The valley was suddenly quiet, the thrumming noise receding as quickly as it had arrived.
“Is that it?” Najeeb asked.
“No,” Skelly said. “They’ll be back.”
He believed it at first, and for the next five minutes he kept expecting the helicopter’s return, watching for it to come roaring back over the ridge with missiles firing and all coordinates locked in. The last of the day’s light was bleeding into the hills, but surely the chopper had some sort of infrared targeting that could spot the attackers on the slopes above. He listened closely for the throbbing blades, but there was nothing. No sound but the wind. Then, a bumping noise, but it was just one of Razaq’s men, shifting position, moving among the rocks like a snake sliding off to bed. Skelly knew then that the moment had passed, that the chopper wouldn’t be returning.
“So I guess that’s it, then,” he said. “For now at least.”
Najeeb said nothing, and Skelly heard him smoothing out a place to rest, lying down. Skelly sagged against a boulder, spent, and reached for his water bottle. The temperature seemed to drop farther as darkness settled into the valley for the night, and he yawned, suddenly worn out now that rescue seemed out of the question. He rested his head on the ground, brushing away a few stones with his hand, and within minutes he was breathing deeply, asleep.
Only seconds later, it seemed, Najeeb was tugging at his shoulder, speaking softly into his ear.
“Wake up. Something’s happening.”
Not yet fully conscious, Skelly pushed himself up with one hand, then thought better of it and tried to stay low. Then he realized it was pitch-black, and no one could have possibly seen him. A pale half-moon sat on the opposite ridge like a white blade poised to drop into the gorge.
“Where are you?” he rasped, suddenly panicked, his heart going a mile a minute.
“Right here. Razaq’s on the move. I think he and his sons are trying for some kind of breakout.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost eight. Listen.”
Now he heard it, a slight clank and scuffle. Were they mounting their horses? And if so, why wasn’t everyone doing it—or would that have been too foolhardy to even consider? Skelly also remembered that there were no longer enough mounts for everyone. Perhaps the entire fight would now swing down the highway, leaving Najeeb and him safely to the rear. Somehow he doubted it.
“Here,” Najeeb said. “Take this. You might need it. I have one, too.”
It was too dark to see what Najeeb was handing him, but the feel was unmistakable, the cold steel barrel and the wooden stock.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
“From one of Razaq’s men who was hit. While you were asleep. I got one for me, too.”
Skelly had handled a Kalashnikov only one other time in his life, while traveling through Bosnia with a hard-drinking Finn. The Finn had been on his last tour of duty in the Balkans and had gotten fixated on the idea of testing the worthiness of his bulletproof vest before heading home. He’d propped it up in a trench and taken a shot, borrowing the weapon from a bored Muslim militiaman. Then he’d invited Skelly to have a go at it, showing him how the thing worked. Skelly still remembered the bruise the stock had left from bucking against his shoulder, and he felt odd about taking the weapon now.
“Careful,” Najeeb muttered. “I’ve chambered a round and the safety is off.”
“Where’d you learn to use one?”
“Where do you think? Where I grew up you don’t make it to your tenth birthday without firing one of these. I would rather not have to use it now, but you never know.”
True enough, Skelly supposed. But it was a strange sensation for him, going against every professional instinct. The scribbler was supposed to be the one passive observer, fading into the scenery to wait for the shooting to stop, then emerging unarmed to interview the survivors and tally up the dead. But if a final round of fighting were to commence now, he supposed no one would bother to check his press credentials, especially not in the dark.
“Okay, then, I guess I’m ready. But damned if I’ll know who to shoot.”
“Listen. They’re moving again.”
Skelly strained his eyes forward, and for the slightest moment he thought he saw a slender glint of moonlight on the blade of a sword— or maybe it was just some romantic shred of his imagination, wanting Razaq to be the warrior he once had been, ready to ride off into the pages of an old book, some illuminated manuscript of silver spear points and galloping sultans. Was it the feel of the gun in his hands that gave him these delusions?
Then he heard the creak of leather, the jolting of hoofbeats, and shouts, followed by gunfire, muzzle flashes erupting brightly on either slope. Red tracers arcing wildly down the hillsides. Skelly flinched, gripping the gun tightly, still not accustomed to the sights and sounds. But he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the beauty of the scene, like some fireworks display gone horribly awry.
Up ahead there was more shouting and a terrible crashing collision of some sort, like the sound of a great beast going down, followed by more gunfire, the bursts of light strobing and sparking—total sensory commotion for a few seconds, followed just as abruptly by a moment of silence, when all he could hear was Najeeb’s breathing, barely a foot to his right. It was cold, he suddenly realized. Bitingly cold. The ground beneath his knees felt like a grainy slab of ice.
A few voices tentatively called out. Then came the sound of footsteps, heading their way from farther up the road, too many of them for it to be anything but bad news.
“What are they saying?” Skelly whispered. “What’s happening?”
“They have him,” Najeeb said. “They have Razaq, his brother, and his son. It is Bashir speaking, in the road just ahead.”
Skelly laid down the gun and heard Najeeb doing the same.
It was over, then. For all of them.
“So what now?”
“We surrender. And hope for the best.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS DALIYA’S first time in a burqa shop. A university friend had once wanted to visit one on a lark, but at the last minute they thought better of it, figuring their scornful giggles would have been asking for trouble.
The place gave her the creeps. Burqa shops were monuments to conformity, every wall and rack draped in the same pastels, most of them blue—garment after garment with the same baggy shape and the same shuttlecock top, like a gathering of burial shrouds. So the quicker this transaction went, the better, she decided, darting inside while Professor Bhatti hovered at the entrance, as watchful as a bodyguard.
The saleswoman appeared immediately. She struck Daliya as the prudish sort. You sensed this even though she didn’t wear a burqa herself. She didn’t need to, since no man ever set foot in the place. She had, however, ostentatiously parked a burqa near the door for when she ventured into the streets. She spoke up just as Daliya found what seemed to be a likely fit.
“Here,” she said, picking up a second one. “You might want to try this size as well. One of them will probably be perfect.”
Her voice was surprisingly warm. Perhaps Daliya had judged her too quickly.
Daliya slipped the garment on over her clothes. It was horribly claustrophobic. The front draped against the tip of her nose and brushed against her lips when she moved her mouth to speak. Her first inclination was to take it off right away, to drop it on the floor and stroll briskly from the shop, never to return.
Yet there was also a shuttered sense of privacy, which had its appeal. It was like watching the world from a hiding place behind a grated vent, anonymous and unreachable. It would take patience to wear one of these for long, but Daliya supposed that after a while you’d forget it was there. This one fit fine, so she pulled it off and said, “This will do.”
“You are probably right,” the saleswoman said, “but why don’t you try this one as well?”
Daliya obliged her, slipping into the next one but finding that it was so long that the lower hem brushed against her shoe tops with a slight break. When she took a step she felt in danger of tripping on the garment. A few blocks of walking in this and the thing would be filthy.
“No,” she said, lifting the larger one back over her head. “This one is too long.”
The saleswoman wore a pained expression. She seemed to be fairly bursting with the urge to speak.
“Yes?” Daliya asked.
“I am pleased that you are choosing the path of modesty, my dear. But am I to assume you will be using this garment for travel?”
“Yes, I will be.” Daliya blushed. If her intentions were this easy to spot, perhaps she’d better rethink her plans.
“And if it isn’t too much of an intrusion, may I ask where will you be traveling?”
“To the North-West Frontier Province.”
“Beyond Peshawar?”
Such coyness. Why did neither of them just come out and say, “to the Tribal Areas,” which even before the war had seemed exotic and foreign to anyone who didn’t live there. A land of kidnappers and smugglers. Now, more than in any other benighted corner of Pakistan, the inhabitants were also seen as a land of wild-eyed holy men and armed uprisings, of jihad and frenzy. Or such was the popular perception in Islamabad.
“Yes. Well beyond Peshawar.”
“Then choose the larger one, my dear. You’ll travel more safely,
inshallah.
”
“Ah, yes. I see.”
The woman was right, of course. Everyone had heard the horrible tales of women rapped sharply on the ankles if they showed the slightest bit of flesh when boarding buses or climbing stairs. Most such stories came from the dominions of the Taliban, inside Afghanistan, but not all. And while every tribal area wasn’t alike, who knew what the rules would be in her destination. So Daliya thanked the woman, paid for her purchase and was on her way.
PROFESSOR BHATTI SEEMED immensely relieved once they were safely back in the car, and Daliya again felt a stab of sympathy. Was this what it meant to be a successful woman, to have every minor pitfall loom as a potential disaster? She looked over at the professor, but her eyes were locked on the road, and for the rest of the drive she seemed oddly preoccupied, as if working something over in her mind.
By the time they reached the apartment the mood was more relaxed, and they talked for a while upstairs. Shortly before midnight the professor stood, saying, “I’ll brew us a last pot of tea.”
Daliya heard her switch on a radio in the kitchen, the jangly music accompanied by the comforting domestic clatter of teaspoons and clinking china. A few minutes later the radio clicked off, and the professor emerged with two steaming cups. But her face was ashen, her expression grave.
“They just came on with a bulletin,” she said. “Razaq has been captured, with all his men. The Taliban have them.”
“And Najeeb, too, then,” Daliya said, lowering her gaze. The professor slid a teacup to her across the end table. Daliya raised it mechanically to her lips, but she was unable to swallow. She set the cup down and pushed it away, breathing deeply to maintain control. Poor Najeeb. Surely they wouldn’t keep him? The American, maybe, for some sort of ransom. But not the son of an influential tribal
malik.
And wouldn’t that mean he would end up on his father’s lands, back in his home village of Bagwali, just as he’d feared? Retrieved, but not released. All the more reason she must put her plan into action, and soon, if only to keep from going insane with worry and all the waiting.
“You’re going to go there, aren’t you?” the professor asked quietly, eyeing Daliya with an expression of intense concentration and concern. “And I’ll confess that I overheard you in the burqa shop, saying you’re going to be traveling to the Tribal Areas.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
Professor Bhatti nodded, seeming to accept it. Then she gently set down her teacup and leaned closer, speaking in a tone that suggested a confidante more than a mentor.
“If I were a sane person, a responsible person, I would pick up the phone right now and contact your parents, or even the police. But of course if all I had was responsibility and sanity I never would have reached the place I am in today. I’ve only become cautious in trying to protect what I have. I’ve become a politician, a stagnant and careful politician.”
“No. That’s not fair. You’ve—”
“Please. Let me have my say.”
Daliya nodded respectfully.
“You’ll need to take some of the same kind of chances if you’re going to rise above this place, but you shouldn’t try doing it alone. So I’ll help you—and God help
me,
please—in any way that I can. I have the name of someone who might do you some good out there. But before I give it to you, you should know that even in a burqa you’re not going to get very far. Not by yourself. Once you’re west of Peshawar, you’ll need a male escort. Even two women dressed properly can’t get very far unless a man is with them. It’s simply the way things are.”
“I know,” Daliya said, her voice sounding very small. “I know all of that. Which is why, as I told you before, I have a plan. A strange one, maybe. But a plan.”
“So tell it to me, then. And I will try to admire it, instead of being appalled.”
Daliya smiled, picking up her teacup. For the first time this evening she felt a stirring of confidence in what she was about to attempt. She would need luck, for sure, but she knew now that she would at least have the necessary resolve.
“All right, then,” she said. “But I hope you can stay up later once I have, because there’s a lot of work to do. And I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“For your great adventure,” the professor said, smiling uncertainly.
“Yes,” Daliya said. “Great, and probably foolish. But an adventure for sure.”
So Daliya told her, and the professor was very admiring.
But also quite appalled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BASHIR’S MEN MARCHED them at gunpoint to Heserak, then loaded everyone into six pickup trucks in the dark. That was when Najeeb spotted Haji Kudrat, who stood at the middle of the action in a dirty gray kameez and a thick woolen vest, shouting orders.
A nearby lantern lit his long, weathered face and bushy auburn beard. A swirled black turban sat regally on his head, like a layer cake with licorice frosting. He was obviously Pashtun, yet his crinkling almond eyes betrayed a touch of Hazara, the beleaguered peoples supposedly descended from the hordes of Ghengis Khan.
When Kudrat wasn’t speaking he was scowling, an expression both imperious and impressive. Strapped to his neck was a large pair of binoculars, which around here was as clear a symbol of authority as a jeweled mace. A holstered pistol was suspended from a canvas military belt.
A man poked Najeeb in the back with a gun barrel, letting him know it was time to stop staring and get on board. But he’d seen enough to recognize Kudrat as a long-ago visitor to his father’s house. The man had made quite an impression even then, sprawled on the cushions of the
hujera
and inhaling deeply from the hubble-bubble, his voice never losing its tone of command even as his eyes glazed over. Unlike others who were subjected to his father’s lavish hospitality— most of whom wound up being treated more as hostages than as guests—Kudrat had seemed to come and go as he pleased, a mark of his stature. A week after his departure a convoy of trucks had arrived from Peshawar with crates of grenade launchers, escorted by a pale and talkative American. So even then the man had known how to use connections, and now he was directing everyone like a imperious traffic cop. When others approached for orders they kept a respectful distance, as if further permission were required to move closer.
For all his apprehensions, both for himself and for Skelly, who’d hardly spoken since their capture, Najeeb found the atmosphere of this place oddly comfortable. He couldn’t say it was to his liking, but there was a distant familiarity from his boyhood. There was an almost holiday feel in the air, an electric charge of men in motion, fueled by the ripe promise of coming violence. It was a mood that seemed to have its own smell, like that of an approaching storm. All the more reason to keep Skelly nearby.
They now sat next to each other in the back of the pickup, a white Toyota. Skelly’s shoulders were bunched against his own. Skelly was taking notes, which he’d been doing almost continuously for the past hour, as if finally emerging from the stuporous roar of the firefight. Four of Razaq’s men were in the truck with them, one of them oozing blood from his left thigh, his pants glistening darkly.
The engines revved, and the first of the trucks pulled out. Theirs was next in line, but just as they were getting under way Bashir ran up, signaling the driver to halt. He glanced into the back, flashing a thumbs-up to Najeeb. Then he leered with triumph when he saw that Skelly had a notebook out, and waved the driver on. It really was beginning to seem that the man had invited them along simply to have a personal scribe, someone to document his name for the world at large. He’d obviously also enjoyed sending Skelly ahead to taunt Razaq. There was some currency in that sort of notoriety, Najeeb supposed, but he wondered if the businesslike Kudrat would approve. And it hadn’t seemed to alter their status as captives. If Skelly and he were truly special, shouldn’t Bashir be letting them ride up front? Najeeb supposed he should feel anger toward the man, but he felt weariness instead. It would be like throwing a tantrum over the doings of a hawk, or a vulture. It was simply the man’s nature, his fool’s way of living and surviving.
“Think we’ll be okay?” It was Skelly, finally speaking up. His eyes were glassy. From what Najeeb could see of the scribbling in his notebook the words were barely legible, more the result of compulsion than careful observation. He reached up to feel Skelly’s forehead. Hot and dry.
“You should take more of your pills. They may not feed us for a while. And if we ever get a chance to leave, we will need to move right away.”
“Think we’ll really get one?”
Najeeb didn’t know, so he didn’t say. Skelly nodded, as if he understood.
The trucks trailed out of town in a dusty convoy. By now the moon was high in the sky, providing just enough light to see the faint outline of the hills. Since they had crossed the border into Afghanistan two days earlier, their journey had traced a crude upward crescent, which was now bending northeast, a route that brought them to the lower reaches of the wide, fertile valley spilling westward from the Khyber Pass. Jalalabad, Kudrat’s reputed base of operations, sat in the middle of that valley, some thirty miles east-northeast of Heserak. If that was their destination, the roads from here on out should be relatively straight and flat.
They weren’t smooth, however, and as the trucks bounced forward Najeeb noticed a dark liquid pooling at the base of the closed tailgate. It seemed to be coming from the wounded man, whose face was no longer visible in the night. A mile or so later Najeeb noticed someone next to the man leaning closer. Then, over the noise of the engine, a voice announced, “He’s dead.” Najeeb translated the news for Skelly, who dutifully recorded it after consulting his watch. The five survivors shifted and realigned, giving the dead man more room now that he no longer needed it.
“Do you know his name?” Skelly asked.
Najeeb relayed the question to the others. One grunted in reply.
“No one knew him.”
Skelly scribbled a few moments more, then put down his pencil. Najeeb wondered if the dead man had a family, any children. If he was like most fighters, he had probably been at war for years, since his teens, carrying a gun for one warlord or another since before he was old enough to shave, forgetting not only his age but any skills he might have learned for earning a living. Other than fighting, of course. If peace came anytime soon, as everyone hoped, what would these men do, other than return home to fields of dust and drought? And now Najeeb and Skelly had been washed into this stream of the aimless warrior class, bumping from one forlorn destination to the next. He could get angry over that, too, he supposed wearily. If not for Skelly’s headstrong pursuit of a story they would be making their way back across the border by now, toward Tariq and the ISI. So keep moving forward, wherever that led. And keep trying to conserve energy for the first chance of escape. He would be drawing upon reserves he hadn’t needed in years.
The night was cold and getting colder, and once or twice he heard Skelly’s teeth chattering. The notebook was back in his pocket. A half hour later they saw the twinkling lights of Jalalabad. The town’s electricity was the strongest testimony yet to Kudrat’s prestige. The fealty of various gangs and factions meant little for very long unless you controlled the ones who kept the water and power flowing.
But when they reached the town the convoy drove through the outskirts, passing quickly into orange groves that sheltered the road, speeding past low, darkened homes and a lonely checkpoint or two where campfires were burning, then another mile or so into the countryside before turning left, bouncing across a dirt track alongside a bare field. The route continued in a jostling series of turns across more farmland, beneath long promenades of drooping eucalyptus, the menthol smell heavy in the night air. When the trucks finally stopped, no one spoke a word. There was only the sound of doors slamming and tailgates dropping. During one lull he heard Skelly’s pencil scratching anew, an insistent mouse gnawing at the baseboard. Then a deep voice came up from behind as their tailgate bounced open.
“Everyone out.”
“Where are we?” a captive asked.
“Rishkoor.”
It was a small military base just outside Jalalabad, and for the moment it appeared to have no lights. Either that or it was operating under blackout orders. The silhouettes of a few low buildings were barely visible. Beyond them was a moonlit field littered with hulking dark shapes. Trucks? Tanks? He couldn’t be sure.
Someone switched on a flashlight, and the beam lit Skelly’s face. Then one of Bashir’s men grabbed Skelly by the arm. Najeeb stepped quickly to keep pace, passing a huddle of men muttering to themselves in a foreign tongue. Najeeb thought it was Arabic but couldn’t tell for sure.
“Wait here,” the man told Skelly, then departed.
Someone nearby pull-started a generator, the engine beating noisily to life, and a short time later a string of dim lights flared overhead. Najeeb stole a glance at the knot of strange men, squinting into the glare. They were sullen, a tough-looking bunch, and definitely not locals. Each of them was armed to the teeth.
Skelly nudged him, as if trying not to attract too much attention, then nodded toward the men.
“Taliban?” Skelly said under his breath.
“
Guests
of the Taliban.”
“Guests,” Skelly repeated, sounding exhausted. “You mean some of the retreating forces from the north? Or is this a way station for visitors?”
He said it almost dreamily, as if he might be half expecting a cameo appearance by his friend Sam Hartley, the wheeler-dealer, blowing in on the next breeze to set things right with assurances of commerce for all.
“
Arab
guests,” Najeeb clarified. “From Syria, Saudi, Yemen. Or countries like that. They’re the ones your government calls al-Qaeda, although I doubt that’s what they’d call themselves.”
Skelly reached for his notebook, then seemed to think better of it and let his hands fall to his sides.
“I guess we’ll either have one hell of a story, or we’ll soon be very unwelcome.”
Najeeb supposed he was right.
A few minutes later one of Kudrat’s guards tugged them toward a line of captives walking single file toward a long cinder-block building. Then Bashir seemed to materialize out of nowhere, remonstrating with the guard.
“They’re arguing,” Najeeb translated for Skelly. “Bashir’s saying we belong to him. He’s trying to separate us from the others.”
Bashir eventually got his way, which Najeeb took as a good sign. At least he was a known quantity, and for all his deceit the man seemed to have a vested interest in keeping them alive. But he’d had to raise his voice to win the argument, and that had attracted the attention of the Arabs, who didn’t seem to approve. The farther they got from Azro, the more the man’s authority seemed to diminish.
Bashir led them toward another low building and ushered them into a small room at one end. He turned on his flashlight to help them get their bearings. It looked like their room in Azro, dirty plaster walls and a few thin mattresses on the floor.
“Where’s the rest of my stuff?” Skelly asked.
Najeeb thought he looked a little better, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.
“Tomorrow,” Bashir said.
“And my phone?”
“Tomorrow. Patience.”
Then he flicked off the light and departed, shutting the door and leaving them in darkness. Najeeb groped his way toward one of the mattresses, supposing they wouldn’t be getting any food tonight. I can do this, he told himself again. I can live this way for as long as I have to. Now if only Skelly can do the same.
“He didn’t lock the door,” Skelly said.
“They don’t have to. I heard one of the guards saying the Americans had dropped cluster bombs. There are apparently hundreds still in the fields, unexploded. Try to sneak away and you’ll probably set one off.”
“Not that we’d know where to go anyway.”
“We should sleep while we can. Who knows what they’ll want out of us tomorrow.”
“Do you know where they took Razaq? Him and his sons?”
“I couldn’t tell. They were in the first truck. It was empty by the time the lights came on.”
“But I guess they won’t harm him, right?”
“Unless they give him to the Arabs.”
“Or whoever’s with the Arabs. Or leading them.”
“Yes.” Najeeb didn’t want to say the man’s name. “That could change everything. For us, too.”
Skelly said nothing more on the subject, as if he, too, feared it might jinx them.
NAJEEB FELLASLEEP quickly. There were no prayers calling through the night here, no sound except the shuffle and mutter of a few men outside the door. At some point in the night a few of the trucks drove away, but it was impossible to say how many.
Hours later he was awakened by a flash and an explosion, the ground shaking, and for a terrifying moment the oxygen seemed to be sucked from the air. A rain of dirt and stones showered the roof. Then a jet shrieked overhead, leaving in a hurry. He heard Skelly moving in the darkness, throwing back his blankets.
“What the . . . ?”
“Stay here,” Najeeb cautioned.
“Just getting my bearings,” Skelly said, sounding shaken. “Wonder how much more of that is coming.”
There were three more explosions, but each was progressively distant, like a cloudburst moving down the valley. Someone was moaning outside, then there was a flurry of footsteps followed by silence. Najeeb must have fallen back asleep shortly afterward, because the next thing he knew Bashir was standing over him, his face lit by flashlight, jostling his shoulder.
“What is it?” Skelly said groggily from the other side of the room. “Who’s there?”
“Come,” Bashir said. “You must both see this.”
His tone was urgent, and he must have been excited because he wasn’t bothering to speak English for his scribe. Najeeb translated Bashir’s orders, but Skelly barely mumbled in reply, and when Bashir turned his beam toward the reporter Najeeb saw that Skelly’s brow was bathed in sweat, his hair matted and askew. He reached across. The man’s forehead was steaming.
“I need another pill,” Skelly mumbled. “And I need another shit.”
“He’s sick,” Najeeb said.
“You must come anyway. Now.”
Najeeb translated quickly, and Skelly, for all his troubles, reached first for his notebook, then began pulling on his pants. He, too, had untapped reserves, Najeeb observed, grateful for the knowledge.
“What is it he wants us to see?” Skelly asked, and this time Bashir answered in English.