The first number on his list was to the Chitral Bureau for Mountain Tourism. Their web page promised unequaled familiarity with the Kalash and the trip of the lifetime for eco-tourists. John punched the number into the phone and interrupted the person who answered, using his newly learned phrase. There was pause, followed by the rustle of the phone changing hands, and then a rough “Allo?”
“My name is Roger Maris. I’m a Canadian professor, planning a trip to the Birir Valley to work with the Kalash tribe. I need to know where I can locate the tribal elder for the Kalash. What part of the valley does he live in. Can you help me?”
“Birir. Yes we can’t.”
The man’s English was the equal of John’s Urdu. John surrendered and hung up after a few minutes of friendly but ineffective attempts to communicate.
He dialed the second number, to the Chitral District Police, and repeated his appeal for someone who could speak English. The sharp sound of the phone being dropped onto a hard surface was followed by a long silence.
A couple of minutes later, a new voice came on the line. “Hello? How may I help you?” The man’s voice was as smooth as melted chocolate, and his English was as good as John’s.
“My name is Roger Maris. I’m a Canadian professor, planning a trip to the Birir Valley to work with the Kalash tribe.”
“Roger Maris died in the eighties, and you don’t sound Canadian. Want to try again?”
John’s face warmed in embarrassment as he tried to think his way out of the pit he’d just dug for himself.
You dumb shit, Benoit. Hang up or hang in.
“Please accept my apology. My name is Jack Dunning. I’m a professor at the University of Illinois. I used the fake name and location because I was concerned about my personal security. But I am planning a trip to the Birir Valley for this fall and would like to meet with the tribal elder. The trouble is, I don’t know which part of the valley he lives in.”
The phone was quiet for several seconds. “Fair enough. As fake names go, I quite enjoyed it. I’m a detective for the Chitral Police. The southern part of our district is my responsibility. I didn’t mean to be rude, but yours is the second call today asking for the location of the Kalash tribal elder, and then you spouted that baseball nonsense.
Second call?
“All I can tell you is that Elder Khan lives near the footbridge at Grambet Gol. You will have to do some searching to find him. And, as you may know, you will need a translator; not many of the Kalash know English.”
“Thank you,” John said. “And again, I apologize for my ruse. It seems unbelievable that you’d receive two calls about the elder. Was the other from a scholar also?”
Worth a shot.
“Why do you ask, Mr. Dunning?” The detective’s voice slid toward the natural skepticism of his profession.
“Just curiosity, I suppose. Wondering if I have some competition that I’m unaware of.”
The line disconnected.
• • • • •
“Grambet Gol?” Stony asked. “Before we go all tactical and shit, what the hell is a Gol?”
The three were back in the conference room.
“Intermittent stream,” John said. “There’s a runoff stream bed between each of the mountain ridges. Dry in the summer, impassable in the spring.”
Colonel Liberty smiled. “Please tell me you had to look that up.”
“What? And undermine your estimation of my all-encompassing knowledge?”
Liberty located Grambet Gol on Google Maps and overlaid that information onto his high-def satellite image. He used his laser pointer to trace the two miles from the end of Birir Valley Road to the intersection of two stream beds descending from the mountains.
“Here’s the footbridge the Chitral detective told you about.” Wylie pointed a short straight line crossing from one side of the valley to the other. “Looks like a dozen structures in the immediate area, another dozen scattered over the nearest mile.”
Liberty laid the pointer on the table. “It’s time to turn our ideas into hard plans,” Liberty said. “And the place to do that is Kabul.”
“Yeah.” John looked at his watch. “It’s one o’clock. When can you get Stony and me out of here?”
“My maps, my jet, my command. I’m going with you,” Liberty said, “and the engine’s running. Hustle your secret agent asses.”
• • • • •
“ETA ten minutes.” The pilot’s voice was calm and deliberate in John’s headset, in stark contrast to the erratic motion of their ride.
He, Stony, and the incursion team were flying from Kabul into Pakistan. The chopper was bouncing around like an elevator in free-fall, except this elevator also jerked laterally as it skated over the high passes of the Himalayan foothills.
They’d left Panjgur late in the afternoon two days earlier and had flown with Colonel Liberty to Bagram Airfield, twenty-five miles north of Kabul, arriving at midnight.
Once in Kabul, they slept on couches in the flight operations building, then rose at five a.m. to spend an excruciating day communicating with Washington and working the nitty-gritty details for the incursion into Pakistan.
Two different arms of the U.S. government were involved—the intelligence community, led by the DNI, and the Defense Department, with the active involvement of the secretary. More than once it had seemed to John that everyone in both chains of command wanted final say on all decisions. He had stomped, threatened, and cajoled his way through the egos involved until a plan came together.
For all John’s frustration and bitching, the military did add a couple of new elements to his plans that he was happy to have. A Boeing 767 AWAC, the U.S. military’s latest radar warning system, would fly the border and alert the team to any airborne threats. Three armed drones would be put on station over the valley while John and company were on the ground. One of the soldiers accompanying them would pack a laptop and radio that could be linked to the drones.
It took six pages of DOD double-speak to say it, but Operation Country Roads was simple. Don’t get caught. Find the kid’s home, find the kid. If they found him and John was convinced that he knew the codex, their orders were to immediately exfil and bring the boy back to Bagram.
Find him or not, their ground time was limited to four hours. If they weren’t gone by then, they’d almost certainly be detected and attacked by the Pakistani air force. Colonel Wylie Liberty was in command of the team. He, John, and Stony were joined by the two pilots, who would remain with the Blackhawk, and three Army Green Berets. One of the Green Berets was fluent in Arabic and Urdu.
Final approval had come at two in the morning. John, Stony, and the colonel had been assigned bunks, where they’d slept until 0430. The Blackhawk had lifted off with the sunrise at 0500 and hugged the Afghan border until turning east for the thirty mile dart into Pakistan.
John checked his watch as the chopper set down a half mile above the Grambet Gol. Ten minutes after eight. He punched a button to start a timer, noticing that Liberty was doing the same.
“Shall we take a little hike?” the colonel asked.
They all wore the lightest layers of the Gen IV ECWCS—Extended Cold Weather System—combat camo clothing. Summer temperatures could reach seventy degrees at mid-day but could change without warning and drop into the forties. John shivered as he jumped down from the Blackhawk and was hit in the face by a stiff morning wind that whistled through the nearby oaks.
The chopper sat next to a dry wash that was twenty or thirty feet wide. A stream small enough to step over meandered down the center of the wash. The pops and creaks of the helicopter’s cooling turbine were loud against the mountain’s quiet. A bright yellow flower that John didn’t recognize was scattered in the green meadow that flanked the creek. He heard a distant, keening cry and glanced up in time to catch a glimpse of a raptor that slipped along the morning air, disappearing behind the pines at the top of the nearest ridge.
“Let’s move out,” Liberty
called. “Just follow the brown stone Gol.”
Stony laughed. “Doesn’t have the right ring to it.”
Liberty took point, followed by two of the Green Berets. John and Stony fell into position behind them. The third Green Beret, the most senior of the three, was the tail-end Charlie. He would assume command if Liberty was knocked out of action.
They gathered their gear and moved down the mountain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ayun
Islamic Republic of Pakistan
A.C. followed an old dirt road that passed to the east of Ayun, the decrepit truck’s engine sputtering up and down a cascade of low hills. Stars flickered in the cold, clear night sky.
As they crested each knoll, Tareef caught a glimpse of the soft yellow lights of the village in the distance. A soft breeze carried the faint din of generators and the aroma of grilled meat and fresh bread. He brushed away tears.
I cried the first time Papa brought me down the valley. There was too much sky, and it scared me.
The emptiness that had rooted in Tareef’s soul when his father was taken swelled and threatened to swallow him.
I am Kalash. The son of a tribal elder. I will do what I must to survive.
His mind calmed, and his thoughts shifted to the words on the scrap of paper shoved deep in his pocket. Words that would let him use any Transition magic he wished. Tareef had not opened the paper, not even to peek at the words. They terrified him more than the sky over Ayun.
Is Rahman still alive?
“You didn’t tell me it was so cold in the mountains,” Ali said. “If I’d known, I would have left you in Muree and fled south.”
Tareef laughed. “It’s summer. Just wait until you feel the cold months.”
Ali snorted. “I said I’d come with you. I didn’t say I’d stay. I still have a math exam to make up.”
The truck leveled out, and the engine roared. Tareef sat up and looked through the cab to see what was going on. “I think we’re at A.C.’s home.”
The truck slid to a stop outside the open gate of a walled courtyard. A lantern hanging from a pole just inside the entrance illuminated the outline of a low building on the other side of the enclosure.
Tareef jumped when a loud “Ahh Ooo Gah” noise erupted from the front of the truck. A.C. bounded out of the cab as Tareef and Ali scrambled over the sides of the truck bed and dropped to the ground.
A door opened from the building, throwing an orange-yellow light into the courtyard and silhouetting a tall, thin man. “I was about to feed your dinner to the goats.”
A.C. snorted. “Dinner is most likely goat. Are we now raising animals that eat themselves?”
A young boy burst through the door, darted across the courtyard, and threw his arms around A.C.
A.C. laughed and looked over the boy’s head to Tareef and Ali. “This is D.C.” The kid let go and hid behind his big brother. “He’s shy when he meets someone new. You should hope he stays that way because he can be a pest.”
The man who’d welcomed them from the door strode over to the truck and, with a big grin, slapped his son on the back.
He turned to Tareef and Ali. “Welcome to our home. You must call me Wali. I’m afraid you must deal with my poor hospitality since my wife is visiting the Bashali.”
“The menstruation hut,” Tareef whispered into Ali’s ear.
A.C. introduced Tareef and Ali and explained that he’d invited them to share the evening meal and spend the night before they began their hike into the Birir Valley.
“Our home is yours for as long as you wish,” Wali said. He stared at Tareef. “Your father is the elder, is he not?”
Tareef nodded. He feared the answer but had to ask. “I accompanied him on a trip to the capital, but we were separated. Have you seen him recently?”
“No,” Wali said, “but that means nothing. My work with our farm leaves me little time to know the latest tribal business.”
Tareef and Ali helped empty the truck, storing the boxes of supplies and the chickens in a small outbuilding. When they were finished, A.C. led them across the courtyard and into the main room of the farmhouse.
Tareef stepped inside and gazed around. A rough pine dining table sat near the wall opposite the front door, next to a cold, pot-bellied wood stove. Two couches, covered with bright red and yellow embroidered tribal blankets, flanked the door. Rough cloth curtains covered the three small rectangular windows that punctured the front and back walls. A dark hallway on Tareef’s right led from the room.
Wali must be a successful farmer.
They ate a simple meal of grilled goat and flatbread by the light of a kerosene lantern that was hung from a hook above the table.
Wali nodded at the couches. “You may sleep there. A.C. will bring you blankets. I don’t keep a fire at night during the summer, even though it might be cool for someone not used to the mountains.” He smiled and looked at Ali.
Ali smiled back. “How could you tell?”
A.C. hooted. “It’s not a very good secret.”
They finished the meal with Wali apologizing for the poor food while Tareef and Ali protested that it was one of the best meals they’d ever eaten. Within minutes of clearing the table, Tareef and Ali were alone in the room, stretched out on the couches.
The table lantern, turned low, threw a flickering honey glow against the pine board ceiling. Tareef was asleep within minutes of pulling the cover up to his chin. As he drifted off, he realized that he felt safe and relaxed for the first time in months.
• • • • •
A loud banging on the farmhouse front door jolted Tareef awake. He sat up, swung his legs to the floor, heart pounding, and looked around.
What’s happening?
He saw the table and lantern across the room and remembered.
A.C.’s farm.
The pounding repeated. He jerked his head toward the front door.
We’re trapped.
He checked the other couch. Ali was still sound asleep.
“I’m coming!” A.C.’s father yelled from a back room. “Be patient!”
Wali swept into the front room from the hallway, pointed behind him, and hissed at Tareef, “Slip out the back, that way, to the left.”
Tareef leaped off the couch, poked Ali awake and whispered for him to be quiet, grabbed their gear and scampered in the direction of Wali’s outstretched arm. The room was as black as the inside of a cave.
Ali bumped into his back and whispered, “What’s going on?
“Shhh!”
Tareef grabbed Ali’s hand and felt his way around an empty sleeping pallet to the far wall. He found a door to the outside, open halfway, and led them through it.
Tareef started to run, got about five meters, stepped on a sharp stone, twisted his ankle, and went down. He stifled a cry and whispered to Ali. “Boots. Put on your boots.”
They laced up and moved away from the farmhouse, going as fast as they could over the rough ground without stumbling and falling. They’d gone about fifty meters when the back door to the house was thrown open and the bright light from a lantern lit the ground outside.
“Tareef, Ali!” A.C. called. “Come back. It’s okay.”
Tareef had thrown himself to the ground as soon as he heard the door open, but Ali was still standing, frozen like a startled rabbit. Tareef looked back and saw A.C., alone with a lantern in his right hand.
Is someone making him say that?
“It’s one of my cousins from a nearby farm! He’s gone already.” A.C. strode away from the house, holding a lantern high, shielding his eyes from the glare.
He’s blinded by the light. Last chance to run.
Tareef took a deep breath, sat up, and said, “Over here.”
A.C. jumped like Tareef had scared him. “He brought a warning. Come back inside.”
• • • • •
“My cousin lives on a farm near Ayun,” A.C. said. He and his father were sitting at the dining table wi
th Tareef and Ali. D.C. had slept though the racket of the late night visitor and was still in bed. “My cousin’s father sent him to warn us and other farmers in the area.”
“What about?” Tareef asked.
“The ISI is camped next to the Chitral bridge. They’re looking for you and will pay twenty-thousand rupees to anyone who helps them find you. They say they’ll kill anyone who helps you and burn their farm to the ground. They started searching Ayun today and said that they’ll go out to the farms tomorrow.”
Tareef’s heart skittered in his chest.
The unseen force that I feared has shown itself.
“Are they also searching for Ali?” Tareef asked.
A.C. shook his head. “You were the only one my cousin mentioned. But maybe he just didn’t know.”
“Yeah,” Ali said. “Did he say if they are searching in the night?”
“Nothing, but again, perhaps he doesn’t—”
Tareef stood. “We must go. How long before first light?”
Wali stood and put an arm around Tareef’s shoulders. “Stay. We have a root cellar below ground that was once a smuggling station. The soldiers will never find it. You and Ali can hide until these men leave.”
Who knows how long that will be?
The piece of paper in his pocket that bore the secret of the codex seemed to grow as hot as a stone lying in the mid-day sun. He recalled his conversation with Rahman about the unseen dangers of using magic.
There has to be another way out of this trap.
The root cellar gave him an idea. “A thousand soldiers couldn’t find me in the Birir. I must go home, and the night is my friend. But, would you hide Ali?”
The paper seemed to cool.
Ali jumped to his feet. “Tareef, no. I’ve come this—”
“I can go faster and safer by myself, my city brother. You know that’s true.”
Tareef looked at A.C.’s father. “After the soldiers leave, Ali could ride back to Chakdara with A.C., and then find his way home. He has a math exam he needs to take.” He paused. “I know I ask a great deal.”
The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic) Page 25