The Summer House

Chapter 92 Afghanistan

The CIA man sighs. “But don’t feel sorry for me, Major Cook. Working back there near Khost, I had forms to fill out, superiors to satisfy, and Company lawyers on my back, making sure I didn’t cross any magic lines that had been drawn the previous week in DC. Here, it’s like something out of Lawrence of Arabia. Just me and these fine fellows. I find it... liberating. Clean. Precise.”

As much as I want to press him, he seems to be in a mood, and I don’t want to disturb it. “What do you do here? And how can you—”

“Trust them?” Kurtz asks. “Is that what you’re asking? Well, a few things work in my favor. Deep back there in the rock is my quarters, with a safe that automatically changes its combination every twenty-four hours. In there is a million or so dollars that I dole out at appropriate times. And these tribesmen love to fight. They’ve been fighting one another for centuries and will continue to do so even when we have colonies on Mars. And two tours ago I converted to Islam. I’m now part of the tribe. Not an infidel.”

He says something in Pashto to the men, and they all laugh with pleasure.

Kurtz says to Cook, “Up here, we keep an eye on local ratlines in the deep valleys and ravines, bringing in men from Pakistan. We’ve got observers in all the local villages. Don’t care what tribe they’re from or if they’re crossing borders. But if they’re Al-Qaeda, ISIS, any foreign fighters... they come to a nasty and bloody end.”

“But... you’re so isolated. Remote.”

He smiles through his thick beard. “I’ve got the finest communication gear the Company can provide. And there are air packages overhead at my disposal. Whenever my guys run into something bigger than they can handle, or if the Taliban try to assault my little fort here, I send a call up to the Air Force. You know, the fellas you use when you want to send the very best.”

Now, I think. Now.

“Good for you, Mr. Kurtz,” I say. “Whatever happened back then, whatever complications ensued, it sent you to your dream job. And it sent those Rangers to jail.”

His happy mood is gone.

I push him. “What happened? Are you going to sit up here like some new T. E. Lawrence while men you worked with, men you trusted, men who served this country, are being treated with disgrace? Imprisoned? Ruined?”

Kurtz says, “Probably too late.”

“I’m the investigator here. Let me decide.”

His fellow tribesmen sense a change in their leader’s mood, and they look at me with hate. From friend to enemy in a matter of seconds.

Kurtz sighs. “They went to a house when they heard screaming from inside. They should have ignored it. We’re not here to give the Afghan people the Bill of Rights or copies of the Federalist Papers or anything similar. We can’t change thousands of years of history—”

“What was going on?”

Kurtz rubs at his beard. “It was... an arrangement. A welcoming gift to a foreign visitor, who was promising lots of millions of dollars of additional aid. An American, who was taking advantage of the local world, with no bloggers or journalists nearby, fulfilling his... needs. A man with a twelve-year-old.” He pauses. “A twelve-year-old boy.”

“The Rangers broke in and stopped him?”

“Yes.”

God.

Then it comes to me, like a series of lightning flashes in the distant sky, remembering a man, with a woman, at a campaign rally, expressing his support of the troops and how he had visited them on the battleground.