people coming down the hall.
Afghani mujahedeen, warriors of God, were as a rule a kind, but trigger happy-people, made that way because of more than twenty years of continuous righting since the Russians had invaded in '79 and the ongoing civil war that had been raging since the Russians finally pulled out in '89. Be careful with them, Mac, his DO briefing team had warned him. If you make a threatening move, if you piss them off, they're going to shoot first and beg your forgiveness later. If you don't make it in one piece bin Laden might throw a fit, but he won't blame his own people, he'll blame you, and expect that if we're serious we'll send somebody else who knows their customs.
They don't separate their religion from their politics, and they don't understand anybody who does. So watch yourself on that score too.
But if you show a weakness, any sign of it, they'll jump on that too. Push them, and they'll react violently. Make a mistake about religion, and they'll pop off. Cower, and they'll run you over.
Otto had walked in on one session, and he hopped from one foot to the other. "You gotta act like you know something they don't, just like stroking my computers, ya know. That's the secret."
A husky figure dressed in Russian combat boots, baggy trousers and some sort of long, duty tunic over which he wore a long vest, appeared in the doorway. He was armed with a Kalashnikov rifle, and his face was covered by a dark balaclava. He swept his rifle left to right, then charged into the room. Two others similarly dressed appeared in the corridor behind him.
"You Kirk McGarvey?" he demanded. His English was heavily accented, and he sounded young and angry, perhaps even frightened.
"Yes, I am. I've been waiting for you."
"Okay, you stand up now, Mista CIA."
McGarvey got slowly to his feet, keeping his hands well
away from his body. "Is bin Laden nearby, or do we have a long way to go?" One of the others in the corridor handed his companion his rifle and came into the room. A fourth, very slightly built figure came to the doorway, and stared at McGarvey, only his eyes visible behind the mask.
"Arms out, legs out," the unarmed mujahed ordered.
McGarvey did as he was told, and the young man quickly frisked him. But he missed the gun and spare magazine taped to McGarvey's thigh. He stepped back. The small one in the corridor motioned to the bag and laptop case on the bed. The mujahed quickly went through the bag, pocketing the phone and lingering for a minute at the computer, his fingers caressing the keys. He looked up. "You will show me how to use this, mista he asked diffidently.
"That depends on how you treat me," McGarvey said with a straight face. It was like dealing with children in a toy store. Only these were armed and dangerous children who could lash out and kill him without a moment's hesitation or thought.
The one holding the rifle on McGarvey laughed as if the comment was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Maybe if we treat you like a prince you will give it to us?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
"What would you do with a computer?"
"Send email," the mujahed replied nonchalantly as if it was something he did every day.
"What about my phone?"
"No portable phones in Afghanistan. It is not allowed."
"If you damage it I will expect payment," McGarvey warned sternly. "I have respect for my possessions, I expect the same from you."
The mujahed flicked his rifle's safety catch off.
"Whoever carries my telephone will be responsible for its safety," McGarvey insisted, not backing down.
The small mujahed at the door said something, his voice so soft as to be barely audible. But the warrior with the phone handed it to him without hesitation.
The one holding the gun on McGarvey safe tied his weapon, and insolently stepped aside. "We go now," he said sullenly.
McGarvey got the impression that something was going on between them; some power struggle between the one holding the gun and the slightly
Afghani mujahedeen, warriors of God, were as a rule a kind, but trigger happy-people, made that way because of more than twenty years of continuous righting since the Russians had invaded in '79 and the ongoing civil war that had been raging since the Russians finally pulled out in '89. Be careful with them, Mac, his DO briefing team had warned him. If you make a threatening move, if you piss them off, they're going to shoot first and beg your forgiveness later. If you don't make it in one piece bin Laden might throw a fit, but he won't blame his own people, he'll blame you, and expect that if we're serious we'll send somebody else who knows their customs.
They don't separate their religion from their politics, and they don't understand anybody who does. So watch yourself on that score too.
But if you show a weakness, any sign of it, they'll jump on that too. Push them, and they'll react violently. Make a mistake about religion, and they'll pop off. Cower, and they'll run you over.
Otto had walked in on one session, and he hopped from one foot to the other. "You gotta act like you know something they don't, just like stroking my computers, ya know. That's the secret."
A husky figure dressed in Russian combat boots, baggy trousers and some sort of long, duty tunic over which he wore a long vest, appeared in the doorway. He was armed with a Kalashnikov rifle, and his face was covered by a dark balaclava. He swept his rifle left to right, then charged into the room. Two others similarly dressed appeared in the corridor behind him.
"You Kirk McGarvey?" he demanded. His English was heavily accented, and he sounded young and angry, perhaps even frightened.
"Yes, I am. I've been waiting for you."
"Okay, you stand up now, Mista CIA."
McGarvey got slowly to his feet, keeping his hands well
away from his body. "Is bin Laden nearby, or do we have a long way to go?" One of the others in the corridor handed his companion his rifle and came into the room. A fourth, very slightly built figure came to the doorway, and stared at McGarvey, only his eyes visible behind the mask.
"Arms out, legs out," the unarmed mujahed ordered.
McGarvey did as he was told, and the young man quickly frisked him. But he missed the gun and spare magazine taped to McGarvey's thigh. He stepped back. The small one in the corridor motioned to the bag and laptop case on the bed. The mujahed quickly went through the bag, pocketing the phone and lingering for a minute at the computer, his fingers caressing the keys. He looked up. "You will show me how to use this, mista he asked diffidently.
"That depends on how you treat me," McGarvey said with a straight face. It was like dealing with children in a toy store. Only these were armed and dangerous children who could lash out and kill him without a moment's hesitation or thought.
The one holding the rifle on McGarvey laughed as if the comment was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Maybe if we treat you like a prince you will give it to us?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
"What would you do with a computer?"
"Send email," the mujahed replied nonchalantly as if it was something he did every day.
"What about my phone?"
"No portable phones in Afghanistan. It is not allowed."
"If you damage it I will expect payment," McGarvey warned sternly. "I have respect for my possessions, I expect the same from you."
The mujahed flicked his rifle's safety catch off.
"Whoever carries my telephone will be responsible for its safety," McGarvey insisted, not backing down.
The small mujahed at the door said something, his voice so soft as to be barely audible. But the warrior with the phone handed it to him without hesitation.
The one holding the gun on McGarvey safe tied his weapon, and insolently stepped aside. "We go now," he said sullenly.
McGarvey got the impression that something was going on between them; some power struggle between the one holding the gun and the slightly
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