Dan promised to keep his ears open. “But that clown spouting off—it’s not good for morale.”
“There’s no morale here until we get her back,” Joey conceded.
Joey almost felt sorry for Cameron, trying to wrest control over the projects while few paid attention. The military strategy for this region, supporting and defending economic-development efforts, required a patience that the man lacked.
Mita had not explicitly complained about Cameron or anyone else. Rushing into the villages with projects that didn’t improve daily life would not support the overall strategy. Cameron was a man with many defense mechanisms, yet was astounded when others pushed back. Joey didn’t want to add to a pileup. He had to trust subordinates and get them to trust one another—despite the constant annoyances and bickering.
After dinner, Joey found Cameron leaning against the fence, looking out over his unfinished wheat plot under the stars. “I’m heading out to check the path and surrounding area again.” Joey was blunt. “Did you find anything in her notes? Any reason Laashekoh or anyone on this team might have something to do with Mita?”
“Nothing,” Cameron admitted. His voice was calm under the cover of darkness. He appreciated being consulted. “She liked the villagers. She enjoyed running the team. She has good ideas. But something odd’s going on. I warned you. I warned her. You didn’t listen.”
“Cam, we’re in a war zone. It has risks. If we backed away from villages like that, nothing would get done.”
“They had their chance.” Cameron crossed his arms. “They don’t want improvements.” Joey remained quiet, no point arguing until hearing him out.
“The people of that village remind me of insects mindlessly building mounds, living separate lives, eating, and reproducing with no thought for the future. They don’t want help. They don’t care about potential. And I resent it . . .” Joey couldn’t see the man’s face in the dark, but his voice was intense. There was no arguing with such bitterness.
“We’re risking our lives, and they don’t give a damn. Dan says I waste time? This whole mission is a waste of time. How do we proceed if we don’t find Mita?”
Joey felt sick. He wasn’t ready to think that way. “It’s too soon . . .”
“What are you waiting for? You need to order a sweep of that village. Someone there knows something.”
Joey shook his head. Such a search would kill relations before they began. Just what the extremists wanted. “Whoever’s holding her could panic,” Joey said. “It could end up getting her killed.” And he wasn’t sure she was being held. Attacks on foreign women in Afghanistan were rare, and there had been no ransom demand, no threats or attacks since.
“They’re making us look like fools.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” Joey insisted. “We can get more from them by being cordial.”
Cameron laughed. “You’re thinking like an American, not an Afghan.”
Think like an Afghan, Joey thought to himself ruefully. That meant hitting Laashekoh hard.
Cameron went on as if he had read Joey’s mind. “They’d attack, without waiting to find out who’s at fault. They don’t know what they want except to aggravate us.”
Joey leaned his head against the wall. Cameron didn’t realize it, but he triggered an idea. If Mita had been kidnapped, the kidnappers wanted something. Maybe someone wanted to panic Americans and Laashekoh. Maybe a warning about a village search could trick the kidnappers into revealing their location. So many “ifs” kept leaping to mind.
“That gives me an idea . . .” Joey surprised Cameron by thanking him and hurrying away.
The army wanted to keep the case of a missing aid worker low profile. Mita’s father had made calls and asked that Major Pearson be kept on the investigation into his daughter’s disappearance. A high-level representative from Central Command arrived for a status report on Mita’s disappearance. While sympathetic to the outpost’s dilemma, he wanted results. He offered resources, investigators, equipment, cash rewards. He expedited the fingerprint analysis. The radio, gun, and helmet carried Mita’s prints. But two other prints were found that didn’t match those of outpost personnel. “With a high-ridge density, the prints likely belong to a woman,” the analyst’s report noted. Most of the search team dismissed the finding as nothing special and assumed a woman had accompanied the kidnappers. Of course, Afghanistan did not have a central database for fingerprints. There was no way to make comparisons.
The outpost had plenty of support and nothing but dead leads.
No one said it aloud, but searching for a single human in the Afghan wilderness was an impossible task. Teams had searched the area around the path to Laashekoh repeatedly and agreed—she could not have gone far and survived in the remote area on her own.
Dan gave daily reports on area surveillance. “The chance of villagers holding her is slim. She would be too hard to hide there. She was probably moved the first day—and far away.”
Cameron made a case for sending a unit to the village and tossing homes. “Too much time has passed,” he insisted. “They’re not cooperating.”
“Antagonizing them won’t help Mita,” Dan insisted.
“It’s the price of war,” Cameron dismissed the concerns. “Someone in that village knows something.”
“We’d find the weak link if we show them we’re serious,” Barnaby added. “Someone will talk.”
Joey listened even though he had made up his mind about the next step. Forcing the village to submit to a search would end the mission. Mita would be displeased by failure. Joey wondered if Cameron would be so adamant if the ag side of the mission had gone along with his wheat plans.
“Not yet. A rough search gives her captors an excuse to take it out on her.” He didn’t say that Mita would have wanted the mission to continue without her.
“She wants to get away and live, too,” Cameron concluded. “How will we feel if we don’t try a raid?”
Joey needed sleep, but anxiety took over. Restful sleep would not come until Mita was found.
He had few options left to try. The days were long, the searchers were frustrated. No ransom request had emerged. Mita had vanished from an access route between a river valley and an isolated village. Commanders had approved pushing the search out hundreds of kilometers away.
But she was near. Closing his eyes, he felt that. A generator fan whirled outside and played with his head, carrying a hint of Mita talking somewhere near. Since he was a child, he was sensitive to any background noise—the vibrations of insects, morning bird chatter, his mother’s muttered prayers about sons who did not share her fears.
His parents did not believe in confronting fears. They told their children to forget much of what they learned in school. As a child, he checked library books out in secret, keeping them hidden in his desk in school. His mother despised Atwood, Bradbury, Ellison, Orwell, Twain, Shakespeare, anything with violence or sex and anything by blacks, Jews, or foreigners. She knew what Jesus wanted, and she didn’t want her children wasting time by reading books she didn’t understand.
He stayed after school to read. At night, alone in bed, he thought about what he read and imagined conversations with characters and authors. The refrigerator’s motor, passing cars on a highway, pattering rain, any of these could transform into voices that cared what he thought. Later, he realized that it was a form of self-hypnosis to get through difficult times. The habit stuck, listening for sounds, imagining conversations that offered clues to his state of mind.
That night, he heard Mita, as if she were participating in an earnest lecture. He didn’t catch all her words, but she was happy and hopeful. Hugging his pillow, he laughed and closed his eyes, then fell into a deep sleep. Mita was somewhere close and in good hands.
Chapter 16
To save paper and do drills, I had covered sand under the trees with a layer of dark soil. Typically Mita spoke quietly and I gave her my full attention, but today she was restless. We didn’t hea
r the helicopters moving back and forth overhead. After scratching short sentences into the dirt, she leaned against a towering pine, hugging her knees. Surely it must be safe for me to return to the base now.
I was troubled that they had given up searching, but Mita was confident the search wasn’t over. She warned that it had just entered another phase. I’m afraid of what the soldiers might do.
I was running out of time. If she wandered away or met with Americans, she would discover my lie. I could not help but frown. The men from the north don’t know who has you. It’s the only reason they hold off from attacking the post.
But the outpost could hide me, too, she countered. And I could warn them.
I shuddered. Men watch Laashekoh and the outpost. We must wait for the right time. Her restlessness did not help our lessons.
I brought something for you. And I reached into my old pack, handing over a gun, an old one that I had removed from Mari’s house when she wasn’t looking. If any of our men found the American woman, I didn’t want her holding a weapon that belonged to Parsaa. Besides Gul had more pistols and rifles than he needed.
She held the pistol as if it were a dead animal. Do I need this?
Getting you back will have its dangers. We’ll leave soon.
She smiled and that broke my heart. I’ll miss the lessons and talking with you. Promise me you’ll keep on reading and writing—and not lose your skills.
Nodding, I thought of all I needed to ask before she left. She had already taught me so much of what she remembered from classes—crop rotations, pest management, planting and harvesting techniques, composting, and the balance between food supply and population. I had learned new words in English, like agronomy and management, for tasks I already knew.
Embarrassed, I reached into the folds of my clothes for the document I had found long ago. I must show you something. She had admitted to not reading Dari well, but I handed over the piece of paper found hidden on our mountain.
Mita examined the stiff paper. It looks like a blank government document. She pointed. That’s the seal for Afghanistan, a garland around a mosque.
And what does it mean?
I don’t know. Maybe to mark a birth or death. The government uses these to track people.
That doesn’t sound good. I frowned.
I’m not explaining it well. Birth certificates help with identification and enrolling children in schools and planning other services. Governments and parents have a copy the day a baby is born. Death certificates explain how and when a person died.
I was puzzled. People live and die without paper. Babies are born. They sleep and cry and eat whether they have a certificate or not. The old die. Family members remember as long as it matters. Such a paper could not have kept Ali alive. Is it valuable?
She studied the paper again. Not really, only to the person to whom it belongs. And if they get lost, people can get replacements. You don’t have one?
I shook my head, taking the certificate from her and staring at it, wondering why a worthless certificate seemed so connected to Ali’s death. Refolding it, I tucked it close to my heart, and thanked her.
There was much more to ask—about Ali, Jahangir, the caravan of children. But I didn’t want her to think badly about our village and be afraid to return. Besides, no woman, not even an American, could do much on her own.
We’ll leave in a few days, I repeated. When the men of our village travel to the market. We cannot be too careful.
She took both my hands and looked me in the eye. I trust you with my life, Sofi.
The night was cool, the sun had set, and a fire glowed in the compound’s center, turning slow movements into leaping shadows. After sharing the work of cooking a lamb dinner, the women cleaned pots, softly comparing how their children ate. The men laughed about a young chicken that had attached itself to a young boy, following him about. The men drank tea and talked, keeping an eye on the children not ready for sleep.
A stick snapped in the night and uneasiness swept over the camp. The men stopped talking and reached for their weapons. Barely visible in the firelight was a tall figure, in dark clothes, standing still near our stone wall. He could study us, but we could not read the emotions on his face.
Jahangir. Holding a container at arm’s length, he slowly approached, a long shadow stretching behind. Fear was his way to catch our attention. I was grateful to sit far from the fire so he could not see my face.
Where is the American woman? he demanded.
She’s not been found, Ahmed replied.
There has been no sign of her. Gul spoke quickly. It’s an excuse for Americans to move through this area. There’s nothing to find.
Dismissing Jahangir’s concern was a mistake.
How can you be sure?
No one answered, and Jahangir held out the metal canister, pouring liquid in a circle beyond the edge of the fire. Hurrying, he splashed another circle around that one. Far from the fire, I caught a whiff of fuel, and anger mixed with fear. Men and boys moved away from the fire.
You don’t understand the Americans, Jahangir said. They don’t care about land or the village. They’ll get more anxious with every passing day. In their culture, the leaf matters more than the tree or the sky. They won’t rest until they find her.
She’s not here to find, Ahmed said. There’s nothing we can do.
There is always more you can do, Jahangir scolded. He tossed the can low into the fire, and the nearest onlookers jumped away, trampling others sitting behind them. The flames flared high in the air, flashing out in circles. Mothers, horrified, hurried away with their children, several wailing. A few stared with fascination.
You must find her. Furious, Jahangir stepped back and took his anger out on the nearest object—one of the twin apricot trees that graced the center of our compound. Using both hands, he ripped off a limb and tossed the leafy branch into the fire, then he broke another.
My husband lunged, gripping Jahangir’s forearm, his voice low and calm. It’s time you and your men leave this village. We will take care of the Americans.
Jahangir looked at my husband with disdain. This is how you treat a traveler who has offered his assistance?
Parsaa placed his hand on the apricot tree and didn’t respond.
I do this to show you what the Americans intend for our country. They’ve been in this country for years, and what have they accomplished? Jahangir turned to the other men and spoke as if preaching. Their women run away. When they leave, the chaos will end.
Parsaa did not flinch. We’ll give you what you need to move on. We can handle them and do not want to trouble you. I cringed. A volatile man who trafficked in children could make any wild request. None of us wanted to contribute food or daughters to the brutal man’s cause.
We need nothing from this village, Jahangir said with scorn. Be sure the others want us to leave. With a smile, he stalked away.
The men were annoyed. The village of Laashekoh resented interference, whether it came from Jahangir or the Americans, and Jahangir sensed our resentment.
Leaning against my doorway, I was sickened by the broken tree, no longer graceful and full like its twin. It would be a permanent reminder for our village of a brutal man who could not appreciate beauty and sustenance.
Taking anger out on plants that belonged to an entire community was a sign of weakness, and I wondered if the man would really leave. If he didn’t and presented unpleasant bargains, the villagers would eventually resent Parsaa, too.
Alone, I retrieved the broken limb, its leaves already wilting. Snapping the branches into smaller pieces, I arranged them crisscross on the compost pile, so that their death could someday nourish seeds of other fruit.
Because of the lessons with Mita, I missed the morning’s whispers. Soon after Parsaa demanded that the visitors leave the village, Jahangir had met with Gul and proposed taking Leila as a bride. He offered plenty of money, horses, and blankets—far more than men in neighboring villages c
ould afford—and then he took off. The marriage would take place after his return in a week or two.
The news bothered me. Mari, a good friend, wanted what was best for her daughter, and I had not forgotten Jahangir’s cruelties with moving children in the middle of the night. No one would believe me though, and I still had not described the scene for anyone, including Parsaa or Mita. I could not admit to following Gul to Jahangir, or taking care of Mita in a cave. That would end my freedoms. I could go as I pleased, as long as I moved in secret.
Parsaa was angry but refused to talk about Jahangir. Other women murmured about the arrangement, describing it as a mistake—but not around Leila or Mari. The biggest obstacle, according to the whisperers, was that Jahangir belonged to no village. Young, beautiful women were safer in small villages.
Later that night, when the children and my husband were asleep, I heard low voices, and slipped out my back entrance to listen. Mari and Gul argued. To my surprise, Mari favored the marriage.
The girl doesn’t know what she’s getting into, Gul complained. She won’t be safe with that band of men.
He promises a comfortable life, Mari said.
There’s still time to find another prospect, one who lives closer.
Hah! Mari snapped. There is no time! You heard Jahangir—when others hear about his choice, there will be no other offers.
I thought you wanted her to stay here, Gul countered.
There was a long pause, so long I thought the couple must have walked away. But then Mari spoke eagerly. We have no son. Jahangir has no village. Why can’t he stay here?
Gul heaved a sigh. But the others . . .
I don’t care, Mari insisted. Jahangir is young, strong. He can help this village. Those who deny that are jealous!
I’m not sure he can abide by our rules and ways of doing business. Gul’s voice shook with hesitation. How dare he complain that she’s old? That she is spoiled and soft?
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