“What do we do?” Merzad asked as he stood near the opening of the cave looking across the valley to Zor Barawul.
“Nothing,” Malik murmured. “Not yet…”
Frowning, Merzad offered, “You know, we have two new boys, orphans, with us. Why not send them into the village as our spies? Let them pretend to be hungry and lost. Someone will surely help them. With all the food, money and medical gifts old Abbas has gotten in the last year, they will take in our ‘lost’ boys. They could become our eyes and ears, Lord Malik.”
The plan wasn’t a bad one. Malik dropped the binoculars back on his chest. Turning, he nodded. “That’s a good plan. Our only problem is we haven’t had either boy long enough to brainwash them properly. What if they run away and side with Abbas? What then?”
Merzad shrugged. “When you rescued them three months ago, they were starving. They’ve been treated with nothing but discipline, been given food, a blanket and I believe they can be our spies without concern.”
Rubbing his beard, Malik glanced over his shoulder. Both boys were sitting near the fire, recently fed and cleaning some of the weapons for his soldiers. Their jobs were to clean weapons, help the cook, water the horses and do the bidding of his soldiers. Soon, they would be taught how to fire the weapons. For now, cleaning a rifle was crucial because it taught them about the weapons and it gave them prestige within the group. Being trusted to handle such weapons earned them respect from his soldiers. The boys desired to be a part of his family.
“Benham is thirteen. He’s got the slowness of a donkey pulling a cart, though.”
“Agreed,” Merzad said in a low voice so no one could overhear them. “He’s slow but very loyal to us.”
Malik’s gaze moved to the ten-year-old boy crouched nearby with a partly dismantled AK-47 on a thin, tattered blanket before him. “Fahran is the smart one.” The scrawny child wore a dark-blue woolen robe, his feet bare and sticking out from beneath the dirtied material. He had black hair, startling green eyes and he reminded Malik of a wily fox.
“You have doubts about Fahran?” Merzad probed. “When you say nothing but you look for a long time, I know there are problems you are contemplating.”
Malik gave his compatriot an appreciative glance. Merzad was forty-five years old and his best friend. Having been born in the same village gave them a bonding like no other. Merzad had saved his life a number of times and vice versa. Malik trusted few, but Merzad had earned his trust. “I’m unsure about him, that’s all. He’s very young.”
“But alert and smart,” Merzad offered. “He’s learned how to take apart an AK-47 and put it back together as no one we’ve ever seen. Even now, he instructs Benham on the next step. That older boy has been at it as long as he, but Benham stumbles and is forgetful.”
“Mmm,” Malik said, hand on his beard, studying the two youths near the fire. “The real question is: do I trust Fahran on such a spy mission?”
Saying nothing, Merzad stood quietly. He knew better than to argue Malik in or out of anything.
“Benham comes from a farm-laborer background,” Malik said, talking to himself. “He has no education whatsoever. Our men are teaching him to read by learning the Koran. Fahran has been schooled and comes from a well-educated family in his village. He reads, writes and speaks several dialects already.”
“Do you think he knows English?”
“How could he?” Malik said, looking over at his friend. “He comes from an Afghan border village in the north. According to him, his parents took their schooling in Pakistan. No, I doubt very seriously if he knows English.”
“If you are considering him for this mission, I can ask him,” Merzad suggested. “If he does, that would be a strong reason to have him go. He could eavesdrop on the Americans. They’d never suspect someone like him would know English, much less understand it.”
Nodding, Malik said, “Have one of our men ask him. Then, let me know.”
“Of course,” Merzad said, leaving his side.
Malik turned and placed the binoculars to his eyes once more. How badly he wanted to sneak over under the cover of night and lob a rocket or mortar round into that helo. Chances were that it would lift off before dark. They rarely left any helicopter on the ground overnight.
His mind turned back to the ten-year-old Afghan orphan, Fahran. Malik didn’t fully trust anyone that smart. His loyal soldiers could read the Koran but few knew how to write. He wanted to keep them dumb. It suited his purpose. Merzad, of course, knew how to read, could write and spoke a number of different dialects, but Malik trusted him.
The boy with the bright-green eyes, his black hair straight and shaggy around his head, was quick and agile. His small, greasy fingers flew over the weapon with knowing ease. Malik had entered a village one night where his men had killed a number of Sufi families. One of his soldiers found Fahran hidden beneath a bed, shivering like a dog. They’d dragged him out, kidnapped him and brought him along with them because they needed young boys for their unit. Benham had been found in shock, wandering around outside the village, crying for his parents, who had been killed.
At first, Malik recalled, Fahran had tried to run away several times, and each time, he was caught. Finally, the soldiers kept a rope tied around his thin ankle. If Fahran tried to escape, the rope would tug in the soldier’s sleeping hand and awaken him. Fahran had tried it once and was whipped soundly, his back bleeding from ten lashes. After that, Fahran seemed to accept his fate. But had he really surrendered? Malik didn’t know and wished mightily that he had the answer to that question.
With a sigh, he returned to watching the activity across the valley. Merzad would find out if the boy knew English. For Malik, that would seal the deal one way or another.
“Look! Look!” Ateefa cried, sitting down at the first assembled desk. She beamed with excitement at her parents who stood in the large, cold room smiling down at her with pride. All around her men were tearing open boxes and everyone was assembling the wooden desks. Children were barely able to stand still as they waited to be assigned a desk by Jameela.
Emma stood near the wife of the leader, smiling. There was an air of celebration, the room filled with men, the laughter of children and as many families who could squeeze in to watch the miraculous event. She thought about American children who took a school desk for granted. Much of the world did not possess the riches of America, and watching Khalid and the A-team work to assemble the desks made Emma’s heart warm with pride.
Jameela joined the wives of the other children and asked them to open several boxes that held crayons, notebook paper, pens, pencils, rulers and erasers. The small group of younger women eagerly descended upon the huge box, glad to be part of the activity. Immediately, all their children gathered around the boxes, touching the cardboard and anxious to see what was inside.
Emma couldn’t help the men with the desks, although she wanted to. That was considered a man’s job, not a woman’s. Several more A-team members set up the newly assembled desks. Others hauled away the cardboard and placed it in neat rows in front of a huge green chalkboard that had been hung in place earlier in the morning.
She saw the joy in Khalid’s ruddy features as he crouched and gathered the pieces to assemble another desk. Emma didn’t want to feel so good about watching him. His long fingers moved with an assuredness and precision that made her crave his touch. She couldn’t erase the haunting dream of him courting her, kissing her. Every time his gaze met hers, she quickly averted her eyes so that he couldn’t, somehow, read what was in her thoughts and heart. What to do? This wasn’t getting any easier, Emma realized with a sinking feeling.
Of course, it didn’t help that she was drawn to the man who read love poems by Rumi, either. In her foreign language class she had read his poems, and she understood why Khalid was a devout reader of his work. The ancient mystic touched her heart and soul as well. Who wouldn’t be touched by this man’s greater awareness of the human condition, his acceptance of the fac
t that no one was perfect, and yet that we all deserve another chance? Emma liked Rumi a lot, but she wasn’t about to confide that to Khalid since it would make their relationship that much more personal. Right now, she had enough to juggle emotionally about the Afghan pilot.
Emma watched as several children mimicked the A-team members by helping them haul the cardboard out of the classroom. It wouldn’t be wasted. The cardboard would be taken to a barn for future use by the villagers. The mountains in this area had a lot of brush and very few trees. Wood was hard to come by. The cardboard would be a welcome fire starter in the mornings around here, Emma realized.
Khalid set up another desk. As they were put into working order, Jameela announced the name of the next child to be assigned that seat. Emma watched the pride and excitement in the eyes of the children, and the hope mirrored in the faces of the proud parents. Her heart opened to Khalid, who dusted off his hands and walked toward them. Kinah had the supply box. She handed out all the items to the parents, who in turn, gave them to their children. Truly, Khalid and his sister were changing the world one child, one village at a time.
The warmth in his sparkling blue eyes stole Emma’s breath for a moment. It was a fierce, burning look Khalid gave only to her and it made her feel so special. Blessed by her lover’s gaze, as Rumi would say. Khalid moved over the cardboard debris to reach Abbas’s side. How shaky she felt after that hooded look that had lasted only a fraction of a second between them. Emma tried to ignore it.
If only she could find something to dislike about Khalid and focus on that. He was terribly human, but as for a real flaw? She couldn’t detect one—yet. It could be the one thing to protect herself from wanting a personal relationship with him. The more she worked with Khalid, the more Brody Parker dissolved into her past.
Chapter 8
“Come,” Khalid entreated Emma as she stood near the edge of the village. The sun had just set and the grayish dusk was upon them. “Let’s give the sergeant relief from staying with our CH-47. He needs to eat before we leave.”
Emma hadn’t seen Khalid the rest of the day. The men had been busy over at the schoolroom, and she’d been with the women and school supplies at another nearby home. Her heart beat a little harder to underscore the dark and light playing across his face. Those dark-blue eyes were narrowed and filled with desire—for her. Gulping, Emma nodded. They fell into step while avoiding the donkey-cart ruts down the center of the muddy street.
“So, how was your day?” Khalid inquired. Up ahead their transport helicopter sat like a dark hulk. As soon as the load master who guarded the helo returned from eating in the village, they would lift off and fly back to the base camp. No one kept a helo on the ground overnight out here.
“Busy,” Emma admitted, smiling a little. “The women got all the school supplies divided among the children. They’ll have everything they need for tomorrow’s first class.”
“Good. We got the desks all assembled, finished off some last-minute things in the room itself and now it stands ready for use.” Khalid rubbed his hands and gave her a satisfied smile. “We’ve done good work today, Emma.” And then he grimaced. Khalid hadn’t meant to call her by her first name. That was personal, not professional. Giving her a quick glance, he saw her eyes widen considerably over the gaffe.
“I apologize for that slip,” he murmured.
Emma couldn’t be angry at him. The way her name whispered from his lips sent a tantalizing sensation across her skin. “I guess when we’re alone, we could use first names,” she said.
Holding up his hands, Khalid said, “I want what makes you comfortable. I know you prefer professional military conduct between us.” Khalid didn’t want that, but he had no choice. And it formed a buffer zone between them so that his aching need to kiss her, to court her, was stopped cold.
As she reacted to Khalid’s earnest look, an old block in her heart melted. How long could she go on pretending she wasn’t drawn to this heroic man? No matter what Emma tried to do, she could no longer erect Brody Parker’s face and memory as a wall between her and this handsome pilot. “It’s okay,” Emma reassured him.
Relief and terror surged through Khalid. This was new footing, and it was like going down slopes with rocks that slid from beneath him. Instantly, he felt thrown into turmoil because the expression in Emma’s eyes rocked his foundation. He saw desire in her eyes. For him.
As they approached the helo, the load master came out to meet them. Emma ordered him to the chieftain’s house for dinner. His face lit up and he eagerly trotted back into the village. They climbed into the fuselage via the lowered ramp. Emma automatically swept her gaze around the bird to ensure all the cargo had been removed. The fuselage sounded hollowly as they walked toward the cockpit.
Emma took the right seat and sat down. Khalid hesitated a moment, pulled something out of his large right leg pocket and then sat down. Curious, Emma saw he had a small book in his hands. Looking out the window, she searched the area for movement as a matter of habit. The A-team had a member out on guard walking the perimeter around the helo. She knew the Taliban was active at this time of day. Like nocturnal animals, they stirred at dusk and hunted throughout the night.
For the first time, Emma spoke his first name. “Khalid, did you see those two boys? Those two poor little orphans who came in earlier today asking for help?”
Nodding, he placed the book on his thigh, his hand across it. “Yes, Benham and Fahran. Abbas took them in. With so many family members being killed by each side, children are left to fend for themselves.”
“It’s horrible,” Emma muttered. “It just tears my heart out of my chest. Those two children had no shoes and they were wearing such thin clothes. I don’t know how they survived the nights in these mountains.”
“That was curious to me, too,” Khalid murmured. “It’s freezing at night. What they wore wouldn’t keep them from dying of hypothermia.”
“They probably slept in tight little balls against one another,” Emma said. “They’re so cute. Benham is shy. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes.”
“That’s not uncommon. These children have PTSD and they’re traumatized to the point that they don’t know who to trust any more. They’re orphans of war.”
“Fahran told Abbas that they came here because they heard that Americans were giving food and clothing away.”
“Word carries fast,” Khalid said. He watched the soft gray dusk accentuate Emma’s freckles. Once inside the helo, she’d removed the hijab and ruffled her fingers through her hair, catching the strands and taming them into a ponytail. Soft, curled tendrils along her temples emphasized the anguish in her green eyes. “Well,” he said, “let me read to you from Rumi.” He held up the book. “My father gifted me with this set of poems when I was five years old. You can see how dog-eared and worn the book is.” He gave it a fond look as he lifted it toward her to inspect.
Emma could see that the title on the small red leather book was nearly worn off. She couldn’t make it out. “Oh, so you’re going to read to me?” Thrilled by the offer, Emma wondered why, but didn’t want to spoil the magic of the moment. She was exhausted trying to ignore his masculinity, his worldliness and kindness toward others. Maybe, just this once, it would be all right, she told herself. All right to let down her walls and just be with him in this stolen moment.
“Of course,” Khalid said. He opened the book and gently laid it across his thigh. The light of dusk filtered through the Plexiglas to highlight the words written in Pashto. “He is our greatest Persian poet and mystic. His words touch the soul of a person, regardless of their faith and beliefs. He was so connected to the Creator that he transcended his own Sufi boundaries to see that all of us are loved.”
Sitting back in the seat, Emma watched Khalid’s darkened form in the copilot’s seat. She absorbed the grace of Khalid’s long fingers. He reminded her more of an artist than a combat helo pilot. “I haven’t had anyone do this for me except when I was a little girl.
My parents would come in and read to me. I loved that time. I remember being in bed with my stuffed bear, Mr. Brownie. Mom would play the part of the woman in the story and Dad would be the man.” Emma smiled in remembrance. “That was so much fun….”
“Reading is a way to open a person’s heart,” Khalid agreed. “It shows care, respect and love.”
Emma felt her heart thud on that comment. Khalid’s warm look stirred her body. He touched her on a level no man had ever reached. Emma was afraid to tell Khalid that, for fear that she would lose control. And that just couldn’t happen.
“Well,” Khalid murmured, “I have chosen some of my favorite quotes from Rumi that I’d like to read to you.”
Just the way Khalid softly spoke the lines in his husky voice made her feel as if warm honey were being poured over her. Touched beyond words, Emma struggled to find her voice. “That was a beautiful poem.” She considered Rumi’s words for more than a minute. Khalid sat quietly, hands resting over the book balanced on his thigh. He seemed at peace, undisturbed by the war-torn world that surrounded them. “It sounds as though Rumi knew through experience about love.”
Nodding, Khalid said, “Yes, Rumi knew the great highs and lows of loving another just as we do. He had a great love and then it was torn from him.” Khalid touched the edge of the book with reverence. “Rumi led a hard, demanding life. That is why I believe so many people around the world, regardless of their personal belief system, can relate to his poems.”
Sighing, Emma looked through the Plexiglas at the graying world, “I’ve never known that secret sky he spoke about in his poem….” Then she caught herself, blushed and gave Khalid an apologetic look.
“There are many types of love,” Khalid agreed. “Rumi, because he was a mystic and desired to know the Creator, walked through trials by fire in order to fulfill his desire. To do that, one has to experience these things as other people do. But—” Khalid smiled a little “—he knew love and many of his poems are a reflection of that. It isn’t always love between a man or woman, it can be the love you have for your parents, your friends or your relatives.”
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