Farishta (34 page)

“I don’t know. It shouldn’t matter.” This difference in our ages, the last line of defense I felt I could raise to protect myself from being hurt again, was crumbling fast. “I don’t want it to.”

“Then tell me it doesn’t,” he said.

I was about to reply when footsteps in the atrium interrupted our conversation. A member of Mark’s intel staff pushed open the screen door.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the colonel needs to speak with you urgently. One of the boys said you were up here helping Angela build her stoves. Sorry, Angela,” he added with an embarrassed laugh since it was clear we had long ago finished working on the stoves.

“Thank you, Corporal. I’ll be right there,” said Mark crisply.

“Sir,” he said, spinning smartly on his heels.

“To be continued,” Mark said as he took my hand in his and kissed it before vanishing into the atrium.

 

 

Mark and I struggled to conceal our growing affection, but it was difficult. We took meals together as often as we could, but found it impossible to be completely alone for more than a few minutes without being interrupted. In the presence of the interpreters, we were always excessively formal, but I’m sure that even they could see that something had changed between us. Inviting Mark into my tiny room next to the communal loo on a floor I shared with twenty men was out of the question. He shared a room on the other side of the compound with two Gurkha officers. Anything more than our daily conversations would have to wait until we were both out of Afghanistan.

 

 

I had continued making sporadic visits with Nilofar to the neighboring Hazara camp throughout the summer, but Rahim was still the only one who knew about these unauthorized trips. My method of getting back into the PRT seemed foolproof. When I got within a block of the compound, I would call Rahim’s cell phone, and he would wait just inside to open the gate when I knocked.

 

 

My secret excursions came to an abrupt halt a few days after Mark and I had declared our feelings for each other on the balcony.

Nilofar had hired a taxi to take ten solar ovens to a newly established Hazara displaced-persons camp on the other side of town. The women in our neighborhood camp had told their Hazara relatives about what we were doing, and the newcomers wanted a demonstration.

Nilofar could have made this trip on her own, since she knew as much as I did about solar cooking, but I wanted to see the camp and meet the women.

It was foolish of me to think that no one would notice us leaving the PRT and loading so much equipment into a taxi that morning, but I had grown careless in my subterfuge. It had been so easy all summer to slip out of camp and return unnoticed.

Unfortunately, Mark was speaking to one of the Gurkha sentries on the ramparts just as Nilofar and I got into the taxi. As he watched us drive away, there was no doubt in his mind who was hidden under the two burkas.

He went immediately to speak to the Afghan sentries and learned for the first time about my many forays outside the PRT and about Rahim’s complicity. Rahim was ordered to notify him as soon as I called.

The taxi dropped me back at the PRT five hours later and drove off with Nilofar, who was late for her class at the university. I was elated at the enthusiastic reception we had received from the women in the camp. More than fifty had gathered to watch us boil water and cook rice with the sun. A caravan of Kuchi nomads had camped nearby to trade with the Hazaras, and several of their women who came to watch our demonstration offered to trade their bracelets for my solar ovens. I gave them three and told them to keep their bracelets.

I made my usual call to Rahim, who sounded uncharacteristically annoyed when I told him I was ready to be let in. He hung up before I could ask him what was wrong. Was he upset because Nilofar had left without coming in to see him? I knocked three times on the heavy metal gate and waited. When it swung open, a very angry Major Davies was standing alone in the passageway.

“Good afternoon, Angela.”

“Mark! What a surprise!” I stammered as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, slamming the gate shut, throwing the bolt, and blocking my exit with his arm.

“Doing what? ” I replied in a hopeless attempt at innocence.

“Leaving the PRT without authorization and protected only by the thin blue silk of the burka you have just stuffed into your rucksack.”

“Look, Mark, I . . .”

“Angela, I have the greatest respect for your efforts to help the women of Afghanistan cook with sunshine, and I wish you were getting more support from your embassy. While you are assigned to this PRT, however, the British Army is responsible for your safety.”

“I know that, but . . .”

“I’m not finished,” he snapped. My pupils had widened and I could just make out the sharp contours of his face in the dim passageway.

“Are you aware that there is a war on in Afghanistan? Are you also aware that there are many people who would love to get their hands on an American diplomat, especially a female?”

“Of course, I am, but under the burka . . .”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Angela?” He ran his fingers through his dark hair and grabbed my shoulders. “I thought last month’s episode with your Russian friend had knocked some sense into you. Apparently, it did not.”

I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. If Mark was this angry at me, what had he said to poor Rahim? I’d had no right to implicate my young friend in my decision to break the PRT’s rules about travel outside the wire. How could I have been so thoughtless? No wonder Rahim sounded angry when I called.

“The colonel, Sergeant Major—all of us, including you—are about to be overwhelmed with security preparations for the provincial elections, so I propose we keep this discussion and Rahim’s involvement between us as long as you agree to the following condition.”

At least he was going to leave Rahim out of it.

“What condition?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

“Give me your word that you will never leave this camp again without a military escort.”

I stared at Mark in silence, seething at his veiled threat. I knew he was right, and I had no defense for my actions, but I resented being treated like a child.

“You really have no choice, Angela. Your only other option is to have me report this incident to the colonel. And in that case Rahim
will
become involved.”

“You win, Mark,” I said, fighting back tears of frustration.

“Angela,” he said softly as he released his grip, “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Please understand why I’m doing this.”

“I do, Mark,” I said lowering my head in defeat. He glanced behind him and seeing no one in the courtyard, wrapped both arms tightly around me. I tensed and tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let go. My anger drained away, replaced by fatigue and resignation, and I slid my arms around him, resting my head against his shoulder. We stood quietly holding each other until a horn honked outside and the guards began to slide the barriers away from the gate.

As Mark had predicted, everyone was overwhelmed with meetings in preparation for the upcoming provincial elections. He and I saw very little of each other the week following our encounter at the front gate. I was also too busy to spend much time with Nilofar, who wanted to continue her regular visits to the PRT. They were ostensibly to brief me on her solar cooking and women’s rights activities, but they were also the only way she could spend time alone with Rahim.

Nilofar’s attempts to interfere in arranged marriages were angering some of the most powerful warlords in the northern provinces. Her clandestine relationship with Rahim was also very close to becoming public and was even more dangerous for her now that her parents had forbidden her to see him. I worried about her constantly, awed at her courage but fearful that she was about to run afoul of the conservative Afghan society, which could so easily crush her spirit.

I was unaware that Rahim was also starting to worry about me until he stopped me one morning on his way to breakfast and hit me with another of his off-the-wall questions.

“Farishta-
jan,
are you a CIA agent?”

I looked directly into his eyes and tried to keep my voice steady.

“No, Rahim, I’m not, but why do you ask? ” Where the hell had that come from? During our morning staff meetings, a few of the officers occasionally teased me about being with the CIA, but I’d always assumed that their remarks were never repeated outside the secure vault of the ops center.

“One of the terps heard the soldiers talking about you. It is very dangerous for you if the Afghan people know about this.”

Had the soldiers been discussing my rescue from Stefan’s car last month? But that was impossible. The night patrol had been sworn to secrecy. “Please tell the interpreters that I do not and never have worked for the CIA. I give you my word on that, Rahim,” I responded in a firm voice.

“I will do that, Farishta-
jan,
” he replied, looking relieved as he trotted off to the mess hall to load his plate with eggs and toast.

 

 

“Colonel Jameson, there’s something I’d like to say before we begin,” I announced as we assembled for the officers’ morning staff briefing.

“Go right ahead, Angela,” he said, noting the concern in my voice.

I looked slowly around the room to ensure I had everyone’s full attention.

“I know there has been some joking about my being in the CIA at these meetings, and I haven’t said anything as long as I thought it stayed in this room. Outside this room, however, it’s no joking matter,” I continued.

“This morning, Rahim told me that one of the other terps overheard some of the soldiers talking about me being a CIA agent.”

The officers remained silent and I pressed on. “Any gossip that implies that I am a member of my government’s clandestine intelligence service can put the lives of our interpreters, especially Rahim, in danger. The covert officers in my government’s CIA and in your MI6 have difficult and dangerous jobs, but I am not and never have been one of them. I am simply little old boring Angela Morgan, the diplomat.”

“There is certainly nothing little, old, or boring about you, Angela,” teased Mark. There were a few knowing nods and snickers from the other officers around the room, but after that the rumors about my affiliation with the CIA ended.

I joined Mark that evening for dinner and coffee in the officers’ mess. “It’s wonderful to know that you don’t find me old or boring,” I joked.

“It just came out,” he said squeezing my hand under the table. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

“On the contrary, Mark. I think we all needed some comic relief after my grim little speech.”

My NATO colleagues and I were enjoying some of the French major’s espresso and sharing stories about our preparations for the upcoming elections when Colonel Jameson appeared in the doorway of his office and cleared his throat to silence us.

“The police training center was hit last night,” he announced grimly. “One rocket passed completely over the compound and exploded harmlessly in the desert. Another landed inside near the trainees’ barracks. It woke everyone up when it exploded, but none of the Afghan cadets or instructors was harmed. The third rocket appears to have been a dud.”

Although the entire country of Afghanistan was officially designated a “war zone,” it hadn’t really seemed like one in the north since I’d arrived in January. Except for that one trip with Mark to the Pashtun village when I’d been required to wear my body armor and helmet, the relative freedom we enjoyed here was extraordinary compared with my colleagues in Kabul and at U.S. PRTs in the south. I silently prayed that this incident was a fluke and not a trend.

“This is the first attack on foreign forces in more than two years,” said the colonel, looking in my direction. He had read and concurred with a message I’d recently sent to my embassy describing the growing resentment of foreign forces in the north. Although our MOTs continued to maintain a low security profile, the same was not the case with the other foreign forces in the area.

Colonel Tremain’s men in their new up-armored Humvees, the Germans who traveled over from Kunduz in their armored personnel carriers, and the Dutch who had been sent in to provide extra security for the elections were speeding around Mazār, with top gunners concealed behind sunglasses and bandanas, their machine guns aimed at pedestrians. Many locals had begun complaining to us about this, since as far as they were concerned all foreign military personnel were part of the PRT.

“There’s not much more we can do to protect ourselves here since we’re surrounded on all sides by family compounds,” added the colonel with a resigned shrug, “but I urge you to keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Colonel, perhaps we should invite the local mullah and some of his followers to the PRT for a meal,” I said.

I had often seen the old man from my window, standing under the pistachio tree in front of his mosque, gazing up at the antennas and guard towers of our compound.

“With our high walls, razor wire, and the military convoys rumbling in and out of the gates, we don’t present a very welcoming appearance. The neighbors might be more willing to share information with us if they knew us a little better.”

“Excellent idea, Angela,” the colonel replied. “I’ll get Sergeant Major and Rahim to set something up.”

It took another month to organize, but eventually the old mullah and seven neighborhood elders accepted the colonel’s invitation to come for breakfast. They walked through the gates of the PRT that morning with great trepidation, but were quickly disarmed by the warm greeting they received from the soldiers and officers.