Page 3 of The Devil's Ransom

Khan recoiled and said, “I have never taken a bribe or other graft. I have the means to secure our future. That’s all. Those savages will melt the gold down into bars if we leave it.”

Jahn stood, took the hand of the girl, and said, “Whatever lets you sleep at night. Just get me to Tajikistan. I want no part of the treasure. That’s all you.”

Chapter2

Sirajuddin Haqqani studied a single sheet of paper, the double row of names and offenses against the Taliban printed out, some with convenient biometric data left behind by the Americans. Now the “interior minister” of the new Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, he meant to cleanse the country of those who were apostates to Taliban rule. Officially, the Taliban had offered amnesty to any who had opposed their onslaught. Unofficially, it was Haqqani’s job to bring select people to justice. The rank and file of the armed forces and police would be given amnesty, but some would feel his wrath, if he could find them in time.

Currently, the Taliban leadership were taking pictures in the president’s office, vacated hours before, proving they were in charge, but the Americans were evacuating traitors at an incredible rate. If he wanted to catch the men on the list, it had to be swift.

And there was one name that he wanted more than any other. Jahn Azimi.

That single man had done more damage to the Haqqani network than any American platoon of commandos. In fact, he’d led the commandos to his doorstep time and time again, killing his men with impunity. Whether a drone strike or an outright assault, Jahn Azimi was at the heart of death. And Sirajuddin was determined to make him pay. It wasn’t personal. It was Afghanistan.

Two men burst into the room, dragging another man in uniform on his knees. The first said, “Jahn was on a helicopter! He took the Bactrian Treasure! This man helped him.”

Sirajuddin stood up and said, “What are you talking about?”

The first man cuffed the guard in the head, knocking him to the ground. The second said, “Jahn was here, hours ago. He left with the national security advisor. Both of them took the Bactrian Treasure. This pig actually loaded it onto the helicopter.”

The guard began blubbering, saying, “He told me he was protecting it. He told me it was sanctioned. I did what they said. I wasn’t trying to harm anything.”

Sirajuddin circled his newfound desk and said, “You saw the treasure leaving?”

Fearful for his life, the guard said, “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by helping. I just did my job.”

Sirajuddin said, “Stand up.”

He did. Sirajuddin said, “We gave amnesty to all who fought against us. You have nothing to fear.”

The man nodded, not believing the words, but hoping.

Sirajuddin pulled a picture from the stack on his desk and said, “Did you see this man today?”

The guard nodded, saying, “He was with the national security advisor. Ahmad Khan. They had us load the Bactrian Treasure into a helicopter. And then they left.”

While he knew the Taliban hierarchy would care a great deal about the treasure, Sirajuddin did not. He said, “This man was the one? He was there?”

“Yes, sir. He was there. He flew away.”

“Where? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. I think Tajikistan. Dushanbe. But I don’t know for sure.”

One of the men cursed him, then smacked him in the head again, slamming him to the floor.

Sirajuddin held his hand up and said, “Stop. He is not the enemy.”

The guard looked at him with dread, saying, “I was just doing my job.”

Sirajuddin said, “I know. And now you’ll continue your job. You are free to go.”

The man looked at the two others, waiting on the axe to fall. When it didn’t, he scurried out of the room, running as if he were escaping a fire.

Sirajuddin let him go, then said, “Get me Shakor. Right now.”

Four minutes later a man entered. Unlike the others in the room, Shakor was dressed like a Western soldier, with a camouflage uniform that included body armor and an M4 rifle with optics instead of a beat-up AK-47. If one didn’t know better, he could have been one of the elite Afghan Commandos trained by the United States Special Forces.

But he wasn’t. He was the commander of the Badr 313 Battalion. Named after the Battle of Badr, where the prophet Muhammed led 313 men to victory in the first century, the battalion was the elite of the Taliban. At the forefront of the fighting, using both special operations tactics and suicide missions, it was not an exaggeration to say that the battalion was the reason the Taliban were sitting in the Arg. And if imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, the men of the battalion were outfitted and clothed just like the Western Special Forces they had fought for more than twenty long years.

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