stares didn’t.
“Everything okay, boss?” the man on Cluzet’s left, a German, asked in English.
“Kein Problem,” Cluzet said. “We’re just about done here.”
The other man, a short, barrel-chested Spaniard, smiled broadly, speaking in a near whisper through clenched teeth, like a ventriloquist. “These guys speak English?”
“Not a word.”
The Spaniard raised his voice but kept staring at the armed fighters in the jeeps. “I counted ten men up top.”
“Thirteen,” Cluzet said. “Including a sniper on the other side of the river.”
The Spaniard nodded. “Good eye.”
“Four hundred American dollars,” the Afghan finally said. “Not enough.”
“But that is all I’m going to give you.” Cluzet smiled even more broadly than before. “Take it. Please.”
“Do you think I am an idiot? Do foreign devils with guns travel in these mountains to deliver children’s toys?”
“Look, I admire you. I really do. You picked a terrific blocking point. A narrow part of the road just around a blind curve. That is very expert. And your men above on both sides with long-range weapons and RPGs.”
“Then you realize I can kill you all and just take what I want.”
“Of course I do. And I understand you. I really do. You are a businessman, just like me. We can be friends. No need for violence. Just take the money.”
The Afghan nodded thoughtfully as he pocketed the money. “Yes. I will take the money.” His fierce scowl broke into a wide grin. “And your trucks.”
Cluzet shook his head as he ran his fingers through his hair. “That is truly unfortunate, my friend.”
The Afghan suddenly noticed the tattoo on the Frenchman’s forearm. A wing with an arm and a sword. He didn’t recognize it for what it was: the arm of the Archangel Michael, the patron saint of the 2e Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes of the French Foreign Legion.
“Fortunate or not, I am taking what I want. Stand aside or I will kill you and take it anyway.” He raised his weapon. “I don’t fear a man with a woman’s smooth face.”
Cluzet rubbed his beardless face. “Yes, smooth, like Setara’s, I imagine. She’s your youngest wife, right? The prettiest, at least. I should think she would like my face.”
The Afghan chieftain scowled with confusion. “You know my wife’s name?”
Cluzet’s boyish charm suddenly vanished, his face hardening like the limestone looming above their heads. “Pull out your phone, Behzad Khatloni, and call her now.”
“How do you know these things? You are a devil!”
“My job is to know everything. Call now. Or you will regret it.”
Khatloni marched over to his jeep and his driver handed him his phone. He dialed. A moment later, a panicked woman’s voice answered.
“Our sons! Behzad! Please!” a woman’s voice shouted over the speaker. Everyone could hear it.
“What is happening?”
“Foreigners. Infidels. Rifles, machine guns. Vehicles. They have rounded us all up. They said they will kill us.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know,” she cried. “Many.”
Khatloni’s eyes widened with rage. He turned toward the Frenchman. “What is this?”
“All of your fighters are here. If you don’t leave in the next sixty seconds, my men will burn your village, kill your elderly, rape your women—and your sons.”
The Afghan whipped a long choora knife from its sheath and lunged at Cluzet, landing the blade millimeters from Cluzet’s neck before the other two mercenaries could react.
“Call them off!”
Cluzet didn’t flinch. He could smell the stink of Khatloni’s breath. “My men have their orders. They will slit your children’s throats, drop the bodies into the dung trench, and piss on them.”
He pressed the t-shaped blade against Cluzet’s throat. “Have you no fear?”
“Yes. Of boredom.”
The Afghan’s men stirred anxiously, worried about their own families. Cluzet’s men stayed frozen in place, ready to pounce on command.
The giant Afghan searched Cluzet’s unblinking eyes.
“You are the spawn of Satan!”
“Probably. Thirty seconds.”
Khatloni cursed, sheathing his blade. He barked orders to his men. The jeep engines fired up and he turned to leave.
“Not yet,” Cluzet said.
The Afghan spun around. “What?”
“Your watch.”
Khatloni stiffened. “Are you insane?”
“Your watch, now. Or I don’t call.”
“You would kill my children for a cursed watch?”
Cluzet shrugged, puzzled. “Yes. I would.”
The Afghan clawed at the watch’s wristband, grunting with frustration.
“I hate you devils! You curse my land.”
“Yes, I suppose we do. But it’s an interesting way to pass the time.”
The Afghan flung the freed watch at Cluzet, who caught it with a laugh.
“Make the damn call, infidel!”
The Spaniard reached behind his back and handed Cluzet a sat phone as Khatloni piled into his jeep. The engines roared and the two UAZs sped away in a screech of smoking tires