Chapter Three
Kabul, Afghanistan
THE TRUCK RATTLED over the corrugated dirt roads between Bagram and the market bazaar district. After parking among other dusty vehicles, the three CIA men exited.
This area was technically inside the perimeter of a zone where Americans and other coalition security personnel were supposed to be safe. As proof of the increased security, a hulking Army MRAP—Mine Resistant Ambush Protected—moved through traffic with a sergeant in the turret.
Afghan men in payraan overshirts with kulla caps and women in parahaan dresses shuffled to the walls lining the alley, avoiding the steel monster.
Americans in Kevlar body armor, helmets, ballistic sunglasses, and black weapons stood out as foreign invaders and always reminded Walker of Star Wars stormtroopers manning checkpoints on Tatooine, which was why he, Staub, and Fisk were dressed in earth-tone civilian clothes.
They shouldered between vendors on the market street, with Staub at the six position, checking security, stopping at irregular intervals to mingle with the vendors, to better fit in with the flow of the pedestrians going about their days. They also used the stops as opportunities to observe.
It was mid-September, and the sun was still bright, but the signs of winter were emerging as occasional winds swept over the glacier peaks into mile-high Kabul. The shadows cast by the mud structures stretched longer than they had at this same time just a month prior.
“Posting up here,” Staub said at a crossroads, dropping back. “Comms check.”
“Lima Charlie,” Walker responded into the mic hidden in his collar. Lima Charlie meant loud and clear in milspeak.
“Good copy,” Staub replied. “I’ll check in with ISR.”
Walker fought off the urge to look skyward.
ISR was intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance, an Agency drone somewhere high overhead.
An operator in Nevada was behind the controls, but it was monitored back at Kabul Station.
It was Staub’s job to keep an eye on any emerging threats and extract them from the meet if things went south.
“That’s it, there,” Walker said after twenty additional paces.
He head-gestured toward a sign that read Pan Arabian Fine Rugs, a shop twenty yards ahead on the left.
The sign was coated in dust, but the pride taken in the careful lettering shined through.
“Let’s give John a minute to take a spin around the block. ”
Walker and Fisk looked over a vendor’s cart stuffed with cheap wallets—counterfeits labeled Gucci, Chanel, and Coach with misspelled brand names—as Staub worked his way through the crowds looking for anything out of place.
“Stay put for a second,” Staub announced into Walker’s earpiece. “I got some burkas coming down the street with a mullah leaning on a doorjamb. One of the burkas is a big ol’ gal.”
“Roger.”
“And, CW, if you see a Gucci lady’s wallet that looks somewhat real, pick it up for me. Leigh Ann loves that shit.”
“I’m running low on cash.”
“The hell you are. And you owe me a favor for finding this guy in the first place. Use some of Fisk’s contingency account. Have to spend it on something.”
“Problem?” Fisk asked as he checked out a leather passport cover with a blotchy Coach stamp.
“Group of women in burkas around the corner,” Walker said quietly. “That’s how they hide bombs or disguise Taliban fighters.”
“Got it. Should we have that MRAP circle back?”
“No. That would disrupt the natural rhythm and possibly raise suspicions.”
Fisk nodded.
A minute later Staub came back over comms. “Okay, we’re good. All clear. You see a good wallet?”
“Negative on Gucci. We’re going in.”
“Good copy. Monitoring the alleys.”
A bell jingled when Walker opened the door. He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. Oriental rugs blocked the light from the windows. The cozy shop smelled of incense, camphor, and musty wool. Boshret Kheir played through decades-old speakers on either side of the cash register.
Fisk tapped his ear. “That shit drives me crazy.”
Walker listened to the music while they waited for Naji to come out from the residential part of the shop. “Good tempo,” he said. “Think of it as cover.”
Lifting a maroon rug with dark blue geometric shapes from a pile, Fisk examined the label. “Tabriz,” he said. “Iranian carpet.”
“Mongoose gets around. That’s one of the reasons you’re going to like him.”
A man emerged from the back, his smile genuine, his eyes tired but kind.
“Ah! Mr. Chris, you brought a friend!” Naji Mansour looked to be in his late thirties, his dark hair streaked with premature gray. He wore a pressed tunic and moved with quiet dignity.
“Hello, Naji. Great to see you again.” Walker turned to Fisk. “This is the man I wanted you to meet. His name is Lawrence.”
Fisk placed his hand over his heart, leaned forward in a slight bow, and shook Naji’s hand.
“Mr. Mansour, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard many wonderful things about you and your business.”
Walker retreated to a corner and keyed his transmitter while Fisk made small talk about rugs.
“How we looking?” he asked Staub.
“NSTR, brother,” Staub responded, using the acronym for nothing significant to report.
“ISR?”
“Clear. No electronic emanations from the target area.”
Staub and a Ground Branch technical specialist had swept Naji’s shop three weeks ago as part of their surveillance package. All indications since then showed that Naji was clean, a genuine asset who wanted to turn things around for his country.
Over tea and a labored negotiation, Naji had dropped certain hints—namely that he got around, which allowed him to learn things about certain Taliban leaders.
He was willing to trade information for U.S.
citizenship and relocation to Fremont, California, home to such a large Afghan community that it was known as Little Kabul.
After sending his report on Mansour through Agency channels, Walker was cleared to proceed with an approach.
However, as a blue-badge officer in the CIA’s Special Activities Center’s Ground Branch, Walker’s primary role was tactical operations.
Fisk, meanwhile, was a case officer responsible for managing confidential informants, whom the Agency referred to as assets.
Consequently, this meeting was Fisk’s show.
Walker leaned into Fisk and whispered while the music bounced along. “We’re clear.”
Fisk nodded and turned to Naji. “You mind if we turn that down a little?”
“Of course,” Naji replied. He ducked behind the counter to fiddle with his stereo.
With the asset out of sight, Walker instinctively reached for the Glock beneath his light cotton jacket. The music lowered and Naji’s head popped up half a second later.
Fisk withdrew his phone from his jacket and swiped the screen. “Can you read English?” he asked Naji.
“I completed my business degree at King’s College, London, before returning to Afghanistan,” Naji replied.
Fisk shot a glance at Walker, a half smile on his face. No doubt about it, Naji could be a true unicorn: access to senior Taliban ranks, Western-educated, and with the perfect cover to travel.
Walker said to Naji, “Lawrence works closely with our headquarters people. He’s here to help you.”
“I see.”
“There are just some things I’m going to need,” Fisk added. “I have a form for you to digitally initial for—” He cut himself off at the sound of an interior door creaking.
A woman in a fawn-colored head scarf looked inquisitively at Walker. He could only see her eyes because the scarf wrapped the lower half of her face. He had met her during the second meeting with Naji.
Walker touched Fisk’s elbow. “Naji’s wife, Rina. They have two daughters. This is their home as well as their shop.”
Fisk instinctively buried his phone in his pocket.
“Mr. Lawrence, I would like you to meet my wife and daughters.”
Fisk shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
“It’s okay,” Walker said to both Naji and Fisk, his voice calm and confident.
With the price of Mansour’s intel being U.S. citizenship, Fisk needed to meet the family.
Rina stepped forward, her daughters following, their maroon dresses clean and carefully pressed. They stood beside their mother, eyes wide with curiosity. “Good afternoon, sir,” they said in practiced English, their voices barely above a whisper.
“This is Fatima and Zahra,” Walker said.
Fatima was around eight with sharp, inquisitive brown eyes, while Zahra was not yet five, her wide eyes full of wonder.
Fisk shook all three of their hands politely as Walker reached into his pocket and offered Tootsie Rolls he had picked up on base.
When they went back to the residence area, Fisk pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Now you have a sense of the future exfil package,” Walker said.
Fisk turned to Naji. “I need something before we go much further.” He reversed his phone so the screen faced Naji. “This is the form. Just click here. That’ll be your signature.”
The rug seller did as asked, and handed the phone back to the CIA case officer.
“Thank you.” Fisk swiped and turned it around again. “Do you recognize this man?”
Naji studied the device. “Yes. He’s Mullah Farj.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
Naji glanced at Walker, who nodded. “This is how we get you out of here. That’s the deal.”
Walker covered the first quarter mile through the dust and blaring horns of Kabul traffic, weaving past cars, trucks, buses, scooters, and the occasional donkey with no sign of a tail.
Fisk was in the passenger seat, his head buried in his phone while Staub scanned for threats from the rear bench seat.
“How’d it go? We have a new asset?” Staub asked.
“Looks that way,” Walker replied from behind the wheel. “What’d you think, Lenny?”
“A lot of potential here,” the case officer responded.
“So, you made the deal?” Staub asked.
“Yes,” Fisk answered. “As long as Mongoose delivers, he’ll get a special visa to come to the U.S. After a year of what amounts to probation he’ll become an American citizen, but…”
“But what?” Walker asked.
“He has to deliver.”