‘We will meet these people from the north at the ruins,’ he murmured, dabbing his forehead with his napkin and following it up by wiping his mouth.
Susan noted how, by his very reference to ‘ruins’, the man had reduced the stature of the magnificent historic stupa erected by Emperor Kanishka in the first century.
History becomes inconsequential if you live right next to it
, she thought wryly.
Not until it generates commerce, at least
.
‘That’s good,’ Peter said in response to the information.
When they emerged from the hotel after breakfast, a shiny Merc, along with a uniformed chauffeur, was waiting for them.
‘Business is doing well, Vilayat,’ Peter remarked, as they got into the car.
The air conditioning had been turned on at full blast and it was chilly inside.
‘Allah has been kind,’ the fat man replied complacently.
They drove through the crowded streets, this time without the advantage of a military staff car clearing their way. As they passed through the crowded bazaars, Susan observed the bustle and life of the ancient city, founded 2,000 years ago. Every form of traffic, from pedestrian to vehicular, including cycles and animal-drawn carts, seemed to occupy the road, unmindful of traffic rules, if any. Susan thought she had got used to it in India, but found herself gripping the edge of her seat and holding on for dear life as the driver honked his way through, unconcerned about the near collisions. She was amused to see that all the heavily laden trucks they passed, driven by hatchet-faced bearded men, were colourfully painted with life-size romantic motifs of young bucks serenading bashful maidens. Soon, they were on an open stretch and the big car picked up speed.
‘Can you stop for a moment, please?’ Susan asked.
She had looked out of the car window and spotted a huge tented settlement sprawling untidily on both sides of the road.
‘It is nothing, just refugees,’ Vilayat scoffed, his face wrinkling in distaste.
‘Please, just for a minute,’ Susan insisted.
Vilayat glanced at Peter, who nodded. Then he said resignedly, ‘Oh, all right. But remember, we can’t keep the Afghans waiting.’
The driver was instructed to pull over. As they got out, the stench of open sanitation hit them with the impact of a physical force. Gagging, Susan noticed that Hussain had already brought his handkerchief out and was holding it defensively over his nostrils. Although he did not utter a word, the glance he directed at Susan said it all.
I could have told you
, he seemed to be saying.
Faded, bedraggled and tattered by the harsh wind and sun, the tents spread out in uneven rows for at least a mile on either side of the road. Some trucks stood in a clearing. Gathered around them was a large crowd of women, covered from head to toe and carrying an assortment of pots. Susan realized they were waiting patiently for their supply of water. Noticing the car, some children had run over to examine it at close quarters and were now gathered in front of them, pointing excitedly at Susan. The driver tried unsuccessfully to shoo them away. Susan noticed their filthy, tattered clothes and their scrawny, underfed bodies. Their pinched faces were covered with sores and dried mucous. One of them, a little girl, approached and tugged silently at Susan’s shalwar, seeking her attention. Susan looked down at her and realized that the child had a wooden leg.
‘Mine blast,’ Peter explained, watching her tormented expression.
He gently picked the girl up in his arms and wiped her face with his sleeve. He said something to her in Pushtu, which made her smile shyly, revealing discoloured teeth. He put her down again and patted her, pushing a currency note into her hand as she turned to leave. Then, with a gesture, he indicated that they should get back into the car.
‘What did you tell her?’ Susan asked him, her voice shaky.
‘That she was very pretty and should be careful of the boys in a few years’ time,’ he replied impassively, turning away.
But she had caught the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. They got into the car and neither uttered a word for a long time.
‘It is a terrible thing, this war,’ Vilayat Hussain said, finally breaking the silence.
The area they were now passing through was less arid. There was more vegetation and orange orchards flanked the road on either side.
Yes
, thought Susan, mulling over his words,
but you profit from it, you fat smug thug!
But then, so do we all, so do we all. It’s just those we saw today who are made to pay.
The stupa, now almost reduced to a heap of ruins, stood just outside a village, with a weathered board telling its story in Urdu and English. The place seemed deserted, but for a small boy minding a herd of buffalo. He perked up when he saw them, but Hussain shooed him away. They went around clicking photographs of the place for effect, in case they were under surveillance. Hussain came up and informed Susan and Peter that Suleiman, the leader of the group of northern Afghans they were to meet, was waiting for them under a mango tree some distance away.
‘Better cover your head with the dupatta,’ Peter advised Susan.
The Afghan turned out to be a tall, turbaned man, his skin burnt a deep bronze, who stared at them with curious blue-green eyes. He was surprisingly young and wore the same flowing garments as his two companions, one of whom barely made an effort to conceal the Kalashnikov he carried.
Vilayat Hussain introduced them, then looked around furtively.
‘I’ll wait for you in the car,’ he said, hurrying away to the Merc as fast as his short legs could carry him.
‘You are Peter Khan?’ the young man who had been introduced as Suleiman now asked in English.
Susan recognized his sing-song accent as one common to the area.
‘Yes,’ Peter replied.
‘Peter Khan from the Panjsher?’
‘Yes, but that was a while ago.’
‘You are very young,’ Suleiman murmured, as if to himself, then went on, ‘but you fought very well there, Peter Khan, and many of my brothers owe their lives to you.’ His solemn face broke out in a smile and he said, ‘It is not correct for brothers to meet like this.’
With that, he enfolded Peter in his arms and hugged him warmly. Susan realized that she had been deliberately ignored, but Peter had warned her to expect it.
They sat down under the tree on a grassy patch. The men squatted easily, but Susan found it difficult to do so.
‘And how can I be of service?’ Suleiman enquired.
‘We are looking for the “blood mountain”.’
‘The “she blood mountain”,’ Susan quickly corrected.
Peter looked at her despairingly.
Suleiman noticed his expression and smiled. ‘Do not worry, Peter Khan,’ he reassured him, ‘they are not Afghan women and they will speak.’
Suleiman pondered over the name Susan had given him, then went into a huddle with his companions, discussing the matter in a low murmur. Then he turned back to Peter.
‘Yes, it is there, as the lady says,’ he confirmed. ‘This old man here knows about it, though the name is not exactly as you say it. In the old times, it was called “she who asks for blood”; but we now call it Rakhel-e-Shaitan.’
‘Mistress of the Devil,’ Peter translated.
‘Where is it?’ Susan asked.
‘It lies up north – no, north-east – of my village, a week’s journey on foot – or maybe a fortnight’s – from there,’ Suleiman replied, after consulting his older companion.
‘What is the closest town?’ Peter asked, taking out a folded map of Afghanistan from his pocket and spreading it on the ground.
‘Ishkashim,’ said Suleiman, pointing it out on the map.
Peter saw a small town marked on the Soviet–Afghan border.
‘And on the map, where is this “Mistress of the Devil”?’
‘Somewhere farther to the east,’ Suleiman answered airily, his finger tracing out a large area on the map that covered most of the Wakhan Corridor and Chinese Xinjiang.
It was quite evident that Suleiman had no clue about its location and Peter did not want to embarrass or anger the Afghan by asking further questions.
‘Can you take us there?’ he asked Suleiman, treading carefully.
‘Of course, my brother!’ the Afghan replied heartily. ‘There are bound to be people in my village who can take you there, but… ’ He stopped short.
‘But what?’
‘Oh, it is nothing. We have to finish the business we came here for. Then we go – after maybe two, three weeks?’
Susan and Peter looked at each other. That would be much too late.
‘Perhaps we can help you?’ Peter ventured cautiously. ‘Maybe with our help, you can finish your “business” earlier?’
‘No, no!’ Suleiman said vehemently, ‘it is our personal business.’
‘We are brothers, Suleiman,’ Peter persisted. ‘I insist on helping you.’
He knew he was on dangerous ground. Afghans did not like being argued with, especially when the other person was a
firangi
and that too, in the presence of a woman. But time was running out for them. Peter sat down on his haunches like the other men and joined them in a discussion that went on for a very long time. Susan heard the occasional loud protest from the Afghans, as Peter deliberated with them patiently, never losing his own composure. After a while, she observed the Afghans beginning to come around. There were nods and murmurs of assent, with one or the other stealing a glance at her every now and then. Then she saw Suleiman get up.
‘It is a perfect plan!’ He guffawed, clapping Peter on the shoulder. ‘And you are right. Perhaps you can help us, after all.’
Peter smiled, took both of Suleiman’s hands in his own and kissed them before walking back to Susan. He was grinning widely.
‘What is it?’ Susan asked, puzzled.
‘He has agreed to my plan; we may be able to get him to start for your “blood mountain” earlier, but we’ll have to give him a little help.’
‘What sort of help?’
As Peter began telling her, she grew more incredulous by the minute.
‘You must be mad!’ she declared, a note of finality in her voice.
‘It’s the only way,’ Peter said quietly. ‘That or wait for a meeting of the Shura – the tribes – which could take any amount of time, maybe even a few weeks, at a conservative estimate.’
Texas
1985–1986
Josh Wando was at the Old House when he received a call from his secretary. He was surprised. She rarely disturbed him when he was there; there had never been any need for her to do so before.
‘There are two men here to see you, sir,’ she said, sounding nervous. ‘They look like Feds. Won’t give their names. One is apparently a doctor. All they say is that they have some official business with you.’
‘Show them into my office,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be right over.’
Jesus! Have they got to know about the clinic?
Josh drove to his office in the Wando building. The two visitors were sitting on the sofa and got up to meet him the moment he entered. One was a short, plump, bespectacled man with long, untidy hair. His companion wore a suit and gave Josh a long, hard stare, before averting his gaze with an expression of distaste.
The shorter man now shuffled up to Josh and extended his hand. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Wando,’ he said. ‘I am Dr Terry Hoover and this is my associate, Mr Franks.’
Josh shook hands with Dr Hoover. The other man indicated with a gesture that he should sit down on the sofa and then sat down beside him. Josh noted with irony that these two outsiders seemed quite comfortable conducting the meeting in what was, after all,
his
office.
‘Mr Wando, I’ll cut to the chase,’ Dr Hoover began in a reasonable voice. ‘We understand that you have developed this state-of-the-art medical facility for treating immune disorders.’
‘Before I answer your questions, Dr Hoover,’ Josh cut in firmly, ‘I would like to know who you two are.’
The man in the suit made a threatening move towards Josh, but Dr Hoover warned him off with a gesture and continued quickly, ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Wando. How remiss of me! We’re from the FBI.’
‘Is that so?’ Josh retorted, trying to make his voice sound unimpressed. So they
were
the Feds! ‘Well, then, perhaps I could see some ID? And before we proceed any further, I’m going to ask my secretary to send in my lawyer.’
He knew that a great deal of investigation would have to be undertaken by the Feds before they discovered if he had broken any laws at all. However, they could, if they wished to, shut down the facility. And Josh couldn’t afford to have that happen –
not now
.
This time, Franks ignored Dr Hoover’s protestations. Glaring at Josh menacingly, he reached into his jacket pocket, fished out a bunch of colour photographs and flung them with a flourish on the table in front of the sofa.
Josh slid a glance at them and cringed.
Oh god, no!
‘I think you recognize these, Wando?’ Franks asked in a gravelly voice, leaning forward to pick one of the photos off the table and hold it up for Josh’s inspection. ‘You do seem to have your mouth full, don’t you?’ he continued. ‘If the lighting is bad, it’s because the picture was taken in the back room of Mcklusky’s Bar. Your partner – you probably know him by his professional name, Dusty Fog – is one Kyle Rogers, who dropped out of eighth grade last year.’ He waited for the import of his words to sink in, then tightened the screws. ‘That would make him fifteen today. We’ve got you for statutory rape so you better shove that attitude up your well used ass and listen to us.’
‘That’s enough, Frank!’ Dr Hoover said sharply, rising from the sofa.
‘You want to talk nice to this punk, that’s your problem!’ Frank shouted, glaring at the doctor.
He then got up and left the office, banging the door shut behind him.
There was silence in the room, broken, after a while, by Dr Hoover, who got up from his place, went to the sideboard and filled a glass of water. He handed the glass to Josh, who gulped down the contents thirstily.
‘Sorry about that, Mr Wando,’ the doctor said. ‘Believe me, I really am.’
‘What do you want?’ Josh asked tiredly.