Kabul Gold

  KABUL

  G O L D

  DARREN RODELL

  KABUL

  G O L D

  A Dan Temple Adventure

  Copyright © 2011 Darren Rodell

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 978 1848768 192

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11pt Minion Pro by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  For my family

  PROLOGUE

  “Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to

  us than the injury that provokes it”

  (Roman philosopher, mid-1st century AD)

  February, 2001. The Taliban stronghold of Kandahar.

  Flanked by a number of heavily armed Taliban militia, Mulla Mohammad Omar strode confidently into the room, his stern gaze immediately falling on the nervous figure of Salim Oma Asgari. The tall, wiry man hesitated, then stepped forward to greet him.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ he bowed, subserviently.

  ‘Wa alaikum assalam,’ Mulla Omar nodded. ‘Have you completed your preparations in accordance with my instructions?’ he enquired, continuing to pace the room.

  ‘I have,’ confirmed Salim. ‘Every piece has been replicated in the finest detail. The final exchanges will be made tonight and the treasures shipped before dawn.’

  ‘Excellent. I will issue the decree tomorrow, ordering all non-Islamic statues and artefacts be destroyed. It is the will of Allah,’ Mulla Omar stated solemnly. ‘The world will be outraged and therefore blinded to our subterfuge,’ he added with a self-satisfied smile.

  Although virtually unknown to the world’s public, the cultural heritage of Afghanistan is one of the oldest and richest in history. Mulla Omar had long known that, despite being closed to the public since 1992, the treasures held in the National Museum in Kabul represented a Silk Road melting pot of highly precious, if not priceless, artefacts from China, India, Egypt, Greece, Rome and ancient Afghanistan. This crucial knowledge had been stored away, to be used when he needed it most. That time was now.

  His plan was as simple as it was ingenious. To replace carefully selected, high-value artefacts with flawlessly crafted replicas, then destroy those replicas along with numerous other exhibits to remove any chance of discovery, in an act veiled as malicious Islamic vandalism. The originals would be shipped to Pakistan where they had already been sold to a very wealthy businessman and private collector. The businessman would gain the exquisite, priceless works of art, statues and precious metal artefacts for his collection. The Taliban war chest would be boosted by two hundred and fifty million US dollars and the world would be none the wiser. It was perfect.

  *

  Salim arrived back at the museum late in the evening. It had been a protracted, exhausting journey. Wearily, he walked down the long, dimly-lit corridor to his office, opening the door to be greeted by the pensive-looking museum director.

  ‘Director, what a pleasure,’ Salim lied. ‘What brings you to my office at this hour?’

  Omara Khan Masoodi stared back at him. Salim noted his frosty disposition. He knew the director disliked him intensely; he was more than aware of his links with the Taliban hierarchy.

  ‘Where have you been, Salim? I was hoping to speak to you about the recent and most unfortunate destruction of a number of key exhibits, including a priceless ivory statue of Buddha,’ he said sorrowfully.

  ‘I had some personal matters to attend to,’ Salim responded indifferently, dismissing the question.

  He knew that despite outward appearances, Masoodi held no authority over his position. He had not been appointed by anyone at the museum; he had been given the title of Curator and placed in the museum by Minister Qudratullah Jamal, on the orders of Mulla Mohammad Omar himself. He was untouchable. He was there to keep watch, to observe and to safeguard the genuine treasures until Mulla Omar was ready and the deal struck.

  ‘I have noticed a considerable amount of activity in the museum over the past month – exhibits being moved or closed off without my knowledge or permission. Do you know anything about this, Salim?’ Masoodi asked almost accusingly.

  ‘Yes, forgive me, Director. I know how busy you have been, so I took it upon myself to assist with the forthcoming diplomatic inspection by having certain exhibits and artefacts cleaned and redisplayed,’ Salim replied obsequiously. ‘I trust this is in keeping with your wishes, Director?’

  It was a sly, manipulative question, designed to get the required response.

  ‘Very well,’ nodded Masoodi, having no option but to agree.

  Salim smiled inwardly, sensing the director’s displeasure, but knowing Masoodi had no time to stand and argue. He was due to meet the representatives from the international delegation in the morning – a delegation whose primary concern was the preservation of Afghanistan’s cultural heritage and Masoodi still needed time to prepare.

  ‘I am sure you will be delighted with the results, Director. Some of the artefacts look as good as new,’ he added with a furtive smile.

  Salim waited an hour, until he was sure Masoodi and his handful of dedicated staff had left. Reaching over his desk, he picked up the telephone, drumming his fingers on the polished wood as he waited. His call was answered on the eighth ring.

  ‘You may begin,’ he said.

  *

  One by one, the trucks reversed up to the loading bay at the rear
of the National Museum. The small teams worked in unison as Salim fussed around them, checking and double-checking his inventory. It was hard work, combining the need for speed with care and accuracy. None of the men spoke unless spoken to by Salim. No one stopped. They worked quickly and diligently, until all of the chosen exhibits had been exchanged and the original artefacts carefully packed into foam-lined cases and well-padded crates.

  Salim walked to the truck waiting at the head of the small convoy, climbed into the cab and sat next to the driver. In his lap, carefully encased in foam and locked in an aluminium case, lay the priceless, two thousand year old gold and ivory figure of Buddha.

  ‘Go,’ he said.

  *

  Salim’s small convoy reached their destination in the treacherous mountain roads of the Hindu Kush at noon. Pulling off the road, they parked the trucks against the sheer rock face and climbed out, stretching their tired limbs in the sliver of shade offered beneath the towering rock face.

  ‘Hasif, bring me some coffee,’ ordered Salim, turning to one of the younger men.

  Crossing the road, he walked over the broad band of gravel that bowed out to the cliff ’s edge and gazed along the spectacularly rugged gorge. The landscape was brown and bare, devoid of vegetation, except for sparse clumps of stunted trees and small ragged bushes jutting out between the stark, jagged rock.

  The daytime temperature had soared to well over ninety degrees and it felt even hotter in the stillness of the gorge. The heat shimmered through the valley with no hint of a breeze to bring some cooling relief.

  Salim gazed at the distant, snow-capped mountains, wondering why this place had been the chosen rendezvous when there were other safer, more remote passes hidden higher in the mountains.

  Hasif joined him, handing him a cup of coffee. Salim took a sip. It was thick, strong and very sweet, just as he liked it. He nodded his approval.

  The rest of the men worked as he rested, unloading the trucks and carefully stacking the crates in the shade at the roadside. No one spoke as they toiled in the oppressive heat; they were eager to complete their work and leave as soon as possible.

  Salim’s instructions were simple: drive to the rendezvous, unload the crates and remain with one truck. At 2:00pm, a convoy of three bright red trucks would arrive with the money. The goods and the money should be checked and the exchange made. The transaction complete, he should then return immediately to Mulla Mohammad Omar in Kandahar.

  The first part of the plan complete, it was some time before Salim heard the sound of heavy diesel engines rumbling and echoing strangely through the high passes and lower gorges.

  He stood up, walked to the bend in the road and gazed in to the distance. Holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare, he stared through the heat haze as a truck slowly shimmered into view. The bright red paint gleamed, sunlight glinting from its stainless steel radiator grille and tall exhaust stack as its shape solidified.

  He turned, calling to Kassim as he walked back to his truck. Kassim nodded and climbed into the rear of the truck. Working a small gap between the solid metal side and canvas tarpaulin that formed the sides and roof of the vehicle, he peered out.

  ‘Don’t stand in my line of fire,’ he whispered to Salim.

  Salim leant casually against the cab door, trying to convey an easy air of confidence as he sweated profusely.

  Three bright red trucks roared around the bend and pulled to a hard stop, air brakes and suspension hissing loudly. A cloud of dust billowed from the gravel and swirled in the air around him.

  Salim watched and waited, sweat dripping from his brow.

  Several minutes passed.

  No one moved.

  Stood in the unforgiving heat, Salim’s shirt stuck to his body. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face and dropped from his chin.

  At last, the door to the lead truck opened. A tall, strong, athletically built man of perhaps North African origin stepped down onto the gravel. His tight, curly black hair was cut short and neat. His handsome, coffee-brown face sported a closely trimmed goatee. He was immaculately dressed in a lightweight, beige cotton designer suit.

  Salim was impressed and intimidated in equal measure.

  The man smiled, but not at Salim. He smiled to himself, observing Salim’s poor attempt at a show of casual ease, his nervousness and discomfort clearly evidenced by his sweat-soaked body as he stood in the unrelenting sun.

  The man stepped forward as the doors to the other two trucks swung open and he was joined by four heavily armed men.

  Salim swallowed nervously and watched in alarm as the rear doors of the bright red trucks opened. More heavily armed men spilled out, dispersing rapidly to form a wide arc of high-powered, automatic weapons.

  Salim stood up straight and waited nervously.

  The tall man walked closer, stopped, then beckoned him forward.

  Salim hesitantly advanced.

  ‘Mr Asgari?’ confirmed the man, in surprisingly clear, well-spoken English. ‘My name is Mr Khan. Forgive me for being a few moments late. One of our trucks suffered a blown tyre. Have you been waiting long?’ he asked politely.

  ‘We arrived a little early,’ Salim responded, not wishing to divulge the fact that he had been waiting for over two hours in the fierce afternoon heat – or that he had not thought to keep an adequate supply of water when the other trucks left.

  ‘Can I offer you a cool drink? You do seem to be overheating a little,’ Mr Khan offered, looking at Salim’s sweat-soaked shirt and face.

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ Salim replied gratefully.

  Mr Khan called to one of his men.

  A moment later Salim was gulping gratefully from a flask of cool, refreshing water.

  ‘Would your friend like some too? It must be extremely hot in the back of that truck,’ Mr Khan nodded toward Salim’s truck.

  ‘Kassim, come down and have some water,’ Salim called.

  ‘Please excuse the rather obvious show of firepower, gentlemen,’ said Mr Khan. ‘You can never be too careful when carrying a large amount of cash,’ he smiled broadly, flashing his incredibly white teeth. ‘I believe you have something for my client?’

  Salim nodded. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, gesturing to the crates stacked behind his own truck.

  ‘Excellent.’

  Salim passed him an inventory and stepped respectfully out of the way as Khan instructed his men to open the crates. Opened in turn, the contents were carefully checked against both the inventory Salim provided and one which Mr Khan produced from the inside pocket of his jacket. Thirty minutes later, the crates were sealed and reloaded into the bright red trucks parked on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘The money?’ Salim asked.

  Mr Khan smiled, nodded and raised his hand. A man, as yet unseen, appeared from the lead truck and unlocked a compartment situated between the cab and the main container.

  Salim watched carefully as five aluminium suitcases were transferred to Salim’s truck and loaded into the rear.

  ‘It’s all there. Two hundred and fifty million dollars,’ confirmed Mr Khan. ‘Count it if you wish, but I can assure you my client and I have the utmost integrity in our business dealings – as well as a strong desire not to die unexpectedly young,’ he added with another ingratiating smile. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I am sure, and sincerely hope, we won’t be meeting again.’

  With that, he turned and Salim watched him walk back to the lead truck, climb into the cab, close the door and disappear behind the black tinted glass.

  The trucks started with a roar. Belching out clouds of diesel, they turned, sending the dust swirling and billowing around them like thick acrid smoke as they drove away.

  Salim followed them to the bend and watched them until they faded into the distance, melting back through the heat haze and disappearing from view.

  He walked back to his truck, climbed into his seat, leant forward and rested his head on the dashboard.

  Kassim clo
sed up the rear of the truck then joined him in the cab.

  ‘Are you alright, Salim?’ he asked, looking at the slumped body of his companion.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Let’s get moving. It’s a long drive to Kandahar,’ he replied, sitting up straight and wiping the sweat from his brow.

  The truck started, turned in a wide arc and headed for Kandahar, three hundred miles to the south.

  *

  It was after 3:00am when Salim’s truck finally arrived in Kandahar, his arrival greeted by a pensive-looking Mulla Mohammad Omar. The successful completion of the clandestine transaction was crucial to the ongoing Taliban war effort.

  Salim climbed out of the cab, wearily stretching hours of travel and fatigue from his long wiry limbs. His quiet, exhausted demeanour transformed as Mulla Omar strode purposefully toward him. He stood up straight, smiling broadly as Omar greeted him with unexpected warmth.

  ‘Tell me, my brother, were you successful?’

  ‘I am very pleased to report that everything was completed according to plan,’ he confirmed, feeling extremely pleased with himself.

  ‘That is excellent news. You shall be well rewarded for your part, Salim. Now go, you must be exhausted. We will talk once you have rested,’ Mulla Omar congratulated him. Salim bowed and walked away, elated by the greeting and praise from his leader and master.

  It was midday before Salim woke. He washed and dressed in fresh clothes before walking across the compound to request another audience with Mulla Mohammad Omar. An hour later, the two men were sitting comfortably, drinking coffee and talking quietly.

  ‘Was the reaction to your decree as expected?’ Salim enquired politely.

  ‘It was indeed,’ smiled Omar. ‘The world’s outrage was even stronger than I had hoped. No one will suspect our true actions or motives. This is a great day, Salim. Even as we speak, the money is being spent on new arms and provisions for our struggle. Praise be to Allah,’ he proclaimed, holding up his hands in rejoice. ‘I am very pleased with you, Salim. You have proven your worth and will be rewarded accordingly.’

  ‘Thank you. I am yours to command, Mulla Omar,’ Salim replied, with an obsequious smile.