Khyber Run

by Amber Green

  I gave my name as Zarak only, because I wanted him to keep talking. I was Momand, while his name said his ancestors had likely been clanless Punjabi Muslims who'd fled India after Partition to escape the Hindi mobs. He asked about my family. I thought about lying, but instead asked about his. He nodded sagely and changed the subject.

  He'd carried his wife from their khel to a village where the traveling nurse-officer was set up with her... These weren't words I knew. From context, he might mean a clinic. He'd risen well before daylight to reach the...something...before she left that village, but had stood aside from the road, averting his eyes, as a truckload of women drove by, an armed guard perched on their front bumper.

  "I saw her go,” he kept saying, mournfully. “But I did not know one of those women was the one I sought. What honorable man looks at unknown women?"

  He cupped his hands and studied them, as if praying. Then shrugged. “I saw her go."

  He'd followed them to the next village, knowing the pattern was to spend two days and expecting his own trip to last one day. But the nurses had been threatened and had left the same day they arrived. He had become desperate, and God had brought him us. “As fast as a young man can walk with your little pack, bismillah, we will intercept them very soon!"

  His wife murmured faintly. He lost his enthusiasm and groped in a pocket. Handing back a smooth pebble, he advised her to hold it in her mouth to ease the thirst.

  As sick as she seemed, as thin as she was, dehydration would kill her as quickly as anything. I shrugged out of my pack and fished out the still-sealed bladder of water. “If you thirst, Uncle, drink of this."

  Again he blessed me, with my fathers and sons for many generations. He unwrapped the sealed nipple and tasted the water, then handed the nipple back to his wife. “But you have been bold, brother! This is of English make!"

  "An American gave it to me."

  "English, French, American? They are all the same when they come to Pakhtun lands: foreigners!” He spit. “Infidels! You should not take gifts from the devil's men, oh my brother, for they will demand your soul in payment."

  Speaking of payment, brother, it's time to pay for the ride. I unfolded my printout to show Ben's mare. “In your travels, have you seen this horse?"

  "No, I have not been blessed to see her with these eyes. She is said to dance like a horse of the paryan, though!"

  I didn't look at Oscar. He was either catching this or he wasn't. “What else have you heard said of her?"

  "They say she would make a mullah dream of daarha—just one raid, to steal so fine a mare. Surely a holy man's soul could bear the price of one raid."

  "It would depend on his age and health, would it not?"

  He laughed too heartily, as if he hadn't had a good reason to laugh in way too long, and as if he was running the thin edge of hysteria. A painfully thin hand reached from under the burqa and touched his cheek. He leaned into it.

  When it withdrew, he looked at me soberly. “My cousin's cousin saw two men ride from across the line. Their guide was thought to be wicked, or stupid, for the road here is very bad. The tall man, who had a rifle as fine as this mare, as fine perhaps as your man's, rode the mare on this very road, and some days later rode her back across the line into Afghanistan."

  He took another pull of water, then handed the drinking tube back to his wife. “The tall one was a mystery, and so he caused much talk. Is he Pakhtun? Why does he sound so odd if he is? Why does he look so familiar if he is not? With him rode a cigar-smoking kafir on a dun mare. They came together; they went back together. Then, two or three days later, the kafir returned, with both horses and both rifles, and no companion."

  "What road did they take?"

  He shrugged elaborately. “A man who carries no gun is wise to notice very little about the well armed."

  But he'd noticed plenty and shared it freely. Taking chances. Dera manana, oh my brother.

  He lapsed into silence. The trail rose steeply. I held on to the stirrup for support and let the horse pull me up the trail. And I let Khiel Khan stew in his qualms, while every stride built his debt to us.

  When the trail narrowed, Oscar pulled up and dismounted, waving me to catch up and the other rider to pass. Then he jerked his head, and I took it as a signal to mount. He wasn't wheezing in the thin, cold air. I was, so I took his horse. As I did, he slid ahead of the one Khiel rode and led the way up the trail on foot.

  I would have liked to ride directly behind him, watching that glorious body at work, but sandwiching Khiel between us was smarter.

  After about an hour, Khiel looked back at me over his wife's head. “Is your man at least a man of the book?"

  "He is.” I hadn't asked, but it was a pretty safe bet. I would have liked to know how he'd deduced Oscar was no Muslim. The deduction put Oscar in peril and went naturally with others too dangerous to confirm or deny.

  Oscar raised his hand, and the parade stopped instantly, silently. He trotted forward in a crouch, rock to rock, studying something I couldn't see past the double-loaded horse between us. He came back and spoke in his rough Dari. “Village ahead. Friendly?"

  I translated to Pakhtun. Khiel looked woebegone. “Alas, not for you, even if the Momand themselves were to protect you. I will walk from here, bismillah, and will find the nurse-officer."

  Inshallah. He didn't have to say it out loud.

  He dismounted and looked up at me. “If a man were so bold as to follow the hoofmarks of the kafir, he would ride back along this road. Perhaps half a kilometer before the intersection where we met, a thorn-cursed track splits off to the south. After a few kilometers, it turns west to the border, then sharply back east through a pass to a cart road that leads to the road to Peshawar."

  He went back to the mare he'd ridden and turned his back to the saddle. His wife climbed down onto his back. He seemed much restored by the rest and the water. When he tried to hand me back the limp bladder, I insisted he keep it.

  His face twisted. Oh, maybe it wasn't safe for him to carry NATO equipment?

  I capped the bladder, which had a pint or so left, and set it in my pack. Oscar took my mare while I kept his. That put the heavier rider on the more fatigued horse, but the thirty pounds or so he topped me by ought not be enough to make a difference.

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  Chapter Sixteen

  We retraced our way to the intersection, found the thorn-cursed track, which did wind back to a view of the single strand of concertina wire that marked the border here. But someone had paved the road east from there. Or either we were lost.

  Oscar told me marines are never lost. Just occasionally misoriented.

  I looked at the thorns and the rocks. This would make excellent ambush country.

  Oscar dropped his mare's pace to a walk. “We're surrounded."

  "We would have been sooner or later. Keep your hands off your weapons."

  "D'uh."

  I reined in and lifted my voice in Pakhto. “Are you lascar, soldiers, or bandits? Show yourselves, if you please."

  A man in mirrored shades and sharply creased camo uniform stood, apparently from behind a pebble. “The question, sharp eyes, is who might you be?"

  There was absolutely no way a bandit would be wearing that spiffy uniform with that insignia. The Frontier Force would roast him alive, slowly. I wished I could recognize what rank his buttons showed. Officer, certainly.

  I raised my hands carefully, pushed back my shemagh, and flipped my sunglasses to fall to my chest. “My grandfather's father is Zarak called Hajji. My grandfather is Mohammed, called the Wise. My father was Abdul Momand, called Rund, who taught at the university in Kabul before the Shuravi came. My name is Zarak Momand also, and this is my follower."

  He moved his face slightly toward Oscar, before aiming those mirrored shades back at me. “What has driven you to cross the line precisely midway between authorized crossing posts?"

  I spread my hands. “Are we not Pakhtun? What is
this line to us? I will have badal of a stranger among you, but to your people I am no aggressor. Surely, the Book says, ‘God loveth not those who are aggressors.’”

  As I spoke, a young man with the double chevron of a naik, a corporal, whispered to a bearded havildar. The havildar approached Mr. Spiff and saluted. They spoke a moment.

  The officer smiled tightly under those mirrored shades. “The line is real enough, and any who cross it without permission might be considered aggressors. Please, dismount and hand over your weapons."

  He lifted one hand carefully, and young men in rather less spiffy uniforms unfolded themselves from behind various rocks and shadows of rocks. Each carried an automatic assault weapon, of a type I didn't recognize.

  I kept my hands clear of my belt. “We are not smugglers. You may search the baggage. We have neither goods nor money to buy them."

  "Thank you so much for giving permission. Dismount, please. And disarm. I will not ask a third time."

  So we were out of options. I pegged him as a senior lieutenant or a young captain. He was too old to be a second lieutenant.

  Something about him gave me the feeling he'd risen as high as he ever would. I'd watched enough men like him—and their victims—to know that the first hint of disrespect would have him extruding fangs and striking out, even if doing so might harm what remained of his own career. So I schooled my face to extreme respect.

  I had no way to know how much of that conversation Oscar had followed, but he was alert enough to take a cue from my face.

  A hard-faced boy with no rank on his sleeve approached warily and grasped my mare's bridle. I unslung my weapon and handed it down to a second boy, who was just as hard-faced. Then I dismounted, as gracefully as I could with all those people watching me.

  Oscar's mare fidgeted. The tendons on the backs of his hands stood out like cable.

  "This is my follower,” I said firmly. I was claiming him, so that even if he was seen as kafir, no man could touch him without expecting a Pakhtun to defend or avenge him. But for that protection to hold, he had to obey me. I went to touch his rein and looked up, willing him to give in.

  Oscar reached down to hand me his pistol and then, reluctantly, his rifle. Finally, he dismounted.

  I passed his weapons to the boy who held mine. Oscar was saying he held me responsible for that rifle, I knew. Those things are customized to each sniper; replacing it would take months once the paperwork went through, assuming the paperwork went through.

  If he was chief level, he might not be issued a new rifle. He might be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his career.

  We had to get out of this alive and without causing an international incident, before we needed to worry about either of our careers.

  Besides, we both still had our knives.

  "Knives, sir,” the boy said.

  I untied my sash and wrapped both my choora and Oscar's KA-BAR in it.

  The boy went to the officer, who immediately selected Oscar's rifle out of the armload. “A fine weapon."

  If a guest in my home admired it, I'd have to offer it as a gift. Not rushing to offer it now might be rude. I chose a cautious rudeness. “Fine indeed. It was made for my man and is irreplaceable."

  "Identification, sirs?"

  "I regret, sir, we carry nothing but the means to find our quarry and bring him to the jirga for trial."

  He looked at me and at Oscar beside me. “Show me what you have."

  I unfolded the first sheet of photos. “This is him we seek.” I passed the second without unfolding it. “This is my brother and his qawm."

  The officer slung Oscar's rifle, as if trying it on for size, and studied the photos. “The young one favors you strongly. All his chosen companions are foreigners, but for himself?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Please, turn to face the sun."

  I took Oscar's shoulder and turned him, before turning myself.

  The officer studied Oscar's sunlit face. “So you also were one of his qawm?"

  Oscar looked at me.

  The officer slashed the back of his left hand across Oscar's mouth.

  Don't react, Oscar! I launched myself between them, hands wide like a basketball guard. “This one is mine to discipline, sir! And mine to protect!"

  The officer smiled faintly at him, not at me. “I see."

  I didn't ask what he saw.

  He unslung Oscar's rifle and laid it back in the boy's arms. “Your belongings will be returned if you are vouched for."

  By whom? If he was working with NATO troops, they'd immediately ask for our ID. Or at least Oscar's, since he'd be undeniably American to anyone who heard his voice or saw that rifle.

  We walked through a narrow draw to a twisting trail up to a shed surrounded by motor scooters. The shed was roofed with solar cells and spiked with radio antennas. The bearded havildar unlocked the shed and brought out a cell phone. He handed it to the corporal who'd whispered earlier.

  Oscar and I stood with our backs to the sun. Our pockets were emptied, but they didn't knock us around to do it. Our saddles and meager packs were unpacked and dismantled, but not wrecked or scattered. My seeds—beans, lentils, pumpkin, okra, sunflowers, and things I didn't recognize offhand—were examined with much curiosity, but rewrapped with rather more care than anything else got.

  After examining everything, they shoveled it all into my pack.

  A truck came. We were loaded into the back of it with one young guard, while the officer rode in the cab with our weapons. I looked back at our mares and saddles. For what they'd cost per mile we'd ridden them, that was a pretty poor return on investment.

  The truck turned onto a dirt road and picked up speed. I sat on the bed—or tried. It was rather like sitting on a trampoline while an Olympic hopeful bounced himself and me. The young one-striper with the short-bodied machine gun clung to the gun mount on the back of the cab, his feet leaving the bed of the truck about as often as my butt did.

  Oscar crouched beside me, using his powerful legs as shock absorbers, one hand on my shoulder and the other on the side of the truck. He seemed to be memorizing the route until the dust rose too thick to see more than the angle of the sun and one glittering mountain peak that mostly stayed on our left

  A herd of shaggy donkeys loaded with burlap-wrapped bundles scattered on both sides and yee-hawed plaintively in the dust cloud we left them. I've never been able to figure out how the little beasts could be so heavily laden. These certainly were dwarfed by their burdens. Yet all remained nimble enough to avoid getting tagged by a bumper.

  Or maybe one had been tagged and was just invisible in the dust. They were pretty much the color of the dust and the road and the burlap.

  The truck swerved to the right, hard, and stopped hard enough to throw me into the machine gunner, and Oscar into me.

  A voice called through the dust. “Welcome many times! Our home is honored to receive you, sir!"

  Oscar turned his masked face to me. I shrugged. I didn't think they were talking to us. We stood and dusted off anyway. If we were invited inside, it wouldn't be polite to carry half the road in with us.

  A scrawny tree emerged from the settling dust. It was just budding out, some of the buds swollen enough to show tiny tongues of pale blossom ready to emerge. Passing it, Oscar cupped one of the delicate blossoms in his thick-fingered hand. He paused to study it, then moved on without a word.

  We were indeed invited in. It looked like the living room of a private home, with pale blue walls and wicker chests lining one wall, and a carved wooden room divider hiding all but the top arch of an interior doorway. They'd spread a heavy golden carpet with a pomegranate design woven into what would be the red squares if it were a giant checkerboard. Plush and unmarked, it looked like no foot had ever set on it, much less field boots like ours.

  I folded my legs to sit near the edge closest to the door, with Oscar close beside me. Might as well be modest instead of claiming too high a place and be scorned for arrog
ance. The driver stood off the carpet behind us, plainly on guard. The officer took a proffered footstool half facing us. The corporal sat facing him, claiming a higher social rank than Oscar and me, but not by much.

  We all shook hands with a nervous man in a checkered turban and a navy blazer over a tightly buttoned western-style gray silk vest.

  An elderly servant brought a tea tray of dark wood, elegantly carved, with polished brass handles that matched the carpet. He tiptoed across the carpet to place it in the exact center, then scuttled away.

  The nervous man poured tea and served white cubes of halwah. The tea had enough sugar to taste like heated syrup. The halwah was even sweeter. The nervous man raised his cup. “Long life and happiness."

  The officer raised his. “Peace and wealth to your house."

  "Peace and happiness to the guests,” offered the corporal.

  My turn? I touched my heart to show sincerity. “Safety and peace to this house and all herein."

  I hoped Oscar took his cue. Beside me, he spoke in English. “Live long and prosper."

  I choked on my tea. Oscar thumped me helpfully on the back.

  A door opened behind the divider. From behind it, with some bustle and a brief whispered exchange, came an older man who seemed to have dyed his beard with black ink. His very bushy eyebrows remained white, like fuzzy caterpillars over his eyes. The nervous man brought him a footstool, set it in the host's place facing the door, and thanked him effusively for coming home so soon. We all stood and shook hands with him too, reiterated the round of good wishes, then resumed our places on the carpet.

  The old man had carried in the scent of fried food. With the sweet stuff sitting unaccompanied in my stomach and the smell of mutton fat that wouldn't go away, that added scent was nauseating. I told myself the tea would settle me, and I sipped it determinedly.

  The officer and the old man expressed mutual delight and honor in meeting one another, then explored the possibility that the old man's brother had attended school with the officer's father. They concluded, regretfully, that no such connection existed.