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“Hubbard?”
“Yes.”
Zahir snorted. The CIA’s local man was no match for him. It would be easy to manipulate him. “Was Mr. Sickles with them?”
“No.”
This surprised Zahir. He had found it very pleasant to work with Sickles. It had been easy to pick up on the fact that Rickman and Sickles did not get along. Sickles had told him to stay well clear of Rickman. Had told him that the man was someone he had no control over, but still Sickles was the CIA’s top man in Kandahar. “These new Americans . . . any idea who they are?”
“No.” Pamir shook his head. “Only that there were six of them.”
“Security?”
“Three Humvees . . . one normal, one with a 50-caliber turret, and another with a grenade turret.”
“And men?”
“Eight total. They control each end of the street.”
Zahir snorted again. They would never stop his police vehicles. He would push right past them. Turning to Raashid, his lieutenant, he asked, “Are the men ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Have everyone get in the vehicles. I want to make a show of force.”
Pamir asked, “And what would you like me to do?”
“Keep looking for him and report to me the second you learn anything useful.”
Pamir gave a slight bow and left. In his outer office, Zahir was happy to see more than a dozen men strapping on their new bulletproof vests and checking their weapons—all courtesy of the United States of America. What a bunch of fools, he thought to himself. The Americans were going to learn a very hard lesson over the next few months.
CHAPTER 3
A GROUP of men in Afghan Police uniforms were trying to push their way into the house. Rapp looked on with irritation as a man with an oily black beard berated the CIA bodyguards. The man’s beard was obviously dyed. So much so that he looked like a silent-movie actor playing a pirate. To his right, he heard Hubbard muttering to himself. The only thing Rapp could make out were the words “This is not good.”
“Who is he?” Rapp asked.
“Commander Abdul Siraj Zahir. ALP.”
ALP stood for Afghan Local Police. “What’s his story?”
“Up until six months ago he was an insurgent. More of a crime boss, really. Extorted and kidnapped in every village between here and the border, and now with the new reintegration program the geniuses in Kabul have seen fit to put him in charge of the local police.”
The info clicked and Rapp remembered the name. Zahir and his group were responsible for a good number of the roadside bombs in the area. “Was he on Rick’s payroll?”
“They were working on it.” Hubbard motioned to the guards at the door and said, “It’s all right. Let him in.”
With obvious displeasure on his face, Zahir pushed his way past the guards and approached Hubbard, Rapp, and Coleman. He focused his attention on Hubbard and unleashed a torrent of expletives that were meant to punctuate his less-than-stellar view of Hubbard’s abilities and his view in general of Americans.
Rapp took a step back, his dark eyes dissecting this strange man who had so rudely forced his way into the safe house. The bombastic behavior and bluster were not entirely unexpected, but something else was. The fact that Hubbard was letting this piece of human refuse walk all over him. Rapp reminded himself that Hubbard didn’t have the luxury of flying under the radar as he did. He had to report to his boss in Kabul, Darren Sickles, who was more concerned with appearances than results. Sickles had to work side by side with the alphabet soup of U.S. agencies and departments that had come up with the touchy-feely reintegration program. The consensus with the foot soldiers in the Clandestine Service was that Sickles didn’t back them up. Rapp was willing to bet that this unhealthy and unproductive style of cooperation had something to do with Sickles.
When Zahir was done berating Hubbard he turned to Rapp and Coleman and asked, “And who in the hell are these two? Why wasn’t I called about these murders?”
Never one to run from a fight, Rapp squared himself so he was within striking distance of the police officer. Even though the man looked over fifty he was probably in his early forties like Rapp. Unlike Rapp, though, he was pudgy and out of shape. He had a little potbelly and that ridiculous shoe-polish-black beard.
Hubbard started to answer but Rapp reached out and grabbed his arm. Turning his eyes on the Afghani, Rapp said, “Who I am is none of your fucking business. As to why we didn’t call you, that should be obvious. You’re a thug and a piece of shit.”
Zahir’s face flushed with anger and he began to stutter.
