CHAPTER 26
AFGHANISTAN
Sergei Simonov didn’t take any pleasure in having to kill Elam Badar, but he wouldn’t lose sleep over it either. The Afghan peasant had picked a fight with the wrong man. His veiled threats to the shura of Mullah Massoud’s village had earned him an early ticket to paradise.
Massoud had debated taking out the son, Asadoulah, as well, but the Russian had advised against it. Killing two people at the same time and making it look like an accident was very difficult unless they were a bomb-making team.
Once Massoud had acquiesced, the Russian discussed the best way to handle the situation. They agreed that the sooner the problem was taken care of, the better. And though it posed considerable risk, they further agreed that it should happen in broad daylight, or as much daylight as possible, which would make it very hard for people to believe that what had transpired was anything but a tragic accident.
The winding footpath the Russian now hid near was just as Massoud had described it. In all his years among the Afghans, their intimate knowledge of the terrain never ceased to amaze him.
The bleating of the injured sheep on the rocky ledge below had continued unabated for nearly a half hour. While he waited, Simonov pictured his son, Sasha, in his mind’s eye. Soon, they would not only be together, inseparable, but he would have the money to care for him properly. He would be able to afford the best surgeons, not just those idiots the state hospitals had provided in Russia.
He could take Sasha anywhere in the world for treatment, America even. He would spare no expense and would go to any lengths to help his boy regain as much of a normal life as possible. They only had each other and needed to stick together. Together, anything was possible. Together, he would prove to his boy how much he loved him and how sorry he was for what had happened to him.
As the bleating of the sheep started to deaden Simonov’s hearing, he suddenly noticed another sound; the sound of feet shambling up the rocky path. He began to slow his breathing. The moment was almost here.
Elam Badar was close enough to hear the bleating of his animal now and his pace quickened.
Simonov marveled at how the world worked. Both he and the Afghan had been drawn to this moment by the same thing—a deep and abiding love of their sons, as well as a misfortune that needed to be set right.
The Russian ignored the fact that he had the benefit of surprise, strength, and experience on his side, and instead believed that he would succeed in killing Elam Badar simply because he loved his son more. They were championing two separate causes, and in Simonov’s mind, his was more worthy.
When Elam Badar appeared on the path and peered over the jagged outcropping for his injured sheep, the blue-eyed Russian took a final breath and sprang from behind the rocks.
At the sound of movement, the Afghan spun, but it was too late. Simonov was already on him.
Elam Badar should never have underestimated Mullah Massoud.
To the broken neck, the Russian added a very badly broken arm and then rolled the body off the path and watched as it landed with a thud only feet from the wounded animal.
His job complete, Simonov stepped back and disappeared into the landscape.
But as he retraced his steps back up and over the top of the mountain, his heart rate quickened as he suddenly realized he was being followed.