Afghanistan â September 6th, 2007, 17:00
In a desert valley, a road winds its way along.
Three pickup trucks speed by.
In the back of the middle one sits John Keller, a young CIA agent.
His hands are tied. His face is bruised.
Around him, armed men shout in Arabic and Pashto, laugh, and shove him with the barrels of their AK-47s.
His head heavy, groggy from the blows, Keller is overwhelmed by his memories; he loses consciousness.
*****
Earlier that day â 08:00 Station âEagle Eastâ, East Kabul
Located off the Kabul/Jalalabad highway, behind a high, three-meter-tall brick wall, stands the âEagle Eastâ station. A large, fortified house, it shelters a small, secret CIA cell.
Keller had been stationed there a few months earlier.
His mission: to make contact with local residents, to convince them to oppose the Taliban and other rebel groups in the region.
Among his contacts were Hassan and his son. Two valuable allies.
In his office sat Colonel Richard Hayes, 50 years old, his face weathered but his gaze paternal.
Keller knocks and enters.
â « Keller! The orders have just come in », says the colonel.
â « Find your informant and extract him to the extraction point. His safety is compromised, and we need information on Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan. »
â « Yes, sir. It will be done », Keller replied, his hands sweating, his throat dry.
â « Are you sure about this man? »
â « Yes, sir. Heâs already been in trouble several times. Heâs risked his life and his sonâs. Thanks to him, weâve foiled several of this groupâs plans. I trust him. »
Hayes sighed.
â « The problem is, weâll be alone on this mission. The Taliban are mining the routes, theyâre booby-trapping our convoys, we wonât have reinforcements for several hours. But for now, theyâre too busy to pay any attention to you. Be careful. »
â « Yes, sir. »
Hayes leaned back in his seat.
â « Iâd rather not ask for help⊠especially not from the French. »
Keller smiled despite himself:
â « Let them worry about the Afghan goats. »
Hayes smirked.
â « Get your equipment ready. Immediate departure. »
Keller leaves the office.
He checks his equipment: ammunition, radio, map, survival kit.
In the armory mirror, he looks at himself for a second, adjusts his body armor, then leaves.
*****
The pickup truck is jolted by the potholes and bumps of the track, Keller regains consciousness. The ropes binding his hands cut into his skin. His head spins, pain throbs in his temples. The warmth dissipates⊠and suddenly the walls are gray, without windowsâŠ
A fan whirs in the ceiling.
A pendant lamp illuminates a metal table on which rests a cardboard folder stamped SECRET.
John Keller, in military uniform, stands before the table, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back. He waits. His heart beats faster than during an operation.
The door opens.
Three people enter, without a word. Two men, a woman. All in civilian clothes, but their gestures betray their familiarity with the field.
One of them opens the file. The pages rustle.
â « John A. Keller. Twenty-two years old. Four years with the 75th Rangers. »
A silence. Clear eyes examining him.
â « Iraq in 2003. Afghanistan since 2004. Decent decorations, no disciplinary action. »
â « Why leave the Rangers? »
Keller swallowed hard.
â « It’s a childhood dream; I always wanted to look like James Bond. »
â « We’re not at the movies, it’s quite different! » the woman said.
â « I was just a kid back then. My tastes have changed since then. I’ve become a Tom Cruise fan! » For a moment, he was afraid he’d be taken for a show-off.
Another man slowly raises his eyes.
â « Here, there will be no flag. No recognition. If you fall, your country will say it doesn’t know you. Is that alright with you? »
â « Yes, sir. »
The woman speaks again, her voice soft but cutting :
â « Have you ever had to kill someone at very close range ? »
â « Yes. »
â « Have you ever hesitated ? »
Keller pauses.
â « Once. I was nineteen. Since then⊠I know why I pull the trigger. »She nods, expressionless.
She nods, taking notes without any expression.
The first recruiter gently closes the file but does not look away.
â « Last question. If you are ordered to neutralise a target who once saved your life, will you obey ? »
Keller clenches his jaw.
â « If it is the mission, yes. »
A heavy silence falls. The three recruiters exchange a brief glance, without a word.
The ceiling fan is still creaking.
â « Thatâs all for today. »
They stand, gather the file, and leave the room without looking back.
The door closes softly.
Keller remains alone.
He feels his heart pounding in his chest, unable to tell whether he has just stepped into the shadows⊠or been cast aside forever. He remembers that moment â it was late 2004, at Bagram Airfield.
*****
A jolt, more violent than the others, momentarily jolted him from his stupor.
One of the kidnappers turned his head; their eyes met. A sharp, sharp blow rang out.
The taste of blood filled his mouth.
Then everything went blurry again.
*****
Noon â outskirts of Kabul
The car stops in a narrow alley, between two mud-brick walls.
The midday heat hangs heavy over Kabul; the air shimmers above the flat roofs.
Keller quickly gets out of the vehicle, turns up his shirt collar, and scans the surroundings.
Women pass by, their arms laden with bags of groceries, while an old man pushes a creaking cart piled high with dusty melons.
He takes a deep breath: a pungent mixture of dust, spices, and diesel fumes fills the air.
The small market square is bustling.
Under red and green plastic tarpaulins, vendors sell their wares: sacks of potatoes, piles of onions, crates of tomatoes, and goat carcasses hanging from hooks.
The butcher slams his knife down on the board with a sharp thud.
A spice seller opens a sack of turmeric, its aroma filling the street, while a child calls out to sell a few eggs.
The bright colors contrast with the whitewashed mud walls.
In the center, a well serves as a meeting point; two children play there, throwing pebbles into the water.
Keller crosses the square and spots the hand-painted sign:
ÚۧÛâ۟ۧÙÙÙ ŰłŰ±Űź â Chai Khana-e-Surkh â The Red Teahouse.
The reddish fabric curtain sways in the breeze.
The interior is dark and cooler.
The earthen floor smells of dust, and the bare walls seem to absorb the hum of conversations.
In one corner, a samovar steams gently, filling the room with the strong aroma of black tea and charcoal.
A few men chat around low tables, glasses of tea in hand, while a young waiter rinses glasses in a bucket.
Seated at one of the tables, Hassan stood up as soon as he saw Keller. Tall, dressed in a slightly dusty beige shalwar kameez, with a neatly trimmed black beard and a dark but direct gaze.
His face bore the wrinkles of someone who had seen too much, but a genuine smile briefly lit his features.
â « Hassan, my brother ! » says Keller as he shakes the hand of Hassan.
â « John, my friend, my heart always warms when I see you. »
The two men embraced warmly, exchanging a few banal words.
â « Hassan, how is your boy ? »
â « Good. Alhamdulillah ! He is well. »
â « And your wife ? »
â « Good as well ! And you, still not married ? »
â « I canât wait to see my wife again⊠» replies Keller, thinking of Anne-Lise.
In the chai khana, Hassan glances towards the entrance. His smile fades.
Outside, a dull thud vibrates the walls: a pickup truck engine, then another.
Hassan freezes. Armed men are searching the neighborhood; they’re heading for Keller’s car.
â « Shall we go ? » says Keller, uneasy.
â « Wait, my friend. Itâs the Taliban. Follow me, I know a safe path. They wonât catch us. »
The two men went behind the counter and through the service door.
They emerged into a narrow alleyway, lined with mud walls.
As they left, Keller didn’t notice the brief nod Hassan exchanged with a man crouching in the alley.
The shade of the buildings offered them some respite from the oppressive heat.
Hassan walked quickly, glancing back regularly.
They passed two men sitting on a low wall; Hassan greeted them with a nod.
Keller, focused on his steps, doesn’t see the men straighten up and follow them.
Further on, two other figures emerge from the side alley and block their path.
A heavy silence falls.
Keller felt his heart pound against his ribs.
Time seems to stand still.
Then a violent blow struck the back of his neck.
His vision blurred, he collapsed to his knees before feeling blows raining down on his ribs and legs.
The figures around him became indistinct.
The last thing he saw was the dust rising beneath their feet, before everything went black.
At that moment, John Keller ceases to be an agent and becomes prey. He is just another hostage in the shadow war.
*****
Lying in the grass by the lake, John gently ran his hand over Anne-Lise’s face.
Her eyes were closed, basking in the spring sunshine, a quiet smile on her lips.
His fingers brushed against her warm cheek. She was happy.
They had married three days earlier, despite their families’ reservations:
her parents feared she would marry a soldier;
John’s parents worried about their only son and saw her as a troublemaker.
But nothing mattered. She had become Mrs. Keller.
John leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her lips.
She smiled without opening her eyes: it was her husband.
Memories flooded back⊠Fifteen years old. They hated each other then, ignoring each other in the school hallways like two silent enemies.
Then that rainy day⊠Her bike had a flat tire; she was soaked, distraught.
And suddenly, shelter: a black umbrella.
John.
He hadn’t even recognized her at first.
Her, drenched, her hair plastered to her face⊠and yet beautiful.
His, mesmerized, unable to speak.
That day, everything changed.
When he announced his engagement, she accepted, even though her heart ached.
When he left, she cried.
When he proposed, she shouted « Yes! » without hesitation.
And on their wedding day, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
A sudden jolt.
His head hits something hard.
The scent of damp grass vanishes.
The sound of the lake fades away.
John opens his eyes.
The acrid smell of dust and diesel fumes instantly banishes the sweetness of the memory.
The engine’s deep rumble vibrates deep in his chest.
Around him, voices speak a language he no longer understands.
All that remained of the lake and Anne-Lise vanishes like a mirage.
Keller felt a chasm open in his chest.
He wanted to go home.
He regretted it.
Everything seemed so far away : Anne-Lise, the lake, springâŠ
*****
18:00 â A mountain village
The pickup trucks drive through a dry valley and reach a hamlet clinging to the mountainside.
The low sun bathes the village in a reddish light.
The mud-brick houses seem empty, the doors closed, the windows covered in dust.
Only the wind stirs a veil of dust that dances in the air.
The vehicle stopped abruptly.
Keller was pulled from the pickup truck, his knees scraping the stony ground.
A metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
The men laughed, speaking loudly in Pashto.
He was dragged by his feet to a large mud-brick house, with no sign of life around it.
At that moment, Keller knew no one would come.
Not here.
Not in this godforsaken hole in the mountains.
It was over.
He would never see Anne-Lise again.
The air inside was heavy, thick with dust and the smell of sweat.
An oil lamp placed on a crate cast a yellowish, flickering light.
The earthen walls absorbed what little sound remained, giving the impression of being buried alive.
He was tied to a central beam, the ropes tightening around his wrists, numbing them.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light :
Worn carpets on the floor, Kalashnikovs leaning against the walls, food scraps on a low table, a few mattresses on the floor in a corner.
Hassan approaches.
His features have become hard, his gaze cold.
â « I am Hassan al-Khorasani, leader of the Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan. »
His voice is broken and full of restrained anger.
Keller opens his mouth, incredulous.
â « But Hassan ! Why are you doing this ? We are friends, arenât we ? I donât understand you. »
Hassan turns away toward the wall, pressing his lips together as if to hold back a memory too heavy. He speaks slowly, each word weighed:
â « I had a son, another son, Latif ! He was good. Always ready to help others. While he wanted to help an old disabled man cross a checkpoint, Americans, your people, killed them, both of them ! »
Keller feels the sentence like a punch. His voice trembles:
â « But why didnât you tell me anything ? »
â « I said nothing, because I saw in you the opportunity to avenge myself on your people. Tomorrow, you will be executed as an example, and your country will watch you die, in memory of Latif. »
Another man leans towards him and spits:
â « CIA⊠tomorrow, camera⊠you die. »
He checked the rope, then went out.
The others burst out laughing.
Keller lowered his head.
His numb hands no longer responded.
He felt cold sweat trickle down his back, the taste of blood on his tongue.
Each heartbeat pounded in his temples like a drum.
His mind began to race: Anne-Lise, his father, Hayes’s last words before he left.
Then everything slowed.
Fear became heavy, thick, like a leaden weight.
His legs trembled, but he no longer had the strength to struggle.
He thinks of his country.
Of the friends he will never see again.
Of the camera that will film his death tomorrow.
Keller understood that he was now nothing more than a hostage, a commodity destined to be destroyed before the eyes of the world.
He closed his eyes.
It was over.
*****
23:00 â The man in black
Inside the house, the men were still laughing, talking loudly, chewing their dry bread, and drinking tea.
Keller, still tied to the beam, watched them blankly.
His mind had almost detached from his body.
Through an opening in the wall, he glimpses a fragment of starry sky.
Outside, voices are whispering: the militiamen on guard.
The crackling of flames mingles with the chirping of crickets and the distant barking of a dog.
No one, except him, is worried.
Then a strange sound breaks the night.
A mass falls heavily.
The metal of a weapon resonates as it strikes the ground.
A voice calls out, hesitant:
â « Ahmed ? »
A thud echoed through the night.
Another sound, like someone collapsing to the ground.
A cry cut short, followed by the sound of a body falling.
Only the fire still crackled; otherwise, all other sounds had vanished.
An eerie silence falls over the house. Keller observes the fear on his captors’ faces.
Hassan raises his hand, his eyes hardening.
â « To your stations ! » he barks.
The men grabbed their weapons, preparing to leave.
The door creaks.
Slowly.
As if pushed by the wind.
Keller sees a shadow silhouetted against the frame, a low, motionless figure.
A man in black.
Combat suit, vest, helmet, balaclava.
Two expressionless brown eyes stare at each of these targets.
An assault rifle fitted with a silencer is pointed straight ahead.
He presses the button on the flashlight attached to the barrel.
A blinding flash crackles.
The men, startled, remain motionless.
He fires.
The first man collapses, a bullet in his eye.
He fires again.
The second man collapses onto the table, his blood splattering the wall.
Three more impacts rang out.
Each precise, each one to the head.
The bodies fell one after another, like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Within seconds, the room was littered with corpses.
Only Hassan remained standing, his weapon trembling in his hands.
â « ShaytÄn ! ShaytÄn ! » [Demon] he screams, his voice broken with fear.
But the man in black doesn’t move.
He gently squeezes the trigger.
He fires.
The bullet strikes Hassan squarely in the forehead.
His body collapses, lifeless.
Silence falls once more.
Only the metallic clink of a socket rolling on the floor echoes in the room.
Keller, still tied to the beam, stares at the man in black, unable to believe what he has just seen.
Silence! Absolute silence.
The man steps forward.
About six feet tall.
Muscular but not overly so.
His brown, expressionless eyes seem to pierce the darkness.
His breathing is slow, perfectly controlled.
With each step, the only sound is the soft rustle of his fatigues.
â « Who are you ? » Keller whispered, his voice breaking.
No answer.
Just that cold, fixed gaze, examining him for a few seconds.
â « But⊠who are you? What do you want ? »
Still not a word.
The man slowly raises his left arm.
On his sleeve, held in place by elastic bands, are several laminated photos:
Hassan. His men. And Keller.
The man kneels, unties Keller’s feet with a precise movement. Then he rises and severs the bonds from his hands. He supports him when his body is finally free.
Keller lets himself be led.
His legs are still trembling, but he follows the man out of the house.
In the distance, a rumble rises, drowning out the beating of his heart.
A helicopter approaches.
The blades slash through the air, kicking up dust and sand.
*****
A French CARACAL lands in a meadow on the outskirts of the village, its turbines screaming in the darkness.
The man in black said nothing.
He simply pushed Keller toward the helicopter.
Two commandos jump to the ground, immediately take over from the man in black, and lift Keller by the armpits.
They run him to the helicopter and hoist him inside.
A doctor in fatigues immediately kneels in front of him, flashlight in hand.
â « Iâm Colonel Delmas, MD »
He gently pulls Kellerâs eyelids apart, checking the reaction of his pupils.
â « Good. Itâs okay. » he says curtly.
He briefly runs his hands over Kellerâs ribs and arms.
â « No apparent fractures. Youâre in one piece. »
Then, in a firm voice :
â « We’re from the French army. Your superiors called us in. Your SEALs weren’t available. »
He placed a hand on Keller’s shoulder, a brief smile playing on his lips :
â « Colonel Hayes wasn’t pleased, but orders come from above. »
Delmas paused, his hard gaze lingering on Keller :
â « We warned your superiors about Hassan’s betrayal several months ago. They preferred to wait⊠to confirm their suspicions. »
Keller felt his stomach clench.
All those weeks of effort, that injection⊠and it was all just a test.
But the roar of the turbines drowned out his thoughts.
French, Americans, it didn’t matter.
He was alive.
He would see Anne-Lise again.
Sitting against the side of the helicopter, still dazed, he turned his head toward the man in black.
â « But⊠who are you ? » he shouted over the noise.
No answer.
The man in black remained motionless, staring out the window, as if Keller didnât exist.
The flight engineer, with a wry smile, shook his head :
â « He won’t say anything. He never says anything. »
Then, raising his voice :
â « That’s just how it is⊠It’s our NIGHT. »
Keller felt his heart clench.
He studied HIS hero.
On his right shoulder, an olive-green patch emblazoned with the French flag.
On the other, a strange insignia: a black square marked with two red dots, like demonic eyes that glittered in the cockpit lights.
Then Keller sees, just under the red light of the cabin, a name tag attached to his vest.
A single word, in capital letters :
NIGHTWISH.
End of Anecdote 1 â âHeâŠâ
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel1 for editing, documentation, and narrative development.
Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.
To be continued⊠Somewhere in the dark :
Side Stories :
- ChatGPT of OpenAI â©ïž
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