Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [50]
Behind refrigerated glass at the deli counter, Jack saw tubs of water-soaked feta; trays of black, brown, and green olives; stuffed grape leaves; hummus; mast — a kind of Afghan yogurt — flat nan breads; and other foods Jack didn't recognize.
Somewhere a radio was playing, the volume low. The announcer spoke Dari, a common language in Afghan cities. From his quick reading of the CTU dossier in his PDA, Jack knew the Khalil brothers were nomadic Pashtuns by birth, so their first language was Pashto. Nomadic Pashtuns were raised according to an ancient tribal code called Pashtunwali, which stressed honor, courage, bold action, and self-reliance. They were also warriors by tradition, and undoubtedly by bitter experience, given the recent Soviet actions in Afghanistan.
Behind the register, a tall, thin man with a gray-streaked beard and an Afghan turban sat on a high stool. Jack waited patiently until a Hispanic man in a security guard's uniform paid for a copy of the Post and a cup of coffee. Jack noticed a well-thumbed copy of the Koran at the man's arm. Finally the security guard was out the door, and Jack approached the proprietor.
"Excuse me. I'm looking for Taj. Is he here now?"
The man barely glanced at Jack. His eyes were deep brown, reflective. They were the eyes of an aesthetic, not a terrorist.
"Who is asking?"
"My name is Shamus Lynch. I need to see Taj. I have something for him..."
The man's gaze grew suspicious and he did not reply. The moment stretched, until Jack began to think his masquerade had failed.
"Go to the door at the back of the store," the man said at last. "Follow the stairs to the basement."
Jack nodded, walked through the aisles to the rear of the market. When he was out of sight, the turbaned man reached under the register and pressed a button.
A few moments later Jack reached the bottom of the rickety and uneven wooden stairs. The three-story building that housed the market was more than a century old, so the basement walls were made of crumbling sandstone, the floor bare earth, covered here and there with rotting planks. The ceiling was so low, Jack had to crouch a bit to move around. For illumination two glowing bulbs dangled from wires wrapped around the plumbing. The place was dark, damp, and stank of mildew. Instead of a large, expansive area, the basement had been partitioned into sections by walls fabricated from unfinished wood already beginning to rot.
"Hello," Jack called softly.
From the partition behind him, a fist lashed out, cuffing Jack on the side of the head. The blow was not meant to kill, or even stun him, just put him down. It worked.
The man who'd struck emerged from the shadows, pinned Jack to the floor. He wore an Afghan skullcap, his scraggly beard dangled in Jack's face. One of his front teeth was missing and his hot breath reeked.
Jack did not struggle, even when a second and third man emerged from the shadows. One was a youth, his face twitching nervously. The other was past middle age, stocky and powerfully built. He also wore a turban, along with a clean if slightly shabby suit and a too-wide-to-be-fashionable tie. This man knelt next to Jack and fumbled through his pockets until he located a wallet. Inside the worn black leather he found cash, several credit cards, and a New York driver's license, all belonging to Shamus Lynch.
The older man lowered a lightbulb from the ceiling and shined it into Jack's face. Blinking against the glare, Jack wondered if his passing resemblance to Shamus Lynch — along with the fact that he held the man's ID — would be enough to convince these men he was the real deal. Though Jack could not see beyond the light in his eyes, he heard footsteps and knew more men had arrived.
"It must be him," someone grunted.
"As I said. Who else could it be?" the older man replied.
The man pinning Jack to the floor rolled off, then stood. He extended his hand, helped Jack to his feet. Jack rubbed