On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  I nodded. I’d gathered as much. Haji was telling me as little as possible, and I wondered why.

  We encountered the first checkpoint just before reaching the outskirts of the city. Haji got out and conducted a brief conversation with some ANA soldiers.

  I couldn’t say this to Haji, but this was a trip I would rather have made by helicopter, or better yet, not have made at all. The risk of driving over an IED in Afghanistan is ever present. Haji had said our driver was familiar with the road and how to drive it.

  We reached Jalalabad in good time, then turned west on a well-maintained two-lane highway.

  Asadabad is a nice city, situated on the side of a mountain, and was completely dark as we drove past. After a couple of miles, we stopped at a deserted roadside gas station. Najib got out and went behind a building. Haji and I got out to stretch our legs.

  Najib returned a few minutes later and said something to Haji.

  “We need gas,” Haji said, “but the owner says we have to wait.”

  A half hour later, two turbaned workers arrived. One of the workers got the gas pump going. A few minutes later, we were on the road again. Streaks of light in the dark sky were the first signs of the new day.

  We were well into the Pech Valley when we encountered another checkpoint. According to Najib, the military facility here was an abandoned American firebase. Although I knew that the Army and Marines had abandoned a number of outposts in this area, I didn’t know which this one was. After a brief discussion with the soldiers, Najib got us going again. At times I was able to see the Pech River from the road. From time to time Najib spoke into his telephone, perhaps reporting our whereabouts to someone on the other end.

  Further on, we were again stopped. As an ANA officer checked our passports, Haji got out to speak with the soldiers. He seemed a shade paler when he climbed back in the van.

  I thought I knew why. They’d told him of occasional Taliban activity at night and warned him of the real possibility of driving over an IED on this stretch of road. Haji had been right about our driver. I don’t believe the soldiers would have let an American through if they hadn’t known Najib.

  Finally, the officer shrugged and gave us the go-ahead, and we started off again.

  We drove through a number of small villages, then over a bridge with a broken railing and onto a narrow road, which twisted and turned.

  After a time the landscape became more hilly and the road more treacherous. Every time we hit a pothole I felt myself tense up, probably a result of going over the IED on the way in from the airport.

  We entered a small village, which seemed familiar. We drove down the dirt road, our car engine the only sound in the morning silence.

  When we halted in front of a walled compound, Haji said, “We’re at Shah Mahmood’s home.”

  I recognized the main road and the haphazard collection of buildings. This was such a sparse settlement, I wondered if it even had a name. I knew I’d never forget having been brought here with Haji after our close call with the executioner’s axe.

  “Prepare yourself,” Haji said. “Shah Mahmood is waiting for us.”

  The driver opened the van door and pointed us toward the gate, which had a half-opened door. Inside, we crossed the compound and entered the building. We were in a dark corridor, and two young women stepped aside to allow Haji and me to pass. And then we were in a room without furniture and lit only by some candles and a kerosene lamp. Shah Mahmood was lying on a mattress, which was on a kind of raised pallet, and standing off to the side were Shah Mahmood’s wife and their son, Jawid. Another woman was kneeling alongside Shah Mahmood’s bed. Holding a wet compress, she was gently bathing Shah Mahmood’s face.

  A white bandage covered his entire scalp, and there was a patch over his left eye. His right eye was closed, and he was breathing deeply. Beneath the blanket I saw his left arm was swathed in bandages.

  “The Taliban did it,” Haji said. “When they heard that Shah Mahmood was the person who carried out our rescue, they wanted revenge for Izat. Two men cornered Shah Mahmood in front of the bazaar, emptied their weapons at him. He’s been seriously wounded. He won’t last long.”

  “When did this happen, Haji?”

  “Three days ago. They will wake him now.” The kneeling woman touched Shah Mahmood on the face, then on the shoulder. She silently watched us. I wondered if Shah Mahmood was still breathing. We waited. After two minutes, he opened his one eye. It took maybe ten seconds for him to recognize me. Shah Mahmood’s wife glanced at the other woman, and they withdrew. I crouched alongside Shah Mahmood.

  When he put out his hand, I glanced at Haji, who nodded. Shah Mahmood took hold of my wrist and began haltingly to speak. Haji translated.

  “Shah Mahmood thanks you for coming. He can’t believe you traveled all the way to the Korengal because of an old man dying. He says he will never forget your thoughtfulness and thinks of you as his son, and hopes you will look out for little Jawid. Shah Mahmood says maybe in the future you can provide in some way for your little brother, who now only has his mother.”

  I told Haji to say I was honored that Shah Mahmood thought of me as his son. “Whatever he wishes, Haji.”

  With his eyes closed, Shah Mahmood listened and nodded. Maybe he smiled, I couldn’t be sure. Then he waved a hand, moving it with great effort, telling Haji to come closer.

  “Shah Mahmood is too weak to speak any more. He says to call his wife. She will give you something.”

  With her head bowed, Shah Mahmood’s wife handed me a large envelope. I said “Ma-nana.” Again, she withdrew.

  Shah Mahmood’s eyes were closed and it seemed he was now sleeping again. After speaking with the women, Haji pointed me toward the doorway. In the outer room, we sat down and a boy brought us glasses of tea. A minute later he reappeared with a plate of cheese and fruit. Then he brought more tea and some crackers.

  Afterwards, Haji spoke with Shah Mahmood’s wife, and I was shown into a room with blankets spread on the ground. “Shah Mahmood wants to offer us his hospitality for as long as we wish to stay.” Before he left the room, Haji said, “Later, Alex, I will tell you what is in the envelope.”

  I lay down but was too wound up to sleep. An hour later Haji returned. “The driver has to leave now. If we don’t go with him, it will be difficult to return to Kabul.”

  In the other room, I took one last look at Shah Mahmood. His wife was kneeling silently next to her sleeping husband, sobbing softly. She only nodded when I said good-bye.

  * * *

  It was already early evening of the next day when we arrived at the Kabul house that we’d left thirty hours earlier. Corley was standing in the compound as I climbed out of the van.

  After Haji and I said good-bye to Najib, Haji said, “We need to talk.” I had an idea Corley already knew what we needed to talk about. I suggested going upstairs.

  In my room we gathered around the small table. I opened the envelope and removed its contents—a letter written in Arabic on thick gray paper.

  Corley picked up the letter, and after reading it, placed it back down.

  Haji said quietly, “I must first explain the background to you. And how this letter came to be written.”

  The only light in the little room was from a lamp with a weak bulb. I’d brought bottles of water up from downstairs, broke one open, and poured water into three paper cups. Corley and I watched as Haji took a sip before speaking.

  “For Americans,” Haji said, still speaking softly, “Afghanistan can be a difficult country to understand. Loyalties, alliances, and enmities often go back hundreds of years. Shah Mahmood is an influential man, the leader of his tribe. Hamed”—Haji fixed me with a stern look—“is also a member of the Korengali tribe, the tribe to which he owes his loyalty. The fact that he is a wealthy businessman in Dubai does not alter that. A century ago Hamed’s family farmed a fertile area in a northern province. It was Shah Mahmood’s people who saved Hamed’s people from losing their land.
”

  Corley said, “Hamed in a sense owes his existence to Shah Mahmood’s people.”

  “As one of the elders of his tribe,” Haji said, “Shah Mahmood is in a position to ask favors of Hamed. Under normal circumstances he would not make a demand of Hamed. But this situation is extraordinary.” Haji pointed at the letter. “This first line identifies you, Alex, as the honored bearer of this greeting from Shah Mahmood’s people to Hamed, Hamed’s family, and his people. Shah Mahmood addresses the letter personally to Hamed.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then it says that Shah Mahmood is in your debt. He also comments on your courage and your integrity. Then he goes on to request that Hamed grant any favor to you that you may ask of him.”

  “I only want from Hamed what Colonel Hansen wanted from Hamed—the information he has concerning the looting of the Kabul Bank. Pete, in a sense, sacrificed his life for it. It’s the information that the auditors couldn’t find and was not in their report.”

  Haji frowned. “And you say this information is in Hamed’s possession.” When I nodded, Haji said quietly, “You need only present this letter to Hamed and make your request.”

  Corley nodded. She, too, seemed amazed by the letter. Finally, she said, “Shah Mahmood also gave up his life. He did this for you.”

  Haji said, “I indicated to Zubair, one of Shah Mahmood’s advisers, that Alex had made a trip to Dubai to see Hamed. After Shah Mahmood heard this, he dictated the letter.” Haji pointed. “At the bottom, you see Shah Mahmood’s signature, which is all he could write.” Haji said quietly, “This is an unbelievable document. Truly.”

  Corley shook her head. “He did this after he’d been shot?”

  “Yes, after he’d been shot. With his last ounce of strength.”

  We sat in silence for a long moment, aware of the character of Shah Mahmood and the kind of man who did what he had done. In his character and actions he exhibited a concern for other people that no longer seems to have a place in the world. It could be seen in Shah Mahmood’s generosity, his hospitality, his loyalty. His way of living seemed somehow out of place in our century, but had rather a medieval quality.

  In the silent room, I knew that I was experiencing a moment beyond what most people could ever imagine—and again I recalled Pashtunwali, the thousand-year-old code of values that guides the lives of so many Afghans.

  Speaking quietly, Haji said, “The driver received a telephone call during the ride back. Shah Mahmood has died. He heard the women wailing in the background. They would be taking Shah Mahmood to the mosque. He was . . . a very special person.”

  “We know,” Corley said.

  Then Haji got to his feet. “I must be getting back.” Standing at the door, he asked, “Will I see you before your return to the United States?”

  Corley shook her head, and Haji came forward and gave me a silent hug, saying softly, “Da Khoday pa amaan.” After I nodded, and said my own good-bye, Haji turned and opened the door. A second later he was gone.

  Corley said, “You said Hamed was asking twenty-five million euros for the document. Who could pay that kind of money?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But over a billion was looted from the bank. Maybe a twenty-five-million-euro price tag isn’t that unreasonable.”

  “I have to wonder to whom it would be worth so much.”

  “I have an idea that it has another kind of value. I think it may help in leading us to the individual who hired someone to kill Pete Hansen. That’s the reason I care about it.”

  I wasn’t sure why Corley cared about this information, but it was clear that she did.

  What had been her relationship with my old buddy? I still wasn’t clear about that. I knew her reasons for obtaining this information were different from mine.

  Why had she made such a blatant attempt to seduce me in Dubai?

  There was still much more to this woman than I had been able to puzzle out. Again, I wondered about the circumstances under which she’d come to know Pete.

  “I’ll book the flight to Dubai,” she said.

  I reached for my carry-on and opened the cover of my laptop. “Let me. Window or an aisle seat?”

  CHAPTER 27

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 2013

  MY SECOND INTERVIEW with Taraki Hamed went down differently from my first one. One difference was that this time Corley, who was wearing a blue business suit for the occasion, was with me. I had a feeling she’d cheated on the length of the skirt, which showed her legs to excellent advantage. Not surprisingly, Hamed was having difficulty keeping his eyes off her. It was Monday, midafternoon, two days after our return to Kabul from the Korengal Valley, and we were in Hamed’s lavish air-conditioned 51st-floor office.

  When I telephoned, I’d asked if I could bring someone with me.

  “I must confess that I was most surprised to receive your telephone call.” Hamed put down his coffee cup.

  “Pleasantly surprised, I hope.”

  He shook his head. “Neither pleasantly nor unpleasantly. Only curious, Mr. Klear. Only curious.” He looked at his watch. “But I’m also busy. We’re in the middle of consummating what you Americans call a very big deal.”

  “What kind of deal, Mr. Hamed?” Corley’s tone was innocent.

  “A merger, Ms. Corley. Two firms coming together can be quite a complex arrangement.” He touched a finger to his wavy hair, permitted himself a thin smile. “Nearly as complex, one might say, as two people coming together.”

  Corley couldn’t let that go by without commenting. “It would depend on the people, wouldn’t it, sir?”

  Hamed’s eyes twinkled. “Isn’t it women who bring the complexity to a relationship, Ms. Corley?”

  “Is complexity a bad thing, Mr. Hamed?”

  “Not at all. I would go so far as to say that it is complexity that makes life . . . interesting.” Hamed’s expression all at once became deadly serious. Looking at me, he said, “I can’t for the life of me imagine why you wanted another meeting.”

  I sipped some coffee, let some time go by, put down my cup. “Quite simply, I’m hoping you’ll be able to provide me with the information I asked for last time.” I flashed a pained smile. “I know you’re busy.”

  “If we’re again talking about the same document—”

  “We are.”

  “I think I was very precise in stating what it is I expect in return—the sum of twenty-five million euros.” He paused, letting the enormity of what he wanted to sink in. “In that respect, nothing has changed. You understand that, I hope you do. Last time, you were clear in stating there was no possibility of your being able to raise that amount of money.” When I fidgeted with impatience, he said, “I am correct, am I not?” He looked from me to Corley, smiled, then back to me. He didn’t seem quite as sure of himself as he had a second ago.

  “Your memory of my last visit, Mr. Hamed, is impeccable.”

  Corley nodded. “That’s precisely the way Mr. Klear described things to me, Mr. Hamed.” She was really laying it on. I wondered why.

  “Am I to assume there’s been a new development?” Hamed arched his eyebrows, perhaps wondering if he could anticipate a big payday.

  Corley nodded her head.

  “What is it then?” As I slowly withdrew the envelope containing Shah Mahmood’s letter from my breast pocket, his expression changed, going from one of ill-concealed impatience to bafflement. “This is for me?” When I nodded, he stared at the still folded letter. Finally, he picked it up. Before reading, he looked first at me, then at Corley, whose expression remained noncommittal.

  After he’d read it, I broke the silence. “You know Shah Mahmood, I’m sure. As you can see, Mr. Hamed, it’s addressed to you. Shah Mahmood dictated and had it written on my behalf. At the conclusion, you can see his signature.”

  “I concede I am surprised that you, Mr. Klear, are in possession of such an . . . extraordinary document.” Frowning, he said, “Nevertheless, I am curious as to ho
w—”

  “As to how Mr. Klear came into possession of this letter.” When he nodded, Corley said, “We are not here to indulge your curiosity, Mr. Hamed.” She paused, switching from impeccable English to Pashto. I didn’t know what it was she said. She could have been criticizing him or flattering him.

  Hamed answered in Pashto. I got the impression from his somewhat halting tone that he was defending himself. Which, I supposed, was her intention. There was no doubt that he was astonished by her command of his native language.

  I said, “The important thing is that you’re ready to act on Shah Mahmood’s request. What my principals want is the complete account of how the money was taken from the bank. I emphasize the word ‘complete’.”

  “Twenty-two people have been charged. Whether they are guilty . . .”

  “Only time will tell.”

  Hamed gazed at the cups and the uneaten cookies on the coffee table before us.

  I could understand his initial reluctance to want to turn over his document. I was prepared to be patient.

  Frowning, he said to me, “You say you are acting on behalf of the American government.”

  “I’m not sure Mr. Klear needs to reveal that kind of information.”

  Although I remained silent, I found Corley’s interjection interesting.

  I said, “Colonel Hansen was acting on behalf of the American government. That doesn’t mean I am.” The fact is, I was no longer completely sure on whose behalf I was acting. At one time I would have assumed that Corley, an officer in the U.S. Army, would be representing the American government.

  I no longer assumed that.

  “You described yourself as Colonel Hansen’s successor.”

  “Only in certain respects.”

  He scrutinized me further. “I see.”

  A half-minute of silence, then Corley said, “In the Korengal the families all know one another. Am I correct?” When he nodded, Corley said, “In your actions you are guided by the traditions of your people and your tribe.” And then she again began speaking Pashto. I heard a reference to Pashtunwali.