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The Dalliance of Leopards

Page 19

by Alter, Stephen;


  At the sound of the gunshot, Luke heard dogs begin to bark. A minute later, he saw a pair of mastiffs bounding toward them. They were barrel-chested and short-haired, with their tails and ears docked. Luke stood still as they sniffed his legs, sensing their suppressed aggression.

  Guldaar had arrived sometime the night before. When Luke got up soon after dawn, his host had introduced himself, suggesting they take a walk around the estate before breakfast.

  “Would you like to try?” Guldaar inquired, offering Luke the shotgun.

  “No thanks. I’m sure I’ll miss,” he said.

  Handing both guns to the guards, Guldaar led Luke along a path to a nearby ridge on which a single stunted tree had taken root. The landscape was typical of this region, a harsh and barren beauty. The dogs followed them, tongues lolling out.

  “Mr. McKenzie, you’re a writer, aren’t you?” Guldaar asked, lighting another cigarette. His hair was combed back from a wrinkled brow. He was a healthy-looking man, approaching seventy, with the pale features of a Pathan and a prominent nose. But it was his eyes that caught Luke’s attention, the pupils a dull shade of blue, almost gray, fastening his gaze with unblinking intensity.

  “A journalist,” said Luke. “I’m working on a book.”

  “About NGOs in Pakistan. You’ve been researching the Sikander-e-Azam Trust,” Guldaar said.

  Luke had guessed there was a connection, but the openness with which Guldaar mentioned the trust surprised him.

  “The book is about development work and disaster relief, mostly in Azad Kashmir and Chitral.”

  Guldaar let the smoke trickle out from his lips as a precursor to his words. “I’ve read a couple of your articles,” he said. “Very perceptive. A Pakistani couldn’t have written them, neither could a Westerner. You’re somewhere in between.”

  Luke made a noncommittal gesture with one hand, as if waving off a fly.

  “My only complaint with your writing,” said Guldaar, “is that you seem to believe in right and wrong. There’s a strong ethical prejudice to your words … a judgmental voice that doesn’t suit a journalist.”

  “I’ve never believed in complete objectivity, if that’s what you mean,” said Luke, surprised by Guldaar’s tone. He sounded more like an editor than a warlord.

  “I studied philosophy at Cambridge for a year,” said Guldaar, as if he’d read Luke’s mind, “before I was sent down for breaking my tutor’s nose. University was a complete waste of time for me. But it allowed me read a lot and to develop my own views on morality.”

  They had reached the far end of the ridge, from where Luke could see up a valley to a small settlement, half-hidden amid the hills.

  “My village,” said Guldaar, pointing. “The old railway line to Landi Kotal runs to the west, and the main highway over the Khyber is a kilometer to the east. You might be interested that instead of a footpath, there used to be a six-foot-deep trench from the main road to our home. A necessary precaution, because you never knew when your neighbors might take a potshot at you.”

  The dogs began barking at something on the opposite hill, though Luke couldn’t tell what it was, until he saw a jackal slinking between the rocks. Looking back in the other direction, he could see the luxurious house and the high mud walls that enclosed Guldaar’s estate.

  “Was all of this your family property?” Luke asked.

  Guldaar shook his head. “I acquired this land a few years ago, and my American friends built the house for me. It’s not exactly what I wanted but comfortable enough.”

  “Do you stay here often?” Luke asked.

  “No, it isn’t particularly safe,” Guldaar said with a thoughtful smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard about me, Mr. McKenzie…. May I call you Luke?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you were to judge me, just as you have judged others in your articles, you would probably suggest that my ethics are tainted, my values corrupt…. Perhaps you would even suggest that I’m evil.”

  Luke said nothing, though Guldaar paused. The guards followed at a discreet distance, carrying the shotguns and their automatic weapons. For a moment, Luke felt as if he were on the sets of a TV western, somewhere in the badlands of New Mexico or Arizona, held captive by a gang of desperadoes, the kind of villains he used to watch on television when he was a boy.

  “Luke was one of the Christian apostles, wasn’t he?” Guldaar asked.

  “Yes. He’s known as the evangelist, but I haven’t lived up to my name,” said Luke.

  “I’m not a religious man,” said Guldaar. “Whatever faith I might have had in my youth was wrung out of me at Cambridge. I’m lucky they didn’t convert me to Communism. But you see, I’ve never believed that human beings are inherently ‘good’ or ‘evil.’ Instead, I hold to the view that we, as a species, are interested in only one thing: survival. Human instincts are not colored by morality. We are simply driven to be stronger and more aggressive than others of our kind. Questions of right and wrong, good and evil, don’t arise, except in the minds of idle, weak-hearted men who have nothing better to do than judge each other. Ethics have no meaning in a place like this, where the only path home is a trench that protects you from an enemy bullet.”

  He paused a moment and surveyed the hills, which were now flooded with sunlight. From the direction of the house, Luke could see three men walking toward them. One he recognized as Jehangir Daruwalla.

  “I know you don’t agree,” said Guldaar with a shake of his head. “Someone like you would say that what makes us human is the fact that we can choose between right and wrong, unlike a jackal or a hawk. You would probably argue that there is something called ‘free will,’ which gives us the ability and the license to make ethical decisions, independent of our natural instincts or the greater will of God.”

  Snapping his finger, Guldaar called one of the dogs to his side, the larger male whose face and neck were badly scarred. He stroked the dog’s head.

  “But, frankly, we’re no better than these animals,” he said. “They are fighting mastiffs, bred to kill. If they see another dog, they have only one instinct—to rip its throat apart. Don’t worry, they won’t attack you, as long as I’m here. I got them when they were pups, from a breeder in Herat. At six months, we cut off their ears and tails so they wouldn’t be ripped off in a fight. Then we fed these to the dogs. If they devour their own flesh, it’s a sure sign of how ruthless they’ll be when they mature. You should have seen these two, they ate their ears and tails in a couple of minutes, as if they were rawhide treats.”

  He laughed when Luke made a face. Guldaar had stopped near the lone tree and glanced back to see the approaching men, who were only a hundred meters away. The dogs began to growl but fell silent at a command from their master. He then gestured to the nearer guard and took a shotgun from his hands.

  “This is the gun I fired,” he said, snapping open the breach. “It is a perfect copy of the Purdey, exactly the same in every way, except for one small detail that I asked the gunsmith to add, so that I could tell them apart.”

  He showed it to Luke, who could see where the ornamental arabesques in the engraving had been formed into a small but distinctly visible rosette with five petals, a flower etched in steel. Guldaar took two cartridges from his pocket and loaded the gun.

  “Each of us is said to have been made in the image of God, which suggests that we contain trace elements of divine goodness in our blood. But I would argue that we are like one of these guns, or these dogs, merely copies of our ancestors. There is nothing inherently admirable or false about us. We are what we are … nothing more, nothing less.”

  Jehangir Daruwalla arrived on the ridge and stopped to wipe his forehead.

  “Good morning,” he called out with a wave of his hand.

  Before he could say anything more, Guldaar emptied both barrels into his chest.

  Deafened by the explosions, Luke watched in horror as the linen shirt and Jehangir’s torso were shredded by the spray of lead pell
ets. The blast threw Daruwalla backward and spattered the dusty soil with his blood.

  Thirty-Eight

  When Anna slowed down, the UAV immediately reduced speed, its guidance systems locked in on their car. Pulling over, she stopped near a fenced pasture where a dozen horses were grazing. The drone hovered overhead like a red-tailed hawk. In addition to the engine that propelled it forward, it had two auxiliary rotors under each wing to keep it steady. Anna knew the drone was unarmed, but she could see the camera in a spherical pod at the front, like a single eye watching them from the air. The UAV was thirty feet above her, close enough for her to see a blinking red light at the base of the nose cone. Raising the Beretta quickly, Anna fired once. The bullet struck the drone somewhere near the tail. The gunshot sent the horses galloping across the pasture. By that time, Anna had accelerated down the road. The last she saw of the drone, in the rearview mirror, it was performing an awkward spiral far behind them.

  Five minutes later, they reached the on-ramp to the interstate. No other drones were following. Daphne had a map of Ohio in the car, but it covered only the first few miles of their route. As soon as they crossed into Pennsylvania, Anna stopped at a rest area to get another map, which showed Route 80 cutting across the middle of the state, through sections of the Alleghany National Forest. It looked less populated than Ohio, with fewer towns.

  Leaving the rest area, they weren’t aware of being tailed, but after slowing down in a construction zone, Anna spotted two vehicles that seemed to be keeping pace with her. One was a gray Toyota and the other a yellow Buick. For a while, the Toyota stayed ahead and the Buick was behind her, but every three or four miles they switched places. When Anna overtook the Toyota, she could see the Buick change lanes and speed up. Both cars had tinted windows, so she couldn’t see the drivers. Daphne seemed unaware that they were being followed.

  On ahead was an exit, with signs for food and fuel. Crossing under the highway was a narrow, two-lane road. Anna decided to test her instincts and switched on her turn signal. A few seconds later, she saw both cars signaling, too. As they approached the exit, she slowed down and let the Buick turn off onto the exit ramp ahead of her. At the last minute, she put her foot on the gas and swerved back onto the highway. In her rearview mirror, she could see the Toyota swing back behind her. Off to her right, the Buick continued along the exit ramp, which circled down to the two lane road, where a couple of gas stations stood next to a McDonald’s. The interstate was busy, but there wasn’t any traffic on the crossroad.

  “What’s wrong?” Daphne asked, as they picked up speed.

  “This is going to be rough,” Anna said.

  The on-ramp was a hundred yards ahead. Anna kept her foot on the gas. The Toyota was following close behind. At the last minute, Anna pulled hard on the hand brake. Their car shuddered, then began to spin. Releasing the handbrake, she touched the accelerator gently to control the skid. The Ford was heavy enough and low to the ground, so it didn’t flip over, but they overshot the on-ramp as Anna did a U-turn and drove onto the grass-covered berm. Someone blew a horn. Without losing momentum, Anna pulled the car around and headed down the on-ramp, ignoring a WRONG WAY sign. The driver of the Toyota tried to brake but didn’t react fast enough, and there were too many cars behind him. Seconds later, Anna saw the yellow Buick coming at her, trying to get back onto the highway. She aimed straight for him and caught sight of the driver’s face for the first time through the windshield. Hitting her horn, she swung around the oncoming vehicle as he crashed into the railing on his side of the ramp.

  Hoping there weren’t state troopers nearby, Anna continued down the on-ramp in the wrong direction. From what she’d seen, the Buick wasn’t going anywhere soon, and the Toyota would have to turn around at the next exit, fifteen miles ahead.

  “Where did you learn to drive?” said Daphne.

  “Delhi,” Anna replied with a grin.

  “How did those cars find us?”

  “There must be another tracking device in here,” Anna said.

  “Could be,” said Daphne. “Jimmy bought this car for me three years ago.”

  The road they were on didn’t look promising, a poorly paved rural road through forested hills, with an occasional farm on either side. The terrain was more rugged and the land looked less productive than in Ohio. Several of the farms had oil rigs, pumping up and down like giant seesaws. Anna hoped they’d come to a turning before too long, but there were no crossroads for several miles, and the road seemed to grow narrower and was full of potholes.

  “This doesn’t look as if it’s going anywhere,” said Daphne. “Maybe we should turn around.”

  “That’s not an option,” said Anna.

  Just then, she saw something that caught her eye, as they came around a corner. Up ahead was a farm wedged into the hollow of the hill, with a gray, unpainted barn and several tractors in the yard. Three oil wells stood in the fields in front of the house, but only one of them was pumping. Halfway up the driveway sat a Jeep Wrangler with a FOR SALE sign under one of its windshield wipers. Anna turned in, drove the Taurus up to the house, and parked behind a tractor. Stepping out of the car, she saw a woman watching her through the screen door at the back of the house. The Beretta was in Anna’s pocket.

  She waved as Daphne undid her seatbelt. When they started toward the house, the woman came out of the door, followed by a dog that barked but wagged its tail.

  “What can I do for you girls?” the woman asked. She was wearing jeans and a green sweater, her dusty blond hair pulled up in an untidy bun.

  “We’d like to buy your Jeep,” Anna said.

  The woman smiled and looked across at the Taurus.

  “Something wrong with your car?” she said.

  “It’s been giving us trouble,” said Anna. “Does yours run all right?”

  The woman looked away, down the drive to where the Wrangler was parked.

  “It’s not mine,” she said.

  “Whose is it?” Anna asked.

  “My son’s,” said the woman, brushing back a stray strand of hair that blew into her eyes. The dog was sniffing at Daphne’s shoes.

  “Where is he?” Anna said, worried they were wasting time.

  “Afghanistan,” said the woman. “This is his third tour. I told him not to go, but you know how it is. They never listen.”

  “But the Jeep’s for sale, isn’t it?” Daphne asked, petting the dog and looking up.

  “I guess,” the woman replied, in no hurry to answer them. “He loved that Jeep, but his credit cards maxed out and he couldn’t make the payments anymore.”

  “How much do you want for it?” Anna said.

  “Joey bought it used,” the woman said, “for three thousand dollars. There’s about fifteen hundred still owing on it. I’d have to get the papers from the bank.”

  “I’ll give you two thousand. Cash,” said Daphne, reaching into her purse and taking out a handful of hundred dollar bills.

  Anna glanced across at her and nodded.

  “He said he hoped he’d get twenty-five hundred. That’s the Blue Book price.”

  “You’re sure it runs okay?”

  “Yeah, I drove it down to Meadville last week.”

  “Here’s twenty-five,” said Daphne. “We’ll come back and do the paperwork later.”

  The woman studied her for a moment, before taking the money.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No, but we’ll be back,” Anna said.

  “Where are you from?” the woman asked.

  “Mexico,” Anna lied. “Do you have the keys?”

  The woman counted the money and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “He loved this Jeep.”

  “Where in Afghanistan is your son?” Daphne asked.

  “He’s not allowed to tell me, but it’s somewhere in the mountains. Last time he was there, he was in Gela … something. Gelela.”

  “Jalalabad,” said Daphne. “I’ve been there
.”

  “Whoa!” the woman said. “No shit! That’s further away than Mexico.”

  She looked as if she didn’t trust Anna, but Daphne seemed to win her over.

  “Let’s see, there’s two sets of keys,” she said, turning back into the kitchen. “I know I put them somewhere.”

  “We just need one set,” Anna called after her. We’ll get the other when we come back.”

  Two minutes later, she returned.

  “You girls are sure in a hurry,” she said, holding out the keys. “I could make some coffee.”

  “No thanks. We’re running late,” said Anna.

  “The registration and insurance are in the glovebox, and it’s got about a quarter tank of gas.”

  Daphne smiled and put out a hand to shake.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope your son comes back safely.”

  “Yeah, so do I,” the woman said. “Thirty-three more days until his tour is up, but I don’t know, he seems to like it over there. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to get away from home.”

  As they walked back to the car, Anna handed Daphne the keys to the Taurus. The keychain the woman had given them had an empty rifle shell attached. When Anna started the Jeep, she could see the boy’s mother still watching from the porch.

  Getting into the Wrangler, Anna noticed it had a bumper sticker on the back, with the American Flag and the motto THESE COLORS DON’T RUN. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a GI-Joe figure. The Jeep started on the first try, though the muffler sounded as if it needed repair. Anna didn’t have time to worry about that as she headed back along the road. Less than two miles from the farm, they came to a crossing and turned right toward a town called Quinton. Three minutes later, Anna noticed a sign for a cemetery and turned in. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, and the granite headstones were scattered down the hill. At least a dozen American flags were planted near the graves of veterans. They parked behind a grove of evergreens. Anna took their luggage out from the Taurus and put it in the backseat of the Wrangler. Locking the Taurus, she tossed the keys behind one of the headstones. It was a quiet, secluded spot. On a bright, spring day, this seemed as good a place as any to be buried.

 

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