Page 60 of Whisper
“This lines up with our intelligence, too. We’ve got reports coming in from on the ground that Bin Laden was seen heading east to Jalalabad. Dining with tribal leaders. Praying at a mosque in Jalalabad with the Taliban governor there. He left in a convoy of trucks and jeeps that stretched a mile long, they say.” George pointed to the map Ryan had tacked to the wall of their station’s command center. Bin Laden’s sightings were pinned in a row, stretching east from Kabul toward the border with Pakistan. “There’s also a news report of a convoy of trucks passing through the village of Agram. Qurans in one hand, AK-47s in the other. Multiple nationalities.” George handed over an article from theTimes. Some reporter had trekked all the way out to Jalalabad for the article.
“This reporter is lucky to not have been killed.”
“It matches what we’re getting from the sources on the ground.” George fingered the pins, moving east, and then south through the Agram village and Nangarhar Province. He kept going, and his finger ended up dead center on Tora Bora against the base of the Spin Ghar mountains straddling the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. “Where are we on getting support from Khan to head east?”
Kris sighed. “Khan and Fazl have been dragging their feet. They’re content in Kabul. They want us to take care of the south, and the east, and al-Qaeda. They think their work is done.”
“We helped them get here.” George’s eyes flashed. “Kris, you have Khan’s ear. His trust. Use your relationship with him. Get us the support we need to go after Bin Laden, before he slips away!”
Chapter 10
Kabul, Afghanistan
November 22, 2001
“Listen up!” George bellowed over the mess of bodies stuffed into one of the bedrooms at their CIA station. True to George’s word, Kabul—and Kris’s CIA station—had turned into the hottest place on the planet. The station was buzzing, electric with energy and trilling satellite phones and bodies moving in and out at all hours of the day. George had peeled off his core team and pulled them into a tiny bedroom. “The men in this room are going on the hunt for Bin Laden.”
Silence, instantly. The hushed voices, the whispers, the side conversations, stopped.
Kris stood next to George on a rickety chair. Palmer and his team were there, along with Jim and Ryan.
“We’ve pinpointed Bin Laden’s movements. He’s headed east-southeast. He’s moving with a large contingent of al-Qaeda fighters. Kris has secured the allegiance of a warlord in the east, a man named Shirzai. He’s been paid handsomely to help us set up what we’re now calling the Eastern Alliance. He’s gathered together some friendly warlords of his own, and they’re laying the groundwork for our entry into Jalalabad.”
“Isn’t Jalalabad where those journalists were murdered?” One of Palmer’s men called out.
The Taliban had melted into the countryside and the mountains following their withdrawal from Kabul, turning to wraiths. Roving bands of fighters moved outside Kabul, swooping down on roadways and villages and serving swift retribution.
“Yes. A van of six journalists was stopped by what we believe are Taliban- or al-Qaeda-affiliated fighters. They were marched off the van and executed. Jalalabad and the rest of Nangarhar Province are white-hot right now. Filled with fighters. But we’re on the move. You will be Team Bravo. Shirzai has sent his deputy, Naji, to Kabul. When he arrives, you all are deploying with him to Jalalabad. The Eastern Alliance has already started working in Nangarhar and Jalalabad. They’ve pushed back on the fighters there. They, and you, will fight your way to Tora Bora and find Bin Laden.”
Excitement thrummed through the tiny room, exultation mixing with exhilaration, with adrenaline, with the thrill of the chase, the hunt. They’d come to Afghanistan for this reason: to exterminate Bin Laden and al-Qaeda, make sure they could never attack the US again. Kris could see it in everyone’s eyes, the commitment, the finality. They’d put their boots on the ground in Afghanistan less than two weeks after September 11. They would be the ones who saw this through to the end.
Naji arrived just after noon. He had four trucks with him, filled with fighters, everyone dressed in a mishmash of kameezes and fatigues and turbans. Every fighter had an AK-47, a bandolier of grenades, and at least two knives. These were not the organized, professional fighters of General Khan and the Shura Nazar. These were mercenaries, tribal fighters under a true warlord’s banner.
Palmer and his men loaded up one of the trucks and climbed in. Ryan tried to talk to Naji, but he didn’t speak anything other than Dari and Pashto. “Kris!” Ryan waved him over, irritation flooding out of him. “You need to stick next to Naji. Translate for us.”
David jogged over before Kris slid into the front seat of Naji’s truck. His face was hard, expression fixed, eyes cutting through every man around them. He leaned into Kris, growling into his ear. “Be careful.” His hands flexed, clenched, at his sides, like he wanted to reach out.
Kris grabbed David’s arm. He felt David’s trembles through his layers. “I will see you in Jalalabad.”
David nodded once. Palmer shouted, calling him back. Running backward, David kept his eyes on Kris until the last moment, until he climbed into the truck bed.
Naji spoke in gutter Dari, the kind of slang and street lingo a gang member back in the US would use. It took Kris a while to catch up with him, but he followed along with the map Naji had, tracking their route east and into the mountains. It looked like a short trip. They would be off the road before dark.
The drive lasted all day, and well into the night.
Switchbacks and curves that pushed the trucks to the edge of dirt tracks, roads that careened around mountain passes, washed-out sections of mud that had collapsed under snowfall, and rockslides that blocked the pass slowed them to a crawl, and then to stop when they had to clear the road. Each time the convoy stopped, Palmer’s men were up and armed, scanning the road, the hills, the valley, anywhere and everywhere.
Finally, they crept into Jalalabad.
The city, like the mountains, the countryside, everything they’d driven through, was gray. Surface-of-the-moon gray, alien-landscape gray. Like all life had been sucked out of the land, and only an endless stretch of desolation remained. Narrow streets crowded stone homes together. Limp power lines sagged across alleys, and some hung torn and frayed on the dusty streets. Fires burned on street corners, and men huddled around the flames. Their eyes stared from beneath their flat wool caps, gazes dead and cold.
Once, Jalalabad had been one of the most beautiful cities in Afghanistan. Lush with greenery, it had been an emerald in Central Asia, a Shangri-La of Afghanistan. Now, it looked like the dark side of the moon, inhabited by refugees of the fall of Earth.
Armed men stood on every street corner, glaring menacingly at the trucks as they rumbled through the city.
“These are our men,” Naji said. “We control this city now.”
“What about outside the city?”
