Dead Drop (A Spider Shepherd short story) (2 page)

Gannon shrugged.
‘It’s a big base, and they’re not going to kick out all the Afghans. The place
wouldn’t function without them. All we can do is keep our own security
water-tight and have everything on a need to know basis.’

‘Which we already
do anyway,’ McIntyre said.

Shepherd nodded.
‘Agreed. But if we need Green Army support on an op, let’s give them the
absolute minimum of notice.’

‘Aye, right
enough,’ McIntyre said. ‘The less time they know something, the less chance of
it being compromised.’

* * *

Shepherd was up
at dawn the next morning and before the heat of the day became too oppressive
he went out for a run around the sprawling, six thousand acre base. As usual he
did his running in his boots with a rucksack containing a concrete-block
wrapped in old newspapers on his back. As he came out of the gates of the Special
Forces’ compound in the dim pre-dawn light, his eye was caught by a movement on
the main runway. Lit by the harsh glare of floodlights and watched over by
heavily armed American soldiers, a line of a dozen men, all hooded and dressed
in identical orange jump suits, were shuffling towards an unmarked transport
plane. They were shackled hand and foot, their chains clanking and rattling as
they were hustled across the concrete hard-standing and up the loading ramp
into the aircraft. By the faint light of the emergency lighting inside the
loadspace, Shepherd could see each man being chained to a ring-bolt fixed to
the steel floor. Then the ramp was closed and as Shepherd began running around
the perimeter, he could hear the engines wind up and saw the plane taxi out and
take off into the breaking dawn.

Shepherd had run
ten miles and the sun was well above the horizon by the time he came back
towards the gates of the Special Forces compound, sprinting the last four
hundred yards flat out. He came to a halt, chest heaving, alongside a familiar
figure, an Afghan boy squatting in the dust, with a kettle boiling on a small
spirit stove. The boy beamed when he caught sight of Shepherd. ‘Salaam alaikum,
Spider. Mint tea?’

‘Alaikum salaam,
Karim,’ Shepherd said between gasps. ‘Hell yes, but give me a moment to get my
breath back and drink some water first.’ He drained the plastic bottle he’d
been carrying, wiped the sweat from his brow and then took the cup of hot,
sweet green tea from Karim, paying him with a dollar bill from the pocket of
his shorts.

Only twelve years
old, with dark, fathomless eyes, and a foot-dragging limp, the result of a
broken ankle that had never been properly set, Karim was one of dozens of
Afghan Artful Dodgers wheeling, dealing and hustling on the margins of the
base. As well as mint tea, he changed money, sold cigarettes singly or in
packs, and claimed to be able to lay his hands on almost anything else as well.
The first time they’d met, he’d offered to sell Shepherd a Kalashnikov, and
just the previous week he’d had a sackful of antiquities, small stone carvings
that had been stolen by grave robbers from some ancient site or perhaps even
looted from the wrecked Kabul museum.
 
Shepherd liked the boy’s spirit and cheeky sense of humour and had got
into the habit of stopping to chat to him every morning. Karim was teaching him
Pushtu and in return, although the boy already spoke excellent English,
Shepherd was teaching him some English slang that wasn’t in any textbook.

‘So how’s
business, Karim?’ he said.

‘Slow, Spider, I
need more customers like you.’

‘So what’s this
week’s special offer – gold bars? Stinger missiles?’

The boy pretended
to be hurt. ‘Don’t mock me, Spider. I can be very useful to you. I don’t just
sell things,’ He smiled slyly.
 
‘I
can sell you information too.’

‘About what?’
said Shepherd.

‘About the
Taliban. No one pays any attention to boys like me. I can go anywhere and
everywhere, and I keep my eyes and ears open.’

‘Oh come, on,
Karim. You’re telling me stories here. The Taliban don’t go around talking in
front of strangers.’

Karim broke into
a big smile and spread his arms wide. ‘Me? I’m just a simple cripple boy trying
to make a living selling tea and cigarettes. No one pays me any attention,
Spider. I’m invisible.’
 

Shepherd smiled
despite himself.
 
‘Simple is one
thing you’re not, Karim, but you need to be careful saying things like that.
You’re just a kid, you don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

‘I might be young
in your country, Spider, but not here. We Afghans grow up fast - we have to.
You pay others for information. Pay me and you will not regret it, I promise.’

‘No, forget it,
Karim. If the Taliban even suspect you of spying on them, it’ll be your death
sentence.’ He pointed a finger at him. ‘I’m serious now. The Taliban are
dangerous people, you don’t want to give them an excuse to hurt you.’

The boy grinned.
‘They won’t suspect - like you said, I’m just a kid.’ He gave Shepherd a
calculating look. ‘I’ll tell you something anyway - how do you say it? - a free
sample. Don’t pay me anything now, but if you find I spoke the truth, I’ll
trust you to pay me afterwards.’

‘Karim, stop
this.’

‘I’m serious,
Spider. I have some information that might be useful to you. How can you turn
that down?’

‘I can turn it
down because I don’t want to put you in the firing line.’

‘But I already
have the information. All I would be doing is to pass it to you.’

Shepherd thought
for a few moments and then sighed. ‘All right then, what do you know?’
 

‘Some Taliban
fighters will be coming to our village. They know that the American aid money
is being delivered and they’ve told the head man of the village that they want
half of it.’

‘How do you know
this?’ Shepherd said.

‘I heard the
elders arguing about it. They don’t want to pay, but they’re frightened the
Taliban will kill them if they don’t.’

Shepherd thought
for a moment. ‘Do you know the name of the local Taliban leader?’

‘There are two.
One is Hadir, named for the sound thunder makes in the mountains. The other is
Jabbaar. His name means “Cruel” in our language, and he’s well-named. one of
them is bound to be there with the fighters, because our head man refuses to
negotiate with his underlings.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s good
information, isn’t it, Spider?’

‘Yes, Karim, it
is.’

‘Worth money?’

‘Possibly. But I
want you to promise me that you’ll be careful. Eavesdropping on elders is one
thing, but keep well clear of the Taliban.’

Karim laughed. ‘I
will, Spider. I’m not stupid.’

Shepherd put his
hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I’m serious about this, Karim.’

The boy looked
into his eyes. ‘I know you are, Spider. You are a true friend, I know that.’

Shepherd went
straight over the the Major’s tent and told him everything that he had learned
from the boy. The next day at “morning prayers” – the daily briefing with
the Boss –
 
the Major
announced that the intel appeared to be good.
 
‘The Taliban know that they’re losing the main battle and
they’re increasingly turning to coercing the local villages into giving them
support, supplies and cash. And they certainly know that the US aid budget is
distributed in cash, by the bucket-load, in an attempt to buy the support of
the villagers.’

‘And the names he
mentioned?’

‘Both check out.’
The Major flicked through a series of images on his laptop until he found the
ones he was seeking. ‘Take a look at these.’ Shepherd and the others leaned in
to study the grainy surveillance imagery of two Afghan men. The Boss pointed to
the first of them. ‘Jabbaar seems to be a particularly nasty piece of work even
by Taliban standards, and his side-kick, Hadir, isn’t much better. The intel we
have suggests they’re living over the border, somewhere in the tribal areas,
but as you know, it’s a porous border hereabouts, so they won’t have any
difficulty infiltrating to carry out raids or do a bit of cash and carry
– the villagers have the cash and the Taliban carry it away.’

‘Then let’s go
take a look,’ Shepherd said. ‘But what about Karim?’

‘The kid? Pay him
a few dollars from the bribes fund. And if we get the Taliban head honchos, pay
him some more. OK, final brief at 1600 hours. Insert by heli tonight, set up an
OP and see what happens.’

* * *

As Shepherd was
preparing his kit outside his tent later that morning the guard at the gate
called to him. ‘A local is asking for you,’ he said. As Shepherd walked over to
the gate, he saw a tall Afghan, dressed in an expensive looking shalwar
kameez.
 
‘Salaam alaikum,’ he said.
‘I’m Spider, what can I do for you?’

‘Alaikum salaam,’
the man replied, touching his hand to his heart in the traditional Afghan
gesture. ‘My name is Qaseem. You know my son, Karim.’ His beard was long and
straggly, rust-coloured at the bottom and graying close to his chin.

‘Your son is a
clever boy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Very entrepreneurial.’

‘He is very
enthusiastic,’ said Qaseem. ‘I am very proud of him, but I fear for him also,
which is why I am here.’ Qaseem hesitated and glanced around him. ‘He talks
about you a lot and that worries me.’ He saw Shepherd frown and hurried on. ‘I
mean no offence and am suggesting nothing improper. I don’t believe my son has
anything to fear from you, but by being seen talking to you so often, he is
putting himself in danger. Not all men here are what they seem. It would only
take a word from one of them to those who are enemies of us both, to put my
son’s life at risk.’

‘I understand,’
said Shepherd. ‘But he spends a lot of time in our compound, not just with me.’

‘If he is
trading, if he is selling you cigarettes or tea, then no one cares. But he
spends time talking to you, and he behaves as if he was your friend.’

‘I think of him
as a friend,’ said Shepherd. ‘I have a young son myself. Much younger than
Karim, but I would be very happy if my boy grew up to be like your son.’

The man smiled.
‘I thank you for that, but you must understand that the friendship of a British
soldier can be a dangerous thing during times like this.’

Shepherd nodded.
‘Again, I hear what you’re sending and I understand you. But you’re talking to
me now, in full view of other Afghans. And Karim has told me that you work for
the Americans as an interpreter. Surely nothing that your son does represents
any greater risk than what you do yourself?’

‘I am a man, and
I know the risks involved,’ Qaseem said. ‘I’m well aware that the fact that I
work for the Americans means that my son will probably be an orphan before he
is grown up; his mother, my wife - may she rest in the peace of Allah - died
giving birth to him. I do not deceive myself that the Taliban cannot reach
those who collaborate with the
faranji
,
but I’m willing to take the risks for myself, because whatever happens to me,
the money the Americans pay me will at least buy my son a better future… if he
survives.
 
But he is a child,
still. If he is seen to be too close to the occupiers, or is suspected of
passing information to
faranji
soldiers, there will be no future for him.’
 
Qaseem placed his hand on Shepherd’s arm, holding his gaze.
‘Insh’allah that will not happen. Afghanistan is a poor country. A farmer may
earn only a few dollars for an entire year’s work. Even a teacher, as I used to
be, earns only a pittance. Suddenly you Westerners are among us, scattering
dollars like the chaff when the wheat is threshed.
 
My son’s head has been turned. He dreams of riches and
neglects his education. He thinks that one day he will go to America, make his
fortune, drive a big car and act like a movie star.’ He paused. ‘I do not blame
him, he is young, but I am not as naïve as my son. I know that when the
Americans tire of this war, they will leave without a backward glance, just
like the Russians and, yes, like you British too in the past. And when they do,
they will abandon their so-called friends to their fate, just as they did in
Vietnam. We shall again be a forgotten country and what will become of my son
then? So for his sake, I beg you not to encourage him in his daydreams nor put
him at risk. Please send him away from you.’

Shepherd studied
him for a few moments. ‘If that’s what you want, I’ll do as you ask. You’re his
father, and I have no right to go against your wishes - but with your
permission, I’d like to tell him face to face. I’ll not mention that I’ve
spoken to you, but I’ll say it’s not safe for him to be seen talking to me any
more. OK?’

Qaseem nodded.
‘Thank you. You are an honourable man. I doubt we shall meet again but-’ Again
he touched his hand to his heart. ‘May you travel safely.’

Shepherd smiled,
touched his own heart and gave the traditional reply Karim had taught him. ‘And
may you not be tired.’

When he’d
finished sorting his kit, Shepherd took a stroll around the perimeter before
setting off across the base to find Karim. He located him outside the American
PX, selling Russian watches to a group of Yank new arrivals. ‘Every one
guaranteed to have been taken from the wrist of a dead Soviet soldier,’ Karim
was saying with gruesome relish, deep in his sales pitch. ‘Only twenty dollars
each.’