by C. Forsyth
"The honor is mine," said X.
He gritted his teeth as one of the men pried the metal shard out of his thigh and hastily applied a bandage.
"Can you walk?" the fighter asked. X nodded.
The fugitives were led through a series of doors and tunnels, a twisting labyrinth in which they changed directions so many times it made X's head spin.
Hopefully I'll never have to find my way back out, he thought. Where's a ball of yarn when you need one?
When they emerged, about 200 yards away, it was in a modest family home, adorned with intricately woven carpets and pillows, painted chests and ornate candlesticks. Several women in burqas perched on a kind of daybed, knitting quietly, and an 18-month-old in diapers crawled on the floor pushing a toy fire truck. A teenage girl - it was hard to gauge her age in the head-to-toe covering but X guessed 13 - was washing dishes in the sink. Nothing screamed terrorist safe house.
As soon as they entered the living room, two of the women jumped to their feet and gestured for the new arrivals to follow them through a beaded curtain. The smaller woman opened a large wooden chest that looked as if it might store Long John Silver's booty. She held up a garment in front of X - a black burqa.
"Hurry, you must wear these," she said.
Asar shook his head violently. "I will not wear a burqa," he declared.
"It is an abomination," agreed Harry adamantly.
"Our first duty is to the Jihad," X pointed out. "We must stay free so that we can fight for our cause. Allah will forgive us, my friends."
Asar looked at Harry, who stroked his jaw thoughtfully then nodded. The men threw off their hats and began to pull the robes over their heads. Traci took a burqa and retreated to a back room to do the same.
Just five minutes later, a trio of Marines kicked in the door. They barged in, M4 carbine assault rifles at the ready. All they met, of course, were women sitting on the daybed knitting, while three others sat at a table, chopping up onions and garlic.
A couple of the younger women hopped up, shrieking at the sight of the guns.
"Hands in the air," one of the Marines barked. Another repeated the order in Pashto. "Drop those knives."
"Sit your asses down," shouted another soldier. "Sit down before I sit you down!"
One dropped to her seat, while the other remained standing. The soldier grabbed her shoulder and roughly pushed her down.
"Where are they, where are they?" demanded a Marine with sergeant's bars.
One of the women stood up, her status as an elder evident from her hunched posture and the raspy voice in which she began scolding them. A Marine sat her down too. The toddler, who'd been in the lap of one of the women, wrenched himself free and crawled to his fire truck. When his mother reached for him, a soldier pointed his rifle at her.
"Move again and I'm going to pop you," he yelled. The tot began to roll the toy around, oblivious to the tension in the room.
X, one of the ladies on the couch, was finding it a bit difficult to breathe in the burqa. That loose-fitting hospital gown was looking pretty good right about now.
The soldiers pushed through the beaded curtain, kicked in the doors to the bathroom, the bedroom and the nursery in turn, shouting "Clear!" as they ascertained no fighters were present.
Disguising themselves as women was a fairly lame trick, in X's estimation. All that saved them from discovery was that he, Asar and Harry were all of small stature. If one of the trio was a big guy, they'd have been history.
Oh, well, any port in a storm, X thought.
It was at that moment that he noticed that a spot of blood, fresh and glistening stained the carpet where the fire truck had been. His bandage must have leaked! He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed it yet. Perhaps the elderly woman had. She met his eyes, then looked away. The soldiers hadn't spotted it yet, but they'd have to be blind not to before they left.
The boy cooed and held up the fire truck and a young Marine crouched down, smiling.
"What's that you've got, little guy? I had one of those."
He was going to see the blood in two seconds.
Suddenly the old woman began to screech in her native tongue, "You filthy cat, aren't you old enough to cover yourself properly when your time has come?" She grabbed the 13-year-old by the forearm and dragged her to the center of the room. "Look!" she screamed, pointing at the spot of blood dramatically. "See how you have disgraced your family in front of these foreigners."
The teen bowed her head in shame, saying, "Grandmother, I am sorry," but the old woman boxed her savagely in the ear.
"Hey, hey, knock that off," said the Marine sergeant, grabbing hold of her. The elder lunged at the cowering teen again, beating her with her fists. It took two of the Americans to restrain her. As the adolescent beat a hasty retreat behind the beaded curtain, the sergeant stuck his sidearm in the grandmother's face.
"Leave her alone, you crazy old bat," he snarled.
"You will be beaten when they are gone," she shouted into the next room.
X smiled behind his veil. Meryl Streep has nothing on this old crone, he thought. She deserves Best Supporting Actress for that little performance.
Finding nothing, the Marines retreated, their frustration evident. One guy tipped over a vase as he left, saying "Ooops!" as it shattered.
Well, that was a bit gratuitous, X thought. As soon as a peek through the window confirmed that the Americans were gone, the three male fugitives threw off their burqas as if they were on fire - Harry with exaggerated disgust.
Asar fumed, "If only I had an AK-47 to hand when these infidels came in and terrorized these honest Muslim women."
"They are cowards,"' sneered Harry. "They would have run from the bang of one child's pop gun."
X turned to the women saying, "May Allah reward you for the good you have done here today."
The eldest woman bowed. "We do not often get genuine heroes as guests," she said. "We will feed you now. Sit, please."
A dastarkhan was prepared for them, a large cloth spread over the floor on which the meal was to be served. The four guests sat about it. The teenager presented an aftabah was lagan, a copper basin with a pot filled with water.
The teen tiptoed around the dastarkahn to each the guests, pouring water over their hands. A sumptuous meal was then laid before them. One woman brought them a basket filled with breads, relishes and fruits. Another brought a platter of naan torshi, pickled peaches with lemons, eggplant, vinegar and spices. Plates of chalow came next, a traditional Afghan dish composed of white rice, parboiled and baked with oil, butter and salt, served with quorma, a kind of stew.
Some was delicious, some merely palatable and some downright disgusting, but on the whole X found the fare a welcome change from the cold mystery-meat sandwiches and flavorless navy beans that typically passed for a dinner in prison. As they sat, the men hashed out their plans as Traci knelt on a cushion beside them, holding her tongue.
"We will take the Khyber Pass?" Harry asked.
"No, it is better we take an old drug smuggler's trail through a smaller pass known as the Forgotten Way. Almost no knows of it." Asar said.
"I suppose they've forgotten it," X wisecracked.
"That's very funny, Ali," said Harry, though the glowering look he gave the identity thief suggested otherwise.
The leader of the cell, one of the two fighters who'd led them to the safe house distributed phony identification papers.
"I hope these will be helpful to you," he said. "We keep such documents at the ready for those who are in the great struggle."
"Do these belong to real people?" X asked.
"One does," Rahim said. "A carpet merchant named Azmaray who betrayed the Cause and ... Allah saw to it that he suffered an accident."
X looked over the fake travel documents, which as a purist, he felt would not stand close scrutiny. He politely told his benefactors the documents were not up to snuff and asked for access to a computer and a digital camera.<
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Online, within a few minutes he found another Pakistani carpet merchant named Hussein Kulachi modern enough to have a Facebook account. Mining the home page, he was quickly able to gather information about his family, hobbies and other details. He was fond of British TV, liked cricket and often posted comments about astronomical discoveries.
Although the printer wasn't the most up to date, it was good enough to print out documents X created that were similar to the sample, bearing the names, dates of birth and other salient information about Kulachi and three relatives.
He had each of his fellow travelers pose for a photo, took one of himself and uploaded them. Moments later, Asar watched with admiration as X used a razor blade to cut out pictures he'd printed out and paste them carefully onto the fake travel papers.
"Have you done this before, Ali?" he asked.
"I've seen it done," he said. "Is Akeem back with the laminator?"
"Yes, he got one from the print shop."
"Get it from him will you."
Asar nodded and as he rose, he marveled, "You are a man of many hidden talents."
X grinned. "I may take this up as a second career."
Harry glared at X, who responded with a wink.
* * *
Harry was to pose as Hussein Kulachi, a carpet merchant returning to Pakistan from business in Kabul. The vehicle was already laden with Oriental rugs, lying over the cache of weapons. Traci was his wife Ghazala, X his brother Asan and Asar his nephew Raheem. The cover story was that they were taking the pass to avoid taxes and, with the small bag of diamonds they'd brought for the occasion, were prepared to pay bribes. Their benefactors also gave them $900 U.S., from a stash of petty cash provided to the cell by the Warriors of Allah.
"I will hold the papers," Harry said, taking them out of X's hands.
Traci surrendered hers obediently.
"I should have made myself the husband," X whispered to her. "I have three specific marital duties I'd like you to perform."
"Keep dreaming," Traci hissed back.
Harry then insisted that they rehearse their roles and, like a schoolmarm, quizzed them on details of their fictitious lives garnered from the social networking site.
"What is your occupation?" he asked X.
"A carpet merchant."
"Where were we married?" he asked Traci.
"In Haripur, Pakistan."
What village are you from?" he demanded of Asar.
"I was born in Girishk," Asar said without hesitation.
Harry consulted the documents. "Wrong, you are from Khalabat."
Asar smacked his forehead. "Ach, that is my parents' REAL home. I am sorry. I am not used to lying. Forgive me."
X rubbed his knee affectionately.
"It is an admirable trait that deceit does not come naturally to you," he said. "I have the same problem."
That prompted Traci to launch into a brief coughing fit. X smiled. He knew it wasn't on purpose; the agent didn't appear to have a sense of humor. But it came off like shtick from a sitcom, which he found somehow endearing.
By now, of course, the Americans and the Afghan army had encircled the city. Fortunately, the terrorist cell had constructed a tunnel that ran beneath the city wall big enough to run the truck through. A suicide bombing on the other side of town would, hopefully, provide enough of a diversion for them to get away.
X watched as the plucky suicide bomber - or homicide bomber as Fox News preferred to call such workers - hugged his brethren and set off with a backpack.
"I think we are well prepared," Harry announced. "Let us get some rest. The sun will be setting in a few hours and we'll have the cover of darkness."
X looked out the window at the formidable mountains looming in the distance. It was hard to believe vehicles could scale them.
Chapter 17
THE FORGOTTEN WAY
Two days later, they were high in the Sefid Kow mountain range heading through the so-called Forgotten Way toward Pakistan. The truck was surprisingly hardy, making its way through the tight switchbacks and steep inclines with little difficulty. It took X a while to get used to the bumpy ride - it was like being an old sneaker bounced about a dryer.
The pass constantly twisted and turned, arbitrarily cut through the mountain by nature. The 30-foot cliffs on either side of the pass were seemingly impossible to scale. X thought of the countless other men on secret missions who must have passed this way over the centuries: Persians, Mongols, Tartars, Huns, Turks, British and Russian spies in the Crimean War.
The identity thief imagined soldiers of Genghis Khan high above them on the cliffs staging an ambush, raining arrows down on the road. Soviet troops had hunted Afghani freedom fighters here; drug dealers and smugglers had sneaked through with their illicit wares. And now this motley crew of liars: terrorist hunters pretending to be terrorists pretending to be carpet merchants.
They drove until sundown, when the sparse vegetation lining the road became slowly invisible. As darkness fell, it became increasingly difficult to make out the canyon walls on either side of the trail. There was a half moon, but the light was obscured by a dense cloud cover. Clearly, they could go no farther.
They made camp on the side of the road. Their benefactors in Gardez had supplied them with two Russian-era tents presumably snatched from the invaders long ago, one to accommodate Traci, the other for the three men. The trio had to crowd in so close, X found his comrades' body odor unbearable. His wasn't any better, he supposed. None of them had bathed for days; not since a sponge bath by a nurse in the prison hospital.
* * *
X was about 150 feet from camp when Harry caught up with him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" the computer ace demanded.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm having a smoke," X replied. He took the pack of Turkish cigarettes from his pocket and held them up.
"Bullshit," Harry hissed. "You're headed back toward Gardez, aren't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," X said. "Do you have any idea how far that is?"
"Don't get any ideas about going AWOL," Harry snarled. "There's a tracking device planted in your body. We can track you down anywhere in the Middle East."
"You're full of shit. Where?"
"None of your business where. I'm not going to tell you so you can pull it out."
X remembered the filling Mr. Jones had so generously replaced. Nice information to keep under his cap. Harry strode up to him and jabbed his finger in his chest.
"Listen, asswipe, I don't like you and I don't trust you. As far as I'm concerned, you're a cowardly, sniveling piece of shit. If it wouldn't jeopardize the mission I'd shoot you right now."
"I'm hurt that you feel that way," X said. "Because I really like you."
"What's going on?"
They turned and saw Asar, who stood nearby scratching his balls.
"Nothing," said Harry.
"I heard you arguing," the teen insisted.
Harry shook his head, trying to appear clueless, but X leapt in.
"It is just a disagreement between friends," he said. "You know the proverb, 'The wrath of brothers is fierce and devilish.'"
Asar looked from face to face, concerned.
"Beware that you do not utter words you will regret. For it is also said that 'The wound of words is worse that the wound of a knife.' "
The two men nodded somberly.
"Let us embrace," X said. He grabbed Harry in a bear hug and the spy did an impressive job of faking enthusiasm as he returned the embrace.
The trio returned to the campsite, Asar entertaining them with a traditional Afghani song as they made their way through the dimly lit canyon, the crescent moon over their heads.
The first bandit X spotted was the one holding Traci in a chokehold, the seven others came from behind them, Kalashnikovs pointed at their heads.
"On your knees," barked a tall, gaunt man with a scar stretching from his right eye to his top lip. Harry and X dropped to t
heir knees and a bandit stood behind each of them, rifles pointed to their heads. Asar hesitated. An impatient 6-foot-4 thug grabbed him by the nape of the neck and forced his face into the dirt.
"Search the truck," said Scarface, whom X took to be the leader. Three of the highwaymen held the trio in place while four others searched the truck.
With the captives subdued, the leader strutted back and forth like a rooster newly crowned king of the barnyard.
"You should know you need permission to pass through these mountains. You camp a stone's throw from our base? We will have to teach you respect."
"We are but simple carpet merchants on our way home to Pakistan. That is my brother and his wife, and our nephew," X offered. "We know we have to pay a bribe to pass this way. Here, in my pocket."
The man guarding X dug greedily into his pocket and yanked out the bag. He poured the gems into his hand and whistled.
"There must be $1,000 worth here," he gasped.
Harry shot X a dirty look. "How was that smoke, Aban?" he asked.
"Here!" said the leader. His henchman, somewhat reluctantly, tossed the bag over.
Traci had been rousted from a deep sleep by the bandits about five minutes before X and the others returned to the camp. She was clad in a white cotton slip that fell nearly to her knees - supremely modest by Western standards - but still felt nearly nude without the veil and heavy garb she'd become accustomed to over the past few days. The guy guarding Traci held her in the chokehold VERY close. To her disgust, she became aware that he'd sprouted an erection, which was now lewdly poking her backside.
The men searching the back of the truck tossed out the carpets, and soon found the Kalashnikovs, the AK-47s, the grenades and the rocket launcher.
"You still claim you are merchants," Scarface said with obvious amusement. "Opium traffickers more likely. Where is your stash? Are you going to tell us or do we have to start checking bungholes?"
"We are in the service of the Warriors of Allah," Asar blurted. "I am the personal driver of The Chief."