The Found Son

By J. F. Cronin

Adam Vandergrift is a government employee who finds a loophole in the laws comprising the war on drugs. He puts together a foolproof plan to get opium into the United States and subsequently into the illegal market where money can be made. He cant do it alone, though, so he strikes up a deal with an Afghan supplier: Jabar, a powerful sheik.

Not fully trusting Adam, Jabar sends his daughter to keep an eye on the drugs and money he has invested. Homa is brilliant, ambitious, and often overlooked in her home country due to her gender. She and Adam work side by side to bring opium into America and launder money into a legitimate business. But they never intended to fall in love.

Homa knows Adam will never have enough, never make enough. Their relationship is doomed from the start since her Afghani background will not allow them to marry, no matter how many times Adam asks. As Adams appetite for money continues to grow, he risks losing everything. Theyre playing with fire, and both their lives and freedoms are now at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532030123

J. F. Cronin

J.F. Cronin is a retired marine general who has written extensively about the state of politial-military affairs. He currently resides in a fishing village on the Oregon Coast.

Book preview

I

T he Hazarajat , like most of Afghanistan’s Central Highlands, was insulated from the outside world. Rugged mountains and canyon-like river valleys forced the people inhabiting the area to live in groupings that resembled city-states. Having only a vague idea of the national government in Kabul, people swore fealty to their tribe. The events in the Afghan capital and the growing Russian presence there didn’t affect their daily lives. There were minor annoyances when the Afghan Communist Party cadres came to villages and tried to sell the people on the utopia that Afghanistan would become under Communist rule, but the perceived new world order butted up against centuries of history, religion, and tribal identity and had no chance of gaining traction among the people who liked the old ways. The villagers politely listened, and when the cadres left, they returned to work. Nothing that had been said altered their need to eke out a living.

The Hazarajat was home to the Hazara tribe, a people that traced their roots to Genghis Khan and his armies that had come into the area to put down a rebellion and who stayed to keep the peace. Unlike the other peoples of Afghanistan, the Hazaras’ mongoloid features were similar to those of the ancient Mongols, and the tribal leadership, through the centuries, retained power by claiming bloodlines to the great conqueror.

As the daughter of a Hazara sheik, Homa Khan was afforded a deferential status among the tribe, but it was her eyes that caused the people to keep her at a distance. Lapis-colored irises flecked with garnet appeared tear-filled and drew attention. The eye coloration, the deep blue of the semiprecious stone mined in northeastern Afghanistan, was so rare that tribal elders had heard it mentioned only once in tribal lore.

At birth, word spread that a special child with magical eyes had been born, but the people were confused when they found out that the special gift had been bestowed on a girl. Born into a powerful Hazara clan, Homa couldn’t be ignored, but it was considered that the unique gift had been wasted. Had she been a male heir, she would have been the object of lifelong attention and adoration. Still, as the sheik’s daughter, she couldn’t be ignored because it was never possible to tell how a child with magical eyes might turn out.

In a land where survival was the daily struggle and where women veiled their faces, beauty was not important. In Europe, where her father had sent her to be educated, people coined words to describe her. The word beautiful seemed too bland an adjective. Spectacular, stunning, or any of a dozen other superlatives more accurately captured the ways she was depicted. Her long, arching neck, like those found in a Modigliani painting, wasn’t as accented as those in the artist’s renderings, but it rose delicately from her shoulders. The smooth neck slope served as a pedestal upon which her face rested, delicate yet strong, presenting a confusing picture to those who attempted to classify her. High cheekbones highlighted her eyes that nestled above a narrow nose, and large pupils emanating from almond-shaped slits gave a hint of her ethnicity.

Homa didn’t look at people as much as giving the impression that she was looking into them. The eyes were magnetic, drawing people in, and for the time she spent with them, she made them feel as if they were the only people who mattered. In Switzerland, where she had been educated and where pasty-white skin was the norm, her unblemished olive complexion drew attention. The Swiss knew she was foreign to their land, but they couldn’t easily identify her ethnicity, making her fascinating to European men who devoured her with their hapless stares.

Walking slowly along a deeply rutted dirt road bisecting Kanda, a remote Afghan village hours from the nearest telephone, her famed beauty was concealed under a dirt-laden black burka. In all her life, she had not been made to suffer the humiliation of wearing the demeaning garment, but hidden under it she felt the dual feelings of humiliation and freedom. Through the coarse mesh faceplate, she was able to see while remaining hidden. Wearing clothes that were alien restricted her vision, and she had to turn her head to observe the things taking place around her.

On market days in isolated mountain villages, young women customarily walked in groups like herd animals, but for her purposes, she couldn’t. Taking on the appearance of a broken grandmother, she was able to walk alone, shunned or ignored by people who wanted little to do with the elderly of families not their own. Taller than many of the Afghan women, she assumed a stooped posture, hoping to shrink into the population. Rounding her shoulders and bending at the waist, she hoped the villagers would assume nature had shaped her. The filth of the burka and her stumbling walk were enough for others to avoid her as an elderly reject.

Hobbling, feigning interest in the events taking place in the noisy market, she stopped to look at freshly slaughtered animals. Entrails were ripped out and kicked to the side, leaving the air heavy with foul odors and dense with black flies. Her instinct was to bolt, but she had to remain calm. An old woman would have seen the sight many times. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she moved away, hoping to be able to breathe in air that didn’t reek.

The dirt roadway cut through a row of single-story buildings constructed of sun-dried brick. The walls and the dirt that stained them offered little contrast, making it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Merchants’ stalls, blankets covered with local goods, were spread on the ground, narrowing the usable walking area. Noise rose from in back of the buildings, where young men on horseback played loudly and violently at buzkashi. Their racing back and forth over an open field trying to place a goat carcass in a goal raised a dust cloud that drifted toward the market. The violent rumble of the horses’ hooves created a vibration in the hardpan soil that could be felt in the market. With all the young men and children watching the game, their random shouts diverted attention in their direction, making her passage easier.

Hours earlier, she had been lying between scented silk sheets nervously awaiting the moment when it would be time for her to act. In darkness, she moved to the stable adjoining her home, where she would change her identity. Finding clothes that had been prepositioned, she began the odious transformation. Before she put on the soiled clothing, she dirtied herself in an effort to mask all evidence of softness. She muddied her feet, hiding manicured toenails, and through tattered shoes she could feel the cold air. She hesitated before rubbing mud onto her face. Not wanting to mar her complexion, she knew if she was going to be able to pass through Kanda undetected, the smells, the look, the feel had to be authentic. Reluctantly, she rubbed dirt into her pores and continued to dirty her lush, long black hair until it was matted. With her hair filthy, she tied it into a topknot. Becoming a person she didn’t recognize, she slid into the burka. Where the dirt had made her feel physically dirty, the burka soiled her spiritually. She wanted to throw it to the ground, but it was a needed prop, and she pushed any thought other than finishing what she was setting out to do out of her mind.

Homa had doubts about assuming the role she was about to play. It had been defaulted to her by her brother, who was unwilling to avenge an attempt on their father’s life. A product of his European education, he rationalized away the tribal code of revenge. He didn’t want to start a blood feud when the family was weeks away from finalizing a drug treaty with the Americans. He was interested in the American money and the self-importance such a deal would provide. Delaying revenge made business sense, but it ignored that he was the son of the leader of the Hazara tribe. She understood, as her brother didn’t, that the tribe accepted revenge deaths as part of their lives. To ignore the assassination attempt on their father was foolhardy. The Hazara didn’t care how many European degrees an Afghan man had; they knew of a son’s duty to his father and his tribe and expected an eye for an eye or worse.

Reaching that part of the market where hashish and opium were sold, she slowed her pace, feigning no interest in the things taking place around her. Seeing Abdul Nafir, the man she was going to kill, her breathing became sporadic. Unable to get enough air, she wanted to stop, to try to compose herself, but couldn’t. Women, especially old grandmothers, didn’t stop in that area, and she had to force herself to drift in Nafir’s direction.

Sitting in a chair, leaning backward against an eroded brick wall of what at one time had been a house, Nafir wore a soiled white robe exposing only his head and feet. His upper body was covered with a goatskin vest, blackened by years of sweat and toil. Channels were eroded into his face that was tanned like rough leather. A scar ran from under his right ear, across his cheek and mouth. Pinkish scar tissue left an ugly part in his beard, giving the appearance of a blood river running through matted trees. It was incomprehensible that so brutal a gash hadn’t killed him. Instead, it gave him a menacing look. When he smiled, only half of his mouth worked, leaving people wary.

A man with many sworn enemies, his presence in the open market was reckless, but if he was worried, it didn’t show. Three bodyguards were in proximity. Two with Kalashnikov assault rifles stood at the front of an aged Toyota Land Cruiser, the only vehicle in the market. They seemed more interested in keeping people away from the car than they were in protecting its owner. A third guard was nearer, sitting on the ground, selling drugs under Nafir’s watchful eye.

The guards by the car sensed no threat and watched the people pass who, because of their weapons, gave them a lot of separation. Sure nothing would happen to endanger their charge, they weren’t vigilant. They had been in the market many times, and the routine of staying alert was boring.

Homa’s heart raced. Time compressed, and she felt she was flying, rushing through motions that had to remain slow and measured. She had to will herself to concentrate, to maintain a protracted pace. Passing by the Toyota, she turned down a dirt alley toward Nafir. He looked up and made no overt sign that he felt threatened.

Drawing close, she reached under the burka. She had no idea that the time could stop, but the action took forever. Feeling for the pistol slung around her neck and hanging down by her side, she couldn’t grasp it. In the times she had practiced gripping the gun, she had no difficulty, but as her sweaty hand groped, it slipped off the grip. She panicked and had to fight the urge to flee. Slowly, she repeated what needed to be done.

The gun in her hand felt alien, heavier. She had to stop thinking that it was too heavy to lift. Gaining control of her imagination, she tilted the muzzle toward Nafir. As a man who had survived on instinct, he sensed danger. He looked toward the eyehole in the burka and started to tense, seeming angry rather than frightened. Before he could shout a warning, Homa squeezed the trigger.

The hiss of the silenced pistol was lost in the background noise of the market, but a bullet ripped through the burka and slammed into Nafir. A second shot followed, pinning him in his seat against the wall. The bullets entered his stained vest, and the blood that flowed was lost amid the dirt and grease. The killing was accomplished without immediate signs that Nafir was dead.

Convinced she was running, she stopped to regain control of her fears. In the background, the noise in the market changed. The din of haggling was replaced with shouts of confusion and anger. Her head was pounding. She wanted to escape, but quick movements would give her away. She was in an enemy camp, and if she were found out, she would be killed. There would be no trial, only death delivered summarily. As a woman, she would not be afforded an opportunity to die with honor for the thing she had done. Her fate would be mutilation until death was preferable. Her breathing was so rapid she could feel herself becoming lightheaded. In a curious mixture of fear, exhilaration, and remorse, she was unable to remain upright, and the assumed stoop became real.

Slipping out of the burka, she lost the old woman’s identity but didn’t return to being herself. Taking on a man’s identity was necessary. Women didn’t ride horses in that part of Afghanistan, and as a man, she would have freer passage. Mounting a horse that had its flanks and mane coated in mud, dirtied much as she had dirtied herself, she did not allow the animal to gain speed until Kanda was almost out of view. Then at full gallop, she took the wrap disguising her sex from around her head and exposed her hair to the wind. It was her first act in trying to lose the stench that enveloped her. She pushed the horse, hoping a hard ride would free her of thinking about what she had done. The harder she rode, the more she fixed on the reasoning for her rash act.

The eldest of the Khan children, the progeny of the Sheik Jabar Khan’s first wife, it hurt her that she had been moved from the line of succession by a male offspring of a less legitimate wife. It rankled that because of her sex she would be denied something rightfully hers. The strongest willed of the Khan children, she wanted the opportunity to lead her tribe. Unlike her half brother, Yousef, she cherished the idea that she shared the blood of Genghis Khan, the genetic strand that bestowed leadership of the Hazara to the Khans. The Khan leadership would not have endured without the historic good fortune of having settled in an area that was a geographic anomaly. In the bleak Afghan landscape, the Hazara settled in the high upland valleys that were suitable for growing opium poppies. Opium cultivation and distribution gave the Hazara riches greater than those found in other tribes, making them targets of rival factions wanting to take what they had. At times, it took fighting to maintain control over the crop. When there were no external threats, there were tribal challenges. Control of the opium crop threw off too much money to have other families accept the Khan oversight without question.

It was one of those challenges that had brought the family together. Men who had grown up with guns in their cribs understood the gravity of the attack on their sheik. In a meeting of the tribal leadership, mostly family, they discussed how to retaliate. Yousef, Jabar’s son, would not challenge his sire about the need for the meeting, but he felt there were more civil ways to settle disputes. He stood apart from those who had not been given the opportunity to be educated abroad. His manner was European, a suspicious oddity in the heart of tribal Afghanistan.

Jabar Khan was six feet tall and slender, almost willowy. He was not an overly large man, yet he dominated the room. The blue shawl of the Hazara draped the shoulders of his black business suit. His skin, tanned from exposure to the sun, was drawn tight, looking healthful rather than weather-beaten. His eyes were narrow and black, eerily cold, and his lips were accented by a black French Fork beard that split down the middle, coming to two distinct ends that looked like devil’s horns. The beard reinforced the idea that he was complex and menacing. He was a leader used to getting his way, and he carried himself with that assurance.

A woman in attendance at the tribal meeting was a cultural taboo, but Homa entered the room, feeling she had a right to be in on decisions affecting the family. With her presence accepted grudgingly, because Jabar didn’t prevent it, she stayed away from the seated men and tried to remain unobtrusive by standing against the wall.

The attempt on my life was ordered by Abdul Nafir. Jabar waited to see the affect of his words on the assembled group. Someone in the central government was not in favor of the Hazara having been singled out to deal with the Americans, and Nafir was incited to kill me with promises that the government in Kabul would allow him to take over the opium production as long as they received a share of the profits. He was assured that his family could replace ours. With me dead, the government intended to recognize him as the tribal overlord of the Hazara.

How did we get this information? Yousef questioned his father upon hearing of the link between Nafir and the central government.

It was one of those times that Jabar wished he hadn’t educated his son abroad.

The information came from one of Nafir’s lieutenants. Jabar brushed aside the question. He didn’t know who set the bomb meant for me, or if he did, he didn’t confess before I had him killed.

Why would Nafir work against us? Yousef asked, trying to construct an argument that would support his reluctance to act.

His family is gong to be hurt by opium crop reductions demanded by the Americans.

How did he find out? What we’ve been doing is known by only a few officials, Yousef countered.

In Kabul, information is bought and sold like food. There are no secrets except in family meetings, and we must decide what to do, knowing whatever we do could start a cycle of violence. Our decisions have to focus beyond revenge. We have to factor in the Americans. They want a document signed that will look like a business transaction and may turn away if they think there will be mass killings. So before they arrive, we must get our house in order. How should we proceed? Jabar spoke directly to his kinsmen.

In issues of tribal importance, the circle of advisers narrowed. Among the men in the room, he looked to his son to provide advice, because he would live with the results of the decisions that might foster hatreds that could survive for a thousand years.

Without Afghan harshness, Yousef fumbled, and his words came not from conviction but because a response was expected.

Jabar studied his son. As sheik, he had accepted the American proposal and money because significant changes had taken place in Kabul, and the Hazara could no longer ignore government dictates. The Russians influencing the puppet central government could transport the Afghan army troops to any location. When the central government came calling, now they could not be ignored. What Jabar didn’t understand was how the international politics were playing against the poppy growers. The Russians, the enemy of the United States, had pushed the puppet government to accept the American opium reduction accord. Jabar guessed that most of the $25 million that the Americans were going to pay to reduce the flow of drugs would end up in Russian hands. With Russia the historical pipeline for the trafficking of Afghan drugs, Jabar assumed they would not interfere with the normal opium trade. They and their puppets would overtly comply with the treaty pushed by the Americans and act in their own self-interest by allowing production to continue.

The Hazara would have to show some reduction in opium production from their historic fields, but new growing areas were being readied along with new channels of distribution where the Russians would take the drugs out of Afghanistan through Kazakhstan. Kabul and the Russians were seemingly complying with the American requests but had no intention of following through on them.

Isn’t there some way we can reach an accommodation with Nafir until the treaty with the Americans is signed? Yousef said.

What are you talking about? Homa scolded. Her nostrils flared in anger as if she were trying to breathe fire into the room. "An attempt was made on our father’s