The Greatest Game

by J A Heaton

  “I can throw it away easily.”

  “No, I mean going on a date,” Daniel said.

  “You don’t want to hear this, but I don’t think anybody else will tell you. Things are never going to work out with that girl over there,” she said as she tilted her head to the side.

  What his mother said next stung the most.

  “She’s probably already married with children by now.”

  Daniel couldn’t force himself to verbally agree with the statement, but he knew his mother was almost definitely correct.

  “So, go on a date with a new girl,” she urged him. “Working at the CIA must surely impress some good-looking girls a little younger than you. At thirty, you’re in your prime.”

  “I’m a contractor, and I sit in a cubicle,” Daniel said. “I’m sure it drives the ladies wild. A linguistic analyst who writes reports to fight the War on Terror doesn’t communicate heroism to women.”

  “Does any cubicle-dweller fight the War on Terror?” she asked rhetorically. “And yet, girls have fallen for nerds and analysts. Besides, you have your father’s dreamy hazel eyes, and his dark hair and strong physique. Despite all his flaws, that had been enough for me at one time. And you have the cute little birthmark on the back of your neck.”

  “Then, I’ll have you know,” Daniel said, trying to think of something that would make his mother happy, “that I do have a date tomorrow after work. So, I won’t be here to see you like most evenings.”

  “Good,” she said. “I don’t miss your father, and I’m glad for the extra time with you, but you won’t meet any girls sitting at home with me. As a matter of fact, don’t come back here unless you bring a girl with you.”

  “A girl? Any girl?” Daniel joked.

  “As long as she recognizes your desk-jockey heroics.”

  Ha-ha, Daniel thought to himself.

  Daniel knew she was only joking, but it gave him the break he was hoping for. Daniel and his mother spent the rest of the night watching syndicated reruns of Seinfeld and Friends. As Daniel put away the crisply folded towels after his mother turned the TV off, he wondered if she would spy on him during his date the next night. She would throw a fit if she did.

  Before Daniel drifted off to sleep, he remembered when he first entered his host family’s village in Afghanistan in September of 1996. At the time, Daniel hadn’t yet learned the local languages. Trevor, the rustic academic who was sketchy about his purpose for being in Afghanistan, chewed on his plastic water bottle as the hired Land Cruiser drove them south of Mazar-i-Sharif towards what would be Daniel’s host village. Trevor was going to introduce Daniel to his host family. Although Afghanistan was struggling through a civil war, Daniel reasoned the conflict would not affect his linguistic research in an isolated mountain village in the north. Although Kabul fell to the Taliban that same month, for nearly two years, he was correct.

  The vast and desolate stretches of flat and yellow land contrasted with the mountains that shot up south of the city. Although the mountains were nowhere near as majestic as other mountains nearby in Central Asia, they were a welcome relief to the seeming nothingness that surrounded Mazar-i-Sharif.

  The Land Cruiser jostled them along winding mountain roads. Daniel feared they were about to tumble off the edge on more than one occasion. But they finally reached Daniel’s host village. The caked-on dust made it nearly impossible to detect the Land Cruiser’s black paint job. The village was nestled in a bowl-like indentation among the mountains. Rocks and boulders surrounding them on three sides.

  Daniel’s first impression of the village was that it was smelly. The wandering livestock on the mountain road and in the village left a distinct odor. But he would soon meet new friends in this perfect village for his research.

  First to meet Daniel was Oybek. He had been standing at the door of his father’s house, waiting for Daniel and Trevor. His smile and friendliness were why he became such a wonderful friend and brother in this new land.

  Oybek invited Trevor and Daniel into his father’s house to have tea.

  “Never wear your shoes inside,” Trevor explained as he wrestled off his hiking boots. Daniel followed suit and entered the plain home.

  “They have absolutely no interest in learning English,” Trevor explained to Daniel as they went to sit down across from the host father. “They are proud of their Central Asian heritage, and they are honored to teach you their language.”

  “Tell them I’m thankful to be their guest,” Daniel said. Trevor shared Daniel’s request in Russian with the host father.

  After Daniel sat down, Oybek carried in a small ceramic teapot and offered him tea. Daniel was exhausted by his journey, and not just the day’s travels in the Land Cruiser. His journey halfway around the world, from Washington D.C. to Moscow, then to Uzbekistan, and then finally into Afghanistan, had drained all energy from him. If nothing else, he was glad to finally have arrived.

  Trevor spoke with the host father, who joined them and Oybek in Russian for a few minutes before explaining the arrangement.

  “They call the father Bobo,” Trevor explained. “It means grandfather, and even though he’s only their father, he’s so respected in the village that everybody calls him Bobo. You need to pay them ten US dollars every month for rent, and they will also feed you for forty US dollars per month.”

  “Fifty dollars a month total?” Daniel asked incredulously.

  Daniel noticed that the host father sat back slightly.

  “That is far too little,” Daniel said. “I can’t take advantage of them like that.”

  “You aren’t getting a whole lot for it,” Trevor said. “You will be like another member of their family, and so they only need to make marginally more food, which is not much to begin with. They raise their own food here, mostly, so your money isn’t going to be used at an American grocery store. You are only going to have one small room to yourself, and you will share the outhouse with the rest of the family. Although the money seems so little to you, it is a lot to them. Trust me. You are being generous in paying them this much. They’re happy and honored to have you.”

  Daniel conceded, too exhausted to argue.

  Daniel’s legs began to hurt and go numb as he sat on the floor with Trevor, who translated back and forth between the host father and Oybek for Daniel.

  Daniel was about ready to apologize, and simply laid out on the floor, ready to fall asleep due to his exhaustion. But he heard a young woman’s voice. It was soft at first.

  “Assalomu aleykum,” the soft, feminine voice said. Daniel turned and saw the silhouette of a young woman in the doorway, the bright outdoor light blinding him to her appearance. Oybek rose and said hello to his sister, and the father also said a greeting.

  Trevor had said hello in Russian and then told Daniel, “This is his daughter, Nigora.” After a few sentences with Oybek, Trevor added, “She recently came back from visiting the city, Mazar-i-Sharif.”

  Nigora came towards them to take the teapot to refill it. When she came closer, her beauty struck Daniel. Her black hair hung long behind her. Daniel couldn’t help but watch her almond eyes. Her hands moved with a gracefulness that hypnotized Daniel as she manipulated the teapot.

  Daniel stood up to shake her hand, but he spilled his tea in the process. Not realizing that the blood had gone out of his legs, Daniel stumbled clumsily to the ground before her.

  Bobo and Oybek gave a good laugh, and the daughter quickly turned and left the room with the teapot, her long black hair swaying behind her.

  “You will learn that you need to be a lot more discreet with women here than in America.” Trevor chuckled.

  Daniel sat back, still thinking of Nigora too much to be embarrassed in front of her family and Trevor.

  Nigora soon returned, bearing a fresh pot of tea.

  “Watch how she pours the tea,” Trevor instructed. “Let her serve you. It will be a great dishonor if you try to chip in and help.”

  Daniel watch
ed as Nigora poured some tea into a small teacup, lifted the lid off the teapot and poured the tea back in. She replaced the lid and repeated the process two more times. Daniel watched, mesmerized, as her delicate hands poured the tea in and out of the teapot. Daniel finally realized that he was staring at her, and he hoped that nobody had noticed.

  Everybody had noticed.

  “Who would’ve thought serving tea was so fascinating?” Trevor asked Daniel.

  “Ask her how her trip was to the city,” Daniel told Trevor.

  Trevor spoke in Russian to the young woman, and although her father had taught her Russian, she didn’t respond but deferred to her father and brother.

  “Oybek says that she had a good trip to the city, but she is curious what city you came from,” Trevor said after Oybek answered. “Oybek also wants to know.”

  “You can tell them I came from Washington D.C.,” Daniel answered. “But I did come through Moscow and Tashkent.”

  Nigora caught the last city, and her eyes lit up.

  “Has she been to those other cities?” Daniel asked Trevor.

  After an exchange, Trevor said, “No she has never been. But she said she has always dreamed of going to Tashkent. She’s heard that it is a majestic city, a wonderful cosmopolitan city that is the capital of all Central Asia. It is her dream to go there and live someday, the great city of the Uzbeks in the north.”

  “Ask her what she would do there if she were able to visit,” Daniel said.

  After discussion in Russian, Trevor told Daniel, “She would buy meters of beautiful fabric from which to make her own dresses.”

  Daniel tried to think of a compliment Trevor could express for him, but his mouth refused to speak as he thought of it. Before he could say anything, Trevor continued.

  “She also wants to see the center of the city with the statue of the magnificent Tamerlane.”

  “Me too,” was all Daniel could muster.

  Trevor spoke with Oybek more, and then Trevor explained to Daniel, “Oybek also wants to go to Tashkent. He thinks there will be a better school and work there. He wants to see all the men playing chess with each other at the park. He even wants to play them, though he knows he would lose.”

  “Tell them that, perhaps,” Daniel said, “after they teach me Uzbek very well, we can all go to Tashkent together.”

  At Daniel’s suggestion, the other men cheered their support. Nigora’s expression remained inscrutable to Daniel. She gave one last look to Daniel and then got up and left.

  “She stayed longer than most women would,” Trevor observed to Daniel. Daniel hadn’t heard what Trevor said. He was still thinking of Nigora.

  Trevor left before dinner, his Land Cruiser with him, and Daniel remained alone with his host family and linguistic research materials. The Uzbek language in this tiny mountain village would be the focus of his life for the foreseeable future.

  The village lifestyle in the Northern Afghan mountains proved a difficult adjustment, but several years later, he would look back with great joy at this time. He would consider it the best eighteen months of his life. But on that first night, he could not sleep. And it wasn’t because the fried goat’s head disturbed his stomach or because the ground was too hard to sleep on. Instead, it was because he couldn’t stop thinking about Nigora.

  3

  Washington D.C.

  The next day.

  One thing Daniel was thankful to his father for was the habit of morning exercise he had instilled in him. Although his father wasn’t around as much as he or his mother wanted, Daniel recognized that his dad had done some unique things with him. Before Daniel was a teen, his father was teaching him how to handle a gun like an expert. Daniel and his father saw eye to eye on one thing: the Glock was the best handgun, even though their shared opinion had been the minority for about twenty years. Daniel learned how to shoot with it well enough that his dad said his buddies were impressed, and Daniel could clean the Glock with his eyes closed.

  Although Daniel recently had replaced his motorcycle with a bicycle in a quest to simplify his life and exercise more, he still ran on most mornings. Pounding the pavement between five and six several mornings each week was a habit that stuck with him. Daniel didn’t take the shortest route, but the most challenging route. Running uphill and downhill pushed him, and even though he was no longer in the military, he still ran like he was. After a shower and breakfast, the bike ride to the office relaxed Daniel.

  Government contractors had their fair share of morning birds among them, but Daniel sensed he was the only morning bird looking forward to translating poetry during his workday. Daniel joined the other early arrivals in the break room. He grabbed a cup of black coffee brewed by the night janitor, exchanging grim glances with the others as he poured the thick liquid into his disposable cup. None of them could talk about their work and they all, theoretically, knew their efforts would help win the War on Terror. Each of them was starting a new day of hunting for the elusive .01% of intelligence that would change the world.

  Daniel started on his pile of translations, disappointed Max hadn’t sent him more Uzbek poetry. He still only had the sample Officer Carter had given him the previous day. Daniel figured he would knock off some short translations to warm up before he dug into the poetry Max should be sending him any second.

  A quick glance at the first revealed a mix of Central Asian languages, stilted phrases, and all from an area the Taliban still held some influence. So basically, there wasn’t anything there. Except there was a bunch of Russian mixed in. Daniel had resisted learning Russian during his time in Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan. As a linguist, he wanted to learn the local languages for research that predated the language of the invaders. The Russian words gave him the perfect excuse to email Max, asking for his help. He could kindly remind him to send over the Uzbek poetry. Max’s focus, as far as Daniel knew, was on translation as well, but Max had a strong emphasis on Russian, and his Uzbek wasn’t nearly as good as Daniel’s. Daniel sent Max an email, scheduling a face-to-face about some of the Russian words in the report. Daniel wondered why Max had said the poetry was such a high priority but then hadn’t promptly sent it to Daniel.

  Daniel worked through several simpler translation reports and checked them off. Daniel reminded himself to talk with his computer whiz friend, Jenny. He wanted to see how her linguistics program was coming. Her computer program could probably do most of his work, he figured. If that was the case, then he could focus on the truly challenging aspects of translation. Or, at the least, he could focus on important communication, not just any little bit thrown his way. He knew that operators in the field were thorough, and so were all the SIGINT (Signal Intelligence) sources, but they were flooding his desk with insignificant jibber-jabber.

  After a coffee refill and a few “What’s up?” exchanges with the usual guys he saw but couldn’t talk about his work with, Daniel saw Max had replied to his email.

  Come on over to my office asap. Sorry I didn’t give you the poetry earlier. -Max

  Daniel noticed it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. Daniel put his top-secret report in his briefcase and left his cubicle.

  When Daniel arrived at Max’s office less than thirty minutes later, Max was working diligently on his computer.

  “Come in!” Max called out in response to Daniel’s soft knock. “Daniel, my Uzbek buddy. How’s it going? Still grinding away at translating terrorist communication?”

  “Yup,” Daniel responded as he entered. While opening his briefcase to share his report with Max, Daniel asked, “Why did you tell Carter the Uzbek poetry from Berlin was so important, and then you didn’t send it?”

  “Honestly, I figured she wouldn’t even let you see it unless I flagged it as urgent, and I knew you would appreciate some poetry,” Max explained. “But then I forgot about it.” Max spoke as if what he had done was insignificant.

  “What the hell, Max?” Daniel said. “We’re trying to catch terrorists. Yes, I would
love to work on the poetry, but I’ve got priorities.”

  Max shrugged.

  Daniel respected Max as a Russian translator and was impressed he understood Uzbek as well as he did, but Max’s attitude as a government employee infuriated him. Daniel decided he wouldn’t give Max the patriotic Americans-are-going-to-die-if-you-don’t-do-your-job lecture. Max seemed unaware of Daniel’s disgust.

  “What can I do for you?” Max asked. “I was actually going to call you about something, but you first.”

  “I’ve got some multi-language discussion about weapons, and some of it’s in Russian,” Daniel said. He handed the transcript and report to Max. It wasn’t long, and Max leafed through it quickly.

  “Russian slang,” Max said as he penciled in notes. “For guns and such.” He returned the report, and Daniel muttered a “Thanks” before he looked at Max’s notes. Daniel could have guessed from the context what the Russian meant.

  “So, are you going to give me the Uzbek poetry or not?” Daniel asked impatiently.

  “I thought you said you had priorities,” Max said, resting his hand on the desk drawer before opening it.

  “Call it a guilty pleasure,” Daniel said.

  “Well then,” Max said as he pulled a thick file out from his desk drawer, “I might have something of interest to you.”

  Daniel only gave a raised eyebrow.

  “An ethnic Uzbek was murdered in Berlin,” Max began, “and they needed some help with translating Uzbek.”

  “How much poetry can be involved in a murder investigation?” Daniel asked.

  “You’ll get to translate the victim’s Uzbek poetry,” Max said. “It’s way over my head. I can only catch a few phrases. But translating poetry is—”

  “The toughest, I know,” Daniel said, finishing his sentence.

  Max plopped the thick file down on his desk and slid it towards Daniel.

  “How much of it have you read?” Daniel asked.

  “Very little. Just enough to know it’s Uzbek, and it’s way over my head.”