One Child (24 page)

Chapter

42

Soho, New York

There was no future for him at
Platinus Investments
. Regardless of what came out of the two sets of e-mails he had found on
Fleming
's computer,
Carson
didn't trust the man and had no desire to work for him. There were plenty of firms that would take him on.

He sat in his favorite chair, Jorge Amistav's e-mails on his lap, listening to a CD with trickling water and soft music.
Nicki
was sleeping soundly in their bedroom, even snoring occasionally. She seldom managed a decent sleep for any length of time and was always tired. It was early for her to be turned in, but anytime she could sleep was good.

He checked his watch. It was a bit after eight on Tuesday evening. Certainly not too late to call someone in Washington DC. He slipped his Blackberry out and scrolled through until he found the name he wanted. He hit the send button and the wireless device dialed the number. A man's voice answered. Businesslike.

"Terry, it's
Carson
Grant in New York."

"Hey,
Carson
, how are things?" The voice changed immediately, taking on a friendly tone.

Terry Palmer was an old high school friend who had joined the military after graduation. He had done a couple of tours in Iraq before moving into procurement. If anyone understood how the military moved its weapons and men, it would be Terry. He had left the military and was in DC working as a lobbyist, but the knowledge of how things worked would still be tucked away.

"Things are okay here,"
Carson
lied. "
Nicki
's doing pretty well and I'm crawling my way up the ladder on Wall Street. How are things in DC?"

"Okay, but not great. I feel like a used car salesman selling a lemon to a blind man."

Carson
chuckled at the thought of Terry's commitment, or lack or it, to his new position as a lobbyist on Capitol Hill. "It's much the same here. Wall Street has its moments."

"I'm sure it does. What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I need a bit of information. I thought you might be able to help."

"I'll try. No guarantees, though."

"If someone was talking about KAF, they'd probably be referring to Kandahar Airfield. Is that right?"

"Sure. I don't know any other meaning for it."

"And if someone wanted to supply weapons to KAF, what's the procedure?"

"Through the established channels." He took a minute to skim over how the procurement procedure worked. "Despite the volume of stuff they move, the military is pretty good about keeping tabs on things."

"What about weapons not going through those checks and measures? Could someone circumvent this and still get the shipment to KAF?"

There was a long silence, then, "You're fishing,
Carson
. What's going on?"

There was no upside in lying to his friend. "I stumbled across something." He went on to describe what he had discovered.

"They could have been stolen," Terry offered. "Or rejects."

"That happens? That kind of stuff can get through the system?"

"The problem is that they don't go through the system. They find a way around it. There are lots of arms dealers out there who will pass along whatever they can get their hands on. The guys in the field are getting new guns and grenades, so they don't complain. The key to making it profitable is to have someone who can get their invoices through all the red tape and actually get paid."

"Where would the weapons be shipped in from?"
Carson
asked.

"Lots of places. The US mainland or Germany. Sometimes they hub through Kyrgyzstan and head on to KAF from there."

The conversation shifted around to what was happening in their personal lives. They spent another fifteen minutes talking, then said their goodbyes and both men promised to stay in touch.
Carson
checked his Blackberry for any e-mails that might have come in while they were talking, then switched it off. He needed to think.

There was little doubt in his mind that William
Fleming
was shipping weapons to Afghanistan without following the proper procedures. The only reason why he would do it was to make money. Money that he didn't need. And according to Terry Palmer, the weapons were probably either stolen or defective. He set the e-mails from Jorge Amistav on the coffee table and picked up the ones from Trey Miller. He took a minute to scan the contents and the date they had arrived.

Bahamas account # 973-4462-8812.
July 30
th
.
Assembling team. P today. M tomorrow. Worried about Lindstrom
. August 1
st
.
Have Maelle. Meeting Alexi and Petr now. Should be in business by later today
. August 3
rd
.
Received your fee. Team in place. Time frames are tight but should be okay. Crash inevitable.
August 4
th
.

When he had last looked at the e-mails on Saturday, he had decided that the dates didn't work for
P
and
M
to be Petr and Maelle. So if they weren't people, then what were they? He opened his laptop and powered it up. He clicked on the Internet and typed some keywords into the Google search line.

Maelle Petr Alexi Lindstrom Trey Miller

Miller was a known, but he was also an ex-CIA spy who would probably do whatever he could to stay off the radar. His name was adding a lot of unnecessary hits to the total. He dropped Trey Miller and tried again.

Maelle Petr Alexi Lindstrom

He hit enter. The results still ran into the millions and were all over the map. None of the keywords worked together and the first five pages of hits were random pairings of the words. He switched his train of thought and concentrated on the letters. What could
P
and
M
mean? If Miller was putting together a team of specialists for a job, maybe they were in different places. Different cities or countries. Alexi and Petr sounded Russian.
P
could be St. Petersburg.
M
might be Moscow. Another try, this time adding the two words to the list.

Maelle Petr Alexi Lindstrom St. Petersburg Moscow

Still too many results. He removed the first three names. They were too common and most of the results were from the names embedded in by-lines and text.

Lindstrom St. Petersburg Moscow

He scanned the lines intently, looking for how the Google algorithm was pairing the keywords. The first few pages were filled with tourist attractions for St. Petersburg and Moscow. The ballet, lists of museums and parks, and restaurants and hotels. The first mention of Lindstrom was on the seventh page. It had something to do with a woman named
Julie
Lindstrom who owned a company that was providing security for the upcoming U2 concert in Moscow. He read a few lines then went on to the next page of results.

His eyes were sore from staring at the screen and he killed the connection to the Internet and shut down the computer. Two hours of poking around and he'd uncovered nothing of any value. He needed some sleep. Tomorrow, Thursday at the latest, was going to be a tough day for him. Benediem, and the other companies whose stocks had fallen prey to the runaway algorithm, would be forced to address their shareholders and reveal the extent of the damage as well as their plan to deal with it. None of it was going to be pretty and some of it could easily end up on his plate.

One thing was now set in stone. He was leaving Platinus. He had to be careful how quickly he handed in his resignation so he didn't raise any red flags. Breaking into
Fleming
's e-mail account was risky and he wasn't sure if the intrusion had been noticed. If it had, and he handed in his notice immediately, the suspicion would fall on him. He had to pace himself - be careful.

He pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the bedroom. He may have wasted two hours of his time on the computer, but at least
Nicki
was getting a good night's sleep.

Sometimes you had to celebrate the small victories.

Chapter

43

Kandahar, Afghanistan

"I'll be in school soon," Halima said to her friend.

Safa slid into the small alcove that set the doorway back from the street. In stark contrast to the rough stone under her feet and the prickly mud her shoulder rested on, the carved olivewood door was smooth against her back, The two girls barely fit in the small space half a block from the Old City market. Overhead, the midday sun flooded the narrow street between the buildings.

"When do you leave?" Safa asked.

"Five days." Halima recounted the days to make sure. Her father had told her that today was the 18
th
and she would be leaving on the 23
rd
. She was quite sure the difference between the two was five.

"You're lucky," Safa said.

"Why am
I
lucky?" Halima asked. "You go to school, and you didn't have to leave your family. I have to leave Kandahar."

"That's why you're lucky. I hate it here." Resentment simmered in her words.

Halima looked at her friend with worry. "This is where you live. Where you grew up."

"I hate the war," Safa said. "It's dangerous here. You and I were playing with the goat and look what happened." Her finger traced the scar on her face and she started crying. "I'm scarred. No one will ever want me."

Halima touched the other girl's arm. "That's not true, Safa. You're going to be a beautiful woman. You're already beautiful. You'll be even prettier when you're older."

"I hate it," Safa snapped. "I wish I lived in America."

"What do you know of America?" Halima asked.

"Lots," Safa replied. "They have stores with shelves so long that when you stand at one end you can't see the other. And that's just for food."

Halima tried to imagine such a sight. It was impossible. The stores that dotted the twisting side streets in Kandahar had short, wooden shelves that were often empty. Maybe it was like the market. She glanced down the street at the rows of men selling vegetables and rice and naan bread. Chickens with their throats sliced open hung from their bony legs, the last of their blood dripping on the dusty soil. A goat, staked to the ground with a short piece of wood and a fraying rope, watched her with a modicum of interest. The scent of spices was thick in the air and there was a constant hum of voices and motorcycle motors. Tea boys darted through the crowds, hurrying from one customer to another.

"How do you know so much about America?" Halima asked.

"From talking with the soldiers."

"They speak Pashto?" Halima asked. "I didn't know that."

"No, silly, they have interpreters. If you ask them questions, they'll usually answer." Safa held her pointer finger in the air. "They have a big white house in a city called Washington."

Halima was getting tired of Safa's descriptions of places she had never visited. "There's a white house near where I live," she said.

"This is a
big
white house," Safa countered.

"So is the one on my street."

They lapsed into silence as two heavily bearded men emerged from the market and walked toward them. They both wore black turbans and loose clothes that could easily hide automatic weapons. Their dark eyes constantly scanned the road and the surrounding buildings, searching for what they deemed to be danger. They passed the girls with only a perfunctory glance and continued down the street to the first corner. They turned left onto the cross street and disappeared from sight.

Taliban.

Halima let out her breath. They scared her. She knew it was the Taliban who had crushed her father's hand and that her mother had been caught in a gunfight between the Taliban and the foreign soldiers. There were so many stories about their brutality that she had become numb to them. She liked the soldiers and wished they could keep the Taliban from coming into Kandahar, but that wasn't happening. Maybe it never would. There were always so many of them.

"Is that a new blouse?" Safa asked. She ran her fingers across the embroidery on Halima's sleeve.

"Yes. My father bought it for me." She couldn't keep the pride from her voice. Her father had picked it out especially for her and she knew it had cost him at least one day's wages. "He wants me to have something nice to wear when I meet my new family."

"I like it," Safa said. She tucked into the doorway even tighter as a merchant pushing a cart went past. The wheels were almost touching the girl's exposed legs. "I hope you have a nice family in Pakistan."

Halima smiled as a warm sensation poured through her. She was leaving her friends and her father and little sisters, but for all the right reasons. She had a chance to make something of her life. To get an education and learn to read and write. She knew her numbers, but in school they would teach her to add and subtract them. Not easy numbers like 18 and 23, but really large numbers. Her father told her that the teachers knew all about the sun and the planets, and why the snow on top of the mountains didn't melt even when it was hot outside. There were so many things to learn.

"You're right, Safa," she said. "I am lucky. Very lucky."

Five days until she left Kandahar city. Five days until the start of her new life. She was filled with a sense of wonderment at the upcoming change in her world. At what she felt in her heart. It was something different and exciting. She'd felt it before.

Hope.