Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Intercontinental Hotel in Khandahar was where the war journalists stayed. It was also where the management of the US and European security firms lived when they were in Afghanistan overseeing the business operations of their private armies. In the old days, it was likely to house spies from allied countries and the few hostile ones with a more expansive travel budget. When Jarvis arrived, the lobby was filled mainly with dozens of men wearing cheap suits and too much cologne. They had nametags and paunches. A beautifully hand-written sign at the check-in desk welcomed the members of the International Congress on Infrastructure Redevelopment – Africa and Middle East Region. It could just as easily have read “Carpetbaggers and Country Rapers.” Jarvis checked in and was surprised that the reservation he’d made the day before actually existed. A porter three times Jarvis’ age took his bag to the room and Jarvis headed to the bar to find any foreign correspondents hanging around. Despite the movie cliché, it was the mostly likely place to find them. He crossed the lobby and walked under the wrought-iron arches giving entry to a hushed, carpeted, old-world bar that could have seated a hundred but held only three.

 

Jarvis sat down next to the only patron who could have passed as a US journalist. Not because he looked the part, but because the other two were a wealthy-looking middle aged man and a woman just under half his age who probably took gold bullion along with cash and AMEX for her companionship. No newsman on a foreign beat could afford her.

 

“Another Scotch and soda, and none of the latter.” The guy’s nose suggested this was a lifelong favorite. More veins than Joan Rivers’ legs. He looked at Jarvis and nodded. “You the Colonel’s friend?”

 

Jarvis was probably half a dozen drinks behind so he ordered a cold beer. Technically, alcohol wasn’t available for open purchase in Afghanistan. Neither were prostitutes nor drugs. “Yep.”

 

The beer arrived and each man drank slowly and quietly. Jarvis was in no hurry and he’d never found rushing a man led to quick answers. The journalist drained his glass and signaled to the bartender who waited close by.

 

“I hear you’ve got a couple good stories from your time back in ’03 when this crap started. I was in Darfur then, writing shit nobody read.” He sounded less drunk than Jarvis figured he had to be. “I’m Harding.”

 

They shook hands.

 

Jarvis didn’t look for opportunities to tell war stories, but he didn’t hesitate when talking to someone who understood. War correspondents often saw as much action as experienced soldiers.

 

“Maybe one or two. The one I wanted to share was in a shit town a hundred clicks from here. I walked in on a beheading.”

 

That got Harding’s attention. “Yeah, I know that story. Couple of RPGs took out a school. You saved a guy, sniper or somethin’. Ten more seconds and it would have been an internet highlight reel.”

 

There wasn’t much to add. Jarvis nodded over his drink. “One of the guys who was there, a wannabe, spent some time in interrogation at Abu Ghraib. I ran into him the other day.”

 

The journalist looked around the bar as though a terrorist attack were imminent. It wasn’t an entirely unfounded concern.

 

“Not here. In the States,” Jarvis added.

 

Harding’s attention went from gotten to enraptured. “Terrorism? Bomb or somethin’?” He was reaching for something to write about.

 

“Maybe. He was working with some other people, no one I’ve identified. But there’s more than a few.”

 

“He ‘was’ working with some other folks? Past tense?” He got a look from Jarvis that didn’t leave much room for doubt. “You workin’ for the Colonel or the military?”

 

Jarvis took another cool sip and it felt like it rinsed hard sand from his throat even though he’d already done that. “No, I’m working it by myself. Helping out a friend, maybe a few more people.”

 

Harding put a scowl on his face. “You’re not gonna give me shit, are you?”

 

Jarvis turned to him. His glare cut through the scowl. “The Colonel said you’d help. If I get anything you can use, and you don’t use it ‘til I tell you it’s okay, then you get a story.”

 

The scowl was replaced by a moderately greedy smile. “A terrorism plot on US soil? Broken by a grizzled war correspondent in glamorous Khandahar? Okay, I’m in.” He signaled for yet another Scotch. “Couple of the guys you interrupted back in 2003 have been doin’ pretty well for themselves. They’ve got their own little Jihad Joes wreaking havoc. Not real big, but nasty. If your dead guy in the States was with them back then, maybe he was part of whatever you’ve gotten wind of.”

 

Exhaustion was starting to creep in. Not needing sleep didn’t mean Jarvis didn’t suffer jet lag from being in three international cities in two days. His reading of Harding was that being succinct and informative was not his forte. Now that he’d hooked him, Jarvis could drop any false camaraderie. “You got a name for me? Some coordinates?”

 

Harding waited for the drink to arrive and he took a long pull as though it were his first of the day. “Sure, I’ll shoot you a text. Little village ‘bout thirty miles northwest. You’ll stand out, but that’s where the guys hang, their little base I think.” He pulled out a Blackberry and began typing. Jarvis’ iPhone buzzed with the incoming message.

 

He didn’t look, just finished his drink and got up. “Thanks.” He might need Harding later, so he gave a sincere smile and put out his hand. Harding took it and the grip was stronger than expected.

 

“I sent my number, too. And email. Remember our deal.” The booze in his eyes didn’t hide the hunger. His byline only appeared occasionally and his best reporting days were behind him. This could change the flat trajectory of his career.

 

Jarvis returned the squeeze and nodded. “I’ll get in touch if I need anything else.”

 

He let go and went up to his room. The air conditioning was on, his bag had been unpacked and stored in the closet, and there was a bottle of water and bowl of fruit by the dresser. It could have been a decent hotel in any city in the world. Except when he looked out the window from the 23^rd floor he could see the sprawl of the city and on the horizon, northwest of the city, hills that hid thousands of men and women willing to kill anyone from a different tribe, a different region, or a country that was currently bombing and shooting at them. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. No sleep needed, but a little recuperative down time. He began to strategize his next move. Afghanistan didn’t work quite the same as LA, but Jarvis was not entirely unfamiliar with the machinations. In a few hours he’d get a driver to take him out to the spot he hadn’t seen for almost a decade, but whose images were painted in his mind’s eye with a vividness and clarity that sometimes exceeded reality. He thought about Brin and started to call the hospital, not bothering to do the math for the time change. Before he could finish dialing, the cell phone rang. The caller ID was the unhelpful Blocked but he picked up anyway.

 

The Colonel did not wait for a greeting. “Captain, write down this address. You can pick up your equipment there. Your money won’t be any good.”

 

Jarvis reached for a pencil stub on the table next to the bed and jotted the coordinates onto a piece of hotel marketing material that welcomed the guest in five languages. “Thank you, sir.”

 

That was the extent of the conversation. Jarvis listened to the cellphone equivalent of dead air then dialed a number. There was the strange beeping that passed for ringing in the Middle East and then laughter. A woman’s voice from across a crowded room sang out. “Jarvis!” That was all she said but he recognized Saleem’s wife. If he could have found the unmarried, American version of her he would have been wed years ago.

 

“You better come over or she is going to hit me for not telling her you were here, Jar-vees!” Saleem’s voice was that of a happily married man. It wasn’t a voice Jarvis had often heard other than from Saleem.

 

“When it’s over. Can you pick me up in about three hours?”

 

Saleem said a number of things in Arabic of which Jarvis only caught the gist, but the room quieted down. “I will be there. Should I…bring anything?”

 

“No, I’m covered. And I don’t want you getting caught buying anything you shouldn’t.” Jarvis was going to stir up enough shit; he didn’t want to endanger his friend any more than necessary.

 

“Then I will see you. Rest, rest a little my sleepless friend.” And the cellphone silence again.