“Yes, a conspiracy. To hide Acevedo’s connections with a local drug lord, a powerful man in Kandahar named Bacha Marwat.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. What’s his relationship with Acevedo?”
“He is one of the great opium traders in the region,” said Zalmay. His tone made it clear he had no love for the man. “He has many, many farmers under his command, who altogether harvest tons and tons of poppies. But transporting opium is not easy. Acevedo has many big planes that take off and land every week in their own airfields, with no oversight but their own. Cougar and I found out that this is how Marwat’s opium is getting out of Afghanistan.”
Morgan wiped his hands of blood, put his shirt back on, and took the memory card from his pocket. He took out the cheap digital camera and batteries he had instructed Zalmay to buy on their way over as he watched over Baz in the car. He put the batteries in the camera, then inserted the little black plastic memory card in the appropriate slot. He turned on the camera, and switched to the replay function. It showed that there were ninety-seven images in all, which he began to click through. In the first several frames, he could see a plane clearly marked with Acevedo International’s logo, a curled eagle’s claw. After that, there were crates, each filled with bags. Another series of pictures showed the contents of one of the bags spilled open: opium.
He paused to take this in. If Acevedo International was running opium for a local warlord, the charge against them was more serious than just drug trafficking, or even war profiteering. Much of Afghanistan’s drug money ended up funding the Taliban or other insurgents—usually as protection money, or a way to keep the Americans busy. This was out-and-out treason. If it were true, this kid had evidence that could bring down one of the most powerful corporations in the world. A lot of very rich and influential people would want to silence him. And now it was Morgan’s duty to get him safely back to the United States.
Morgan looked up at Zalmay and couldn’t help feeling sorry for this jumpy and confused kid, who was not that much older than Alex. “How did you get involved with Marwat?” Morgan asked.
“Because of my English. I was a translator for Marwat’s men.”
“Why did you turn on him? Did Cougar promise you money?”
“No,” said Zalmay, with an offended scowl. “No, he did not promise me money. I did it because it was correct. Because I see it as the will of Allah. The man I worked for, he has connections with the Taliban. He forces all the farmers to grow poppies and pays them less for the crops than the price of wheat. They are starving, but they cannot stop working, or Marwat’s men will kill them. The longer I worked for him, the more I discovered what he did, and the more I hated myself for it. I stayed in his service because I needed the money, and because I was scared and alone and they provided me with some protection and security. But every time I accepted payment, I felt that I was unworthy to live.”
A wave of anguish passed over his face. He turned away, and spoke with a trembling intensity. “My parents were killed in the beginning of the war. The invasion made the Taliban even more cruel and fanatical, perhaps because it made them feel their power slipping away. My mother and my father were wealthy city Tajiks who opposed the Pashtun Taliban. They had Western sensibilities, and my mother did not like to wear the chadri—what you may know as the burqa. One day, an angry mob of Taliban loyalists caught them on the street. They called my father a dog and my mother a whore and stoned them to death. This was when I was only a boy. I have been on my own since, and I have made many compromises to survive.” He looked right into Morgan’s eyes. “I am helping Cougar because I wish to do something worthy. This is my redemption.”
Morgan had known many foreign collaborators in his life, and each had his own reason to help. A great many wanted money or asylum, and many did defect as a matter of principle. But rarely had he seen anyone so certain in his purpose as this kid.
“Well, Zalmay,” Morgan said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for. And if you’re telling the truth, it means we’re on the same side, and I’m going to do everything I can to help you. Just one more thing.” Morgan knew that this would be a shock to the young man, and so he had waited to tell him. Morgan turned down the radio. The gaudy pop music played in stark context to the solemnity of the moment. “Did you know that Cougar was found dead in Kandahar?”
Zalmay looked at him with wide, pitiful eyes. “No,” he whispered. “It cannot be.”
“I’m sorry, Zalmay. His death came as a shock to me, too. He was a great friend of mine.”