Gravedigger Read Free Page A

Pardon my French, Mz. Shoshan. But Pakistan is the goddamned center of civilization compared to Afghanistan, which is a mountainous, desert wasteland. You children familiar with the Durand Line?”
    Derek raised a hand. “Yes, Mr. Landing.”
    “Oh good. A smartass. You, general-sir?”
    “Sorry, no.”
    “How about you?”
    Noa nodded.
    To General Johnston, Derek said, “Back in the 1800s Britain imposed a border between the two countries. For over a hundred years everybody in the world treats it as the legitimate and official border between Afghanistan and Pakistan.”
    “But?” Johnston said.
    “Everybody but Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
    “Swell.”
    “My point,” Landing said, “is that some of these places are Afghani and some are Paki, but it might be kind of hard to tell until the people tell you which is which. Anyway, here’s why you’re here, right? Reds left a bunch of hardware lying around when they left. Afghans laid claim to it. So do the Pakis. The muj , lot of those guys weren’t Pakis or Afghans. They were just Muslims from wherever.”
    “Saudi,” Noa said.
    “Sure. Saudi and Egypt and Algeria and Sudan and Syria and everywhere there’s a poor, angry Muslim who wants to shoot somebody.”
    “Doesn’t narrow it down much,” Noa said.
    “No, it doesn’t. Anyway, we’ve run into some folks that think the Ruskies might have left a few things besides AKs and S-8 missiles lying around. That’s where you come in.” He tapped a particular X on the map. “Seems like some folks here died of mysterious symptoms, like they got exposed to nerve gas or something. I guess that’s where you come in.”
    Derek peered. “Zin. That’s why I’m here.”
    “And more?” Noa asked.
    Blowing a series of smoke rings thoughtfully at the ceiling, Landing said, “Couple things. In addition to a lot of guns, and possibly, y’know, some bio and chemical munitions, it’s possible there’s a stray nuke or two laying around – doubtful, but possible – and of course, we’re fairly concerned about angry Muslims getting their hands on anti-aircraft missiles. Hell, I’ve heard a rumor there’s a Russian chopper pilot living back in there somewhere who for the right price will shuttle people and weapons wherever they want to go.”
    “Bullshit,” Johnston said.
    “It’s a rumor. Haven’t been able to verify it.”
    Noa rested her elbows on the table. “It’s a rumor I’ve heard too. The Afghan tribes are still fighting over control. They get in wars with each other. If one of them can get enough money together, they can hire this Russian and his killer helicopter to provide a little air support.”
    Derek cocked his head. “Enough money to pay for fuel? Selling opium?”
    “Rumor is he’s hooked,” Landing said. “So, you know, as a bonus, it might be useful to know if this is just a rumor.”
    “Anything else?” Derek asked.
    “Well, if you can find out if any of these stray nukes, bio or nuclear weapons are getting in the hands of the Pakis or some Muslim terrorists, that would be good. And, you know, stop that from happening.”

4
    The first village they headed for was in the Spin Ghar mountains on the Pakistan side of the border. Technically they didn’t expect much. The Soviets hadn’t really come this far into Pakistan during their invasion, but Landing and the CIA wanted them to check out the village of Garha. The air was thin and cold and black clouds threatened rain.
    Johnston was driving, the Land Rover struggling with the incline and thin air. As they pulled into the village of Garha, Derek, sprawled in the rear, said, “Welcome to Garha, population 133.”
    “I think you’re counting the goats and chickens,” Johnston said, slowing to avoid running over some of both, which were crossing the dirt track that the Pakistanis called a road. He pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road and waited.
    “Waiting for the welcoming committee?” Derek asked.
    “I’m sure