Spider Shepherd: SAS: #2 (21 page)

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 to 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 greying 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
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, 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
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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.’

Shepherd waited until he’d clinched a sale, then led him off to one side, out of earshot. ‘I’ve been thinking, Karim,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to more careful about being seen with me.  It’s putting you at unnecessary risk. It’s one thing for you to be peddling stuff around the base, but being seen every day talking to a special forces guy like me is too risky.’ 

Karim gave him a suspicious look. ‘My father has talked to you, hasn’t he?’

Shepherd started to deny it, but Karim looked away and shook his head. ‘You spoke to him,’ he said flatly. ‘Please do not lie to me.’

‘OK, yes, he spoke to me.  But what he said made sense to me anyway.’

Karim’s eyes started to fill with tears, but he brushed them away with an angry swipe of his hand. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I was – I am, I just don’t want to be the cause of you getting hurt or worse.’

‘I have done nothing wrong, Spider,’ said the boy.

‘I know that,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I can’t put your life at risk. It’s not fair.’