by Jeff Buick
"You have to ask, What do the Afghan people really want? and then decide if that is what you are trying to do. It's not the same. The guns and the bombs aren't a permanent solution. You're fighting the wrong war."
Russell shifted slightly on his pillow. "All right. What war should we be fighting?"
"The war to win the people. To gain their trust. We don't want your brand of democracy. Help us improve the simple things - safe streets, electricity, clean water. Everyone can agree on this. Stop imposing your version of what is right and help with the basics."
"That seems so obvious," Russell said, nodding. "Okay, here's a simple question. In one word, what's the answer?"
Pacha Khan Zadran smiled. "You are a crafty man, Russell Khan. That is anything but a simple question."
"True," Russell said.
"I will give you two answers. First - corruption. This is the root of everything wrong in Afghanistan. It is impossible to get anything done without bribing someone. I have heard that the average bribe is something like one hundred and sixty US dollars. Most Afghans earn between four and eight hundred dollars a year." He shrugged his shoulders. "How does this work?"
"It doesn't," Russell said.
"The government can't stop the corruption, but if they can slow it down then important issues like security can be addressed. Until then, nothing can change. Corruption breeds insecurity, and with insecurity comes the Taliban."
"You said there were two answers," Russell said.
Pacha Khan Zadran waved for more sweets and tea. He waited until both men had tasted the delicacies and their cups refilled. The wind picked up slightly and a touch of sand blew in through the open tent flaps. One of Zadran's men covered the food with an engraved silver lid and another man adjusted the flaps to keep the wind at bay.
"Education," Zadran said when the flurry of activity was over. "We have lost this generation. Any person who is thirty years old has seen nothing but war since they were born. First the Russians, then civil war, then the Taliban and now the insurgents. Thirty years of war." Zadran stared hard into Russell's eyes. "For thirty years all we've known is war. It has become what is normal. Peace is an unknown. Is it possible for you to understand this?"
Russell shook his head. "Honestly, no."
Zadran nodded slowly at the journalist's sincerity. "We must look to the next generation for change. And that change starts with educating them. Boys...and girls. The Afghan way has always been to view women on a different level from men, but for many of us that is changing."
"I've been noticing a lot of different attitudes," Russell said.
"Yes, that is true. Even among some of the elders there is a desire to educate our women."
"How can this be accomplished if the children can't risk going to the school? The NGOs build schools and the Taliban leave night letters on the doors threatening death to any teacher or student who attends."
Zadran waved his arm in a wide arc. "It all comes back to where we started. We need security, and to have this the corruption must be stifled."
They continued to talk for another hour, about drugs and intimidation, culture and expectations, tradition and religion. It was almost noon when Russell slipped his notebook back in his case and shook Pacha Khan Zadran's hand. He left the tent with a low bow. Russell was quiet on the short trip back to the FOB.
The guns and the bombs aren't a permanent solution. You're fighting the wrong war.
Zadran was right. Bombing villages or strafing convoys of insurgents and civilians would never win the war. Every time the troops killed a Talib or an innocent, three of their relatives or friends left their villages and picked up arms. The fight to win the country would be won by working with the villagers, earning their trust, rebuilding infrastructure and educating the next generation. This was not a short-term exercise.
He sequestered himself in his tent when they were back inside the wire and wrote his copy. It took three hours. There was so much to pack into a couple minutes of airtime. All of it important. When he was satisfied with how it read, he set up the video with the rocky terrain in the background and pushed the record button. He walked over to the rock and sat down.
Four days ago I reported on a vicious firefight in the town of Dabarey, only a few miles from our Forward Operating Base. We were ambushed, and three soldiers died in that fight. Today I met with the tribal elders from Dabarey. They wanted to meet - to talk about their lives - their country -and their future. What I heard were real answers to the problems that plague Afghanistan. Honest answers to difficult questions. The answer - according to one of the elders who wished not to be identified - lies in stemming the endemic corruption that is crippling this country. According to world statistics, only Somalia is more corrupt. Billions of dollars are siphoned off every year by a select few, while the masses suffer. Nothing new there. But in Afghanistan, there is little motivation for anything to change. The government of Hamid Karzai is often named as the most powerful thief in a dangerous nest of thieves. Corruption breeds insecurity. Stem it and you bring the insurgency to its knees. Then, stay - help the Afghans - some of whom have never known peace - to rebuild their schools, their hospitals, their police forces and the infrastructure necessary to provide water and electricity. And most importantly, provide education. Teach them to read and write - to build bridges and treat the sick - to design new buildings and open banks. These are an intelligent, resilient people, and if we gain their trust, we can help change lives. But we cannot gain this country's trust solely through military means. We need to help them rebuild. To stem the corruption. To educate the upcoming generation. That's the message I heard today. This is Russell Matthews, reporting from Spin Buldak, Afghanistan.
(Click here to watch this video)
Russell tapped the record button and replaced the camera in its case. He wondered if the people in Boston who watched the nightly news would get what he was saying. He suspected some would, and knew some wouldn't. There was nothing more he could do than go outside the wire and chase the stories. Report the facts and make them impactful. After that, it was up to the people.
It always was. It was what they did with it that counted.
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Chapter
34
Day 18 - 8.13.10 - Morning News
Peshawar, Pakistan
The trip back into Pakistan from Kandahar city had taken Tabraiz two full days. He was angry at the inconvenience, but glad to be back in his country. Afghanistan was becoming more dangerous with every passing day. Not the levels of violence. That he could deal with. The real danger to him was the Afghan National Police. They were quickly becoming a legitimate presence in southern Afghanistan. He blamed the Canadian military for the increase in police and army efficiency in and around Kandahar. He despised them for making his life so difficult.
He waited by the open window of his ornately decorated hotel room overlooking Peshawar's Old City. A light knock on the door stirred him from the chair and he pulled the door open without checking the eyehole. He knew who was in the hall, and God help them if it was anyone else. The Glock pistol in his waistband wasn't there for show.
"Ismail," he said. "Please come in."
"Thank you, Tabraiz Khan." The man was slender with thick eyeglasses and short-cropped dark hair. He had a tic, the right side of his face twitching every few seconds. It wasn't a problem. It never showed up in the pictures Tabraiz took and sent back to the parents of the children he brokered to his wealthy buyers. Ismail was his front man - his accountant and the father of the wealthy family who lived in Peshawar and took in poor children. So far he had been a very temporary benefactor to thirty-seven girls and boys. It had allowed him to become quite well-to-do by Pakistani standards. Ismail followed Ta
braiz to the table and chairs near the windows.
Below the renovated 18th century haveli that was now the exclusive Khan Klub Hotel, the Old City was waking up. The call to prayer drifted over the Khyber Bazaar as carpet merchants and kebab sellers arranged their wares for the day. The wails echoed through the Kabuli Gate and into the Qissa Khawani, where storytellers had recited tales of bravery and battles since the rule of Alexander the Great. The pungent scent of spice and tea hung in the still air.
"I wanted to speak with you about the next girl. Her name is Halima and she is quite special. I have a very generous offer from one of my clients in the UAE, and this generosity will be passed along to you. Your fee for Halima will be four thousand US dollars."
Ismail steepled his fingers and bowed his head. "You are most generous, Tabraiz Khan."
"We need to move more quickly with Halima than in the past." He locked eyes with his front man. "This will be our last girl from Kandahar. The police are watching me. I need you to take the pictures when she first arrives. Have her dress in three or four different pieces of clothing so I can send her father the groups of photos about two months apart. It will look like she is still at your house."
"I understand."
"I will have other girls and boys for you, Ismail. But there will be a break. Kabul is a good source of children, but they are mostly orphans, ill-kept and covered with lice. Girls like Halima are hard to find in Kabul."
"I will have great patience," Ismail said respectfully.
Tabraiz smiled. "Yes, my friend, I'm sure you will. You have always been loyal to me, and that is something I will remember." Tabraiz stood to indicate the meeting was finished. "I'm bringing Halima from Kandahar ten days from now, on August 23rd. It will take one or two days to get her across the border. Be ready for me."
"Of course."
Tabraiz didn't walk the man to the door. He sat staring over the cityscape. Peshawar was the place of his birth and he owned two houses. But when he arrived back from Afghanistan, he always spent the first two or three days sequestered at the boutique hotel tucked away in the heart of the city. If the police were after him, they would visit his house and his housekeeper would phone to tell him. So far that hadn't happened, but being careful was gravely important in his line of work.
The thought of delivering Halima brought a smile to his face. She was so innocent. So pure. So perfect.
* * *
Outside Spin Buldak, Afghanistan
Russell recognized the soldier walking toward them in the early morning shadows. He was about the same age as Andrew, had ridden with them in the same Stryker on one occasion, and had been introduced as Bobby. No last name, no rank, just Bobby. He was less than six feet, lanky, and moved with an easy gait. Despite the relentless scorching sun, his skin was pasty white with a touch of sunburn. He had a quick smile and disarming blue eyes. He nodded to Andrew as he approached.
"Hey, Andy," he said. His voice carried a strong Southern accent. "How y'all doin' today?"
"Okay." Andrew jerked his thumb toward the journalist. "You remember Russell Matthews? He rode with us to Dabarey."
"Yeah, sure, I remember. You're the writer guy."
"That's me." Russell extended his hand and they shook. He leaned back into the sandbags surrounding their bunk.
"Robert K. Sullivan. But you can call me Bobby."
"Bobby it is," Russell said.
Bobby sat next to Andrew and held up his M-4. "Check this out. Brand new, baby."
Andrew showed an interest in the gun. He took it from Bobby and held it in both hands as if weighing it, then sighted on some point outside the wire. He checked the magazine and handed it back.
"Nice. You get it from the shipment that came in a couple of days ago?"
"Yeah, sure did."
"What was wrong with your gun?" Andrew asked.
Bobby shrugged. "I dunno. Just wanted a new one, man. Nothin' wrong with that."
"Nah, nothing wrong with a new gun."
"Where you from?" Russell asked.
Bobby offered both men a cigarette, then lit his and Andrew's. "Augusta. Wrong side of Broad Street."
"Augusta," Russell said. "The Masters. Great tournament."
Bobby looked away and said, "The Masters ain't what it's about in Augusta, man. It's about survivin'." He wagged his finger at Russell. "You thinkin' about Augusta National and all the magnolias and shit that goes with one weekend in April. But I'm all about workin' a min-wage job and worryin' about my momma's health. That's what's real for fifty-one weeks a year if you live there. Then there's that one week when all the rich folk come into town and pay shitloads of money to rent houses and eat in restaurants. So what you see on television ain't nothin' close to the truth of what Augusta's all about."
"Sorry, man. I didn't know," Russell said.
"It's okay." He pointed at Andrew. "Can't all have rich parents."
It had never occurred to Russell that Andrew might have come from a wealthy family. In fact, he hadn't asked the specialist any personal questions. "Is that true?" he asked. "Your parents rich?"
Andrew gave off a sheepish grin. "Yeah. Not excessive, though."
Russell looked off to the horizon, where the morning sun was cresting the mountains. He was a fool. If this were school, he'd be flunking out of first-year journalism. Never assume. It's one of the first things eager wet-behind-the-ears reporters are taught. And he had committed the cardinal sin by stereotyping Andrew James. It had never occurred to him that Andrew might be from a wealthy family. There usually wasn't a lot of incentive for young men and women with influential doors opening in front of them to choose the army as a career. This was Andrew's second tour. He'd returned knowing the incredible toll it took to survive on the front line of a war zone. He understood, and now he was back.
Returned to the hell that was war.
"Are you going to college when you finish this tour?" Russell asked.
Andrew sucked on the cigarette and shrugged. "Maybe. I'm not sure. I need to know what I want to do."
"Any ideas?" Russell asked.
"I think I'd like to stay here on the ground and work for an NGO. I want to be part of the rebuilding."
"Rebuildin' what we're takin' apart," Bobby said. "Shit, man, that's good stuff. First you blow it up, then you get a job with an NGO puttin' it back together."
Andrew laughed. "You think we're the ones who are taking this country apart?" he asked the other soldier. When Bobby shrugged the question off, Andrew said, "It's the Taliban, man. They're the ones with their fingers on the destruct button. We're only trying to patch things up." He turned to Russell and said, "You know what these guys are. We talked about it."
Russell nodded. "Sure. Drug dealers."
"Yeah, exactly," Andrew said. "The Taliban are nothing more than a group of well-financed drug dealers. They've been moving heroin and opium through the Baluchistan Province into Iran and Turkey for years. They want to control Helmand and Kandahar for one reason and only one. They want the drug money from the poppy fields. Fuck religious idealism. These guys are greedy bastards who could care less who they kill or what they destroy so long as they get paid."
"Sorry," Bobby offered. "Didn't mean to push your buttons so early in the morning."
"It's okay." Andrew settled back against the wall of sandbags. "I don't like to see people caught in the middle of this mess."
"You got that," Bobby said. "We better get fed. We're rolling out of here at 0800." He shouldered his new gun and headed off to the kitchen for breakfast. Andrew followed a minute later, leaving Russell alone in the shade with his thoughts.
Russell closed his eyes and mentally stacked up the obvious differences between the two men. Andrew was from an upper-class family in California, Bobby from a dirt-poor upbringing in the deep south of Georgia.
He liked to think people were above things like money or skin color or gender, but the divisions still lingered. Here, in a world where the man next to you was the guy who could save your life, no one cared if you were rich or poor or white or black. Just do your job and get your buddy's back. There was the occasional thing about working and living in a war zone that made sense. Equality was one of them.
He wondered how he could have misjudged Andrew so badly. He had assumed the young soldier was from a middle-class home. Where his father drove a bus or fixed cars. Maybe his mom worked as a receptionist at the local Ford dealership. Who knew. Who really cared. Over here he was just another grunt, M-4 resting on his chest and ten full magazines in his vest pockets. He wanted to apologize, but there was no reason. He leaned back and tried to get comfortable against the sand bags. There wasn't much time to rest, as they were leaving for Mushan in about an hour. What was it the soldiers called the town? The Wild West. That was it. He shook his head at the absurdity.
Talk about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.
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Chapter
35
New York
The meltdown started at six minutes after ten on Friday morning. It took one hour and nine minutes to run its course, and in those sixty-nine minutes, almost unimaginable damage was done to five highly valued stocks.
The Platinus algorithm, now stripped of most of its pattern recognition software, began seeing trends in the market that did not exist. It started placing flash orders on an exchange, valid for less than half a second, then terminated them before the orders could be matched on a competing exchange. That made Platinus a poster, not a responder, and put it in a position to collect the rebates offered by the exchange. But flash orders generated by the ultrafast computer with a shaky algorithm had their downside. The computer began chasing its own orders.