Anger filled Layla’s body as she surveyed the scene of the executions. That was how she thought of what she saw before her. Even though the men lying on the ground had had weapons in their possession, they hadn’t stood a chance against the man before her.
“Do not move!” Captain Jamshid Fitrat stepped into the cave himself.
In his early forties, the Afghanistan National Policeman was a professional fighting man blooded in many battles. He was short and squat, powerfully built, and always watchful. He never asked questions until he had first spent time figuring out a situation for himself.
Layla liked the captain for his professionalism, attention to detail, and because he had gone to college in the West. He had ultimately disappointed his wealthy parents because he’d chosen to become a soldier instead of the medical doctor they’d wanted him to be. He had served in the army before college and had returned to it a few years later.
During his time in the West, Fitrat had also learned to treat women as equals. Layla had met the captain’s wife and children on occasion. The woman and the two boys seemed very affectionate. Very Western.
Later, after she’d gotten to know him and learned that she would be appointed liaison and director over the dig site, Layla had asked that he be assigned to the security post.
Fitrat himself had never said whether he preferred the assignment one way or the other. He was totally professional.
The captain kept his pistol pointed at the man standing before them. “Put your hands behind your head. Do it now.”
“Of course.” The man spoke with a Russian accent. “I will do everything you say.”
Fitrat kicked the pistol away. “Down on your knees.”
Without a word, the man knelt. He remained calm and kept his eyes forward.
Layla couldn’t believe the man could be so matter-of-fact. He wasn’t even trying to defend himself.
“Don’t hurt him. That’s Major Dolgov.” Chizkov tried to get into the cave.
Two of the men Fitrat had brought with him grabbed the young man by the arms, lifted him bodily, and hoisted him across the outside passageway.
One of the Afghan soldiers pointed at Chizkov. “Do not move.”
“All right. But don’t hurt him. Obviously those men came in here to hurt Professor Glukov and Professor Lourds.”
“Are you alone?” Fitrat stepped around in front of the man, his pistol always pointing at the man’s head.
Dolgov, if that was his name, glanced idly around at the dead bodies scattered across the cave floor. One of the men had ended up falling back onto a cluster of stalagmites and now looked like an Indian fakir on a bed of oversized nails.
“I am now.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to the aid of two professors from the camp. These men were going to kill them.”
Fitrat examined one of the packs on the floor. When he opened it and shined a flashlight beam inside, Layla saw the pile of fist-sized dark bags inside. “This is opium. Black tar.”
Dolgov inspected the revealed contents of the bag. “Yes, I believe it is.”
Opium ran through Afghanistan. In the beginning, it had been grown by the Sumerians, the Assyrians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians. The drug had been used at a lethal dose to kill people. Possibly Socrates himself had drunk hemlock laced with opium. But the drug had also been used as medicine, as a pain reliever and to adjust people with emotional problems.
The Islamic people had picked up the crop, improved upon the strain, and sold it to the Chinese for medicinal purposes. Of course, that wasn’t the entire use. Criminal enterprises had flocked to it, including British, French, and American trading companies.
Even today, opium remained a stable currency in Afghanistan when the economy constantly teetered on the brink of poverty. The American Central Intelligence Agency had used opium as a monetary bargaining chip during their involvement in the country in the 1980s. Now the Taliban used it, but there were warlords who remained solvent selling it to evolving markets as well.
Any pity Layla might have felt for the dead men evaporated immediately.
Fitrat released the pack, and it tumbled onto its side, spilling the dark bags across the rough floor. “You said you were here to aid the two professors.”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know. When I was in the passageway outside, I heard the American, Lourds, speaking. I entered when guns were fired. Glukov and Lourds were nowhere to be seen.”
Fitrat gestured his men into the room. Two of the soldiers remained outside