The armoured Mercedes 4x4 turned into the road leading up to the embassy. Peter Larsen was deep in thought and did not notice the old man sitting in the shadows of a mud-brick house. His large, crooked nose rose from his leathery dark brown skin, lending him an almost aristocratic appearance. A long life under a merciless sun had given him a myriad of wrinkles spreading from his eyes towards the wild white beard. His demeanour was that of a wise man. But as he sat there, he doubted his own wisdom. It had been an unforgivable mistake to let his youngest son help transport the family’s crop of raw opium on its way towards Pakistan. Especially as there had been strangers involved. Men from a faraway place called Chechnya. Allah had decided that his youngest son should meet his maker now. Still, the country from the high north that had supplied the soldiers should pay the price for his death! he thought and adjusted the plain white turban wrapped around his suntanned head. Calmly, he reached for the parcel of cloth by his side and grabbed the remote control that had been concealed underneath it.
Peter Larsen sighed in relief inside the large Mercedes as he spotted the embassy building at the end of the neglected tarmac 95road. That was the last picture his retina processed as everything went black. A massive fireball ripped the armoured car apart, and the blast wave from the improvised explosive device pulverised everything inside the car. The pressure of the blast wave and fragments from the IED killed Peter Larsen instantly. But the enormous negative pressure that followed sucked all air out of the confines of the car and hedged the bet. Every vessel in his body burst, and his lungs filled with blood. It would have resulted in his drowning, in no time – had it not been for the fact that he was already dead. The old man was most likely unaware of these intricate details as he slowly rose and scanned the burning inferno before him, chanting in a low voice. He left the shade and picked up pace as he headed back toward the Helmand province to the south. A tear trickled down his cheek, and he cleared it with the back of his hand. The wind must be irritating my eyes, he thought as yet another tear ran down his weather-beaten face. It must be the wind, he repeated, straightening his back as his bare feet turned a corner, and he disappeared behind the mud houses. Behind him, a sudden gust of wind spread the smoke from the burning car and the black ash rain with it. An unexpected bonus of the old man’s revenge. Peter Larsen’s notes and papers were forever made illegible and effectively destroyed. Something not only FE would come to regret.96