The Taliban in Texas E-Book

John Maresca

• Herausgeber: ibidem
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Edition Noema
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 372

Beschreibung

Joey Torino is a man who has tired of the busy, and dangerous, life he has led, and has simply decided to opt out.  He is done with all that—the pressures of doing something that someone else wants him to do, the risks of doing things he questions, resents, or even disagrees with. And he has managed to escape that life, quietly, without fanfare or animosity, and with just enough income to be able to live, in the northern forests of Maine, in the secluded, modest style he prefers. And he is happy in his simple life here. But then a message from his past arrives. Pen Highsmith has another difficult mission for him, and although those dangerous episodes in Russia are long past now, Joey’s "special skills" are needed again. Joey faces a difficult situation, involving the Russians, a complicated low-key civil conflict, ancient suspicions and animosities, and a ruthless, relentless enemy, hidden in the mountains—in Afghanistan.  And the monumental investments of the Wilde Oil company might be put at risk, under certain circumstances and in some situations.  There are clear risks, and potential dangers, which have to be dealt with and surmounted, in a country, in a region, which is complicated and potentially dangerous. So Highsmith reaches out to Joey Torino.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Verlag

Title Page

1. Blue Hill, Maine, March, 2001

2.

3. Houston

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9. New Orleans

10. Kabul

11. Foggy Bottom – The State Department

12.

13.

14.

15.

16. Mazar-e-Sharif

17. Kabul

18. Herat

19. Kabul

20. Washington

21. Kandahar

22.

23. Kabul

24.

25. Houston

26. Kandahar

27. Houston

28. Kabul

29.

30. Kabul

31. Mazar-e-Sharif

32.

33. Mazar-e-Sharif

34. Kabul

35.

36.

37. Kandahar

38. The Road From Mazar-e-Sharif to Kabul

39. Houston

40. Kabul

41. Kandahar

42.

43. Herat

44.

45.

46. Enroute to Houston

47.

48. Houston

49. Mazar-e-Sharif

50. Kandahar

51. The Gulf of Mexico

52. The Panjshir, Afghanistan

53. Kabul

54. Houston

55. Enroute from Houston to Kabul

56.

57. Mazar-e-Sharif

58. Kabul

59.

60. Mazar-e-Sharif

61. Kandahar

62.

63. Kabul

64. Mazar-e-Sharif

65. Kabul

66. The North of Afghanistan

67.

68.

69.

70. New Orleans

71. Kabul

72. Houston

73. Flight to Houston

74.

75.

76.

77.

78.

79.

PART TWO

81.

82.

83. Near Kandahar

84.

85.

86.

87.

88.

89. Kabul - Five years Later

90.

91.

92.

93. Paris, Two Years Later

Epilogue

The Taliban in Texas

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ibidem Press, Stuttgart

“When strong winds blow, the wise take shelter.”

Afghan Proverb

1. Blue Hill, Maine, March, 2001

The sun was just rising, visible through the trees to the East. Joey could sometimes see it as it emerged from the sea – a shimmering golden ball, slowly appearing at the distant line of the horizon. His house was at the top of a small hill, away from the coastline, but the elevation made it possible – just barely possible on a clear day – to catch a glimpse of the distant glowing sun. He often made a point of getting up early, for no other reason than to gaze at this unique scene, at this special moment, and he never regretted it.

The woods around his house were quiet at this time of day. Later there would be birds chirping, but also the muffled sound of distant cars, passing from time to time along the country road that curved around the hill to pass the entrance to his plain dirt driveway, half a mile away. This was the moment he savored, because it was the time when he felt most strongly the distance he had managed to put between himself and the rest of the world. Here he was in his own realm, far from the many pressures of his earlier life, in Washington and its many extensions.

Joey was not a cynical man – on the contrary. His view of the world, of his life experience, of what the future might hold – was simple and ... well ... simple. He was attached to the ordinary things – like this sunrise moment he enjoyed so much – which made up his straightforward life. He enjoyed the quiet, the subtle sounds of life in the forest, the rolling volume of waves as they curled across the sand, and all the varied whistles and squawks of the birdlife in the trees above him, against the silence of the air above.

He was a man who had tired of the busy, and dangerous, life he had led, and had simply decided to opt out. He was done with all that – the pressures of doing something that someone else wanted him to do, the risks of doing things he questioned, resented, or even disagreed with. And he had managed to escape that life, quietly, without fanfare or animosity, and with just enough income to be able to live, here in the northern forests of Maine, in the secluded, modest style he preferred. And he was happy in his simple life here.

Today was mail day – it was delivered once a week to his mailbox by the side of the road below, out of sight beyond the thick grove of trees and the wild shrubs which hid his cabin from the few cars that passed. The road below, in any case, went nowhere – coming to a dead-end at a small, unspoiled lake about a mile beyond. There were no houses there, and no beaches, so the only cars that followed that road were those that belonged to the rare summer fisherman, looking for a remote place to drop his line.

And so, after doing a few stretching exercises on the veranda he had added to the modest cabin, he set off down the hill, cutting through the trees toward the road, about a half-mile away, as he always did on the days when the mailman passed. He never used the driveway, but preferred to walk randomly, and silently, through the woods, stepping – instinctively and not deliberately – on the thick layer of pine needles that covered the ground. It was a habit he had formed years earlier, and which was just, well, his way. His way of walking through the trees was mostly silent, and even the birds continued to chirp and sing. He knew they would stop if he made a noise, just as he was alerted when someone approached his cabin, a modest natural alarm system, which he valued.

And there was a silence in the woods today, which he noticed immediately – the birds were not chirping as they normally did, and even the trees seemed silent. Joey instinctively went silent himself, and advanced slowly, cautiously, through the trees. There was little that he feared in his solitary life in the woods, but he did not appreciate surprises, which normally meant intrusions by outsiders into his solitary lifestyle. He advanced through the trees without hesitation, but with an increased degree of awareness, his senses noting every sound or stirring of the air above him.

After a few minutes he could see the road below, curving around the hill, and realized that there was a car parked there, alone on this remote hillside, where cars almost never passed. Joey paused for a moment, silently, to watch. Over the years he had learned that waiting, watching, was sometimes useful. He stood in the shadow of a tree, immobile and alert.

After a few minutes a man opened the door of the car, stretched, and stood by the side of the black vehicle to smoke a cigarette. He looked harmless – perhaps a bill collector or an inspector of some kind. Or a plain-clothes policeman. Joey quietly resumed his descent toward his mailbox, and emerged from the driveway onto the black surface of the road. The man saw him and snuffed out his cigarette, clearly indicating that he was there to see Joey. “Morning,” he said.

“Can I help you?” Joey said as he continued toward his mailbox.

“Mr. Torino?”

“That’s me.”

“I have a message for you from Mr. Highsmith.”

“Highsmith? He could have called me.” Joey took a local newspaper and a couple of bills from his mailbox. He never got any letters.

“He wanted me to contact you personally. I think he wanted you to know it was important.”

“Pen Highsmith,” said Joey. He made a point of looking at the front page of the local paper, with its headline: “Town Taxes May Rise.”

“He wants you to call him as soon as possible. As soon as it’s convenient for you, of course. He’s in Houston ... in Texas. I can give you the number. He said for you to reverse the charges.” The man was clearly uneasy, feeling awkward in this situation. “I drove up from Boston to give you the message ... personally.”

“Boston,” said Joey.

“Yeah. My office.” He was anxious to get back into his car and drive away. “Here’s the number. I wrote it on the back of my card, in case you should need to call me.” He handed Joey a calling card: ”H.R.WILSON, Legal Advice”.

Joey took the card and inspected it. “What business are you in, Mr. Wilson?” he asked.

“Legal Advice.”

“Are you a lawyer, Mr. Wilson?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“He just wanted me to see you personally – and to make sure you understood that it was important, urgent. You know Mr. Highsmith!” The man tried to smile, but decided against it, feeling Joey’s steady, somehow threatening, gaze.

“Well,” he said, I guess I’ll be going then ... . Long drive back to Boston.” He got back into the car. “Can I tell Mr. Highsmith that you’ll be calling him?”

Joey nodded slightly.

“Okay, thanks! I’ll tell him. I’ll call him right away!” He started the engine, gave a kind-of salute out the window, drove off down the narrow road, around the curve, and disappeared. In the silence Joey could hear the car for a few moments, heading toward the main route back into town, to take the highway south to Boston.

Joey slowly turned back toward his house, reflecting silently on what Pen Highsmith might want, why he would be calling ... after all this time. Whatever reason he had to call, whatever he wanted, it couldn’t be good.

2.

Joey Torino valued his isolation, the woods which surrounded his house, the silence which was only broken by the sounds of the forest, the fact that his nearest neighbor was half a mile away. He appreciated the harsh winter weather and the short summer with its mild temperatures. Above all he welcomed the fact that people left him alone here – he had the company of the birds and a handful of animals which appeared from time to time – and that was all he needed or wanted. He left food for them in the winter, and listened for their sounds whenever he went out walking through the thick forest.

It was the winter, with its white isolation and its many challenges, that he loved the most – that seemingly endless period of short days and long nights, a kind-of natural testing of the human soul. He had spent much of his life among people, in cities and countries – often distant places – and now he felt at home. It was the place he preferred.

Some of his neighbors – the nearest was a mile away – thought he was a bit strange, and it was true that his manner was somewhat forbidding. But Joey had developed his view of life from his experience, and he had come to trust the natural world more than he trusted people. The animals of the forest were his friends. He understood them, and liked to think that they understood him. They knew he was not there to harm them, but just to live, side by side with them, in this wilderness. People, on the other hand, were – sometimes – his enemies. He had learned this over time, the hard way.

Now he reflected on what Pen Highsmith might want. He was not exactly a friend, but Joey knew that Highsmith valued his ... special abilities ... while understanding his attitude toward other people, toward the world, toward life in general. That made him almost unique. The two had been through a number of difficult episodes – not exactly “together,” but somehow sharing the same circumstances, concerns, and risks. For better or worse, they knew each other, and to a certain extent they even respected each other.

Those episodes in Russia were long past now – they had occurred years ago. Joey had been asked by Highsmith to take on a difficult mission at that time; he knew that Joey had the “special skills” to carry it out. What else could you call Joey’s skills? They were just ... “special skills.” Joey knew that, if Highsmith was trying to reach him, it was because of his understanding and appreciation of Joey’s ability to take on difficult problems – problems which would be daunting for anyone else.

So Highsmith had a problem – a “special” problem, Joey thought – a very difficult, very “special” – problem. And he was calling to see if Joey could help him. That would be the only reason he would call.

Joey would certainly call Highsmith back, he thought. But ... not right away. He put together a basic back-pack with some things to eat, a sweater and a rain jacket – just the essentials for a hike which would get him back to his house before nightfall. He would call Highsmith then. Anyway, he thought, if he’s in Texas it is two or three hours earlier than it is here in Maine.

And on this thought he left on a long walk through the forest, to reflect on the call he would make ... later.

3. Houston

Several hours later, in Houston, Pendleton Highsmith III was in his office, anticipating a call from Joey. Outside it was hot and humid, and Highsmith had turned on the air conditioning in his car as his driver took him to the Wilde Oil Tower, the company’s home base, earlier in the day. The Tower was a tall new office building, modern and distinctive, with floor-to-ceiling glass in the executive offices on the top floor, meant to convey a sense of modernity, prosperity and boundless wealth. This was important for the company, intended to give an impression of spectacular on-going profit – for the benefit of analysts, investors and potential competitors. A key element of the company’s strategy, and its vision of itself, was to project an image of constant growth and profit – whether or not that was its true situation.

Wilde Oil was a speculative company, risking huge sums of money on distant investments in countries which were – sometimes, and perhaps – less than stable. Many of its drilling projects were sound, but some were not, or they might be marginal – destined to recover only a portion of the company’s substantial investments. Returns on these investments, in the risky energy sector, depended on many factors, some of which were technical. But there were other, unforeseen or unmeasurable aspects of Wilde Oil’s widespread investments which fluctuated and were unpredictable – technical, moral, political, human, or even ... meteorological.

Following his retirement from the State Department in Washington – as an Ambassador and Under Secretary of State, Highsmith had been recruited by a wealthy college classmate, and a major stock-holder, to become President of Wilde Oil, Inc., the fourth-ranking American oil and gas-producing company, based in Houston and named for its founder, Colonel Hammersmith Wilde. The compensation offered was considerable, and the perks were difficult to resist – residences in Houston and New York, a vacation home on the Caribbean island of St. Barts, travel in a company plane, and virtually unlimited stock options. He took the offer and left Washington behind, just as the Republican Party, with which he was affiliated, lost the Presidency. And he did not look back.

Like so many other senior officials, he was delighted to escape from Washington before being ignominiously replaced as the Under Secretary of State by someone from the “other” political party. He and his wife moved – seemingly happy but with some underlying uneasiness – to Houston. It was the first time they had lived in a city which was not a national capital during Pen Highsmith’s long diplomatic career.

And at first his new position was like a vacation – in some hot and humid foreign capital. He presided meetings, met with people, went on speaking tours around the USA or abroad, addressed civic groups, entertained key share-holders, etc. As a former senior diplomat, he could do this sort of work in his sleep.

But – little by little – problems started to appear – both professional and personal. Or perhaps he gradually discovered – or was handed – some problems that he had not known about but had to deal with. One way or another, his work gradually became more serious and challenging. In some, even most, cases these problems were international – one of the reasons why he had been recruited by the Chairman of the company’s Board of Directors. Some Board members liked to remind him of this when he was not keen to accept responsibility for dealing with the latest mess – an oil spill problem, a bribery investigation, or a hasty withdrawal of company personnel after a violent coup d’etat in some distant, under-developed hell-hole.

Pen was used to dealing with such a continuing stream of complex “issues” from his days in Washington, and he normally just took the difficult decisions that were required – without focusing too much on the multiple effects of his decisions.

It was only when this latest problem, this frankly troubling new situation, “crossed his desk” that he thought of Joey Torino. This new “issue” involved the Russians, a complicated low-key civil conflict, ancient suspicions and animosities, and a ruthless, relentless enemy, hidden in the mountains – in Afghanistan. And of course it involved monumental investments by the Wilde Oil company – investments which might be put at risk, under certain circumstances, in some situations, and assuming a few possible sets of key developments. There were clear risks, and even potential dangers, which had to be dealt with and surmounted, in a country, in a region, which was complicated and potentially dangerous. So he reached out to Joey Torino.

It was the complexity of this latest problem – in a rugged, distant land – which led him to think of Joey – the low-key, silent but efficient, problem-resolver whose talents he had come to appreciate when he was at the State Department. And the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Joey could help him to deal with the latest problem the company had dropped in his lap.

4.

It was late in the afternoon, Houston time, when Joey called Highsmith back. “Mr. Undersecretary? Mr. President?” Joey said, “I’m not quite sure what to call you in your new job.” It was already dark in the forests of Maine, and Joey was comfortably installed in front of his fireplace, where a blazing stack of cut logs was slowly warming the room.

“Hello Joey! I’m really delighted to talk to you after all this time. I hope all is well in your world! I sometimes recall with great nostalgia our work together at the State Department, and I hear that you are now happily retired in Maine! Sounds wonderful! I really envy you! Here it is just hot and humid all the time!” He paused, half expecting Joey to say something friendly and responsive, but Torino remained silent, waiting for Highsmith to open the discussion, since he was the one who had initiated the call. It was his way, as Highsmith knew.

“Yes, well, I suppose you are wondering why I’m calling you – out of the blue, so to speak.”

“Yes,” said Torino, “I was wondering that.” He was looking out the window, through the trees, as the last rays of sunset gradually dimmed in the night sky. Darkness was closing down through the Maine forest, and the flames were just now spreading among the logs he had arranged in the fireplace to take the chill out of the air.

“Well,” continued Highsmith, “You know how highly I value your ability to deal with problem situations. That is just a fact! So I was wondering whether you might be able to help me with a problem I face, here in my new life. As you might know I’m working with an oil company here – named Wilde Oil – I suppose you know the company, or at least its gas stations.”

“I’ve seen the signs.”

“Well, we need someone with your skills, and I thought of you! I always appreciated your work in the Department – especially that last episode in Russia, in the Caucasus mountains. You did a great job there! You deserved a medal! But I know you preferred to retire and leave the Department altogether, and I respected that.”

Highsmith could sense that Joey was not very interested – in virtually anything he might say, or propose. He was a very independent person, and was happy to be out of all the – complications – he had dealt with before opting for early retirement and disappearing up in Maine. But Highsmith was determined to pursue the matter he had called about. When he decided on a course of action, Pen Highsmith was difficult to discourage.

“You could name your price, Joey,” he said. “This is the oil business, not the State Department. You might be surprised by the salaries in this line of work.” He paused, waiting for some indication of Joey’s possible response. When Joey said nothing – that was his style – Highsmith pursued the matter: “We need someone who can deal with a problem in the field, Joey, and I thought of you. Quite simply, you are the best field man I know, and I also know you can be trusted in difficult – sensitive – situations.”

There was a pause, and then Joey responded: “Why don’t you just tell me what you need, Pen, and then I can give you my response. It would save us both some time. But just remember that I am very happy with my life here, and I don’t really need – or want – a change. I’m sitting by the fire in my house, here in the woods, in Maine, after a great afternoon hike. This is the life I always wanted, and, well, I have it now.”

Highsmith thought quickly, and decided to tell Torino the whole story. He was counting on Joey’s instinct to step up to a challenge – the more difficult, the more he might be tempted to accept.

“It’s a difficult situation, Joey. We are deeply invested in Central Asia, and everything depends on our ability to work in Afghanistan. We need you to help us there.”

“Me? In Afghanistan? What could I do in Afghanistan?”

“We want you to go there – as soon as possible – to, well, sort things out.”

5. Houston

As soon as Joey stepped out of the plane, he realized that he was in another world – he had arrived in Houston. The temperature was soaring and the humidity hit him like a soft wall. Crowds of determined travelers pushed ahead without much concern for others, and the oppressive air was only slightly relieved by air conditioning. Fans whirred everywhere, slowly rotating to disperse the heat, and even outside terraces were air conditioned. He could only regret the cool, quiet days at his house in Maine.

A car was waiting for him at the exit doors, with a driver waving a sign marked “Wilde Oil,” as Joey emerged from the terminal. The driver seemed to recognize him, and Joey nodded in acknowledgement. He sat next to the driver and was immediately driven away through the busy traffic.

“Welcome to Houston!” said the driver with a huge smile. He was a friendly Mexican-American who took pride in his ability to thread his way rapidly among the dense lanes of cars, busses, trucks and trailers. He continued an amiable stream of commentary as Torino fell asleep.

It took an hour to get to the Wilde Oil office building, in an expensive Houston suburb. It was an attractive small sky-scraper of 15 stories, set in its own park by the side of an artificial pond with a fountain rising near the center. The park was filled with shade trees against the local heat, and there were walking paths winding thru it. In the distance Joey could see tennis courts and at least one basketball area. The company encouraged physical fitness for its employees.

The air-conditioned car had permitted him to cool down, and he had slept for about a half hour during the ride. He noted a discreet “Wilde Oil” sign on the lawn as the car pulled up to the main entrance – a huge glassed-in area with no people visible anywhere. Joey was impressed by the expensive, studied calm of this company headquarters – Wilde Oil was an icon of the energy business, famous for its audacity and its risky, but very profitable, investments around the world. As he stepped out of the car he almost staggered in the humid heat, and hesitated as he recovered his breath to move up the expansive steps, through the automatic glass doors and into the vast, empty, air-conditioned lobby.

“Mr. Torino?” came a voice from the other side of the lobby, and Joey nodded in response. “I am Conchita Rivera, Mr. Highsmith’s Assistant. I hope you had a pleasant flight. From Boston, I think?” Joey nodded and grunted in response, and followed this young woman toward an elevator, which opened automatically as they approached.

“Have you been to our offices before?” she asked as the elevator doors closed. She seemed to be examining Torino, sizing him up, and her question was a part of this evaluation. Torino understood this, and limited his response accordingly; he disliked being subjected to judgements of any kind.

“No,” he replied in a flat voice, which had the effect of terminating the conversation. The two rode in silence to the 12th floor, apparently the last regular floor in the building, but with some sort of roof-top level listed on the elevator’s control panel. The doors opened to another vast lobby area, and Conchita Rivera led Joey thru a corridor to the open door of a comfortable reception room. An office door opened as they entered the reception area, and Pendleton Highsmith – former Ambassador and former Under Secretary of State – stood in the doorway to greet his visitor.

“Joey!” he said with exuberant pleasure. “How great to see you! Welcome to Houston! Welcome to Wilde Oil!” Highsmith looked exactly the same as he had when he was the Undersecretary of State, but his entire personality seemed to have changed. He smiled broadly, gesticulated with his hands, and spoke as though an entire audience was listening. He seized Joey’s hand and shook it warmly, as Joey marveled at the transformation of the discreet senior government official he remembered from their meetings in Washington.

Highsmith already had his arm across Joey’s shoulders and was warmly easing him through the door of his office. Joey could not help having a flashback to his last meeting with Highsmith, at the State Department in Washington. Highsmith had been aloof and disdainful, asking Joey to undertake a difficult and dangerous mission to regain his reputation, tarnished because of a bar fight in Moscow. Torino had been recalled from his posting at the Embassy there, and Highsmith had offered him a dangerous mission to redeem himself. This former senior diplomat had clearly gone through some sort of transformation between his bureaucratic Washington identity and this new persona as a Houston oil baron.

Everything about Pendleton Highsmith had changed – his voice and tan, his facial expressions, his personal style, and of course his clothes. Highsmith would never have worn a light-colored suit to his office in the State Department – in Washington’s Foggy Bottom – but here it seemed quite normal among these vast office spaces and freezing air conditioning systems. Even Joey, with his dour, closed-mouth style and generally cold attitude toward virtually everyone, could not help but relax – just a bit – as he tried to focus on learning what was expected of him. He needed to know exactly why Pendleton Highsmith, former Ambassador and former Under Secretary of State, had pressed him to come to Texas, and to help this world-wide energy company with its problems in Afghanistan.

They sat in deeply-cushioned chairs opposite a huge fireplace which was clearly seldom used. After a few moments a waiter brought the drinks they had ordered, along with a bowl of prepared shrimp, fresh from the Gulf of Mexico. Highsmith was clearly enjoying Joey’s surprise at seeing his new life-style, his new persona.

“You know,” he said when the waiter had left them alone, “I was a bit reluctant to leave Washington when I retired. But, well, this is the oil business, and they can really make it worth your while! It takes some time – but not too long! – to, um, adjust! But when you get used to it, well, it can be very ... comfortable!” He laughed and gazed out the windows toward the distant skyline of central Houston. “Everything has its place in life, you know!”

“Yes, well, I understand your point,” said Torino. “But what, exactly, do you want me to do? You said it was important, and that I was the only person you knew who could do it. That’s why I came down here. I know I owe you for your help in closing down that business in Russia. So I came. But now I need to understand the problem. To see if I can really help – or – well – or not.”

Torino spoke in his soft, slow manner, his voice with its somehow menacing quality, which never seemed to change. Highsmith offered him some shrimp, but Joey declined.

“We have a project in Afghanistan,” Highsmith began, pausing to inhale, and exhale, slowly – a kind of exaggerated sigh. “A pipeline. A very long pipeline – from Central Asia to the Indian Ocean. And we need to build it across Afghanistan.” He paused to gauge Torino’s reaction, but the man sat – immobile and expressionless – waiting for the story to continue.

“There have been some cost overruns,” Highsmith continued, “but that is really nothing, in our business – there are always overruns! This is the oil business! You’d be amazed by some of the cost overruns!” He paused. “But now we are being targeted by the local guerillas, and that is a more serious problem! Already five of our employees have been killed! I know that does not sound so huge – after all, this is Afghanistan! But we have share-holders, you understand? And they don’t like to see the share price undercut! They don’t like problems! They are worried that the whole project might just crash!” He looked Joey in the eye.

“So ... we have to find a solution. We are open to any reasonable solution! But we need to find one soon. Fast! Otherwise we must withdraw, and that would be a big loss for us, after all we have invested in this project.”

Joey was surprised by the somewhat emotional tone in Highsmith’s voice. It was just a flicker, but Joey could feel it. He recalled the surpassing calm and self-control for which Pen Highsmith had been famous in the State Department. That had been another world, one where the USA dominated, while this was just ... business. Joey knew that no one dominated in Afghanistan – not even the US – and that the risks of doing business there were ... elevated. That could indeed make someone ... nervous, he thought. Even someone like Pendleton Highsmith.

“What is it you want me to do?” asked Joey. “I’ve been to the region – some time ago – but I don’t know the languages, and I’m pretty out-of-date on the situation there.” He knew he “owed” Highsmith for helping him to exit the Russian operation without some sort of nasty inquiry, and he was ready to pay off that debt ... up to a point. But he wanted to understand exactly what was expected – and what might be possible – in the complex situation on the ground. Afghanistan was, well, complicated ... to say the least. And there were ... risks.

Highsmith walked to his desk and returned with a rolled-up map, which he spread on the broad coffee-table. He pointed out some of the major points of reference – Kabul, Mazar-e-Sharif, Kandahar, Multan, the Hindu Kush mountain range, and the surrounding geography of the region, including Russia, Iran, Pakistan, China and India. He pointed to the route options for the pipeline, which were different from the possibilities considered for earlier, similar projects. Those had circled along the Western border of the country, whereas this new route would cross more directly from North to South, coming close to the Capital, Kabul. Highsmith noted that one intention was to supply natural gas directly to the Afghan capital – which, he argued, made the project more interesting for the Afghan government. The government would benefit directly from the availability of the gas, and from electricity generated in Kabul.

The cost factors between the possible routes would be similar – on the scale of such a project – but the political advantages of supplying oil and gas to the capital would be considerable. The planned route would also bring oil directly to the center of Pakistan, and would include a pipeline extension to India. This could supply energy directly to key areas, and have a huge economic – and political – impact across the region.

Even though Joey was not an expert on pipelines, he could see the potential interest in this project – not only in bringing energy to the region, but also in promoting common interests and thus – possibly – a more stable, peaceful political situation. But that was in the future; for the moment, there were many problems and very few promising prospects.

When Highsmith had finished his presentation, he waited for Joey to comment. After a few minutes of silence, Joey said, “Looks like a good project to me. But what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Well,” said Highsmith, “we want you to go there.”

“Yes,” said Joey, “I assumed that much. But what do you want me to do there? What are your objectives for my role? What am I supposed to try to do?”

Highsmith paused, seeking the right phraseology. “We want you to explain our plan, present it to the different factions, explain how they will benefit from it, and convince them to accept it – to approve it.”

Joey responded immediately: “Why can’t you do that? I don’t know anything about this business, about pipelines, about oil and gas.”

“We want you to do it because we think you will be credible for them, whereas we are certainly not,” said Highsmith. “There isn’t that much to know, and our experts can explain any technical matters in simple terms. But we need you to convince the Taliban leaders, and we think you will be able to do this, which for sure we are not. We think you can convince them that this will be good for them, for their families, for their children – even for the country.

“We will give you all the support you need, but we want you to be out front, to be the person who talks to them, as a leader for us in this situation. These are people who judge everyone they meet. They judge a person on the basis of their strengths, the confidence they inspire. They are tough, and they only respect people they think are as tough as they are. They only believe people who they think they can trust. We think they will listen to you.”

Joey thought about this, wondering what was hidden beneath the surface – what were the real challenges he might face if he accepted this new mission. He knew that Afghanistan was a complicated, dangerous environment, where many foreign efforts had failed because of the determination of the local people to force their departure. “What about the Taliban,” Joey asked? “You haven’t even mentioned the Taliban! Anyone who follows what is going on in the world knows that you are up against the Taliban out there.”

The conversation continued, with Joey asking a broad range of questions, and Highsmith giving him frank, no-nonsense answers. The situation of the pipeline project was not very attractive; on the contrary, it was pretty grim, even dangerous. But Joey also knew that he owed something to Pendleton Highsmith, who had given him the possibility of an honorable early retirement from the State Department, after he was sent home from the embassy in Moscow because of a fist fight in a Russian tavern. Joey knew he owed Highsmith for that gesture, and he was always inclined to pay off his debts.

“Joey,” said Highsmith after a pause, “let’s go get a drink and something to eat. Houston has some great restaurants, believe it or not – Tex-Mex or anything else you might like. We can talk over some good food! And the temperature even goes down a bit in the evening, so eating outside is almost, well, pleasant.” He stood up with a smile. “Let’s get a Texan dinner!”

6.

“I did say “almost,” didn’t I?” Highsmith and Torino were sitting

on an outside terrace, under artificial lighting and out-door air conditioning, which Joey had never seen before. He was used to the weather in Maine, and also of course in Moscow – but not to the hot, humid night air of Houston in the summer. Pen Highsmith joked about it, which amused Joey because his style was so completely different from the serious senior civil servant he had known in Washington. This was Pen’s retirement persona – part of his new personality as a Houston oil executive.

Joey ordered local fish – fresh from the Gulf of Mexico – a specialty which he always enjoyed with a couple of beers. Highsmith chose filet mignon with a dry Manhattan. Their discussion grew less formal.

“You seem to be enjoying your new life-style, Pen,” said Joey.

“I love it,” replied Highsmith, thinking to himself that he could not help but love it, with the outrageous salary he was receiving, and the multiple benefits which accompanied it. This year alone his combined income would equal more than ten years of his salary in the State Department. No wonder it was ever more difficult for the Foreign Service to recruit the “best of the best” young people – to enter a career which was, after all, filled with difficult challenges, personal hardships, disruptions, isolation and periods of pure physical danger.

And he was prepared to offer generous compensation to Joey, too – this was the oil business, after all, not the US Government! But he would approach that matter very carefully, because he knew that Joey was scornful of such considerations, and had a very low opinion of people with financial ambitions. He would wait before discussing money.

“But let me tell you something of our Afghan project. We want to build two pipelines – along the same route. One for oil and the other for natural gas. They will go from Central Asia south, across Afghanistan and Pakistan to India and the sea. And they will offer cheap oil and gas for the entire Indian Ocean region, one of the most dynamic future growth areas in the world. It will be one of the biggest projects of its kind – ever. And it will be friendly to the environment, too. We have built that into the project. And it will lift millions of people out of poverty!”

“But there is a very challenging aspect to this project – as there always is, with any worthwhile project. In this case the challenge is called “Afghanistan.” Highsmith took a sip of his cocktail. “That is why we need you!”

“I know very little about Afghanistan,” said Joey. “I’ve only been there once.”

Pen Highsmith leaned forward toward Joey, as though to say something confidential. “You and I both know that’s not true, Joey. You were there some years ago, before you came into the State Department, when you were in Special Ops. Don’t forget, I’ve seen your file – the whole file, not just the unclassified part! You know more about that area than most of our so-called experts do! Many people out there know you from that period. And – most important – you have the temperament for this challenge. This will be a piece of cake for you!” He paused: “Well, maybe not exactly a “piece of cake,” but anyway something that you can do better than anyone I can think of.” He chuckled, just imagining Joey dealing with the Afghans he would encounter.

Highsmith speared two shrimp, and dunked them in the reddish sauce by the side of the huge bowl. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief while he bit into one of the shrimp with gusto. He watched for Joey’s reactions, but there were none. “The man is super-cool,” he thought to himself, “He never reacts visibly to anything! That’s why we need him – he is perfect for this challenge”

“That was a long time ago,” said Joey. “I’m older now, more mature. My judgement is a lot sounder now than it was then, and my muscles are a lot stiffer. Anyway, why would I want to do it? I live in Maine, and I like it there. I like walking in the woods. I like being left alone.”

“Joey,” Highsmith replied, “This is the oil business. It’s not like the US Government! We can pay you what you deserve!”

But Highsmith knew more than Joey did – he had done his research, his homework. “Also, Page is there,” he added softly, watching Joey’s eyes. “She is running a clinic for children in Mazar-e-Sharif. It is her clinic – she is the Director.” There was hardly a shadow of reaction – Joey never showed his emotions. But there was something, Highsmith thought. Some little flicker ... and he noted it. It would be useful.

He changed the subject, started to talk about Houston, football, the beaches along the Gulf Coast, Washington. Joey grunted, responded from time to time, talked a bit about his life in Maine. He was more responsive than Highsmith had expected, and the dinner was delicious.

Highsmith left the subject of Afghanistan alone, and they talked about other things – the State Department, their past lives as American diplomats, their adventures overseas. These two very different individuals had shared many experiences over the years. They were not exactly friends ... but they were longtime colleagues, and they knew each other better than either one of them would admit.

It was midnight before they finished their dinner – two very different older men with some common past life episodes, and considerable mutual respect.

Highsmith dropped Joey off at his hotel – a high-rise luxury icon, of which there were quite a few in this city. He told Joey he would send a car to pick him up in the morning. They could have a further discussion, and then Joey could decide whether he wanted to join up ... or head back to Maine.

7.

Joey awoke with a start, in the totally dark hotel room. He saw from the dimly-illuminated clock on his night table that it was 3 AM. Instinctively, he froze and did not move. Someone else was there, in the dark, nearby. He sensed a presence and prepared to move. He counted to three, and then sprang – across the bed to the entrance to the room, where he knew there was a light-switch.

He flicked the switch, but it did not work. He grabbed the door-knob and pulled the door open, just as something hard crashed against his head. He stumbled and fell before regaining his balance, while a man slammed against him in the dark, throwing him to the floor. His head hit the night-table by the bed just as the man jumped over him and ran out the door.