Michael rolled, fully-clothed, out of his blanket, and pulled on the knee-length wool coat he’d traded his stolen one for once they’d crossed into Afghanistan.
He stood listening, feeling the still air around him. Cold. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—always a bad sign. Danger. Something different in the building that passed as a way station for man and animal and cargo. But he and the Pakistani trader were the only guests of the place.
The muffled sound of voices came from beyond the mud walls. He hauled on his calf-high, felted boots as the voices came nearer and then stopped beyond the wooden door.
There was no reason for someone to be here—at least no one who meant him well. He went to the window that had made him choose this room and parted the shutter to peer out into the night.
The last light of the setting moon glowed on the rocky landscape of scree that lifted up the mountainsides of this, the narrowest part of the Wakhan Corridor. Afghanistan, here, was a bare twelve kilometers wide—a single valley that lifted to the Tajik and Pakistani peaks to the north and south.
Closer in, poor tufted grass fed a loose herd of horses and Bactrian camels that grazed around the low houses at the edge of the river that became the ancient Amu Darya.
Aside from the foraging horses, nothing moved but the wind in the grass. Good. Whoever it was hadn’t scouted the fact his room had an escape route. Their mistake, he grinned. He slipped the shutter open farther, careful not to extend it to the point where the ancient hinges squeaked. He slid outside.
The clouds blew around the peaks of the Wakhan Mountains just over the Tajikistan border. To get his bearings, Michael’s gaze settled on Pik Karla Marksa. The stars around its peak glittered like bits of glass held aloft on the chill wind. The first snows had fallen two days ago. Winter came early in these parts.
Voices carried through the clear air, but the wind stripped the words away. He hunkered down, loping from the building to the stone wall that surrounded the caravanserai.
He slid over the wall and headed southwest, away from the village, to duck down behind a cairn made of the enormous curled horns of Oxus sheep that still held on in these mountains. He waited. Patience had always been his virtue; a survival trait honed amid the Mujehaddin.
A crash and loud voices came from inside the caravanserai. Men burst out of the enclosure, searching the night. Their voices came clear, bits of Afghani brought to him on the chill breeze. Amrikaayi. Catch him.
Michael breathed in the darkness and swore. They spoke Dari with the accent of the Pashto of the south. Their dark jackets only half-covered the over-long salwar kameez the Taliban had decreed men should wear. There had been rumors that extremists held a stronghold in this area. He had even heard hints of Hashemi and had thought he might search for the man once this mission was over.
He turned into the night, waited for a cloud to block the last of the moonlight, then stayed low and glided across the landscape westward towards the graveyard. Thank God he’d made this trip before and knew the area.
The cloud shifted; the swift winds of the peaks betrayed him with a shaft of moonlight that caught him before he could reach cover.
A shout from the caravanserai and then a shot. Michael threw himself down, rolled and heard the ping, ping, ping of bullets impacting on gravel where he’d been. He rolled again. Again, at more rifle reports.
He scrambled up and ran.
The cloud shifted and darkness set in. He dove into the vacant doorway of a grave house. The Wakhan people built domed, mud-brick houses over each gravesite, the open doors and windows he supposed were for the spirit to come and go, for the Wakhani Islam seemed intertwined with vestiges of older beliefs.
Well, he would be a spirit this night and be gone.
He crouched, his hand going to the Tokarev tucked in the back of his salwar kameez. The pistol was the only thing he’d brought out of China, and far better quality than any weapon he’d find in Afghanistan. Here most guns were made in Pakistani weapon shops.
The wind whistled through the windows, carrying the scent of fresh horse dung and the sour stench of camel.
A crunch of stone brought him to full alert. Slowly, he raised himself to the window. The long valley was a funnel to his gaze. In the distant east there was only darkness. Closer in came the rush of the river, the squeal of a horse. The villagers wisely had decided to stay inside to avoid what happened here. Either they, or the Pakistani trader, had betrayed him.
His money was on the Pakistani.
The local Wakhi people were friends to the West, and Ismailis besides—a Muslim sect frowned on by the Taliban.
A shadow moved where there should be no shadow. It slipped along the rough mud-brick wall of a nearby burial house, into the doorway, then back out. He was good, this pursuer. Only a slight click of stone gave the man away.
Michael could slip out the door and escape the next time the man entered a grave house. The problem was where to go. The only road ran beside the Amu Darya River—once called the mighty Oxus. There was virtually no cover other than boulders, and the narrowness of the valley made it almost impossible to move without being seen
He had no choice. His enemy knew he was here, but if he took out this man there’d be less chance of being spotted as he headed west towards Khandud. Perhaps he could get help from the Wakhi governor there.
Crouched by the door, he waited for the man to check the next grave house. The man entered and Michael crossed the loose gravel silent as a ghost.
The man stepped outside and the blow from Michael’s hand crushed his enemy’s throat. The man went down without a sound. Let him smother in peace.
He hauled the body into the grave house, then sprinted across the road to the river where terraced fields were separated by low mulberry bushes. Moving from bush to bush he approached the hill that held a shrine to Ali.
The small building stood on a low hill of loose shale and stone. Keep going or climb it? It could give him cover and the advantage of height, but with the morning light he’d be trapped.
Keep going, then. Head down, he began a ground-eating lope parallel to the river, his chest heaving to take in enough oxygen at this altitude.
From behind came a shout and the grumble of a Jeep engine. They’d found the dead man. The location of the body told them he was headed west.
He ran. Cover was impossible. Just put as much distance as possible between himself and the vehicle. He darted closer to the river. Here it was a narrow, rushing, rock-torn maelstrom, but if worst came to worst he’d take his chances in the water.
Headlights cut the darkness and Michael hunkered down behind a mulberry bush. The vehicle drove past him, one hundred yards, two hundred yards farther down the road. If they kept going he might stand a chance.
The vehicle stopped. Damnation.
Doors opened and the backwash of headlights illuminated four men holding Kalashnikovs—the weapon of choice in this part of the world. They turned back towards Qala Panj, fanning out between the river and the road. There was no way they would miss him.
Michael looked over his shoulder. There’d be others left back at the village. No safety there.
After finding the body, the men were cautious, weapons ready. It would be hard to catch them by surprise.
Michael grabbed a fistful of river pebbles and stayed low. Now the men were silhouetted by the Jeep’s taillights. He sent one pebble sailing over their heads and off to the men’s right.
It cracked against the rocky ground.
The men turned, weapons up.
Michael sent another pebble farther into the night. Again the small clack. The men’s heads tracked it. One of them motioned to the others to wait and stepped into the darkness.
This was Michael’s chance. Their attention was turned to the valley floor. He might—just might—be able to slide by in the river if he was quick about it.
He sent one more pebble into the darkness, heard it fall, and then waded into the shal
lows, tucking his pistol in his belt.
Cold, so cold, the water born of glaciers that formed the headwaters of the Pamir and Wakhan Rivers. He inhaled, inhaled again when all his breath was stolen by the shock of the frigid water. Immersion for any time would be deadly.
“Don’t move,” said a familiar voice in Dari.
Michael froze. Idiot. While he’d watched the men from the Jeep, someone had stalked him. His damned death wish had finally betrayed him.
“Raise your hands.”
Michael obeyed and turned to face the Pakistani. The man’s AK-47 gleamed dully in the starlight.
“You don’t want to do this, Hamid.” Michael spoke softly. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“You steal secrets, American dog.”
“Not your secrets, Hamid.” Use the man’s name. Remind him they were friends and travel companions.
“You think because I’m Pakistani my goals are different than theirs? Why do you think I travel this way? I know more than carpets.” The four Afghanis stepped out of the darkness. The Jeep’s engine whined as it reversed back down the road.
Michael kept his gaze on the Pakistani. Yes, the Pakistani ISI had financed the Taliban for years, but what did they know? How far were they involved in this thing? Far enough, it seemed. Another part of his message.
His brain beat with soon.
Michael shrugged and eased back into the river. He’d lost all feeling in his feet. He had to either take the plunge or forget his attempted escape.
“So when’s it going to happen? What are your goals, Hamid? What are they worth?”
The Pakistani chuckled.
“You could not pay me enough. I want what all Islam wants—the end of the evil empire—your United States. The end of the decadent West. We will do it, too-” He grinned. “-with the unknowing help of those heathen Chinese.” He raised his rifle. “Come out of there.”
Michael threw himself backward.
The frigid water slammed into him. Breath exploded from his body. The current dragged him away. He heard—no—felt the hail of bullets striking the water. He dove under the surface.
Pain. No breath. No feeling. He fought against the natural panic and stayed submerged, slammed against boulders, was torn away. How long could he stay here? How long did he dare?
His feet were two lumps of stone, his hands not far behind.
Breathe. To breathe!
He surfaced, gasped for air. Sweet and cold in his lungs. He went under again and fought towards shore. The cold stole his strength. Would steal his life, if he didn’t get free soon. Light shone upstream. Eastward the night still held out against the first grey of dawn.
Just get to shore and cover or they’d have him. But where the hell was shelter in this tube of a valley?
He’d find a way.
Just find a way.
Soon. The message he carried was too important.
Soon. It was a mantra as he floundered his way into shallower water and his numb legs gave out.
Soon. He managed to get to his knees, managed to stand, managed to stagger out of the river.
The wind bit through his sodden clothing. Keep moving or he’d freeze. He tracked along the river, prepared to dive back in. His limbs didn’t work. Too slow. His feet were leaden, painful. He stumbled over a larger stone.
Just move. Move!
Clothes will dry. Get to Khandud and the governor. Get word out.
The roar of the Jeep engine sent him staggering faster. He searched the landscape for some place to hide. Some place to wait for sun and warmth. Some place safe. How long had it been since he was truly warm, truly safe?
An image of marigolds.
Only low rocks and darkness across the Wakhan Valley. Even the neat lines of cultivated mulberry bushes had ended.
A shout, and gravel clattered under the Jeep as it sped towards him.
Breath burned in his throat as he ran, as he turned, as he hauled out his sodden gun and aimed. His first shot shattered the windshield and the Jeep careened to a stop. The doors opened and men fell out, took cover.
Michael’s next shot slammed into one man’s leg. He screamed. The others scrambled to the rear of the Jeep and Michael knew his moments were few. He aimed for the vehicle’s gas tank, praying for luck.
A hail of bullets struck around him. Rock shattered. Shards peppered him. Something struck him in the side. It threw him backwards—hard.
His head cracked against stone.
Slow. Everything so slow. Cold. Numb. He rolled over. His gun—where?
He pushed to his knees, but the earth fell upward to meet him.
No! He belly crawled.
Get the warning out.
The first boot caught him in his wounded side and the pain curled him on himself. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as the next blow found him.
And the next.
Chapter 13
August 2002, Feyzabad, Badakhshan, northeastern Afghanistan
Aisha, the heavily pregnant second wife of the hospital administrator, leaned on Khadija’s arm as they walked down the narrow road between the ramshackle, mud-daub buildings that made up Feyzabad. The wind off the mountains carried the clean scent of the swift-running river, but lifted omnipresent dust that teared Khadija’s eyes even under her burka. It was even worse than Kaabul.
Feyzabad sat in the northern Hindu Kush mountains in a broad river valley that caught and held the smoke of the cooking fires like a pall tarnishing the vivid blue sky. The mountains were jagged brown walls imprisoning the green, terraced wheat fields. Those steep mountain slopes held the rest of the world at bay.
Getting here had involved a long circuitous route north from Kaabul to Kondoz and Taloqan and then eastward over barely passable gravel roads to arrive in Feyzabad in darkness last night. The city had little electricity—but they had been made comfortable in the home of Aisha’s husband, Ahmad Mali Khan, and his first wife Fatima and two grown daughters.
Even after a night’s rest, every muscle in Khadija’s body still ached, and her head throbbed from hitting the Jeep roof once too often on the bone-wrenching trip. Aisha’s chattering voice and her weight on Khadija’s arm just made it all worse.
The only thing that had made the week-long Jeep trip endurable had been the knowledge she carried a message precious to her cause. And then she’d been expected to become a part of Ahmad Mali Khan’s household.
They were an odd assortment—old Fatima defeated by the second marriage of her husband; Zahra, the youngest girl, convinced the West would bring all manner of good to Afghanistan; and Hamidah, the eldest daughter, engaged to a Kaabulay, but plagued by a terrible wound on her cheek.
Apparently a local sand fly caused it; such wounds were common in the area. Hamidah was lucky because her father was a doctor. For many it went untreated and left horrible scars.
And then there was Aisha, who had lain in the women’s quarters, her dark hair fanned on her pillows like a princess. She was secure in the knowledge she was pregnant with a son. In the night she had woken Khadija, surprising her with words assigned to show that she worked for the jihad.
The morning carried the familiar scents of tea and baking naan. Khadija’d thought to spend today acting as her father’s eyes, but he was to attend a meeting. There was no need for her. It gave her the chance to complete her mission.
The sense of purpose filled her as if the Prophet himself had placed words in her mouth. When she spoke the message, she’d have done her part. She would learn who killed Yaqub and avenge him. That act would return honor to her and bring Allah’s words closer to the world. So many things born from six small words.
She squeezed Aisha’s gloved hand.
The other woman was so big with child her breath labored just from walking.
“Thank you for your arm.”
“It’s nothing, Aisha-khor. We’re sisters in Islam, are we not?”
Aisha hesitated.
“You surprised Zahra last
night. All week she’s preached about the wonders you’d bring—an Afghani woman—a doctor trained in the West.”
Surprised Aisha, too, it sounded like. Khadija shrugged. She held no wonders.
At the corner, men queued in lines waiting for work, while she who could have more work than she wanted, would prefer to turn from it. Her choice still chafed her, but she had done the right thing. Escaped from London to home.
Run away, more like.
Once she’d thought medicine was her calling. Before Hartness. Before Yaqub. His death had stolen her certainty.
“I’m not a doctor. I haven’t finished my training.”
“But you know things, correct? You work for your father?”
“I work for him, yes.”
Aisha’s fingers linked with Khadija’s gloved hand. “And you’ve brought a message. Then let’s be soldiers of Islam together and do this thing.”
Khadija’s nerves jangling as they cut through the bazaar. Mirri had said something similar in Kaabul.
But here the spice sellers set out small bags of orange and ochre and red and yellow all tingeing the air with the scent of heat. A line of turbaned men crouched behind purple-hued salt blocks, and pieces of lapis—indigo, light blue, and green. Both salt and lapis had been mined for centuries in Badakhshan.
“My mother left me a necklace of the darkest lapis,” she said to the shopkeeper, an old bearded Tajik. He was dressed in tattered Western trousers and shirt, with a Tajik vest overtop.
“The neeli.” He named the most precious of the three colors of lapis and placed his hand proudly on a small display of the deep blue.
“We mined it seven thousand years ago. Egypt used it in King Tut’s golden mask.”
“How do you know?”
“I helped a Western man who studied stone. He told me.”
“Kofr lies,” Aisha hissed.
Khadija considered. Afghanistan had been at the heart of the caravan trade for millennia. Yaqub and her father had taught her that.
“It could be true.”
Aisha’s eyes flashed through the chador lattice.
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