Without showing him the stiff child in my arms I said, “Aziz Yusufzai.” I didn’t know much Arabic and really hoped I was pronouncing the name right.
The man used the staff to pull himself up to his full height which was still a good head and shoulders beneath my own. He reached out and placed a shaking hand on the scratchy army blanket.
When his hand cupped the boy’s head, his face crumpled and a low wail came from his throat.
Immediately, faces appeared in every door and window. The children stopped playing and turned. Women came toward us from the houses.
The man with the staff tried to pull Aziz from my arms and I had to lower him to the ground so that he wouldn’t be dropped.
A woman fell on Aziz, tearing at the blanket with such a ferocity that I was forced back by the growing crowd. More and more hands were on his little body, unwrapping him with a wild desperation.
When his face was finally uncovered, the noise became unbearable. Women screamed as if being gutted alive. Children began to cry and several men beat their chests in fury.
Someone grabbed onto me. The man with the staff, I realized, pulled me through a dark door deep into a house. We went through room after room until arriving at last in a shadowed inner chamber. He motioned for me to wait.
When I kneeled on the dirt, my hands resigned to my knees, he seemed satisfied.
I was left alone with the gray shadows stretching along the terracotta.
I don’t know how long I waited. The room only grew darker as the cries outside died away. I imagined Aziz being carried away to another room and laid lovingly on a floor where his father and mother would place their hands on his cold body.
I had been crying when someone finally came back. It was three men. The man with the staff was among them, an elder maybe, as all these tribes seemed to have them. The other two men were much younger, perhaps sons, one tall and the other short.
“I speak for my brother,” the smallest of the three said. His accent was thick but I’d heard worse. “What has happened to his son? How did you find us?”
I looked at the man in front of me. His eyes were red and his hair disheveled in a way that looked as if he’d been tearing it out. Looking into his eyes, I told him in English, of the first time I saw Aziz, wandering toward the base with the dummy vest strapped to his chest. I left no detail out, not even the fact that the vest was unarmed and his son died for nothing. The brother translated everything in Arabic spoken softly over my own, the music of the language almost hypnotic.
When I finished, I pulled my assault rifle from my back where it had been resting.
All three men stepped back, but I turned the rifle around and offered it to the father.
“Please,” I told him, looking up at him from where I kneeled. “For Aziz.”
He didn’t move to take the gun.
“Come on.” I screamed and shook the gun. “I killed your boy. Do it.”
The shorter and perhaps younger brother spoke over me again. He said so many words that the translation couldn’t have been direct.
When the father refused to take the gun a second time, I laid it on the floor at his feet and waited. I began to cry and did not hear them leave.
I waited there through most of the night until the sun came again. Someone had brought a plate of food but I didn’t eat it. I probably added insult to injury on that one, but I just didn’t have it in me to take anything from this family.
Hours passed and they didn’t return.
They didn’t want my life, but I had nothing else to give. So I left. I pulled myself up, stiff from kneeling all that time and headed back to the car. When I stepped out of the house, I saw no one. I heard a low, mournful hymn coming from somewhere and I saw firelight through one of the windows, but no faces.
I was surprised to find the driver was still there on the hill where I’d left him.
I immediately gave him several more crisp red bills from the pockets of my fatigues. “How long have I been here?”
“Eight hours,” he said and accepted the money.
“Why did you wait?”
“They pay me to wait,” he said. I climbed into the car but he didn’t drive.
“Let’s go,” I told him, thinking he was confused about my intentions.
“They pay me to wait,” he said again, pointing over the dashboard into the road ahead. At first I didn’t see anyone, but then two shapes, and a smaller third, emerged from the shadows.
I climbed out of the car, recognizing the smaller brother and the elder, probably their father. But I had not recognized this boy, maybe a year or two younger than Aziz.
“You must take him,” the brother said.
“Excuse me?” I stepped back as if he’d swung at me.
“His name is Aaquel and he is a good and smart boy. Take him with you.”
Anger rose fast and hot from my chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really think you should trust me with another one of your children?”
The man with the staff asked something and the brother rapidly translated. Nodding, the old man replied in Arabic.
“He will be safe with you,” the brother translated. “You must take him.”
“No,” I said. “I can’t do that.”
Again the brother translated to the elder who replied.
“You would give your life, but not your protection?” the brother said.
“It isn’t a matter of protection. I don’t know what you’re thinking. It’s no better out there.” I jabbed a finger at the road stretching out behind the car. “The whole world is shit.”
Again the fevered Arabic translation was exchanged. The old man leaning on his staff gripped it more tightly. I turned to leave and he grabbed onto me.
His eyes met mine and I saw in the rising sunlight the blue ring of blindness eating at his vision. He spoke in soft, tremulous Arabic.
The brother translated. “The Taliban they come to our villages and they take our children. They feed false promises and anger to their hearts. They lead our boys away and make them soldiers. Soldiers like you.”
He released me but he kept talking.
“If the boys do not come willingly, they are taken. One year, maybe two and they will take Aaquel and we will only pray another good man will bring his body home.”
“Maybe the war will be over by then,” I said.
The old man smiled, a patient and sad smile, like the one you’d give a child who can’t comprehend something.
“The war never ends,” translated the brother. “A soldier should know that.”
I looked down at the boy for the first time. He was fairer than Aziz, pretty like a little girl, his hair curling by his ears and his eyelashes thick and dark. He had the pout of a starlet, those brown eyes as black as the tunic he wore.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said. “I don’t know how to help you.”
And I realized it was a sad fucking truth. I could kill their children and I could pay for that mistake with my life—but anything else—I had no clue.
“Get him out of the country. Educate him. He needs English and an occupation. See that he lives to be a man.”
I looked out over the horizon and saw the first fiery strip of sun there. I stared at the boy. He did not look any happier about this proposal than I did.
“Please take him,” the brother said again, as the old man’s hand shook against my arm.
“Get your things,” I said. I looked at the boy again. “I’ll be in the car.”
The men gave the boy rushed instructions in Arabic and touched his head in turn as if blessing him. He already had his things I realized, when he hefted a sack up onto his shoulders and then climbed into the backseat of the car.
“Thank you,” the brother translated and the elder touched his forehead.
“This is a mistake,” I said and I climbed into the car. The driver finally started to obey me again, reversing the subcompact and churning up dust around us. B
oth men stayed in the road and watched us go.
We travelled to the border in silence. The driver was blessedly quiet the entire ride, though I know he must have heard and understood more of that bizarre conversation than I did. If he had questions, he knew better than to ask them. Maybe he thought his silence would be rewarded with more crisp red bills.
The boy did not speak either. I watched him in the little mirror on the back of the visor as he rolled his window up and down. The wind blew back his curls and when dust swirled into the car, he rolled it up again.
The driver stopped in Khost as I instructed. I paid him more money than his time was worth and he took it.
We watched the driver disappear into the clotted streets before I headed toward the hotel. Call me a paranoid bastard, but the driver didn’t need to know where we were heading.
I told Aaquel to wait outside as I went into a hotel and got a room. I also asked to make a phone call, doing so with one eye on the boy with a pack slung over his shoulder.
Once I put the boy in the room, I told him to lock it behind me and open it for no one. I twisted the lock a few times, stepping in and out, hoping he understood. Then I went back out into the throngs of people and found a market where I could buy enough food and snacks to hold us until my contact came through.
Even after I returned with food, Aaquel wouldn’t talk to me.
“How old are you?”
“Do you want to watch TV?”
“Does your mother know that your grandfather gave you away?”
All my questions received no reply.
He fell asleep sitting upright, still wearing his tunic, with his little sack clutched to his chest as if I might steal it. I stayed awake through the night until a rough knock came at the door the next morning. I checked the window before opening.
“Brinkley,” Rakesh called out, his boisterous laugh followed him into the room. He wore a white shirt and pants, sunglasses hiding his eyes. “It has been a long time, my friend. When you called, I was so surprised.”
The boy in the bed sat up, watching us.
“Oh he is pretty,” Rakesh exclaimed, grinning at the boy. “It is good that you give him to me. If we close our eyes one minute, he will be a bacha bazi the next.”
I pulled my wallet from my pocket and handed the remaining cash over to Rakesh.
“No need, my friend,” the man said, pushing the dollars away.
“Just take it,” I told him. “In case he wants or needs something. Hell, in case you have to pay to keep someone’s mouth shut. I’ll give you more when we meet in New Delhi.”
Rakesh grumbled but took the cash as I knew he would. I may have saved his life in Marrakesh, but he liked money as much as the next man.
“OK,” Rakesh said and waved to the boy. “Let’s hit the road. We have a long way to go.”
When the boy didn’t respond, Rakesh spoke again in Arabic. The next thing I knew, little fists pummeled my back and side.
“Hey, hey,” I said, trying to snatch the hands furiously pounding me. “What the hell?”
“You sell me,” he said. “You lie and you sell me.”
“Oh he does speak,” Rakesh said, laughing.
I grabbed ahold of his hands and forced him to stop hitting me. “Stop. Stop.”
He tried to wrench away but I held him tight. “You lie and you sell me.”
“Do you understand English?” I asked him. When he didn’t reply I tried again, “Rakesh, can you translate?”
“Sure thing, boss,” he said, amused. “But in my country, we just whop these upside the head and move on with it.” Rakesh loved American movies and did not always use the expressions he learned from them correctly.
“Humor me,” I told him, then I turned to the boy. “I am not selling you. I know it looks that way because there’s money and he is taking you away, but that isn’t what’s happening. He is my friend. I trust him to take care of you. Do you know the word trust?”
The boy’s wrists relaxed in my hands. He spoke before Rakesh finished translating. “I understand you.”
“My friend is going to take you to an orphanage about 300km from New Delhi. I know the man who runs this orphanage. He is drawing up papers now, so I can adopt you. You aren’t going to be there long, but it is a safe place where we can hide you until I have some documentation, OK? I can’t take you out of Afghanistan without papers and I can’t get papers here, so we have to sneak you into India. I will meet you at the orphanage. Just wait for me there. I’m not sure what we will do next, but I’ve got a couple of friends that might be able to help us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You have many friends,” the boy said.
Rakesh snorted.
“Not enough, kid,” I said to him. “Do you understand what I’m saying about the papers?”
“We cannot leave without papers,” he said, the last bit of tension gone from his voice. I released him.
“Yes, or they will take you away from me and might not even return you to your family, which would be bad.”
“It would be bad,” he repeated.
“So you go with Rakesh and you do what he says, OK? I will see you soon.”
“How long?” the kid asked and I could see Aziz in his face.
“A month,” I told him. “I’ll get there sooner if I can. But until I do, just think about what you want to learn when I send you to school.”
“English,” he said.
I grinned. “You’re doing all right. What else?”
“I want to be the most powerful man in the world.”
Rakesh laughed big and boisterous, one hand on his jiggling belly. “Do not we all.”
“What’ll your new name be?” I asked him. “For the papers?”
He looked down for a moment and then grinned. “Gideon Bale.”
Rakesh and I were both taken aback.
“Gideon?” I asked. “Where did you hear that name?”
“He is a smuggler,” the boy said, with an excitement I hadn’t seen yet. “He is the most powerful man in the world.”
“Never heard of him,” Rakesh said.
“It is in a story,” the boy replied.
I should have known then I was in trouble, but at the time I just smiled. “Gideon Bale it is.”
Chapter 31
10 Weeks
Caldwell left me a note folded into a little tent, and sitting on top of the notebook I’d been using to write down my memories.
I thought you knew about Charlie. When I was finished I put him back the way he was. You really didn’t know?
I grab my coat and I drive to the cemetery. The Impala chugs up the hill past the funeral home and hearse and I yank up the parking brake once I pull her into the shade of the willow tree.
I jump out of the car and go to the grave.
“Is it true?” I ask as if Charlie can sit up and answer me. “Oh my God, is it true?”
I feel sick. I turn and heave into the grass beside the grave.
“God, I’m so sorry, Charlie. I didn’t know. You shouldn’t be down there,” I say, a little self-conscious of the sound of my own voice. The sour taste of vomit burns the back of my nose and throat. “I’ll rebury you.”
Again I see Charlie’s face the moment he betrayed me. The eyes were glazed, unfocused, but not with hatred I realize. It was because someone was wearing him like a glove, the way Chaplain used to do it.
“I’d forgotten what it was like, when he gets in your head and fucks it all up.”
God, how it had fucking hurt to hear Charlie laugh while Caldwell’s men tore me up. Martin, the worst of the bastards got what he’d deserved. There were still traces of his burnt corpse in Kirk’s crematorium, I’d wager.
But Charlie and Smith, the Boston detective I’d also asked for help—I should’ve handled that better. Especially you Charlie.
“He had you,” I say, feeling the uncomfortable ache in my knees build. “And I didn’t fucking know.”
J
im, he’d said with a smile. Am I glad to see you—
I cringe at the memory: Charlie in his living room, rising from his chair, his face bright with relief until I put a bullet through his forehead.
Of course Caldwell wiped him clean. Why wouldn’t he? How better to hide his tracks than to leave no memory of the crime? When I walked into Charlie’s house and raised my gun, he had no idea why.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Charlie,” I tell him. “God, you must’ve thought—”
We all make mistakes, he said, sitting in his FBRD office ten years ago, listening to me recount the story of Aziz for the fifth or sixth time. You couldn’t have known.
“I only make it worse. Everything I touch is shit,” I tell him, rubbing my fingers along the etched granite of my name. It should be me down there.
You always do the best you can, I hear my friend say. You’re the one who shows up even when he doesn’t have to.
God, I’m so sorry. I should’ve known. I shouldn’t have acted out of anger. I should’ve—
“What if he does that to me?” I ask. “What if he makes me hurt Jesse or Rachel? Jackson?”
What’s stopping him?
Chapter 32
9 Weeks
I wipe the sweat off my brow and slide my palm against my damp jeans. “Gideon Bale is a comic book hero,” I tell Charlie’s body, throwing the last spade of dirt into the new grave. “I had to look it up.”
The crickets saw at their own legs, filling the night around me. I see the hearse coming up the road, headlights bouncing off the trees and grave markers around us.
“So you see, not only did I lie to you about why I left the army and why I came home,” I tell him. “I killed one brother and ruined the other.”
Kirk parks the hearse behind the Impala and gets out. In his hand is a large gray urn. Once he is close enough, he offers it to me. “Detective Smith.”
“Thanks,” I tell him and switch the shovel to my other hand so I can accept the container of ashes. “I’ll send this to his wife in Baltimore. Anonymously, of course.”
Kirk looks down at the grave. The smooth marker with a dove on each side of Charlie’s name, freshly chiseled. “It looks good.”
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