Page 72 of Cross Down
He’s wearing clothing similar to ours, and he carries a small rucksack and an AK-47 over his shoulder. When he reaches us, he bows to Elizabeth and puts a hand to his chest. “Madam Deacon,” he says. He turns to me.
“Sampson,” I say.
“I remember you,” he says. “You are so tall. And so black.”
“And you’re so late.”
Bibi looks at Deacon. “No time for tea?”
She shakes her head. “No, not until we cross the border. I want to cover some ground while there’s still a little light.”
Bibi purses his lips and says, “There’s the matter of compensation. I am still owed money by you. The debt must be settled.”
Deacon looks at our guide and interpreter with cold eyes. “I always settle my debts before I leave. I don’t owe you a thing.”
A slight shrug. “Ah, but there is the matter of your other comrades with the Agency. I provided them with many services—at the risk of my life, I might add—and they left without paying me.”
Deacon says, “Not my problem.”
“It is your problem, because you are with the Agency and their debt is your debt. Fifty thousand dollars in American one-hundred-dollar bills.”
Deacon says, “Not on your life.”
Another slight shrug. “Then here I will stay.”
Deacon and Bibi go back and forth for a while, point, counterpoint. The setting sun is sinking below the Pamir Mountains.
Time to get things moving.
“Hey, Bibi,” I say, interrupting their negotiations. “Here’s what I can do. How about half what the Agency owes you now and the other half when we come back—how does that sound?”
He grins, his teeth worn and brown. Deacon says, “Wait, wait—” Bibi wanders over to me and says, “Yes, most agreeable. Thank you.”
I move my hand to my holster, pull out my Glock, slap his face, and grab the back of his head. I bring up my pistol and shove it into his mouth.
His eyes widen. I say in a calm and clear voice, “In case you haven’t noticed, Bibi, we’re in kind of a hurry. We don’t have time to dick around. We’re not planning to spend any more time haggling with you like we’re at the Pul-e Khishti Bazaar in Kabul. Here’s my proposal. In the chamber of this pistol is a nine-millimeter round, street value in the United States of about twenty-three cents. In your current situation, would you recognize this bullet’s value as satisfying half of your debt?” A slow nod from him. “Glad to hear it. But I’m a suspicious sort, so when I take my pistol away, you’re going to make a pledge that you will safely escort us to the village we’re looking for and that you’ll safely escort us back. Can I get a nod, Bibi?”
He nods again, but his dark brown eyes are expressionless. I slowly remove my pistol, wipe the muzzle end on his jacket, and say, “You’re up, Bibi.”
Bibi coughs and says, “My solemn pledge, Miss Deacon and Mr. Sampson, I will safely escort you to the village you seek, and I will safely bring you back.”
“Outstanding,” I say.
I can’t tell what Deacon is thinking, but she says, “Enough talking. Let’s move.”
I slowly return my pistol to its holster. “Thanks, Bibi, and just so we’re speaking the same language, if at any point I think you’re threatening us, leading us astray, or directing us to a Taliban ambush, I’ll blow your fucking head off. Clear?”
Bibi turns and starts walking south toward the Afghan border, and I guess I’m going to have to make do with that nonanswer answer.
Chapter
82
The moon risesin the east over the Pamir Mountains toward the light of thousands of stars, and we have good visibility as we follow the rocky trail south. I spot the far-off headlights of vehicles traveling on unmarked dirt roads and hear a burst of automatic-weapon fire somewhere in the west.
Deacon says, “Who’s fighting whom?”
Bibi says, “Allah only knows. Perhaps a cousin against a cousin. Or a Taliban unit chasing a National Resistance Front patrol. Or some village having a celebration. This district is controlled by Gul Hazara. He was with the Ministry of Defense in the old Kabul government. We see him, we’ll get all the answers we need.”
