Author's note: I haven't the foggiest notion of what Afghanistan is like or what the customs of her people might be, so please excuse any outright errors I am undoubtedly committing. For the purposes of this story, let's just pretend that I know what I'm talking about.

Some of you folks might remember Anthony 'Tony' Sullivan from the MacGyver episode entitled 'Three for the Road' (the unfortunate friend of Mac's who was tied up in the Syndicate and ended up 'buying the farm'). Originally, this story was supposed to offer a few details about how their unlikely friendship MIGHT have begun. I know that I have taken outrageous liberties with his character… so if you didn't recognize him, blame me!

While I was at it, it occurred to me that this might be a good way to introduce one of Mac's major baddies, too. I'm sure that you'll remember him…

Unbreakable Camels
part four, Cue the Bad Guy

A sand-scoured stone and wrought-iron fortress served the small city of Jiru as both center of magistrate and secure accommodations for local dignitaries. Half of the sprawling buildings were decorated with the finest furnishings available, bought with the flow of money from the desert oil-barons seeking favors from those men who passed for law-keepers in this wild corner of Afghanistan. Offices, suites, and an elegant restaurant attracted what money in Jiru there was to be spent, and the men who could be found there were finely dressed and had eyes that only lit up with lust or with greed.

The remainder of the buildings in the compound were rough and cold and filthy, and they served the common residents of Jiru as locations for tax collection, lock holes for dissidents and petty criminals, and of course, a small dead-end courtyard used for executions. Like the two faces of a coin, they never looked at each other, and yet together they made up the whole.

Just outside of the gates of the fortress and across a packed-earth road, a tavern did brisk business in the heat of the day. There, a man could buy a drink and a meal, or for a little more money he could buy a cold drink and a good meal, as well as other valuable things. The term 'talk is cheap' was unknown in this place; here, talk cost money, and if it was the right kind of talk, it could cost as much as a life.

It pleased Dave Ryerson to come to this place to conduct his business. The teakwood and silk furnishings inside the fortress annoyed him. His business was a dirty one, therefore it was fitting that the place he conducted that business should be dirty, also.

He took a seat at his usual table, where he had a clear view of all the exits and was far enough away from the bar and other tables to speak without being casually overheard. The bartender was well paid to make sure that it was always reserved for him. Even as he sat down and took off his white panama, the skinny man with a stained apron came rushing over, carrying a bucket of ice. Inside the bucket were bottles of American beer, kept on-hand solely for his consumption. Ryerson refused to drink the swill that passed for the local brew.

He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a silver churchkey, with which he used to open one of the beer bottles. Taking a long swallow, he sat back and waited. He was a bit early for his appointment, but that was fine with him. He preferred to be the first to arrive; it made it difficult for anyone to get the drop on him. Not that many would dare try. Still, Ryerson hadn't gotten where he was-- a trusted arm of an American crime syndicate and an international mercenary-- by trusting people.

This early in the day the tavern had few patrons, so Ryerson watched the street. An old derelict man came ambling along the wall of the fortress. He stumbled and lurched, throwing out an arm that lacked a hand to catch himself from falling. He slouched down on the ground, either in exhaustion or despair.

Ryerson sipped his beer.

Within minutes two men in uniform appeared. They shouted at the old man to remove himself, then when he did not go fast enough they grabbed him by both arms and dragged him. They threw him down in the middle of the street. By the time he managed to crawl the remaining distance to the kerb, where he collapsed, the guards had already returned to their posts at the entrance to the fortress.

Ryerson opened another beer. The bartender discreetly collected his first empty bottle. He could refill it with inferior brew mixed with formaldehyde and sell it to the locals. Most had never tasted real American beer and wouldn't know the difference.

Half an hour passed. A robed figure appeared in the street, coming from the direction that the old man had been heading. By the movements of this person, Ryerson guessed correctly that she was a woman. By her dark colored and unadorned clothing, she was probably the nun who worked at the mission on the edge of town. Ryerson rolled his eyes as he took another drink of beer. "Do-gooder," he mumbled, saying the words as if it were some kind of curse.

If she heard him, she made no sign. She knelt next to the broken man, speaking softly to him. Then she helped him to his feet and supported him as they walked together back toward the mission. Ryerson watched them, wishing that the bartender hadn't taken away his empties. He would have liked to throw something at them, but his bottle was still half-full and he didn't want to waste a good beer.

At the crest of the hill over which the road ran, the couple suddenly moved to one side. A rumbling sound was growing, preceded by a plume of dust. A vehicle appeared, traveling slowly and carefully avoiding the walking pair. A jeep with fat tires and exaggerated roll bars came growling down the street and skidded to a halt outside of the tavern. The man driving was wearing goggles and had a dusty red bandana tied over his face like a cowboy bandit. He climbed out of the dune buggy and removed his goggles. He tugged the bandana down to reveal a toothy smile. "Hiya, Dave!"

This always irritated Ryerson. Which was exactly why Tony always did it.

"You're late, Sullivan," Ryerson grumbled.

"Am I?" Tony asked cheerfully, sitting down at Ryerson's table. A cloud of dust followed him, reminding Ryerson of a character in a comic strip who's name he couldn't remember.

Ryerson glanced at his watch, and then pointedly flecked a few grains of dirt from his sleeve. "It doesn't matter... this time. But if you're ever late with a delivery..."

"When have I ever been late with a delivery?" Tony countered, pulling an iced beer out of the bucket without asking. He didn't have a bottle opener, and of course Ryerson did not offer his. Tony didn't need it. He gripped the cap in one strong, callused hand and twisted it off easily.

"Help yourself," Ryerson said sourly.

"Mmmm," Tony answered, drinking deeply. "Ah! Milwaukee's Finest! All I need now is a bowl of pretzels and a pretty blonde to flirt with... and I'd be a happy man!" Tony took another swig, winking at Ryerson. "No offence there, Dave. You're just not my type."

Ryerson cracked a smile. "You're a smart-ass, Sullivan, but you are funny. Okay, let's get to business... have you got the latest shipment ready?"

"Of course," Tony responded, gesturing widely. "All sorted and assembled. Alfie's making the pick-up as scheduled. Why wouldn't it be ready?"

Ryerson offered a grin that was more like an evil leer. "I heard that there was some excitement out near our stretch of sand. Captain Rafe and company lost a spy that they had been tracking." Ryerson watched Tony carefully. "You haven't seen anyone suspicious?"

"Can't say that I have," Tony lied smoothly. "Alfie's ugly face is the only one I've seen in the past six days."

"Are you sure? He told me where they lost his trail, and it is right around the location of the silo. If they keep looking, they might find the bunker."

Sullivan finished his beer. "They won't find it. That silo is buried more than six feet in soft sand when it is shut. Alfie knows to do a sweep before he makes an approach, and he'd see anyone who was out there long before they saw him. Besides, if they do much more than look around, they'll blow themselves sky-high on the anti-personnel devices that are seeded all through that area. And who's going to complain about a few less terrorists?"

"I'll complain... if you blow up any of my buyers," Ryerson said in a soft, dangerous voice.

Tony was not intimidated. "It won't be me blowing them up, Dave. The Afghans buried those mines and burned the maps. Everyone knows to avoid that place, and anyone who doesn't know..." Tony swallowed a sudden fear as he realized that MacGyver probably didn't know about those minefields. He prayed silently that the man didn't get it into his head to leave the bunker by himself. "Anyone who doesn't know will get what he deserves." Tony finished his sentence coldly.

This seemed to satisfy Ryerson. "Well, if you see anyone, tell me first."

"What? D'ya need some extra cash 'cause Hussin raise the price of your Old Millwaukee's?" Tony cracked, reaching for the last beer in the bucket.

Ryerson watched him open it with a sour eye. "Rafe's offering a pittance of a reward, but I'm more interested to learn which country has an Intelligence agent creeping around in my territory."

"Ask Rafe. Do you really want me to risk revealing the location of our base to play 'international spy'?" Tony asked incredulously. "I'm not that bored yet, Dave... and that definitely isn't in my job description!"

"Just keep your eyes open," Ryerson hissed angrily. "Why don't you finish that on the road?" he added, staring at the bottle in Tony's hand.

"Never drink and drive, Dave," Tony said. He upended the bottle and drained it. "You might spill some!" He set the bottle down on its side and gave it a spin. By the time it slowed down and stopped, he was already kicking up a cloud of dust, roaring down the street in his dune buggy.

Ryerson watched him go and didn't notice that the bartender had been standing nearby, hoping to collect the empty bottles, and that he had heard every word.

xxxxxxxxxx

MacGyver watched from his hiding place beneath a thick cluster of fronds outside of the walls of the city as Tony drove away, heading back toward the oasis where the entrance to the bunker was concealed.

'Following Tony had been harder than I thought that it would be. The wind covered tracks pretty quickly out here. I spotted what I believed was a cloud of dust kicked up by his dune buggy, but it turned out to be smoke from someone's house inside the city walls.

'I had to watch where I put my feet. The information that I had read about these old military installations suggested booby-traps, and I had no idea where they were buried. I walked softly and prayed that the mines were buried beneath enough sand that my stepping over them wouldn't trigger an explosion. Eventually I came to the city, though I smelled it long before I saw it.'

A faded and pitted wooden sign identified the city in some Aramaic language that Mac couldn't read. He strolled through the gates boldly, trusting that whoever might have spotted him coming in from the open desert would take him for a down-on-his-luck local boy. There was light traffic inside the city and he made an effort to blend in. What little of his face showing above his scarf was tanned darkly enough not to attract attention, and he made sure that his turban concealed his fair-colored hair. No one glanced at him twice.

The first sizable structure that he came across upon entering the walls of the city was a building with a run-down and abandoned look. There were no windows, and some of the walls had large holes in them that had been covered by wooden planks. The smoke that he had followed was billowing out of a clay chimney that rose above the roof.

Mac paused in front of the building, listening. He could hear voices coming from within, but he could not make out what was being said. He turned to move along and collided with two people who were walking slowly up the street, their heads were bowed with effort, one supporting the other to walk.

Mac caught the arms of the man before he could fall, but the woman went sprawling into the street with a cry. Mac hurriedly set the man down on the kerb and held out his hand to help the woman stand up. "I'm sorry!" he said in his broken Aramaic.

The woman waved off his offered hand. She stood up by herself, cradling her wrist. She said something in Aramaic, and then looked at Mac expectantly.

Mac had no idea what she had said. He hesitated, meeting her eyes with a question in his own. Her eyes were light brown.

The woman sighed and then spoke again, this time in French.

"Oui, ma'amMac caught enough to understand she wanted his help with the old man. He ducked under the man's arm, ignoring the musty smell of his clothes. After all, Mac realized that he probably didn't smell much sweeter himself. Um… Voulez?"

"Voila," she responded. Then she cocked her head and said, in plain and unflawed English, "You speak French atrociously."

Mac ducked his head and smiled. "You should hear my Russian."