Karim’s uncle, Abdul Ali Mazari, had been a Hazara leader. He was killed back in 1995 while held in detention by the Taliban.
‘Many had their throats cut.’ With that Meena retreated to the house.
Two days later Karim Mazari set out for his home. For the first time in years he was riding a bicycle. In an effort to improve his chances, Mohammed Sarwar had fixed a black Taliban flag to a rod and attached it to the carrier at the rear of the bike.
The Taliban were everywhere, but nobody made any attempt to stop him and for a while he thought that he would make it home without incident. It seemed safer to keep to the main roads, a decision which took him past the cemetery at Dasht-e-Shour. There was a pile of bodies at the entrance, some with their hands tied behind their backs with their turbans. There were also bodies in the many holes in the road. On the other side of the road a Hazara porter was struggling with a load of rice and flour. In a café some Talibs were having breakfast and, to Karim’s horror, one of them rose, shot the porter and returned to his coffee as though he had done nothing more than swat a fly.
Karim was glad to leave the city. It was no longer a place he recognised; strangely silent, drawn into itself, beaten down by the whips of the Taliban. Yet he knew he would return as a matter of honour. Above all he must avenge his father’s death and repay Mohammed Sarwar.
As Karim reached the road that led south out of the city towards Tangi Sayyad, he found himself joining a mass exodus. Fleeing civilians and a few surviving Hizb-I Wahdat troops formed a solid line as far as he could see. Cars, carts, trucks and people on foot were struggling to make headway. He hoped that the stream of people would stay ahead of the Taliban because once they entered the Tangi Sayyad there would be nowhere to run. The gorge, twenty or so kilometres south of the city, was a death trap. The Sayyad River was the irrigation source for the beautiful and fertile areas of Samangaan and Tashgurghan, but the road that followed its course back through the fifteen kilometres of the gorge was narrow and treacherous. On either side the walls rose two hundred metres in the air. If the people were attacked in the gorge there was only one way out and that was as a corpse in the river.
Realising that the bicycle would now slow him down Karim abandoned it and forced his way into the crowd. In front of him a car lurched and he saw that, unable to avoid it, the vehicle had driven over a body sprawled on the road.
In the next hour he came across numerous bodies both on the road and in the wreckage of several small markets and hamlets that appeared to have been hit by mortar or rocket fire. The crowd moved slowly forward in silence, their tongues stilled by fear and the pointlessness of mundane conversation. Ahead of them the hills beyond Tangi Sayyad seemed impossibly far away and Karim found himself concentrating on the ground beneath his feet, seeking only the certainty of each step forward.
Just after midday there was a sudden buzz of conversation and he heard voices raised in fear ahead. Karim and those around him stopped, unsure of what was happening. Then he saw the reason for the concern. Coming in low from the direction of the mountains to the west were two Taliban planes. It seemed inconceivable that they would target the ribbon of people that snaked along the road.
But even as he thought this, Karim knew he was wrong.
Without hesitation he fought his way to the edge of the road and dived into a ditch. People scattered in panic, knocking down anyone too slow to respond. Bodies piled on top of him, clawing at his back in an attempt to hide from the coming hailstorm.
But it was all too late.
In a matter of seconds the planes strafed the road with gunfire. As they passed overhead, they released their payloads of cluster-bombs. The bombs scattered hundreds of grenade-sized munitions over a wide area on the road, levelling everything in their path.
It was over in minutes. But when Karim attempted to move he found himself pinned down by the weight of the person on top of him.
‘For God’s sake, move!’ he yelled, but there was no response.
He felt the wetness of blood on his hands. Twisting to one side, he managed to wrench an arm free and roll the person off him. It was a woman, the side of her head ripped open, one remaining eye staring at nothing. Karim struggled up into a crouching position, then rose cautiously from the ditch — to a sight of such destruction that he was unable to move.
A section of the road in both directions was littered with the dead and dying. The refugees had been scythed like so many stalks of wheat — bodies twitched and shuddered, hands reached out and severed limbs lay scattered on the blood-soaked gravel. In the middle of the carnage a badly wounded donkey was careering in circles, harnessed to a cart that was engulfed in flames.
This was a scene from hell.
And then, when Karim thought that there was no more that could be done to add to the devastation in front of him, salvo after salvo of Katyusha rockets slammed into the road some distance ahead. They appeared to be coming from a position in the west of the city.
The ribbon of refugees was now in shreds. On either side the living fled into fields or sheltered behind walls. Those behind faltered, unwilling to walk into the killing zone, while those further ahead were pushing on as fast as they could. Just visible now, through the space cleared of the living by the bombing, rocket fire and panic, was the side road that led to Karim’s family property.
Oblivious to the chaos, Karim picked a path across the charnel paving. Close at hand another round of rocket fire showered him with shale and dirt. He ignored it, urged himself forward. Keep going, he ordered himself.
It took every bit of energy he could muster to make his body obey his commands. He was walking through thick walls of air, curtains of smoke, his feet leaden with shock. He summoned up the face of his wife and, placing it in front of him, forced himself towards it. His mind had retreated from the horror around him and it was only slowly that he became aware that he was no longer on the main road but heading across the open ground that lay between the side road and his father’s house.
He recognised a tree, an outcrop of rocks and … where the house should have been … a charred and twisted wasteland.
Not content with simply burning and bulldozing his father’s home, the Taliban had expended a great deal of time and effort to make certain that no one had reason to return. Karim was glad his father had been spared the sight of his beloved orchards, lovingly tended from generation to generation, now rows of leafless and blackened skeletons.
The stench of death was everywhere. Karim stumbled across the remains of an animal. For a moment he looked at the blackened corpse and didn’t recognise it. Then he felt his stomach lurch and he vomited onto the ground. The animal was Sultan, his father’s prized bushkashi horse. Sultan’s throat had been slit and then a flamethrower turned on him.
Knowing now that the terror here was not random but focused, he hurried on towards his own home.
As he approached the house, he felt his heart lift. Here everything appeared untouched. Nothing had been burned. Maybe the Taliban hadn’t realised where he lived. Inside, everything would be normal — Saara would be cooking and Danyal and Halma playing. Yes, he told himself, everything will be as it should be. Karim raced across the yard, but something stopped him on the threshold. He looked at the beautiful door — rosewood and cedar — the brass knob glowing in the late afternoon sun. He reached out his hand, touched the warm metal and swung the door open.
In front of him was a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The meeting in Sydney had been planned with great care and precision. Two months earlier the venue had been selected. Not a hall or community centre, but a terrace house in Arthur Street, Surry Hills. It had been empty for six months and then, overnight, the ‘For Rent’ sign vanished and the renovators moved in. Nobody took much notice.
‘A couple of Lebos have moved into number fifteen,’ was the initial comment from the shopkeeper on the corner. He had forgotten about them within days.
Neighbours
might have seen the men coming and going, but wouldn’t have remarked on it. Living in the street were a mix of half a dozen nationalities — Vietnamese, Chinese, a couple from Eritrea with a child, three Malaysian students, a lone Italian nightclub bouncer and a handful of Anglos. The addition of two Lebanese, or whatever they were, was hardly newsworthy.
A junkie had given the place the once-over but there was no flicker of television, no loud music. All of which meant there was nothing worth stealing.
For their part the men kept a low profile. No newspapers delivered, no phone connection. They came and went regularly until they were accepted as part of the local mix. But they didn’t shop locally and neither did they appear at the pub around the corner in Crown Street. Mrs De Castro from across the road mentioned to her husband, Ralph, that she thought they were nice, quiet young men, who seemed to spend a lot of time away doing whatever it was they did. She was right.
There was a lot for the two men to do. They registered a company with offices in the city. Nobody noticed or cared that the registered address was an office secretarial service whose sole function was to answer phones and forward mail on to its clients.
Having established the company’s credentials, one of the men opened a company account at a National Australia Bank in Parramatta and deposited a substantial amount. The other man then opened a second account at an ANZ bank in the city with an even larger deposit. The thought flitted across the teller’s mind that this was a lot of money for someone dressed so casually, but he promptly forgot about it.
The final job before the meeting was to rent a warehouse near the shipping terminal in White Bay. That done, they set about gathering the information they needed. By the first of November they were ready. In the week before the meeting they purchased a scanner and went over every inch of the house until they were satisfied that it was free of listening devices. Heavy curtains were fitted over the windows. Neither man had any idea how long the meeting would go on so they stockpiled a week’s food. As it turned out the meeting only lasted several hours.
The terrace had been chosen carefully. The deciding factor had been the existence of a small back alley, Coulton Lane, that allowed discreet access to the house, and it was through this alley that their guest arrived. They had just completed evening prayers when the knock came.
‘I am to be addressed as Hassan al-Mahdi,’ the traveller said. ‘Now tell me about the preparations.’
For an hour they went through the fine details of what they had accomplished. Then Hassan al-Mahdi gave them their instructions and asked each of the men to repeat them back to him. As they did so he sat staring at them, his eyes cold and hard. He knew they were good men; sons of their fathers and true believers.
Marzuq Yazeed, at twenty-six, was the older of the pair. Born in Jeddah, he had excelled in his studies and trained as an electrical engineer in Boston. Taller by a head than his fellow Saudi, Marzuq was a natural leader and one for whom the movement had great hopes. The boy was understandably disappointed that his path was not to be that of the martyr, but when he learned that he was to be the instrument of retribution against America’s allies, he accepted with commendable humility.
Basim Sharifi, on the other hand, was prime martyr material. Raised in the slums of Riyadh, he was twenty-two, devout and focused to the point where, if sacrifice was needed, he would accept it without question. Like Marzuq, he would have preferred to be acting against the Americans, but understood that, Australia having sided with the US, this country too must be punished. If he was to wield the sword of revenge, then Basim knew his fate lay in the hands of Allah, praise be upon Him, and that he would gain the rewards of true service. Well, Hassan al-Mahdi, thought, those rewards would certainly be his. He allowed himself a smile.
‘You have done well, brothers.’ He paused for the compliment to sink in. ‘It is very important that the next stage is handled with great care. You will need men to do the installations. There must be nothing that links you to these men, no records, no accounts. My only suggestion is that you recruit people who have betrayed their countries … You understand?’
Basim glanced at Marzuq before answering. They had already discussed this and come to the same conclusion. ‘Yes. We will recruit from amongst the refugees.’
‘Single men,’ Marzuq added. ‘Loners who nobody will miss.’
‘Now I will have a glass of tea and leave you. You will recruit the men and make the preparations. You will await my instructions before implementing the final stage. Is that understood?’
Marzuq nodded then indicated that Basim should prepare the tea.
Hassan al-Mahdi waited until Basim left the room then leaned towards Marzuq, his voice lowered. ‘Our young brother is still devoted?’
‘Completely. There is no worry on that score. When the time comes, Basim will be ready.’
‘And you? No qualms?’
‘None.’
Hassan sat back, his eyes sparkling, a smile on his face. For the first time since his arrival, he looked totally relaxed. ‘You like this … Australia?’
The question, delivered so casually, caught Marzuq off guard. ‘They are infidels, they assist our enemies. They deserve what is coming,’ he replied stiffly.
‘It is okay, Marzuq,’ Hassan al-Mahdi laughed. ‘It is a wise man who can see evil in the midst of beauty.’
Marzuq frowned. ‘I’m not certain I understand.’
‘Listen. This is a fine country and though the people may be infidels, there are good people among them. Do not hate them or their country, for hate blinds and for what we must do you need your eyes open.’
‘But then why are we going to —’
‘The people are not the government. It is the government that bombs our brothers and sisters in Afghanistan. It is the government that locks people away in the desert. And so it is the government that we target.’ He moved back and murmured his thanks as Basim returned and placed a tray with three glasses of mint tea in front of them. ‘So, have you been for a swim at Bondi beach yet?’ Hassan al-Mahdi glanced quickly from one to the other, amused at the shocked look on their faces.
‘Swimming …’ Basim began.
‘Of course. I certainly intend to swim tomorrow before I fly out.’
‘But, I thought …’
‘Basim, listen. If you are to blend in here you must start to enjoy the place.’ He turned to Marzuq with a look of mock severity. ‘I insist you take our young brother to the beach.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Marzuq searched the man’s face, wondering if he was serious.
Hassan al-Mahdi turned his attention back to Basim. ‘Now, before I forget. Did you make the location list that was requested?’
‘Yes, Marzuq has it.’
Marzuq handed over the list, his mind distracted by the thought of swimming. For a moment the idea was scarier than everything they were contemplating.
‘And you have visited all these places?’ Hassan al-Mahdi asked.
‘Every one.’
‘Good. And they all have what we require?’
‘All of them.’
‘Then destroy the list but remember the addresses. I shall require a list of similar targets from Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth and Brisbane.’
‘You want us to travel there?’ Basim asked.
‘Not yet. Such addresses you can get from the phone books.’
The men nodded. Recruiting people would be difficult, but the target list was easy. As Hassan al-Mahdi had said, they were all listed in the phone books.
They were a funny lot, she thought, a really odd mix. Not what she had expected at all. Mind you, this was a special meeting and the idea of a surprise guest speaker had probably kept a few of the more conservative elderly women away. There were several new faces and seven or eight regulars. Mrs Hanson, well, she had been the driving force behind the setting up of the women’s auxiliary. You would expect her to make an appearance. But Hillary Croft had driven all the way from Mount Morgan and brought Eli
zabeth Murray as well. Now that was a turn up for the books. Bronwen smiled up at old Judge Thompson. ‘Nice to see you, Judge.’
‘Mrs Thompson dragged me here, kicking and screaming, Mrs Parry. I would have been in bed with a book if I had my way. Ted not here?’
‘I’m afraid not. You know Ted…’ Which was untrue. Judge Thompson would have no idea about her husband. Ted would be down at the club with his mates telling lies about fish. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here, Judge.’ Bronwen glanced over to the group standing by the door. The judge’s wife was chatting happily, surrounded by a group of local women. Nicole Thompson was younger than her husband by some fifteen years and taller by a full head. They were a strange couple, but seldom had she seen a happier one. Nicole was such a stalwart in the community.
Bronwen checked her watch. Almost time to start. There was still no sign of their guests but there had been a phone call earlier in the day saying they were expecting to be on time. She did a quick head count. Fifteen women and three men. Well, that was two more men than she had expected. Through the kitchen servery on the other side of the room she could see that the urn was on the boil and the supper under control.
‘If we could move into the hall, everyone,’ Bronwen called. A car’s lights swept across the dimpled glass panels on either side of the door. Right on time, Bronwen thought, as she heard the sound of the wheels on the gravel. ‘Our guests have arrived. Let’s get ready to give them a very warm Rockhampton welcome.’
‘Too bloody hot!’ someone quipped to general laughter. The overhead fans were slicing through the air but doing nothing to cool the place down.
She paused until the audience had filed into the community hall and then went to the door to greet their guests. The light over the parking area was broken — had been for over a year — but the moon was casting fine shadows from the poinciana trees by the gate. The visitors were still in their car, so Bronwen waited on the steps.
The Haha Man Page 5