The Guardian

by David Hosp

  To my family

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  One of the most sacred relics in all of Islam is kept in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Carried into battle by the Prophet Mohammed, it is believed by many Muslims to give great power to whoever possesses it. Ahmad Shah Durrani, the founder of the last great Afghan dynasty, captured it in the eighteenth century, around the time of the unification of what would become modern Afghanistan.

  It has been exhibited in public only three times in modern history. The last time was in 1996, following the withdrawal of the Soviet Union and during a time of civil war, when Mullah Omar, the leader of the Taliban, held it aloft before a group of ulema – religious scholars – and thousands of his supporters. Many believed that display conferred legitimacy, and shortly thereafter he defeated his primary rival and established the rule of the Taliban. That rule lasted for five years, until the invasion by the United States.

  To this day, many believe that only the power of the relic can unite a nation that is still torn apart.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  2002

  Akhtar Hazara crept along the hallways of the mosque at the center of the ancient city of Kandahar. He was thirteen years old, and the weight of the Soviet-era assault rifle slung across his back cut into the muscles of his narrow shoulders. It was late in the evening and the day’s last prayers had been said. The world was quiet for the moment.

  The mosque was modest by the standards of the great halls of Islam in Riyadh and Istanbul and even Kabul. It was a smallish cubed structure, its exterior covered in filthy blue-and-gilt mosaics. In a city as poor as Kandahar, though, it was considered an oasis of luxury and safety. In the courtyard the goat that kept the grass cropped could be heard braying softly. Outside the walls, traffic had ebbed along Khuni Serok – the ‘Bloody Road’ – the main thoroughfare that carved through the area.

  Akhtar slipped along the passageway until he came to the door. He put his ear to it and listened for a moment, confirming that the room was empty. Once he was certain, he took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open.

  The anteroom was unfurnished. There was no rug to cover the cold tile floor. The paint on the walls was in need of a fresh coat.

  He stepped in and closed the door. There were no windows, and the room went instantly pitch. He inched forward, his hands raised above his head, waving back and forth until one of his fingertips brushed against the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. Raising himself up on his toes, he switched the light on. The bulb was weak, and it cast a wan yellow light, but it was enough for him to find the door at the far end of the room. He moved silently to it and took hold of the knob.

  He hesitated. Breathless. Shaking.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door.

  There was barely enough light from the bulb in the anteroom to see within the small inner chamber. The paint was peeling here as well, but at least there was a threadbare rug covering the floor.

  The chest was against the far wall. It was wooden, with ornate carvings and gold inlay, and it rested like a miniature coffin upon a brass base. It seemed to be glowing, though Akhtar attributed that to the irregular shadows cast by the deficient bulb behind him. The mere sight of the chest took his breath away. He moved slowly toward it, terrified and desperate.

  He bent down and examined it closely. There was a latch and a set of hinges on the side. With trembling hands he unhooked the latch and reached to pry it open.

  ‘What are you doing!’

  The irate shout came from behind him. Akhtar spun and faced a heavyset man in his late-thirties with a long beard and a thick turban. His face was contorted in rage.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ Akhtar stammered.

  ‘You are forbidden to be here!’ the man yelled.

  ‘I only wanted to see it,’ Akhtar protested.

  The man’s frown remained, but his tone softened somewhat. ‘That is not permitted, Akhtar!’ he said. ‘Not for anyone!’

  ‘I know, Uncle. I just thought . . .’

  The man walked over and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I know what you thought,’ he said, relenting. ‘Your time will come, Akhtar. Our family has protected Mohammed’s treasure for more than two centuries. It is a greater responsibility than you can yet imagine. You must learn to take that seriously. It is one of the most sacred objects in all of Islam. It is the beating heart of our nation.’

  Akhtar stared at the chest for a moment. ‘Are you afraid of it?’

  His uncle shook his head. ‘I am afraid for it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it has great power. And power can be used for both good and evil.’ He took his hand from Akhtar’s shoulder and looked down upon him.

  ‘Is that why my father was shot?’

  ‘It is. Men will kill for it. Nations will go to war over it. It is said that he who controls it controls Afghanistan. That is why we must protect it.’

  ‘How do we protect it? We are so few.’

  His uncle smiled at Akhtar. ‘With Allah’s assistance,’ he said. He reached out and tugged at the rifle. ‘And old Russian guns.’ The two of them gazed at the chest for another moment. Akhtar’s uncle said, ‘Come. It is time to check on the rest of the mosque and make sure it is secure for the evening.’

  They left, closing the doors and turning out the lights behind them. Inside the inner chamber, a glow remained. Outside, on the Bloody Road that bordered the mosque and beyond, the war for control of Afghanistan raged on.

  CHAPTER ONE

  2012

  Hassan Mustafa’s heart raced as he walked out into the cool autumn air of the Virginia evening. It was after eight o’clock, and darkness had enveloped the neighborhood where the largest mosque in America looked out over houses and schools and lives. The façade was smooth, polished limestone, unbroken by windows or architectural flourish. The sides of the b
uilding receded into an unadorned dome that rolled to an apex seven stories above the street. The building squatted in the middle of the traditional mid-sized American town like a giant riddle.

  Mustafa checked over his shoulder as he hurried along Sycamore Street, where upper-middle class condominiums were marshaled in stentorian defense of the American dream. Warm light fell on the sidewalk from inside the apartments, broken only by the occasional harsh flicker from a television set – the great American opiate.

  He crossed the street, looking back behind him again. A light rain had been falling on DC’s greater metropolitan area throughout the day, but it had let up for the moment. The uneven bricks that lined the sidewalk were slick and puddled. His feet slipped several times, slowing his pace, and he cursed quietly under his breath. He was tempted to break into a run, but it would only draw attention, and he knew that would be unwise. Besides, the coffee shop was only another block and a half away. Once he walked through the door he would be safe. He was so close he could almost breathe normally again. He put his head down and pressed on.

  It was hard for him to believe that he felt this frightened again. Growing up in Afghanistan, he couldn’t remember a time when the world around him was not on fire and collapsing. His nation had been at war for his entire life, and his childhood had been filled with dangers more profound than most people could comprehend. He’d thought he was immune to fear. He’d been wrong.

  The coffee shop was in sight. Through the window he could see the man waiting for him. He had jet-black hair and an angular face. He was less than twenty yards away. It was almost over.

  The figure emerged from the alley in front of him before Mustafa knew what was happening. He was a huge man, broad-shouldered and dressed in a loose waterproof garment with the hood pulled over his head. He moved onto the sidewalk so abruptly that Mustafa almost collided with him. He stopped and looked the man in the face. Mustafa recognized him instantly from the sharp features beneath his shaved head, and a new wave of terror washed over him.

  ‘Sirus,’ Mustafa croaked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you were going home.’ The man tilted his head slightly, the way a predator might just before eviscerating its prey.

  ‘I am,’ Mustafa said.

  ‘Your apartment is in the other direction.’

  ‘I am stopping off to get a cup of coffee,’ Mustafa said. He nodded toward the coffee shop. The man inside was looking directly at them.

  ‘It must be very good coffee,’ the man in the raincoat said, ‘for you to come this far out of your way.’

  Mustafa gave a weak smile and a shrug, but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  The man moved so quickly, Mustafa never saw the gun. It came up from his side, his arm swinging with the speed and precision of a cobra strike, the muzzle pressing into Mustafa’s chest between the third and fourth rib and sinking deep. The man pulled the trigger, letting Mustafa’s body deaden the sound, and Mustafa gasped as he sank to his knees.

  ‘You see, Mustafa?’ the man said. ‘The same fate comes to all those who betray us.’ The man was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

  The world tilted as Mustafa fell to his side. He could see the man from the coffee shop rushing toward him. He was shouting into a small cell phone, calling for help.

  The man with the dark hair reached him and rolled Mustafa over onto his back. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he said, as he ripped open Mustafa’s shirt to examine the wound. Mustafa could hear the doubt in his reassurances. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he repeated. ‘Can you talk?’

  Mustafa tried to get some words out, but found it difficult. His lips moved, but he had breath only for a whisper.

  ‘Who did this?’

  ‘They will have it,’ Mustafa lipped. ‘They will have it soon.’

  ‘What?’ the man asked. ‘What do they want?’

  Mustafa’s strength was almost gone. His vision was narrowing, the streetlights going dark around him. Oh God, he thought, realizing that it was over. I’m sorry. He could feel the tears running down his face. I’m so sorry.

  ‘What are they after?’ The man’s voice was desperate. He grabbed Mustafa by the shirt collar and for just a moment Mustafa’s focus returned. He could see the man’s face, and could sense his urgency. ‘What happened, Hassan?’

  Mustafa struggled to make his lips form words. ‘They . . . must . . . be . . . stopped.’

  ‘Who? Who must be stopped?’

  He could hear sirens in the background, growing in volume. Mustafa reached and took the man’s hand, gripped it for a moment as he fought against the pain – fought to get the words out.

  And then the fight was over.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jack Saunders sat quietly at the table in the coffee shop, his head down, his jet-black hair damp. He was in his late-thirties, thin and wiry. So wiry that some mistook him for slight, weak even. It was a mistake no one made twice.

  Outside, the lights from the ambulance still flickered, flashing red off the wet pavement and the drops of rain that still clung to the window. The lights were just for show now. Hassan Mustafa was dead before any of them arrived. His body still lay out there, underneath a sheet.

  Saunders picked up the Styrofoam cup and took a sip of the coffee that was now stale and cold. He didn’t notice. His mind was racing, going over every moment from that evening, measuring out his reactions in seconds and fractions-of-seconds, trying to gauge whether there was anything else he could have done.

  He put the cup down, and a stain on the outer edge caught his eye – a dark red smudge near the rim. He wondered for a moment whether a woman had used the cup before and left a lipstick smear. Then he realized it was blood. Looking down at his hand, he saw the dark wet patch near his wrist.

  The door to the coffee shop banged open and Lawrence Ainsworth walked in with one of the local cops. Ainsworth was three decades older than Saunders. He was tall – over six feet – and he carried with him the visible fatigue of a man who has seen too much in his lifetime. He paused by the cash register, whispering to the cop as the two of them looked over toward Saunders. Then Ainsworth gave the cop a kindly pat on the shoulder and walked over toward the table.

  He slid into a seat across from Saunders. ‘He’s the police chief out here,’ Ainsworth said, nodding to the man with whom he’d just been talking. ‘Name’s Quentin. Former fed. They’ll do what they can.’

  ‘They won’t find anything,’ Saunders said. He took another sip of his coffee, avoiding the bloodstain.

  ‘No, probably not,’ Ainsworth agreed. He sighed. ‘Still, it’s good to know we’re not dealing with Barney Fife.’ He sat there in silence for a moment. ‘Did Mustafa tell you anything?’

  ‘Not much,’ Saunders said. ‘I talked to him on the phone last night. He said the message came in yesterday. Something important. He said he needed to talk in person.’

  ‘Why did you wait to bring him in?’ Ainsworth asked. His tone was sharp.

  Saunders sat back in his chair and looked directly at Ainsworth. ‘I told you last night, this was how Hassan wanted it. He couldn’t get away until tonight, and he wanted me to put a protection plan together for him. He wanted to see that the Agency would stand by him. That’s why I brought you in on logistics.’

  ‘Well, at least he died knowing how committed we were.’ Sarcasm dripped from Ainsworth’s words.

  ‘You think I should have handled it differently?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Then maybe you should have trained me differently. Maybe I should have been some pencil-pushing, ass-covering bureaucrat. The Agency can never get enough of those, can it?’

  Ainsworth smiled in spite of himself. ‘Yeah, I know it,’ he agreed. He took a deep breath, motioned to the waitress, pantomiming the pouring of coffee. She went behind the counter to get a cup and a pot. ‘Look, Jack, no one questions your contributions to the Agency – least of all me. I found you, for Christ sake, locked away at Harvard
speaking dead languages to the four or five other people in the world who shared your interests. Hell, I’ve got more time in on you than anyone else I’ve ever worked with.’

  ‘That’s why you need to trust me,’ Saunders said.

  Ainsworth shook his head. ‘It’s not about trust, Jack. It’s about results. That’s why I had to pull you back from the field, and you know it.’

  ‘You didn’t approve of the results I got in the mountains?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I approve or not.’

  ‘I did that for Sam, for Christ sake. You of all people . . .’

  ‘You disobeyed a direct order. What you did had political ramifications that—’ Saunders started to object, but Ainsworth held up a hand to keep him from talking. ‘You and I may not like it, but it is how the world works. Now we have to deal with this issue tonight, or people are really going to start questioning your judgment. So let’s go back over this. When, exactly, did Mustafa first contact you?’

  Saunders shook his head in annoyance. ‘Two days ago. Nine a.m.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I knew his brother when I was in Kabul. His brother trusted me, so Mustafa was willing to trust me.’

  ‘Did he give you any idea what this was about?’

  Saunders frowned. ‘Not much. Not enough to be helpful.’

  ‘Anything?’

  Saunders replayed his conversations with Mustafa over in his head as he spoke slowly. ‘He said he had information about an operation one of the Taliban splinter groups was running. He said a message was being delivered that would give the details, but that the key was here in the States.’

  ‘The key to what?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t get the chance to tell me.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  Saunders shook his head.

  ‘Did he have any idea where this key was?’

  ‘Boston,’ Saunders said. ‘The message was going to tell them more.’

  ‘Boston,’ Ainsworth said, blowing his breath out in frustration. ‘Well, at least that narrows it to a city of five million people.’ They lapsed back into silence.