If it ain’t the calm half of the infamous Tenny twins. I wondered when you’d get here.”

“You can stop wondering now,” Morgan said.

The man at the table stood up. Michaleen Donahue was a great bull of an Irishman, sixty-six years old, thick-necked, massive-chested, muscular-armed, wearing a skin-tight camo shirt over which was strapped a Roto shoulder holster and magazine rig holding a Glock 17 automatic on one side and a double magazine pack on the other. He grabbed Morgan in a grand bear hug. “How are you, boyo?”

“Good, Donny. You?”

“Never better, lad. Come on, I’ve an office where we can talk. ’Scuse me, mates,” he said to the other men at the table, and led Morgan into a nearby hallway to an office where he closed the door behind them. It was a sparsely furnished little room, with a metal utility desk, metal chairs, and several metal ammo boxes on the floor being used for files.

“Sit, boyo, sit,” Donahue said, dropping his bulk into a swivel chair behind the desk and retrieving a bottle of Gilbey’s and a pair of metal canteen cups from a bottom drawer. He poured two doubles.

“Cheers,” they said in unison, and took their first swallows.

The swivel chair creaked as if in pain as Donahue leaned back. “I’m afraid you’ve made a trip for nothing, lad. What you’re here for is a lost cause.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Donny I’ve known all these years,” Morgan said.

The Irishman shrugged. “As a man gets older, he gets wiser. Wiser about everything: women, drinking, killing. He tends to realize there are some things he simply can’t do anymore.”

“Aren’t you the one who always said life was doing what couldn’t be done, and the rest was just waiting around?”

“Like I said, I’m older now.”

“Well, maybe I’m wasting my time with you, then,” Morgan said. “Maybe I should look for someone with more grit.”

Anger flashed briefly in the big Irishman’s eyes, but he quickly suppressed it and leaned forward, folding his thick fingers on the desktop. “Look, Morgan, I know there’s a fine edge to you right now, with your twin brother Virgil being held in the Pul-e-Charki prison. But he’s been charged with the torture and killing of three Afghan citizens while attempting to get information from them as to the whereabouts of Osama bin Laden — all so he could collect the twenty-five million bucks bounty on the son of a bitch. Virgil’s going to be tried before an Afghan judge named Mehmet Allawi, who is as anti-Western as they come. He has stated openly that Western influence since the fall of the Taliban is ruining his holy land, and he’s the leader of a party that wants all non-Muslims thrown out of the country. Your brother is the first Westerner to be charged with a capital crime since the U.S. invasion in 2001. Allawi intends to use him to make a statement against the U.S., the U.N., and all other foreigners who are here. Virgil is going to be found guilty and hanged. And that, my boy, is that.”

“I intend to break him out,” Morgan said simply.

“Break him out?” Donahue grimaced in disbelief. “Out of Pul-e-Charki? You’re dreaming, lad. It’s not possible. There’s no way to spring a man from there.”

“I don’t plan to just spring a man. I plan to liberate the whole damned prison, Donny.”

Donahue grunted. “That would take a small army.”

“I want to raise a small army. A strike force of trained mercenaries.”

“You’re crazy. It would cost a million dollars.”

“I’ve got a million dollars,” Morgan said. Reaching down, he patted the sea bag on the floor next to him. “Right here.”

“You serious?”

“Dead serious.” Morgan leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I know about that prison. I know men who’ve been in it. I’ve heard stories. It’s a filthy cesspool. Whips, chains, rats, vermin, slop for food — it’s a nightmare. They’ve even got torture chambers—”

“Your brother Virgil is in there for torturing people,” Donahue reminded him.

“The three men Virgil tortured—”

“Two men,” Donahue corrected. “One woman.”

That gave Morgan pause for thought. But only momentarily. “Makes no difference,” he said. “They were all al-Qaida. No telling how many innocent people they’d killed. Whatever the case, I want to blast open Pul-e-Charki prison.” He locked eyes with Donahue. “You with me or not?”

Donahue took a long sip of gin, then pursed his lips for a moment. Finally he said, “Tell you what. You and me’ll go out and have us a good look at Pul-e-Charki in the morning. Then you can tell me how you’d plan to go about doing it. After I hear your plan, I’ll decide. Good enough?”

“Good enough,” Morgan agreed.

They toasted again and finished their gin. Then Donahue asked, “Got a place to bunk yet?”

“No.”

“Down the street to the right. The Mustafa Hotel. Use my name. Tell the desk clerk to give you an upstairs room in the back, away from the street noise. I’ll come by for you about ten in the morning.”

With his sea bag again slung, Morgan left the Dingo Club and turned right down the busy street, his senses alert to everything around him. He knew before she got there that a young woman was hurrying up beside him.

“Excuse me. May I speak with you for a moment, please?”

“Not tonight, honey,” Morgan said, thinking she was street girl. “I’m dead tired, just in from a long flight.”

“I know,” she said. “I followed you from the airport.”

Morgan stopped, his right hand instinctively going to the automatic in his belt. “You followed me from the airport?”

“Yes. In my car. I wanted to talk to you.”

Looking more closely, Morgan now saw that she was definitely not a street girl. She was, he guessed, Afghan; modern Afghan: smallish, attractive, wearing a stylish pantsuit, carrying a large purse over one shoulder. He decided to play dumb.

“Why on earth would you follow me?” he asked with feigned innocence.

“My name is Liban Adnan,” she said. “I’m a broadcast journalist. For NKR — New Kabul Radio. I’m doing a series on mercenary soldiers in the city. I’d like to interview you.”

“You’ve made a mistake, miss,” Morgan said. “I’m not a mercenary soldier. I’m a pharmaceuticals salesman.”

“Oh?” Her full, dark eyebrows went up. “When you were leaving the Dingo Club, I saw you shake hands with Michaleen Donahue, a notorious mercenary soldier. Were you selling him aspirin, perhaps?”

“I went into that club to ask directions to the Mustafa Hotel. I didn’t even know the man I was talking to.”

“I see.” She pulled a five-by-seven black-and-white glossy photograph from her purse. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know this man either.”

In the neon light above a lap-dance club, Morgan looked at the picture. It was his twin brother, Virgil, in handcuffs and belly chain, being held between two Afghani policemen.

Taking Liban Adnan roughly by the arm, Morgan drew her into a nearby passageway between buildings, out of the busy sidewalk traffic. Once there, he kept her arm in a grip tight enough for her to know that she could not break away.

“Exactly what do you want?” he asked coldly, evenly.

“I told you. An interview. I want to explain to the citizens of Kabul why scores of heavily armed men prowl their streets at night. I want to try to make the public understand who they are and why they are here.”

“If I was a mercenary, do you think I’d be stupid enough to let you interview me about my reason for being here?”

“It could be an anonymous interview,” she said, squirming in his grip. “We could even use a vibraphone mic to disguise your voice—”

“Look, miss,” Morgan said firmly, “you’ve got the wrong person, understand? I don’t know the man back at the club, and I don’t know the man in that photograph!”

“But he looks just like you. Is it you, or — or are you his brother?” she exclaimed, as if that had just dawned on her.

“Listen to me, lady,” Morgan tightened his grip on her arm, “mind your own business or you might be very sorry.”

Liban squirmed even more. “Please, you’re hurting me—”

Morgan let go of her arm. “Stay away from me,” he warned.

Leaving her in the passageway, Morgan stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued toward the Mustafa Hotel.

Donahue was in the hotel lobby at ten the next morning when Morgan came down. He led Morgan outside to a battered Jeep with no top. Donny was again wearing the double Roto holster, and now was carrying an AR-15 automatic rifle as well. Morgan carried his same two handguns, but also had with him a Mossberg 500 shotgun equipped with a Knoxx folding stock, which allowed him to carry and fire it as a long-barrel pistol. He again had his sea bag slung behind one shoulder, but it was noticeably lighter now.

“Unpacked everything but the money, I see,” Donahue observed.

“You guessed it,” Morgan replied.

“Carrying it around like that, ain’t you afraid somebody might take it away from you?”

“Somebody might die trying.” Morgan jacked a 12-gauge Pit Bull shell into the Mossberg’s chamber and held it between his knees next to the sea bag when he got into the Jeep. As Donahue slid behind the wheel, he observed that Morgan was wearing a flak vest under his jacket.

As they pulled away from the hotel, Morgan noticed a green Volkswagen parked nearby. Liban Adnan was in the driver’s seat. Son of a bitch! he thought angrily. But he said nothing to Donahue. He did not want to alarm him.

The two men drove out of town. As they moved past numerous destroyed buildings and out onto a vast, flat scrub plain, Morgan watched in the outside rearview mirror on the passenger side and saw that the green Volkswagen was following at a respectable enough distance behind not to be obvious. Glancing at Donahue, he concluded that the big Irishman had not noticed it. Cursing silently in his mind, Morgan decided to go with the flow of the moment; there was nothing he could do about it, not just then. But later...

About ten miles outside Kabul they pulled onto a gravel road that faced Pul-e-Charki Prison. From outside, the facility appeared antiquated, its walls crumbling in places, its turrets looking unsteady at best. The Russians had built the place when they occupied Afghanistan, and its upkeep had been inadequate even then. After the Afghan government took it over, maintenance deteriorated even more: the cells, plumbing, toilets, food, and prisoner treatment — all went to hell. Everything except security: That had improved.

Donahue parked where they could get a view of the main gate and outer walls. “Picture yourself looking down at it from above,” he said. “There are four blocks of cells around an inside courtyard. Block One, called ‘Block-e-Awal,’ is there,” he pointed toward one front corner. “That’s for high-status prisoners, foreigners, mercenaries mostly. They’ve got Jack Idema in there. He ran Saber Seven, a freelance outfit that captured and tortured Afghan nationals, just like your brother did, trying to get a lead on Osama bin Laden. Jack’s doing ten years; he was smart enough not to kill anyone. Virgil’s in there too, along with some journalists and photographers who wrote about and photographed some things the new government didn’t approve of.

“Block Two is directly across the center courtyard, over there,” Donahue pointed to the opposite corner. “It’s strictly for political prisoners, nobody really worth mentioning, mostly just ex-Taliban and protesters against the U.S.

“Block Three is back there, behind Block Two. It’s full of common criminals: thieves, child molesters, drunkards, dishonest merchants, people who disrespect the Koran and Muslim law.”

Donahue stopped talking and looked out over the wasteland toward a hazy, indistinct horizon. Morgan waited several moments, then: “You said four blocks.”

“Yes, well.” Donahue cleared his throat. “Block Four is where the executions take place. Some hangings. Beheadings. Occasional lesser punishments: cutting off the hands of a thief, blinding a man who spied on another man’s wife that he coveted, stoning to death of women adulterers—”

“Rough justice,” Morgan commented.

“If you can call it justice at all.” Donahue’s voice, Morgan thought, sounded unusually soft and sympathetic. Especially for a man who had for more than forty years killed for a living.

Glancing off in the distance, Morgan saw the green Volkswagen parked where its driver could observe them. He was going to have to decide what to do about the woman. He could not let her upset his plans to save his brother.

“So what do you think, lad?” Donahue asked, interrupting Morgan’s thoughts.

“You have any guard contacts inside? That can be bought?”

“Maybe.” The Irishman shrugged.

“Can you get me a dozen men — good men — on the outside?”

“Depends. You want specialists?”

Morgan nodded. “Four explosives men, two rocket experts, six tough ground troops.”

“Possibly. Weapons?”

“AR-15s for the ground troops, plus any handguns they want for backup. Thirty-seven-millimeter launchers for the rocket men. K-2 plastics, coils, and timer detonators for the explosives.”

“Ammo?”

“The works. Armor-piercing, incendiary, tracers. The best available. And plenty of it.”

Donahue rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. “Vehicles?”

“One armored halftrack with dual tactical mounted .50-calibers. And a Devil’s Breath with dual tanks.”

“Jesus, Morgan! A flamethrower?”

“Yes. And two armored specialists to handle the whole rig.”

Donahue sighed. “Anything else?”

“Two armor-plated Humvees for the rest of us, to flank the halftrack when we charge the main gate.” Morgan took a deep breath. “That’s it.”

“You’re sure now?” Donahue asked, a little sarcastically. “Sure you don’t want a couple of fighter jets to strafe the place ahead of time?”

“Can you get it all or not?” Morgan asked flatly

“I’ll let you know. Come see me tonight at the Dingo.”

As Donahue drove them back to Kabul, Morgan watched the green Volkswagen follow them in the passenger rearview mirror.

His lean jaw clenched.

Half an hour after Morgan returned to his room, there was a soft knock at his door. Holding the Sig 230 close to his right leg, he stood to the left of the door and said, “Yes?”

“It is I,” a female voice said. “Liban Adnan.”

Snatching the door open, Morgan jerked her into the room and locked the door behind them.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve coming here after following me all morning!” he said angrily. “Didn’t I warn you to stay away from me?”

“I am not afraid of you!” she snapped.

“That’s obvious. What the hell do you want now?”

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice as angry as his, “I came to show you these bruises you left on my arm last night!” Pulling up the sleeve of her blouse, she held out an arm with several dark, purplish bruises on it.

“You’re liable to get more than bruises if you keep meddling in my business!” Morgan threatened.

“Again I say, I am not afraid of you, Mr. Tenny. Whatever you are planning, you surely would not interrupt it to do anything foolish to me. Especially since I have a friend at my radio station who knows I’ve been following you. The authorities would be on you in a heartbeat.”

“If I did do anything to you,” Morgan said confidently, “believe me, nobody would be able to prove it.”

“They could certainly prove you are in the country illegally,” she retorted. “I saw how you came in at the airport with Benny Cone. That alone is enough to get you inside the prison you and your friend Donahue studied so closely this morning.”

Turning away from her, Morgan walked across the room. She had him on that. All he could do now was figure out a way to handle her. He walked back to her.

“Look, I’m sorry about the bruises,” he said as contritely as he could. “But you came on pretty aggressively and I wasn’t prepared for you. Can we start over?”

“Without the rough stuff?” she asked, sounding more American than Afghani.

“Definitely without the rough stuff.”

“All right. I want to talk to you. But not here. Your friend Donahue has ears all over this place. I’ll pick you up out front at six and take you to a little place I know on the edge of the city. We can have supper and talk about a compromise arrangement between us. Will you agree to that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Liban Adnan nodded brusquely. “Until six, then.”

Unlocking the door, she left.

Morgan stared thoughtfully at the closed door behind her. Where in hell, he wondered, was this going to lead?

As Morgan walked out of the Mustafa Hotel, the green Volkswagen pulled up at once and he got in. Liban swung the car back into traffic and headed out the western highway toward Jalalabad. Neither of them spoke at first, until finally Morgan asked, “Have you told anyone else about me? Besides your friend at the radio station?”

“No, of course not.” She glanced at him. “I want this story for myself.”

Morgan nodded. Several minutes later, he said, “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Liban Adnan. Just call me Lee.”

She drove to a small settlement just outside the city and parked in front of a surprisingly nice-looking roadside restaurant, the name of which was written in Arabic across its facade. “This is a respectable family establishment,” she said, “so please don’t flash your guns around.”

“What guns?”

“The ones I’m sure you are carrying. Let’s not play games, Mr. Tenny.”

Inside, Lee selected the table she wanted, off to one far side, and they were seated. “Are you familiar with Afghan food?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then let me explain what you can order. Mourgh is skinless chicken marinated overnight in lemon pulp and cracked black pepper, then broiled. Aush is chopped beef, spinach, and dark makhud — sorry, yellow split peas — fried in coriander and turmeric, and served with dried mint sprinkled on it. Qabili pilau is lamb and yellow rice boiled with carrots and black seedless raisins.” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Morgan said. She ordered the aush, with sweet red tea and pistachios to munch on while they waited.

“I’m sorry you can’t get something stronger to drink,” Lee apologized, “but alcohol is not served here. You see, in our faith, especially among the Tajiks, who are the predominant population—”

“Look,” Morgan interrupted, “can we get down to the business of why we’re here?”

“Well, yes, of course. I was just trying to be cordial.”

“Forget cordial. Specifically, what is it you want in order to leave me alone?”

Her eyes, dark like ripe plums, fixed on him. “I want the complete story of what you and Mike Donahue are planning and how you are going to go about it—”

“You’re crazy,” Morgan scoffed.

“Let me finish, please. I want the complete story — to be released after it happens. After you’ve done what you’re planning to do, after you’ve gotten away with it — if you get away with it—”

“We’ll get away with it.”

“Fine. After you get away with it and have safely escaped. When everyone is running around, pointing fingers, blaming everyone else, trying to figure out who did it, how it was done — that’s when I want to reveal everything.”

“What do you expect to get out of that?”

“A reputation. Stature as a broadcast journalist. A move from radio to television. Perhaps even a position with CNN International.”

“I see. You want to be famous.”

“I want to be successful.”

“You want to be another Christiane Amanpour.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.” From her expression, Morgan knew he had nailed it.

Before they could converse further, an older man entered the restaurant, followed by two younger men, an older woman, and two younger women. They walked in single file, toward a family section in the rear that was configured with larger tables. But as they started to pass the table where Morgan and Lee sat, the older man abruptly stopped, as did everyone behind him. Standing ramrod straight, he glared down at Lee. He did not speak. Lee looked down at the table. Morgan saw that the five people behind the man also had their eyes downcast.

The silent confrontation lasted perhaps forty seconds, but it somehow seemed much longer. Presently, the older man moved on, his entourage following.

“What was that all about?” Morgan asked.

“That was my family,” Lee replied quietly. “My father, my two brothers, my mother, my two sisters.” She looked over at him woefully. “I have been banished from my family, you see. When I took up Western ways, Western dress, got a Western job as a radio broadcaster, my father ostracized me. I am not allowed to go around any member of my family, or to communicate with them in any way, or they with me. None of them may cast eyes upon me except my father, and then only to revile me with his look.”

Morgan saw a sadness in her eyes, but it did not seem to be for the painful scorn of her father and the loss of her family. Rather it was a sadness of fear, the kind Morgan had seen in the eyes of many who were about to die; it was a sadness not of something that had already happened to her, but of something that was going to happen to her, and she knew it.

At once, as he looked at her, she became appealing to him, her despair coupled with a longing, all of it concealed to some degree by her effervescent aggressiveness — no, not aggressiveness, he rethought it — more like assertiveness, an anxious assertiveness. Morgan felt something emanating from Liban Adnan that he could not define or understand. But he knew he had to respond to it.

“All right, I’ll help you, Lee,” he told her, suddenly deciding. “I’ll give you your story.”

A glimmer of a smile came tentatively to her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Tenny.”

“Call me Morgan,” he said.

Later that night, back in the office of the Dingo Club, Morgan again sat across the desk from Michaleen Donahue.

“I want a hundred thousand for myself,” Donahue said.

“You want it now?”

The Irishman’s thick black brows went up. “That would be nice.”

Morgan unlocked and unzipped the bag that constantly hung from his shoulder, and from it counted out ten banded sheaves of hundred-dollar bills, fifty to a sheaf, and twenty sheaves of fifty-dollar bills, also fifty to a sheaf. “That leaves me with nine hundred thousand, Donny. Will that do us?”

“I think so. I put a pencil to it earlier—” He pushed a yellow lined pad across the desk, which Morgan picked up and began to study. “I figure twenty thousand each for the two guard contacts we’ll need on the inside,” he told Morgan. “Four explosives men at forty each is a hundred-sixty. Two rocket-launcher men at thirty-five apiece is seventy. Six ground troops to back up you and me at—”

“You and me?” Morgan interrupted. “You’re coming along?”

“Certainly,” Donahue said, taken aback slightly. “You think I took a hundred thousand just to sit on my ass?”

Morgan shrugged self-consciously. “Well, I–I mean — well—”

“Well, hell! A well’s a hole in the ground, lad! Your brother’s a friend of mine. And so are a few others in that hellhole of a prison. Yeah, I’m coming along. You bet your ass I am.” Donahue cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying: Six ground troops at twenty-five per is another one-fifty. The half-track, used but in good condition, will cost us two hundred thousand. And the two armored Humvees will run seventy-five each, that’s one-fifty.” Donahue got out a bottle and poured drinks for them while Morgan studied the figures. Taking a long sip of his own, he sat back and licked his lips appreciatively at the taste. “I make it seven-seventy,” he concluded. “That leaves one-thirty for weapons and ammo.”

“One-thirty will be a stretch,” Morgan guessed, frowning.

“Might, might not,” said Donahue. “Depends on where I have to buy. If I can run at least half of what we need from Uzbekistan, we’ll be okay. If I have to deal with the Pakistanis, those bloody bastards will try to rob us blind.” He paused for a moment, then said, “It might be possible to steal some ammo from the U.N. forces arsenal down in Qandahar. I don’t know how you’d feel about that, you being a Yank and all—”

“Steal it anywhere you can,” Morgan said flatly. “I don’t owe the U.N. anything.”

“Right. Well, then.” Donahue rose and drained his glass. “I’ll get the ball rolling first thing in the morning. You want to interview personnel?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“I’ll do it meself then. How do you plan to get Virgil out of the country?”

“Same way I got in. Billy Cone.”

“Billy might not be up for anything that heavy. What if he says no?”

Morgan locked eyes with the Irishman. “Then I’ll kill him, take his plane, and fly it myself.”

The next night, Lee invited Morgan to her apartment, where they would have the privacy to talk more openly.

Lee lived in one of the older, modest buildings in a more or less grubby section of south Kabul, but she said she liked the location because it was convenient to the traditional Afghan food markets as well as a newer, Western-style superstore that sold canned items imported from the U.S. Plus, the sparsely but comfortably furnished apartment offered a parking shed for her little green Volkswagen. Morgan noticed at once that the apartment’s cracked and pitted walls were colorfully concealed with a variety of posters: Emiliano Zapata, Muhammad Ali standing over a prone Sonny Liston, Mother Teresa touching the forehead of a sick child, Roy Rogers with six-guns blazing.

“Roy Rogers?” Morgan said in surprise.

“Yes. I watch his old films on the new satellite station. They have subtitles, of course. I think his horse is nice. And I like the way he sings.”

She had prepared a cold supper for them.

“Samboosak,” she told him. “Cold meat pies with leeks and mild spices. And there are boiled eggs and a spinach-and-chickpea salad with pine nuts. And,” she added proudly, “just for you—” She produced a bottle of Australian wine. “Another reason my father has disowned me: I like a glass of wine now and then.”

As they ate, Morgan outlined for Lee in detail his plan to breach Pul-e-Charki prison with a small armed force, an armored vehicle, and two armed Humvees, to liberate his twin brother Virgil from Block One, where the high-profile prisoners were kept, and then how the two of them would escape the country in Benny Cone’s plane.

“What about the other prisoners in Block One?” Lee wanted to know. “And in the other blocks?”

Morgan shrugged. “They’ll be pretty much on their own. If they can get to the main gate, a lot of them can pile onto the half-track and the Hummers when they retreat.”

“And the guards?”

“Most of them at the main gate and around Blocks One and Two will probably be killed in the initial assault.”

Lee looked down at the table. “A lot of those men are just ordinary family men, working men, most of them not political at all.”

“They chose to work there,” Morgan said evenly. “They knew the risks involved.” He paused, then continued in a softer tone. “Look, Lee, everyone makes their own choices in life. Everyone pays their own prices for those choices. That’s just life.”

“Or in this case, death,” she amended.

They finished supper and went outside to sit on the building’s back steps and drink the rest of the wine.

“I try very hard to understand you Westerners,” she said. “All of you who are here in my country: Americans, British, Irish, Australians, the mixed Europeans. I try to understand the little regard you all seem to have for human life if something stands in the way of what you want.”

“I’ve been trying to understand your people, too,” Morgan said, “since I saw your own father stare so hatefully at you, and you told me how you’d been ostracized by him from your family. I don’t understand that. My brother Virgil and I are twins; we were together in the womb, born together. We grew up together as dirt-poor Catholics in a steel-mill town in a place called Pennsylvania. Our father was a drunk; our mother washed other men’s dirty, stinking mill clothes to feed us. We got made fun of as free students in a hard-knock Catholic school because of the shabby hand-me-down uniforms we wore. We never got invited to join school teams or clubs, or come to school parties. But we got away from all that. When we were old enough, we joined the Marine Corps. We went through boot camp together, then weapons school, where they taught us to use rifles, pistols, machine guns, flamethrowers, hand-held rocket launchers. Finally we went to sniper school together and learned to kill. We lived by the sniper motto: One shot, one kill. When we left the Corps, we both had confirmed body counts in the high twenties. The day we were discharged, we were recruited for a mercenary team to fight in Zaire. We’ve been fighting, and killing, ever since.”

Morgan fell silent then. The two of them sat there in the shadows, the wine warming them, listening to mixed night sounds of Kabul. Someone, somewhere not too far away, was playing one of the new Western stations on the radio, and the mournful voice of a mournful woman was singing “Blues in the Night.” They listened until the song ended, then Morgan spoke again.

“I know what my brother is accused of doing, and I don’t condone what he’s done. But he’s my brother. I can’t disown him like your father has disowned you. It’s not in me to do that.”

In the darkness, Lee reached out and took his hand.

Later, she moved close to him and he put an arm around her shoulders.

Within a week, Michaleen Donahue was almost ready to move.

“The CV-6 Russian half-track,” he reported to Morgan, “is hidden under a camo tarp about five miles from the prison. The Hummers are concealed nearby; we got lucky and stole one of them from the Marines down near Ghazni, so we saved a nice piece of change there. The launchers and rockets are stowed in a house on the outskirts. The K-2 explosives are stashed in another house not far away. All weapons and ammo, including the flamethrower, are at a third location convenient to the other two. And I’ve got personnel all over the bloody city, paid and waiting to be summoned.”

“What kind of men have we got?” Morgan asked.

“Good men, the lot of them. Three have relatives in the prison that they’re going to try and spring. Those are Afghanis, of course. Then,” he began to count on his fingers, “I’ve got two of me own Irish lads from Belfast; two Aussies who’ve worked together as a team for twelve years; a couple of real killers from Tajikistan who deserted the Russian army; a Pakistani, and two Turks.”

“Turks, good.” Morgan nodded. “I’ll fight with Turks any day.”

“I feel the same way,” Donahue agreed. “We’ll put them on the Hummers with ourselves.”

“Right. Inside help?”

“Two guards have been bribed. They’ll see to it that the Block One prisoners will be let into the courtyard for exercise ten minutes after our mechanized force breaks cover and heads for the prison. All the men will be armed before daybreak and rendevous at two separate locations to be picked up by the Hummers. The K-2 will have been placed on each side of the main gate during the night; I’ll carry one igniter switch and one of my Irish lads will have the other one in the second Hummer. Launcher gunners and their rockets will be in slit trenches fifty yards away on each side; they’ll take out the gun turrets. The flamethrower man will be on the half-track.” Donahue lighted a fat Cuban cigar. “All’s left is for us to set a time.”

“You said we had money left?”

“Sure. What we saved by stealing one of the Hummers. What d’you need?”

“I’m thinking some kind of diversion on the side of town farthest from the prison, to distract the civilian law and the local army garrison.”

“Good idea. Let’s see what we can find here...” Donahue unrolled on his desk a map of the city and began tracing it with one tobacco-stained finger. “Over here we have a sugar-beet plant and a few food-processing and canning factories. There’s a rather large woolen mill here. At this point here, farther out, there’s an industrial district with some metalworking shops, a lumber mill, a number of woodworking businesses—”

“How big’s the lumber mill?”

“It’s quite a good size.”

“Let’s set it on fire.”

Donahue frowned. “All the wood’s pretty dry this time of year. The place’ll go up like a tinderbox. Could spread and burn down a couple square miles of the city. Including a lot of homes.”

“Too bad,” Morgan said. “I don’t owe these people anything. Let’s set it on fire.”

Donahue shrugged. “All right. It’s your call.”

Morgan could tell that the idea didn’t sit well with Donahue. But it wasn’t Donahue’s brother in Pul-e-Charki. “Can you get somebody to do it?” he asked.

“Sure,” the big Irishman said quietly. “I know a couple of Iranian thugs who’ll do anything for a laugh.”

“Okay. Set that up and then we’ll decide on a time.”

As Morgan started to leave, Donahue said, “Incidentally...”

Morgan stopped. “What?”

“One of my lads saw you in a restaurant with that radio woman, Liban Adnan.”

“Yeah. She’s been after me to do an interview on mercenaries. I’m just stringing her along.”

“Well, you might want to be extra careful with her. She’s a police informant.”

That night, walking arm in arm back to Lee’s apartment after a late dinner, Morgan was trying to decide how to kill her.

Breaking her neck was probably the best way; it was quick, quiet. And with the difference in their size and weight, it would be easy enough.

But he hated like hell to do it.

During the past week they had been developing — something; Morgan wasn’t quite sure what. Ever since they had sat in the shadows on the back steps of her building and he had told her about himself and Virgil, and she had ended up with her head on his shoulder, they had both begun feeling — something.

It had started with casual touching, quick, spontaneous hugs, brief kisses on the cheeks, then the lips, lightly at first, barely, then longer, more serious, urgent.

“What are we doing?” she had asked just the previous night. They had stepped into the doorway of a shop to get out of a sudden downpour. She had come into his embrace, her arms crossing behind his neck, her lips and body hungry. And then: “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “Are we falling in love?”

Then it was her turn to say, “I don’t know.”

“I’ve never had feelings like this before—”

“Nor I—”

“It’s a crazy thing to have happen—”

“I know. It’s insane—”

“With what’s going on and all. It’s not rational—”

“No, not rational at all—”

Still, they had kissed some more, and when the rain stopped they had walked with their arms around each other back to her apartment. But she would not let him come in.

“Wait, Morgan, please. Until tomorrow night. Let’s give ourselves a night to think about this.”

“I don’t have to think about it. I want you.”

“And I want you—”

“Then let’s go inside.” Gently he took her arm.

“Please, Morgan. Not tonight. Today is Friday. There is a khutba tonight. A special congregational prayer. I want to go to it. To see if perhaps there will be a message in it for me. For us.”

“I don’t understand,” Morgan said, confused. “I thought you walked away from all that. I thought you were liberated.”

“I am. But I still have my own beliefs. So, please. Wait. Until tomorrow night.”

So Morgan had waited.

And later that night Donahue had told him she was a police informant.

Now tomorrow night had come. And instead of thinking about making love to this pretty, sad-eyed, anxious young Afghani woman, Morgan was thinking about how to kill her.

At Lee’s apartment, she led Morgan into her tiny bedroom and lighted ivory votives in each corner that threw enough flickering yellow light to illuminate a bed made up with pristine white satin hemmed in puce, stitched with gold thread.

“This is our bridal bed,” Lee said softly. “At the khutba last night, the message I got was to follow my heart. That is what I will do.” She touched Morgan’s cheek. “You undress while I prepare our bath.”

“Our bath?”

“Yes. Before we make love, we must cleanse ourselves together.”

At that moment, Morgan desired her with an intensity he had never imagined he could feel. Through the open door to the bathroom, he watched as she ran water into a large old sunken family tub made of blue tiles. Then she began to undress. As did he.

When they stood naked in the now steamy little bathroom, Lee opened a basket and from it sprinkled small red, yellow, and white flowers onto the surface of the bathwater.

“These are wild honisoukes,” she said. “You Westerners call them honeysuckles.”

They got into the tub together.

All thoughts of killing her left Morgan’s mind.

“Everything’s ready when you are, lad,” Donahue told Morgan the next day. “The two Iranians are straining on their leash to torch the lumber mill, God forgive us. All the men, weapons, and vehicles are in place, and we’re locked and loaded. We just need to give our two inside men one day’s notice.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ll set up our exit with Benny Cone. His Kabul contact said he’s flying in with a load of hijacked cigarettes tomorrow at noon.” Pausing a beat, he then added, “And just so you know, I’ll be taking Liban Adnan with Virgil and me when we go.”

Donahue’s ruddy Irish face darkened in a scowl. “How much does she know? And don’t lie to me, Morgan.”

“She knows everything, except the day. And the lumber-mill fire.”

“You bloody fool!”

“Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. She’s on our side. I guarantee it.”

“You guarantee it! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to! I warned you about her! We could be walking right into a trap, all of us!”

“That won’t happen, Donny. Listen to me. I confronted her about being a police informant. She admitted that at times she had cooperated with certain police officials, but only in matters involving drug smugglers, slave traders of children, things like that. Listen, think about it. If she had informed on us, if the military or the prison authorities knew about the plan, they’d already have moved in. They wouldn’t wait until we launched our attack; they’d have to take casualties and structural damage that way. They could have taken us anytime without a fight. All they’d have to do is seize our weapons stockpile and we’d be out of business.” He stared down Donahue. “I’m telling you it’s all right, Donny. You have my word.”

“I need more than your word to risk my life!” Donahue declared.

They fell silent for a long moment. The little office was still as death, as if both of them had stopped breathing.

“I didn’t have to tell you about her,” Morgan pointed out.

“I know that.”

“It should be easy enough for you to find out if there’s been a betrayal of any kind.”

Donahue nodded brusquely. “I’ll do you the courtesy of checking it out. I’ll meet with the two guards I’ve paid off. If anything’s amiss, they’ll know it. And if they try to lie to me, I’ll know it.” He came over to Morgan and got square in his face. “If you’re wrong, lad, you’ll never have a chance to be right again.”

It was as clear and cold a threat as Morgan Tenny had ever heard.

On Sunday at noon, Morgan was back out at the cargo terminal of Kotubkhel Airport. He hung around the Customs area, staying well out of sight so that Moazzah, the agent who had let him into the country, would not see him. Benny Cone’s old Constellation touched down an hour late, at one o’clock, and awhile later Morgan saw him come into the terminal and loiter around Moazzah’s desk for a few minutes while passing along several parcels of bribery goods. There was a cafe in the passenger terminal next-door, and Morgan gave one of the shoeshine boys near the baggage kiosks a handful of Afghani dollars, equal to about one buck U.S., to take Benny a note he had prepared in advance, which read: MEET ME CAFE. TENNY.

After watching to make sure the note was delivered, Morgan went over to the passenger terminal. It was a great anthill of people, long queues trying to check in at the counters of Ariana Afghan Airlines, which consisted of several old Air India airbuses repainted and being flown by Russian contract pilots. The only uncrowded counters were where the VIPs and others were checking in at UNHAS to board one of the modern daily United Nations Humanitarian Air Service jets that served Kabul. The terminal itself was filthy and stank of every imaginable odor; its air was infested with large, aggressive flies, and was smoke-filled by many passengers standing obliviously under No Smoking signs. Security guards, all of them in British Royal Air Force uniforms, stood everywhere, armed with H&K G3 automatic weapons.

Morgan went into the grubby little cafe on the upper level, purchased a bottle of unchilled Fiji water, and found a small table in the back corner, away from pedestrian traffic. Awhile later, Benny Cone sauntered in, located him, and came over to sit down.

“Well?” Benny asked. “Was I right?”

“Right about what?”

“About Kabul. Is it a shit hole or isn’t it?”

“It’s a shit hole,” Morgan agreed.

“Told you so.” The pilot tilted his head. “You ready to get out?”

“I will be, day after tomorrow, Tuesday. Can you be on the ground ready to fly at four in the afternoon?”

“I guess. Where to?”

“Anywhere you can set us down without papers. Karachi, where we can get sea transportation, would be nice; Abu Dhabi, if the Emirates are open; Bahrain or anywhere in the Gulf of Oman. I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Okay. You said us. Who’s us?”

“Me, my brother Virgil, a woman, maybe Donahue, if I can talk him into it.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“An Afghani broadcast journalist. She’s clean but doesn’t have a passport.”

“Who the hell does these days?” Benny grunted. “Baggage?”

“Carry-ons, two or three personal weapons per man.”

“What can you pay?”

“What do you want?”

“What I want is a hundred thousand per person, but what I’ll take is five per. Twenty thousand.”

“Deal. Payment in the air?”

“Deal.” Benny bobbed his chin at the bottle of water Morgan was drinking. “You shouldn’t be drinking that shit.”

“Why? It’s Fiji water.”

“It’s a Fiji water bottle, probably been refilled a dozen times from the tap.” He took a pewter flask from his inside pocket and passed it over. “Here, gargle and rinse your mouth out with this.”

Morgan took a swig, rinsed, gargled, nearly choked, and spat it on the floor behind his chair. “Jesus!” he said. “What the hell is it, cyanide?”

“You’re close. It’s Kazakhstan bootleg vodka. Tastes like hell, but it kills bacteria. I never leave home without it.” Benny rose. “I have to get back or Moazzah will piss his pants. He’s edgy today.” He took back his flask and held out a hand. “See you Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” Morgan said.

Back in town, late in the afternoon, Morgan looked for Donahue at the Dingo Club.

“He ain’t here, mate,” one of the Irishman’s cronies told him.

“Know where I can find him?”

“I do. But he don’t like to be bothered on Sunday afternoons.”

“It’s important. He’ll want to see me.”

The crony studied Morgan for a moment, then said, “You’ll find him at the Italian Embassy, out on Great Massoud Road.”

Morgan frowned. “The Italian Embassy?”

“That’s what I said, mate. But don’t expect him to be in a jolly mood. Like I told you, he don’t like to be bothered on Sunday afternoons.”

Outside, Morgan found a dilapidated taxi whose driver, incredibly, knew exactly where the Italian Embassy was located. But what in hell, Morgan wondered, would Donahue be doing there? He was an Irish Free State national traveling on Swiss and Swedish passports, none of which had anything to do with Italy. Just what, Morgan puzzled, could the old Black Irishman be up to?

When he got to the embassy grounds, Morgan found it to be casually guarded by several carabiniere wearing sidearms but without heavier weapons. He was courteously directed toward a small group of people congregating in a flowery ornamental garden near a small chapel. One of the people was Donahue, clean-shaven, wearing a starched white shirt, appearing unarmed, talking to two nuns. When he saw Morgan, he smiled, excused himself, and came over to him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked irritably. Morgan, seeing a priest join the two nuns and go into the chapel, quickly said, “Going to Mass. You?”

“Well, I’m going to Mass too,” the Irishman growled. “But I didn’t expect to see you here.” He squinted suspiciously. “How’d you find the place anyway? It’s the only Catholic church in the whole of Afghanistan.”

“Taxi driver told me.”

“I’ve a feeling you’re lying.”

Morgan shrugged. “Why would I lie?”

“Well, tell me, then, Morgan Tenny, if you go to Mass, who will you pray to?”

“The usual people. Jesus. Blessed Mother Mary—”

“No, no,” Donahue challenged. “I mean, who specifically?”

Morgan caught on quickly and outsmarted him. “St. Philomena,” he said confidently.

“Ah,” said Donahue, surprised, a little chagrined. “The Patroness of Desperate Causes. A good choice.”

Morgan tilted his head. “And you, Donny? Who do you pray to?”

“Me?” The big Irishman shrugged. “I go straight to the top. Jesus himself. I used to pray to St. Michael the Archangel, you know, to protect me in battle. But he let me get shot by an Orangeman in Derry some years ago, so I dropped him. Now it’s between me and Jesus on the Cross. My best hope at this point is to get into purgatory.” He patted Morgan on the shoulder. “Yours too, I’d wager.”

“I’m not even counting on purgatory,” Morgan said. “I expect to go directly to hell.” He put his own hand on Donahue’s shoulder. “And you will, too, Donny. Neither of us will ever see heaven.”

From inside the chapel, chimes sounded. The two men fell in behind others and entered, dipped a fingertip in holy water, walked down the narrow center aisle, genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and entered a pew made of hardwood where they knelt and closed their eyes in prayer.

There was nothing much different about them from the rest of the mixture of U.N. employees, Europeans, and Americans in the congregation, except for the few whispered words they exchanged upon entering.

“Are we set?” Morgan had asked.

“We’re set,” Donahue said.

“Okay,” Morgan told him. “We go day after tomorrow.”

“Tuesday?”

“Tuesday. At noon.”

Their killing schedule was on, now firmed up in the little Catholic chapel.

Morgan spent all day Monday and Monday night with Lee.

During the day they walked around, exploring the parts of the once-great city that were being rebuilt after being pillaged, looted, and desecrated first by Russian soldiers, then by Taliban officials, finally by rogue mercenaries from around the world.

“Not all of it is the wreckage you see around you,” Lee told him. They were having a Western lunch at the new Marco Polo restaurant. All the patrons were Westerners, with not an Afghani to be seen. “I will show you something very beautiful that is still intact after four centuries.”

After lunch she took him there, to Babur’s Gardens, a terraced hillside resplendent with flowers, leading up to a pristine white mosque and a small marble gravestone, and two others on the terraced garden just above it.

“This is the burial place of Babur, who founded the Mogul Empire — not,” she emphasized with a pointed finger, “the dreaded Mongol Empire, which was something altogether different. Of course, it is true that Babur was a great warrior and led his people in overcoming Turks and Indians and many others, but he was also a very gentle man, a poet, a writer of history. Nearly everything good in our culture began under his rule. This,” she drew in the gardens, the mosque, the gravestones with a sweep of her arm, “he designed himself more than four thousand years ago as the final resting place for himself, his wife, and their daughter.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Morgan said, impressed.

But the memory of the place became tainted in his mind later that day when they walked past the ruins of the Kabul Museum and Lee said sadly, “It was once one of Asia’s greatest museums. Now see what unscrupulous men, vulgar men, have reduced it to.”

Men like me, Morgan thought, oddly uncomfortable.

In the evening they had dinner at the elegant Khyber Restaurant, eating a mixture of Western and Afghan foods. They were both aware now that the hours before Tuesday were passing quickly.

“At times like this,” Lee asked, “do you worry much?”

“No,” Morgan said. “Worry is like thinking about a debt you may not have to pay.” It was a lie. He always worried. Before a battle, he felt as if live things were crawling around in his intestines, eating away at them.

Later he told her, “Tomorrow pack only a small bag. Stay home all day. I’ll come for you in the afternoon.” And he asked, “You’re still sure about going?”

“Yes, still sure.”

“You may never see your family again.”

“I never see them now.”

Walking to her apartment after dinner, he admitted, “I lied to you earlier. I do worry.” For some reason he felt sad. “Can we bathe together again tonight?”

Lee touched his face with both palms. “Of course, my love.”

Going into her building, neither of them suspected that they were being watched.

At ten the next morning, Morgan strode into the Dingo Club, two pistols and ammo in a belt around his waist, an Uzi 9mm machine gun and web belt of extra magazines slung over one shoulder, carrying the Mossberg shotgun in one hand.

The club, not yet open, was empty except for Donahue at his usual table. Halfway back to it, Morgan stopped cold. Donahue had a glass and bottle in front of him, telling Morgan that something was very wrong. No professional soldier drank before a fight; you didn’t want alcohol in your system if you might be wounded. Walking on up to the table, Morgan stood there, waiting for Donahue to speak.

“The operation’s off, lad,” the Irishman finally said.

“What’s happened, Donny?”

Donahue looked up at him forlornly, his expression desolate, eyes mournful.

“Your brother Virgil was put on trial at seven o’clock this morning. He was found guilty at eight. And he was hanged at nine.”

Morgan was thunderstruck. “Virgil—? He’s been — hanged?”

“I just got the news a bit ago. I’m sorrier than I can say, lad.”

Shock overwhelming him, Morgan sat down heavily on one of the chairs, laying the Mossberg on the table, dropping the Uzi and web belt to the floor next to him. His lips parted wordlessly, incredulously.

“One of the guards I bribed got word to me,” Donahue said. “I’m truly, truly sorry, Morgan. I really wanted to have a go at this one. With you. Your brother. I was gonna make it my last big raid. I really wanted it—” Tears came to the big Irishman’s eyes. He poured a drink, but did not raise the glass. Instead he angrily propelled both glass and bottle off the table with the sweep of an arm. “Oh, damn them! God damn them to hell!”

The two men sat in silence, not looking at each other, for what seemed like a long time. Around them, club employees began to straggle in and begin making the club ready for its noon opening.

Hanged, Morgan thought, shaking his head dully. It was almost too heinous to imagine. Virgil, hanged.

Finally, Morgan rose from his chair. “We’re set to fly out with Benny Cone at four, if you want to come along.”

Donahue shook his head slightly. “Thanks anyway, lad.”

Leaving the Mossberg and Uzi and ammo, Morgan walked out of the club.

At Lee’s apartment, the door was ajar. Frowning, Morgan drew his Glock, thumbed the safety off, and eased inside. Lee’s father was sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead as if in a stupor.

“Where is she?” Morgan asked.

The father smiled slightly. “I watched you last night,” he said. “I saw you come in here with her and I waited all night until you came out this morning. I know that you have dishonored her and she has dishonored my family. Shame has been cast over me. Now that shame is erased.”

Morgan’s already ashen face blanched even more pallid and horror clouded his eyes. He went into the bedroom.

Lee lay on her back, still wearing the plain white cotton gown she had pulled on to say goodbye to him at her door. Her face was whiter even than Morgan’s, whiter than the white cotton gown, whiter than the pristine white satin sheets on the bed. Her throat had been cut and the blood in which she lay had dried almost black under her head.

Morgan sighed a great, hollow sigh and thought: This is my punishment for the life I’ve led. He felt deep remorse that Lee had been punished too.

Walking back to where her father sat, Morgan raised the Glock and put the muzzle between the man’s eyes.

“Shoot me,” Lee’s father said. “Kill me. I do not care. I did what was right. I face death without shame.”

Morgan thumbed the safety of the Glock back on. “No,” he said. “You live with it.”

He left the man sitting there.

Stretched out on the empty cargo deck of the Constellation about five minutes after it was airborne, Morgan heard Benny Cone call back to him from the cockpit.

“Hey, Tenny! We got off by the skin of our teeth! They just closed the airport!”

Morgan went forward to the cockpit. “What happened?”

“It just came over the air from the tower. There’s some kind of rebel army attacking Pul-e-Charki prison. The place is under siege. Prisoners are escaping like ants.”

Son of a bitch, Morgan thought. Donny’s doing it anyway. He’s getting his last big raid.

“The radio say anything about a big fire on the other side of the city? A lumberyard?” he asked Cone.

“Nope. Just the attack on the prison.”

Good for you, Michaleen, Morgan thought. Just you against the prison, with no diversionary tactic. One on one. Way to go.

Going back aft in the plane, Morgan stretched out again. For a brief moment, he felt guilty about not being there with Donahue. Then he thought of Lee and the guilt faded.

Lee would forever be with him.

And he would never kill again.