Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE

  The Inspector in Charge had been given instructions not to disturb the interview of the prisoner by the well-dressed man in the black Saville Row suit. The interrogator was tall, lean of body with graying dark hair fashionably styled, his eyes dark and shadowed. He showed no signs of stress or remorse at the illegality of the situation. His stare penetrated the disheveled middle-aged woman who sat before him. Clearly she had been a beauty once, he thought, admiring the soft curve of her heavy breasts. She was freed from the ropes tying her hands, which she rubbed as vigorously as she could, trying to regain circulation. Atiya sat upright on the straight backed wooden chair. She covered her chest with her arms feeling his stare, the reality of her helplessness enveloping her. The woman had imagined at first that she was being taken hostage in order to treat someone important. She was a physician, after all, and Mason had told her that this had happened to him. She had been hopeful, calm even, during the ride to the camp. The rough treatment after she alighted the Land Rover, together with the prodding of the weapon between her shoulders and the binding of her hands and feet removed any thought that this was an errand of mercy. They were going to kill her; she now knew this. What had she done? Not that it mattered anymore. Dr. Atiya Shah now prayed to Allah with all her might that the end be mercifully quick.

  “You are Atiya Shah?” the man asked her in Pashto.

  “Yes I am.” She recognized him immediately. Knowing he was a foreigner, she asked in English, “Please tell me why I am here. I am a Physician. I have done nothing wrong. Why am I being detained?”

  “Dr. Shah, you run a clinic and have done so, I am told, for many years. The clinic has received funds as contributions from fundamentalist sympathizers. We want their names, and the name of their organizations as well as the identities of men you have treated in the past two weeks.”

  “I do not know who contributes to my clinic. I get envelopes filled with bank notes. I receive donations of supplies from various relief organizations. My staff are all volunteers. I keep records, but they are at my office, not in my head.”

  “We will deal with that at the appropriate time,” he leaned over the table between them, placing both hands firmly upon it. “Do you know what women prisoners call this place you are in, Dr. Shah?”

  “No. I do not?” she answered quickly.

  “It is known as ‘Haramsarai’, ‘The ‘Harem’, because the male guards are allowed to take their pleasure whenever they wish. Although I doubt you would be such a bargain, probably a little long in the tooth for their tastes, but then again...” He reached towards, her ripping the front of the jilbab robe she wore for ease and comfort during her workday.

  “You don’t wear the traditional dress of an Afghan woman, Dr. Shah. This is from your Jihadist friends no doubt. What is this? Custom made?”

  “It was tailored in Jordan and meets the religious requirements of women’s dress in this country. It also enables me to work more freely than in a burqua. Again, I am a physician. I have done nothing wrong. You are detaining me illegally. Let me go. I will complain to your superiors. I am not without friends.”

  “Precisely. That is why you are here. I am growing impatient, Dr. Shah.” He lit a cigarette.

  “Names, Dr. Shah. Names.”

  “I can’t remember who I have seen in the past two weeks. There are records in my office, Go and look for yourself. I have treated people wounded in the Kunduz Massacre.”

  “Explain,” he said, blowing smoke in her face.

  “You must know this already,” she said coughing, “Please, a little water.”

  He raised his hand signaling the armed prison guard who waited outside to bring a carafe of water.

  “Bin Laden’s guards are Arabs and Pakistanis,” she began, “They slaughtered the Taliban troops to stop them from turning themselves over to the Allied forces. They say over a thousand Taliban defected and their leaders, together with bin Laden’s men, would not allow the civilians to leave Kunduz either. When the townspeople tried to fight back, they were beaten or shot. Many of them were claiming to be allies of al-Qaeda in order to escape and at night they would head to the next village to warn them. This went on for days. The wounded sought help anywhere they could. I am a physician. I am bound by oath to heal, not to take sides in your war. I do not care if a person is Taliban, al-Qaeda or Allied soldier. I am obligated to assist the wounded.”

  The guard entered with the carafe of water, pouring a cup for her. She looked at him and noticed his eyes were full of tears. She felt a glimmer of hope.

  “Continue, Dr. Shah.”

  “There is nothing to tell you. I treated the sick. I heard nothing from them. They do not talk to me.”

  “Come, Come, Dr. Shah. You’ve been running an escape network for women to the Iranian border from Afghanistan for years. People do talk to you. Women talk to you. Women overseas protesting the treatment of Afghan Women under the Taliban talk to you, visit you, finance you. Do you think we haven’t been watching you?” “We are hours behind bin Laden, Dr. Shah. We know that he has escaped and has fled to the mountains of Southern Afghanistan. Not what the Taliban Commanders we captured are telling us, is it? They say he’s in Pakistan. Maybe he is. They say he is injured. Did he come to you to for help? Did you help him get to Pakistan? Are his wives and children with him? Mullah Omar has ordered the Taliban to retreat and in doing so has turned over the power to other Mujahideen commanders. What do you know of this, Dr. Shah?”

  “Nothing, other than the Mullah Omar has not taken into consideration that there will always be rival tribal factions in this land. That is who we are. A collection of tribes fighting each other. It is Afghan culture. It is what we do. We are the most ferocious people in the world.”

  “How ferocious are you, Dr. Shah?”

  “I am a doctor. I heal, I do not kill.”

  “We’ll see.” He stumped out his cigarette and signaled for the guard to enter again. Whispering in his ear, the guard turned to Atiya with a look of horror in his eyes as the tall, thin, impeccably dressed Englishman left the room.

  “Be brave, kind Doctor. Trust in Allah,” the guard said walking out and leaving her alone.

  Little under an hour later, Atiya Shah’s battered body was deposited into a tiny cell occupied by three other women. Alia held her three month old baby with one arm as she removed her worn blanket and covered the injured woman who had been thrown in beside her. Rashida, an older woman, stood by the open air space that served as a window and waited for the daily ration of flat bread, rice and lentils. One bowl was passed in by a female guard and the third woman, Fahima, took it slowly from her cellmate, fearing that the bowls precious contents would spill onto the floor. In the corner of the room was a small pile of blankets, rugs and quilts from the Red Crescent Society. While the donations were readily accepted they were still insufficient to keep out the winter cold. The women huddled together for warmth as they ate.

  “It looks like she’s coming round. This must be the doctor the guards were talking about. The woman is half dead already. Allah be merciful and take her before she wakes to see what they have done to her.” Alia put her baby down on the blankets and took some water to the woman, now moaning as she drifted in and out of consciousness. The younger woman held Atiya’s face. “Sip this. You are not hurt badly, I think. But I know what you have been through. All the women go through this. It an initiation.”

  “Rashida, wet the cloth here, and let us see what damage they have done.” Atiya’s face was gently wiped, her lips were cut and her left eye swollen shut. As far as they could see so far, her body was badly bruised but there were no broken bones. “Fahima, block the window. Do it now, stand in front.”

  Together, the women turned Atiya over on her side and began to wipe her down. Her buttocks were red raw, with pieces of dirt from the floor embedded in the abrasions. Her private parts stank of semen and blood. They carefully turned her again on her back and covered he
r shame.

  The older woman, Rashida, reached under what was left of her old burqua and brought out a small jar containing the remains of a salve made of lavender and olive oil. “We’ll use some of this. Your baby can do without for a few days, perhaps?” She looked at Alia, waiting for her approval.

  “Go ahead, but do it quickly before they come for the food bowls.” Skillfully the women worked together, cleaning Atiya’s violated body, trying desperately to prevent more discomfort. They could not hold back their tears when they saw the whole bite marks imprinted on her breasts and buttocks.

  “What sort of animals are they?” Alia turned away, hiding her sobs in her baby’s tiny body in case she was overheard.

  “They are our sons, our husbands and our fathers. They are all men in war,” said the old women as she worked, her deft fingers gently rubbing in the salve. “I think she’ll survive, more’s the pity.”

  They heard a sound. The door opened and a bowl of food was brought in by a guard they did not know.

  “Make her eat,” he said, “Here is more water and some towels. This is American medicine. He handed them a Red Cross first-aid kit the size one would find in a car for emergencies. “Hide it under the blankets over there. I’ll try and get back tomorrow. Look after her.”

  Atiya Shah was awake and alert within the hour. Her body ached and she burned like a fire had been lit in her private parts when she tried to urinate in the bucket at the farthest end of the small cell. Every aspect of her womanhood had been prodded, fingered, desecrated and then laughed at. She had been mishandled at first by at least three men, then raped and sodomized until she lost count of the demonic eyes and fetid breath burning her face and neck. One of them had forced her to take him into her mouth while the others had waited in line at her rear. She had seen the flash of a camera. She remembered their attempts to pose her as they video-taped the spectacle, before she lost consciousness. But one thing Atiya was certain of. These men were not Arabs, Afghanis or Pakistanis. They were British and she heard one particular clipped and precise accent above the rest, cheering them on. “One more for Mummy and Daddy. All together now, Smile,” she heard him say, before she slid into oblivion.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX

  “They were British, not Talibs or Russian?” Alia asked.

  “Alia has a great imagination,” Rashida said, “She believes that one day some one will come and ask her what she did to get sent here and then recognizing the insanity of it all, will set her free.”

  “What did you do?” Atiya Shah held the girl’s baby in her arms.

  “One day, I wore red nail polish that was given to me as a gift from someone who had come back from Paris and visited my husband. My husband didn’t mind as long as no one saw it. But the ‘Moral Protectorate’ heard about it and I was arrested, tried and sent here. My husband was publicly whipped. I don’t know where he is.”

  “He left you and his baby?” Atiya asked.

  “Can you not count? This baby is not his! It is from a prison guard. We are in the Haramsarai. I have the misfortune of being young. They will keep me here forever. For them, it is a blood sport. If my child had been a boy, maybe I would have been set free. Alas, she is a girl and if she lives, her life will be like mine. Long ago I wanted to be a nurse or a doctor. It was better when the Russians were here. My life is over now, I want only to die.”

  “Fahima murdered her husband,” Rashida pointed to the other woman, “She took out his eyes. One for us, yes? She is now a heroine in the women’s prison. She must serve twenty years. As for me, I was a teacher and I continued to teach girls when the Taliban came. I was sent here to see the error of my feminist fanaticism.”

  “But you, Dr. Shah. You have powerful friends, they say. Why are you here?”

  “I do not know. I am just a doctor. They think I can tell them where bin Laden or Mullah Omar are. I do not know. They will kill me anyway, because they know I have friends who will search for me and try to release me. So my time here is not long. You must tell the guard who has helped me that they filmed as they tortured me. You must tell him to take word to my clinic that the man who ordered this was named de Crecy. Make sure he is repeats the name; he must pronounce it right, even though it is hard for us to pronounce.”

  They came for her that afternoon. This time there was no interrogation.. She had been uncooperative and was of no further use alive. She was killed by her captors. A few days later one of two video tapes made of her time in captivity surfaced. The video showed her being shot in the head by a hooded gunman. Her body was taken in the dead of night and deposited somewhat matter-of-factly outside her clinic. Without fuss or formality, her small staff of volunteers, led by Mason Desai and a holy man from the north, disposed of her body almost immediately as custom dictates.

  The Islamic women volunteers at the clinic attended to Atiya’s body, battered and bruised though it was. Respectfully covering their hands as they washed her private areas, her Muslim sisters remained unemotional during the ritual cleansing. Any show of emotion under these circumstances was neither right nor fitting. Her body was placed in a white shroud tied carefully with cloth cut from the same piece at the head and feet so it could be readily identified for placement in the right direction. When Atiya’s body was ready, the women departed; in doing so they were, according to their custom, protected from the agony of grief. Woman were not allowed to attend the funeral which in itself would be small and simple with no open show of grief, no screaming, crying or tearing of clothes. The attendants were men, all Muslim and of good religious standing. Atiya had no male relatives to walk with her on her final earthly journey; the stone-faced men who attended walked slowly and regally, carrying her shrouded body along the streets to where she would be placed in death. A crowd gathered around the walkers, horrifying in their silence, their anger left unsaid. The kind and gentle Doctor Shah, she who had befriended them, filled their needs, delivered their children, nurtured and protected them was gone.

  Atiya’s body was gently placed in her grave, lain on its right side facing Al Qibla, the direction of Mecca. They scattered earth around her head three times. At the first turn, the righteous man intoned, “From the Earth we created you,” and on the second turn, “and into it we shall return you,” and the third time, “and from it we shall bring you out once again. Bismillah, Wa, Allah Milati Rasoolillah. In the name of Allah and on the way of his prophet.” Mason remained after the holy men departed, wanting to be with her while she was, he now believed, being questioned by the angels of Allah. He took this time to reflect on the turmoil of this land, and how he could, with the help of the spirit of Atiya, his friend and childhood nurse, try to live up to her expectations. Looking down into the darkness of the earth which immersed his nanny and friend, remembering how she had held out her hands to him when he took his first steps, the tears fell silently. Mason Desai promised her three things, beginning with disinheriting his dual ancestry. First, he would now be known only as Masud Desai Ansari; second, he would remain in the clinic and continue her work; but third and perhaps most important, despite being contrary to Atiya’s religious precepts; in accordance with the custom of Afghanistan, he pledged in his silent celebration of her life, to avenge her death.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN

  When Harrison Cowan telephoned his wife in the Heidelberg apartment, he could hear her howls of pain and anger as though she were in the room with him in Pakistan. He broke the news to her as gently as he could. There was no sense, he told her, in remaining in Heidelberg. She should return to Maryland and the task force immediately. He then asked to speak to Haley. He told his step-daughter as bluntly as possible the extent of Atiya Shah’s injuries and that both of the videos which had surfaced the day of her murder had now been seen. He described the contents in detail and then told her of his fear that Wilfred de Crecy had initiated the brutal treatment and may have possibly given the order to kill her. It was therefore imperative that Haley remain close to
Emily, as he was sure she may well meet the same end if she were to take any retaliatory action against de Crecy. He then, with great sorrow in his heart told Haley that her brother had sworn a blood oath to avenge Atiya’s death and was remaining in Afghanistan until this mission was accomplished. Mason had telephoned him after the funeral and advised Harrison of his decision to remain in Afghanistan, at least until the country was stabilized and a new, freely elected bipartisan government was in place. Harrison told him that could take years to occur, but it was to no avail. Mason had asked Harrison to respect his wishes and also to use his Islamic name from this point on. It was, he told his step-father, a decision born out of honor and respect for Atiya. Haley tried to reach her brother but got no response from his cell phone. Emily was inconsolable, and Haley retreated from her to the quiet of the apartment’s smallest office. There were two people she thought of who might be able to help. Haley considered the possibility of contacting them. They were in Paris, it wouldn’t take long to fly there and explain what she wanted.

  The Ansaris had kept their fashionable apartment. Since the takeover of the government by the Taliban Militia, they had remained in Europe but still maintained their property in Herat. As Haley saw it, if Mason were in dire need he could always go there. His grandparents, now that the Taliban had been ousted could certainly assure his safe passage if he needed to leave the country. She would rely on the fact that they had lost their son to a revolution and that they could not bear to lose Mason as well. She would go to them and plead for their help. They were both Muslim and Afghani, but above all they were very wealthy and if Mason had to negotiate his release for any type of wrongdoing, they could certainly handle it discretely.