A Prisoner of Memory: And 24 of the Finest Crime and Mystery Stories (2008) by Ed Gorman Martin H Greenberg

Author:Ed Gorman, Martin H Greenberg [Ed Gorman, Martin H Greenberg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

BLUES IN THE KABUL NIGHT

Clark Howard

Clark Howard sold his first short story, a Western, in July 1955 to Stag magazine. He has since sold more than two hundred stories to a wide variety of magazines from Twilight Zone to Penthouse. He is a regular contributor to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, where he has won five Readers’ Awards. He has also won Edgar and Derringer awards, and has multiple nominations for Spur, Shamus, and Anthony awards. Although he has written two dozen books, the short story has long been his favorite form.

The old four-engine, Constellation cargo plane dropped down out of the darkening Afghanistan sky shortly after flying over the border from Pakistan, and received landing instructions from the tower at Kotubkhel Airport outside Kabul. Morgan Tenny, hunched in a jump seat behind Benny Cone, the pilot, looked down on the squalid outskirts of the Afghan city as the runway lights came into sight.

“You sure I’m not going to have any problem at the airport?” Tenny asked.

“Trust me,” said Benny Cone. “I been sneaking people in and out of this country for three years and haven’t lost a client yet.”

“What’s your secret?” Tenny asked. “Hershey bars,” Cone replied. “Hershey bars?”

“Yeah, with almonds. Afghanis are nuts about almonds. Excuse the pun.”

The old plane’s landing gear bumped hard against the blacktop runway, rose, bumped again, harder, then settled roughly into a jerky, lurching landing and decreased speed as it rolled toward the cargo terminal. When it came to a stop, Morgan Tenny followed Benny Cone through a narrow aisle between large, cable-secured wooden crates, to a high, wide cargo door which Cone unbolted and slid open on ball-bearing runners. Four forklift off-loaders were already driving toward the plane. Opening a hatch next to the cargo door, Cone unfolded an aluminum ladder that reached to the ground. Swinging a carry-on over one shoulder, he climbed down. “Hand me your duffel,” he said.

Tenny lowered an ancient sea bag on which could barely be distinguished four stenciled letters: USMC.

“Ain’t seen one of these in a long time,” Cone said. The closure of the bag folded in quarters over a steel hasp through which a combination padlock was fastened. “Heavy, too,” the pilot observed. “Whatcha carrying?”

“The usual things,” Morgan Tenny said as he climbed down. “Guns, ammunition, laundered currency.”

“Everything a tourist in Kabul needs,” Cone said with a smile. He nodded toward the terminal. “Follow me. Keep your mouth shut and do what I say. You ever been to Kabul before?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a real shit hole. It’s like no place you’ve ever seen, man.”

“I’ve seen a lot of places, Benny,” said Morgan Tenny. “Zaire, Saigon, Nairobi, Angola—”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t seen noplace like Kabul. It is a real shit hole. The whole place.”

“I thought the UN was cleaning it up after the Taliban got bounced?”

“The UN is a joke, brother. Wait and see.”

The two men entered the Customs and Immigration section of the shabby cargo terminal and found a heavyset, droopy-eyed Afghan man browsing through a U.K. edition of Playboy.

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