He’d wanted the closeness they had enjoyed when she was young, but somehow he had pushed her away by not sharing his beliefs, who he was, what he stood for. He had feared she would reject him and so he had never tried.
Islam said you could fight to preserve yourself and your faith. He had not wanted to see his faith, his country, defiled by the warped Islam the Arabs brought to Afghanistan. He did not want to see the young men tortured and killed—hung in the square for all to see—or the women and children slaughtered just because they embraced a different face of Islam.
That was what his beliefs had said. Yaqub had believed that, too. But Mohammed had never trusted that Khadija would want to fight, too. She was, after all, a woman. That saddened him when he needed that strength of belief to sustain him now.
Someone pounded on the front door and he heard the woman go to the door. She had been a silent figure in the background as they questioned him, but he recognized her. Mirri. Khadija’s friend. That meant the soft voice had been Mizra. Mizra who had sought Khadija’s hand. The thought that he had liked the boy, had even considered giving his permission, sent a chill down his back.
A murmur and then the door swung wide and a gust of cool wind entered the room, carrying with it the scent of snow and the brown dust of Kohi Asamayi. Somewhere, nearby, a woman cooked a meal of goat and onions, as all his senses strained to learn who came.
Hushed voices came from the main room and then a movement of air. Zahra and Hamidah cowered closer. Mohammed raised his blind eyes towards the shadow that fell across his face.
“What do you want in my home? You have no business here.” His voice sounded thin, old—the words of a querulous old man.
Cloth rustled and then a hard, narrow hand caught his, removed it from Zahra’s, and hauled him to his feet. He smelled mint tea and sweat and dust and an old fear swept over him. His old man’s bladder almost let go.
“We meet again, Siddiqui—or should I say, ‘Doctor’? I suppose you’ve realized by now that there are worse things than blindness.” The hand dragged him away from the girls, to the other room. “Bind him.”
Other hands caught him, tied his hands behind him, and then forced him to the floor. The rope bindings cut his skin as old memories sliced through him—winter and being naked and hosed with cold water and left. That voice—it was cold as the wind over the mountains, its accent a strange combination of Arab sparseness and Inglisi hauteur. He shivered as the scent of mint came again—so close he almost gagged. So memorable he almost cried.
“You do not look so fierce, Doctor. You will tell me what I need to know, just as your son did. I wonder—will you squeal like he did, before you die?”
Chapter 52
Michael opened his eyes to blackness. The sound of a rushing river and wind, the scent of fading leaves and damp earth, reminded him he was alive. That and the cramped feeling of his back and neck from how he had slept. Overhead the stars were brittle in the sky and the ghost of a moon floated over the eastern mountains.
He pushed himself to sitting and pain rammed into his side. The moon wasn’t quite a crescent. Surely it wasn’t. The Imams wouldn’t yet recognize the faint moon as marking the new month. They couldn’t. He needed another day. Just another day!
“La Elaha Ellallahu Muhammad-u-Rasoollullah.” There is no god but God, and Muhammad is his prophet. “Please Allah, give me another day.”
They had to get moving. He shifted to the side of the Jeep, seeking Khadija. Yesterday was a blur of pain. The jolting of the Jeep, the throb in his side, had all conspired to keep his mind numb, unable to determine what to do, too weak to do whatever he decided.
Not in the driver seat. A thread of fear ran through him and he clamped his jaw against his concern. He could not feel anything more for this woman than he did for any other agent he worked with. He peered over the side of the Jeep.
She lay curled in the dust, her knees drawn up to her chin, so she looked like a small child, not like the woman he had known so intimately on this journey. A swell of tenderness almost choked him. He wanted to stroke her hair and feel the rise and fall of her breathing under his hand.
It was too late for that and the time too desperate.
“Khadija.”
No movement.
“Khadija!” His voice was harsh as she stirred and rubbed a hand across her eyes. “Get up. The moon is almost here.”
She sat up and pushed her hair back from her face in a dark wave. She stood and swayed, grabbing the side of the Jeep to steady herself, but her gaze was all for him. “How are you? How do you feel?”
“I’ll live.”
Her clinical “doctor” expression dropped over her face. Then she shook her head.
“The chloramphenicol is helping, but you’re still not well. We need to change dressings and drain the wound.” Her voice was crisp as she leaned over the Jeep for the medical supplies.
“There’s no time. Just get in the Jeep and drive.”
She flipped open the lid of the medical pack and dug through, then looked back at him.
“You’ve got no choice. I’m not letting you die.”
She pushed him back and climbed into the Jeep, then stripped up his shirt. He was so damned weak he wanted to scream. Her methodical cleansing of the wound, the draining of the infection left him breathless, in pain, and fuming. She strapped a new dressing in place, injected him with more antibiotic, and sat back.
“You can stay here in the back, or I can help you to the passenger seat.”
If he was going to prove that he was well enough to make the rules, then the front seat was his place. He tried, but hadn’t the strength to shift his body. Exasperated, he had to accept her help.
He was panting at the pain as Khadija climbed in the driver seat. She glanced at him, then cranked the ignition. The engine roared, masking the river sounds.
“How much farther is it? We passed through Dasht-i-Rewat yesterday.”
“From Khenj to Charikar it’s about forty miles. Another thirty miles from there to Kaabul. Depending on the roads, we should be there by noon.” He braced himself against the seat as Khadija dumped the Jeep into gear and they turned out onto the road.
The ghost moon set as they followed the Jeep’s headlights through the darkness. Another of the small towns came into view and Khadija slowed to avoid the chickens and goats that roamed the street. Their eyes glowed green in the headlights.
The shape of the mountains against the sky, the valley that ran opposite the town told him they were at Khenj. The valley held some of the best emerald mines in Afghanistan. Once he had visited this place and marveled at the beauty of the orchards, the fields. There had been a woman here that he enjoyed.
He closed his eyes and let the Jeep rumble under him and the night-bound countryside flow by. He needed to conserve his strength.
In truth, Khadija’s ministrations had eased the pain, but he knew the fever lurked in him and ate his strength, now when he could least afford to be weak.
The next town would be Marz, where Marshal Fahim had his home. Stop there and try to tell their story? Radio to the embassy for help? It would be dependent upon Fahim being there and not out in the field with his men. If he was away, it was unlikely Michael would get access to the radio and more likely he and Khadija would be taken prisoner for arriving in a bloody Panjshiri Jeep with no Panjshiri men.
Keep going was the better choice. Hell, he didn’t even know if Fahim would recognize him. It had been years since they last met.
The Jeep bounced from pothole to pothole, careened around a bull feeding at the edge of the road. Southwestward. Always southwestward.
When Michael opened his eyes again, the mountains to the east were rimed with dawn. They hadn’t reached Rokha yet, but the steep mountainsides and the orchards heavy with the last of the fruit and the stubble-filled cornfields told him they were near Jangalak—Massoud’s village.
The Jeep rounded a curve and the dusty town revealed itself. He
’d spent time with Massoud once; the man had been a magnetic personality, but thoughtful—an engineer who had been called to leadership in the fight against the Russians and who carried on against the Taliban. A green flag waved from the top of the highest hill above the village. Michael bowed his head at the grave of the Lion of Panjshir, than he caught Khadija’s arm.
“We need to change positions.”
Khadija barely glanced at him, her gaze held by the road. Her pale knuckles on the wheel said she was not a certain driver, but she had got them this far.
“I thought you were passed out.”
“Resting my eyes.” He grinned and saw a spark of a smile cross her face before the road needed her attention again. “We’re nearing Rokha. There’s a checkpoint there. I should be driving.”
The vehicle slowed as Khadija looked at him. Her studied gaze was that of the doctor again. She finally shook her head and looked back at the road.
“You’re not strong enough. You’ll drive us off the road.”
“Dammit, Khadija, they’ll stop us. They’ll arrest us for the Jeep. We can’t afford that.”
“So what were you going to do? Ram through?”
He closed his eyes. “Something like that. Now stop the Jeep.”
She glanced at him again and a smile caught on her lips as she stomped the gas peddle down. The Jeep bucked forward.
“Like hell,” she said in English. “Watch me.”
Chapter 53
The wind blasted Khadija’s face, tore her hair back. She knew she should cover her head, but for this moment—just this moment—she didn’t care. She was wild. She was alive. Too alive. All she could think of was to laugh, but it caught in her chest.
Instead she focused on the road. She would get them through. She would get them through. It became a song set to the wild Hindi music of Kaabul.
The road eased around a curve of hill and there sat the mud-daub buildings of Rokha. Its fields were golden with corn not yet harvested. The streets of the village were littered with dogs and children and old men smoking outside a chai channa.
Beyond the town she could see the little shed of a police check. Her fist blatted the horn into the clear morning air. Heads turned. People dove for the side of the road. Chickens scattered in a flurry of feathers. Goats stepped away, bored, as the Jeep plunged through the town.
Faces swept past. Gazes of surprise. A woman driver. A woman with wind in her hair. She eased up on the gas pedal as the checkpoint came into view. A lone, cantilevered pole blocked the road. She blatted the horn once more.
Police fumbled out of the shed and saw her.
Let them lift the barricade. Instead they lifted their guns. Stop or go? The laughter burbled in her lungs. She needed to get it out. She needed to keep going. She tromped on the gas pedal and the Jeep fishtailed in the loose gravel. She fought the wheel and aimed for the pole.
“Brace yourself!”
Michael already was, a hand against the dash and his legs against the floorboards as she flashed a grin in his direction. A police officer stepped into the road to sight his weapon, but she held the Jeep straight, ducked low in her seat and slammed the vehicle on. The officer got a single shot off. It rammed into the Jeep’s hood before he leapt out of the way to avoid certain death. The pole barricade exploded over them.
They were through and the laughter broke free of her chest. The wildness filled her—one she’d never felt before. The vehicle raced southwest, but she grabbed Michael’s hand, brought it to her lips, kissed it. She would kiss him all over if she could only stop now. She would tell him how she felt.
Alive. Finally alive.
But not now. Afterward. After this vibrant, living world was safe. After she and Michael were safe in each other’s arms. When she had to deal with her father and confess the truth. It brought a chill to her. What would he say? What would the world think and do if they knew? It was bad enough that she did. Somehow she would deal with it.
The road widened after Jebal Seraj and turned southward in the pitted remains of the main highway north from Kaabul. Finally Charikar came into view, its more Western-style buildings ruined from the fighting that had raged through so much of the country. But still there was life, there was color in the brightly colored trucks, in the low caps of some of the men—even in the blue of the burka.
Music streamed from a loudspeaker along the road and she wanted to stop, wanted to leap out of the Jeep and dance one of the old Tajik dances her mother had taught her. Instead she fought the Jeep through traffic and aimed south. Kaabul waited.
She felt Michael’s gaze on her and glanced in his direction. His eyes were bright, but it was not just fever. Heat ran through her body and she felt herself color. She wanted to touch him again, wanted to feel him inside her again. Wanted to learn his body wholly and wanted him to learn hers, but knew she didn’t dare. He was a warrior first, had no place in his heart for her.
She turned back to the road and drove between the dry hills she had thought so dead. Now she saw the lone falcon in the updraft, the folds of green mountain ash and willow, the sparrows bathing in the dust and the golden cat that darted after them.
They passed Istalif where her family had picnicked in the places once graced by Emperor Babur and his entourages, and then followed the river through fields south to Kaabul.
The city spread wide across the plain between the brown mountains. Once this area was filled with marshes that had filled the air with waterfowl. Now there were kites along the mountainsides and dust after the long droughts. Still signs of life, even amid the devastations of war.
Her father helped the Afghani people. She would help the people as well. They would rebuild Afghanistan and Kaabul would again be the Light Garden of the Angel King—only this time the king would be Allah.
The Saraki Kabul Wa Parwan Road ran straight into the centre of Kaabul. To the south lay Kohi Asamayi, the T.V. tower poking into the sky like a defiant spear. She wanted her father, wanted to go to him and show him she was alive, beg him for forgiveness for scaring him so, but there was Michael and the mission. The embassy of the Amrikaayi sat northward along Bibi Mahro. Her father would have to wait.
She twisted through traffic, narrowly avoiding pedestrians, donkey carts, the behemoths of brightly colored trucks. How could she have missed that there was so much life here? The men spoke together, played games of chance. Old women sold rags in the street. Others floated past in their burka and chador, but here and there a young face was bare.
She caught the amazed looks on people’s faces as she passed, caught them staring at her and realized her head was still uncovered. No way to keep herself anonymous, her past secret. She yanked at her petu and Michael gently eased it up from her shoulders and over her head.
His gaze seemed locked on the people they passed. The crowd grew thicker as she maneuvered towards the crossroads by the Mausoleum of Abdut Rahman. The square was a madhouse. People marketing and children playing overflowed the tattered remains of Zarnegar Park. The air stank of diesel and dust and mutton grilling. Vehicles were wedged together in the traffic to allow the passage of a foreign military convoy. She glanced at Michael.
“I should have taken Chicken Street and avoided this. We’d have made it to the embassy quicker.”
He shook his head. “I think….” He looked at her and shook his head again. “Something doesn’t feel right. Something in my gut. I see—watchers, I think. People where there shouldn’t be. People I don’t trust.”
She maneuvered around a donkey and glanced at him. What he said made no sense. “How can you know all the people in Kaabul?”
He shrugged. “I don’t. But something isn’t right. When you’ve done this as long as I have, you know. I want to get you home and then I’ll drive to the embassy.”
She was about to protest, but he stopped her with a look.
“About this I won’t budge. I’m strong enough. You’ve seen to that. But if my gut’s right, the embassy’ll be watched.
They’ll try to stop me.” He caught her hand, and those pale eyes cut through her. “The last thing I want is you in danger. Understand? Your father needs you.”
It shouldn’t hurt her; what he said was true. But she wanted him to need her, too. She wanted him to say it but after all that had happened, he still would not. She knew it was her failure. If only she could convince him she would never fail him again.
If only she could convince herself.
She turned towards Kohi Asamayi and uncertainty built in her. What would she say to her father and friends? How could she keep what she had done a secret? Mirri would no longer be her friend, of that she was certain. Their beliefs no longer ran the same path.
“Slow down,” Michael ordered.
She did and his gaze ran over the people at the sides of the road. He nodded to himself as they neared Darulaman Road, which arrowed towards the battered remains of the king’s palace and the foreign military encampment. Even there—even among the ruins, she saw her people moving, children playing. Life amid the war zone that was her country—and the war still waged with all of them as soldiers and hostages.
“Look at them all.” She felt Michael’s glance. “The people. I’ve been thinking of Kaabul as half-dead. But it’s not. It’s fighting hard for life.”
He nodded, but his gaze was back on the street and she saw him stiffen.
“Shit. Farid.” He motioned with his chin at a man at the side of the road, even as he slid down in his seat. But a Jeep with a woman driving was a magnet for the eyes. The pox of bullet holes in its rear didn’t help.
“Get us to your father’s—now!”
“Why?”
“Because Farid betrayed me once before. Your father is in danger.”
His lips were thin over his teeth. There was fear in his eyes, and not for himself. Khadija gunned the motor between a man herding two donkeys and a pile of debris from a blown-out building. A cat scampered across her path and she braked, the rear end of the vehicle sliding as she cranked the wheel up the narrow street that led uphill to her father’s house.
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