by Wolf Riedel
“And Qari?” whispered Norowz.
In an equally quiet voice Jalil answered. “The doctor says that he will be in paradise soon, Insha’Allah.”
Qari had not been so lucky. His wounds had been to the abdomen and it was a miracle at all that he had survived for over two months, sometimes seeming to rally for a few days or even a week before dropping into another set-back.
Norowz stepped over to the side of the low-slung wooden bed and placed a gentle hand on the fighter’s forehead. The heat and dampness was instantly obvious. The stench of corruption was strongest here.
“Do not exert yourself, my brother. Lie back and rest.”
The man eased himself back with a noticeable sigh of relief.
“Thank you commander,” he gasped. “I fear this may be the last time that we meet.”
“We will meet again in paradise my friend. Do not concern yourself. Take your ease.”
Norowz had not known Qari as a fighter. He was one of the newcomers who Norowz had only met when he was first evacuated to the lashkar’s aid post in Qalandar. From there they sent him on to Kandahar in a pickup truck for treatment. He had been sent back to Bazaar-e-Panjwayi to slowly die. During this short time, however, he had visited the man at least once every week to monitor his progress and to give him encouragement in his fight for survival. Qari had been a local part-timer from across the Arghandab whose primary livelihood had come from the fields of marijuana that he and his brother and their family raised in Mahajerin near Sangisar. Devout and stoic but filled with humor it was said that he had been a heroic warrior; he’d been in his prime at almost thirty years of life.
Norowz gave the man a smile and a final grasp of his shoulder before turning back to Tofan with look of weariness and profound sadness.
Tofan whispered in his ear. “You will miss this man.” Norowz nodded in rely.
They ducked their way through the low door frame into the bright light of the day and the bustle of the crowd along the market shops and stalls that lined both sides of the broad dirt street.
Norowz stood still.
“I think I will miss this man even more than I miss Osmani.”
Mullah Akthar Mohammad Osmani had been the chief of military operations for the provinces of Helmand, Kandahar, Uruzgan, Farah, Herat and Nimruz. As such he was part of the core of the Taliban military leadership hand in hand with Mullah Omar, the central leader and spiritual head of the movement and with Mullah Dadullah Akhund, its military commander. More importantly Osmani had been a friend and mentor to Norowz and had kept him going when his opposition to Dadullah’s policies and methods had disgusted him. In a nutshell, Norowz was a devout Muslim but not a fanatic Islamist. He had thrown in his lot with Omar when the movement was young and the only viable salvation to the corruption and excesses and chaos that reigned after the Soviets’ withdrawal. He had, however, never subscribed to the movement’s Wahhabi Salafist fundamentalism.
Osmani had kept Norowz firmly concentrated on the existing Afghan government’s corruption and off the Taliban’s underlying religious component. He had fostered Norowz’s hatred of the foreigners who had replaced the Russians as his primary enemy while keeping in check Norowz’s equally intense hatred of the foreigners who had filled al-Qaeda’s ranks and those others who were then and now being funneled in by the Pakistani ISI. Norowz’s allegiance was to the people and tribes who formed the population of Kandahar in general and of Panjwayi District in particular; not to the Pakistanis, the Arabs, the Chechens and the polyglot of other Islamists who all too often mingled in with his forces.
Now Osmani was dead.
Killed by a guided bomb on his vehicle as he had left a meeting in a village in Zhari two months ago at the beginning of Dhu al-Hijjah. Rumors and denials had abounded; the most detailed had come from the Times in England which had reported that American Delta special operations forces and American and British signals intelligence operatives had tracked Osmani’s satellite telephone and guided the bomb which had been launched from an American plane. Despite initial protestation by the Taliban that it was not Osmani who had died, Norowz quickly knew that it had been. His frequent contacts from Osmani had ceased and the informal communication lines amongst the mid-level leadership quickly confirmed the disaster. He’d immediately smashed his own ISI supplied satellite phone with a rock.
Norowz felt that he would never recover from Osmani’s death. For the last two months he had been continuously and profoundly depressed. Tofan had handled all routine and important matters while Norowz had wandered the roads and paths throughout the district under a perpetual marijuana haze. One directive Norowz did issue to Tofan: under no circumstances was any part of the lashkar to be committed to any offensive operations nor was a single man to be moved outside of its primary areas of operations which lay in two zones, one to the southwest and one to the southeast of Bazaar-e-Panjwayi regardless of who the order came from.
Emal was here now primarily to try to get Norowz back into action. He came up beside him as they walked the main street through the market.
“How many more are there to see?” he asked.
“Visiting the wounded bores you, Emal?” asked Norowz.
“Do not be an idiot, Norowz,” he replied. “You and I both know this walk is solely designed to keep us from talking future operations.”
“Since when is the ISI running our operational agenda?” said Norowz angrily not caring who in the marketplace heard him. “I thought your job was to find and train Pakistani zealots to bolster our ranks and to keep the flow of ammunition and weapons coming. Since when do you come to dictate operations?”
“Since I was asked to do so by Dadullah who has known you to be a stubborn fighter and is beginning to think you have become a reluctant warrior.”
Norowz stomped away. “Maybe if we were killing more foreigners, including Pakistanis, instead of our own people, he wouldn’t find me so reluctant.”
Tofan followed his leader. He knew the man’s feelings but they had always been expressed in private, never so openly. Norowz stopped dead in his tracks and turned on Emal.
“Tell me. Tell me honestly. Has the ISI arrested Mullah Obaidullah Akhund?” He held up his right hand the thumb extended up. “And Amir Khan Haqqani?” His index finger shot up. “And Jaland Abdullah Sarhadi?” His middle finger popped up as well. “Three of our leaders in ISI jails! Were they getting reluctant to carry out ISI orders as well.”
Emal choked back a reply. He too was seething now.
Norowz’s eyes burned into Emal’s, “If I didn’t know better I’d say that there is an ISI purge going on to get rid of all but those of our leaders who are most beholden to Pakistan.”
Norowz turned to Tofan and said in a voice dripping in sarcasm, “Well at least we know the ISI wasn’t behind Mahmood’s capture.” Mullah Mahmood, a leader of a number of suicide bombing cells had been captured at an Afghan Army checkpoint the day before as he was fleeing Panjwayi for Kandahar dressed in a burqa, the all encompassing veil worn by women.
He turned back to Emal. “He’s one of your creatures, isn’t he?” Norowz had always been, and continued to be, vehemently opposed to suicide bombings which were a tactic greatly favored by Dadullah and whose human bombs were for the most part weak-minded young men and even children and women indoctrinated and procured from radical masjids in Pakistan. Mullah Omar had only sanctioned the use of suicide bombers on the understanding that no Afghans were to be so employed.
The remainder of the walk back to the lashkar’s command compound in Qalandar had been in quiet until they reached the village of Sardaran when Emal tried one more time to reach through Norowz’s obstinacy.
“Norowz,” he said quietly as they walked along. “You know no one doubts your honor or your valor nor that of your men. In fact it’s valued above that of all others in Panjwayi. You are needed in Helmand. The British are bringing a heavy offensive there. We need you there.”
Norowz stopped in his tracks
. To their right front the razor sharp edge of Ma’Sum Ghar rose a hundred meters straight up from the plain around it; a half kilometer wide, two and one half long, the mountain ridge dominated the river to its north, Bazaar-e-Panjwayi to its east and the fields and villages all around it. He held up his hand pointing at the mountain.
“Emal,” he said with a patience bordering on resignation. “What do you see there?”
Emal shrugged. “A mountain.”
Norowz nodded. “Not just a mountain,” he said. “A mountain on which sits a forward operating base containing Canadians and Afghans working together with heavy tanks and armored cars whose fire completely dominate the river and all the lands around here. Another base is five kilometers to the north on the highway and in between they have just completed the construction of a major road with numerous strong points connecting the two. They’re building more every day and are also strung out in Arghandab. Every day—day-by-day—they are making the conversion of our local population their objective. Every day they train more Tajiks to hunt us down. There are even Pashtuns now who wear government uniforms.
“Emal. Tell Dadullah to get it into his head that the fight is here. If he wants to see the fall of Kandahar this summer then he will have to start here. If we leave here to help the poppy growers of Helmand with their drug trafficking problems then we will lose here. Tell the fool that we are looking at losing the population here unless we strengthen ourselves here and prove to the people here that we are the better government not just the killers of farmers and women and children.”
“It’s the Americans that kill the women and children here,” said Emal.
Norowz shook his head back and forth.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “That’s the propaganda you spin. Dadullah’s objective is to undermine the coalition by making them out to be the killers of innocents. Before a fight we always, always Emal, told the population to get out of the way. Now Dadullah gives us orders to keep them in the compounds from which we fight. He’s making the fighters use our women and children as human shields; he has us using them as ammunition bearers, and immediately after every fight his people haul out their satellite phones and call the reporters and say look at what the foreigners are doing here, look at how many of our women and children they have killed with their bombs. It may be good propaganda for the simple minded reporters, but the people here aren’t stupid. Where they once saw us as their salvation they are now wondering if we aren’t the greater evil.”
Norowz took a few steps further toward home and then stopped. He turned back to Emal.
“I know Afghan people don’t mean much to the Pakistani ISI. Your vision is to secure your western flank with Islamic zealots under your control. But the Afghan people matter to me and my men. If Dadullah wants action from us then tell him we’re prepared to step up operations on local coalition military targets to ensure that they stay tied down during whatever fights go on in Helmand. But, we are not leaving here.”
CHAPTER 16
District 5 Medical Examiner, Leesburg, Florida
Wednesday 07 Mar 07 1000 hrs EST
Dunn and Anderson were the last two to arrive. Castaneda and Noica had been sitting in the lobby with Mark and Sal finishing their coffees when they arrived.
“We’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” said Dunn. No one smiled.
Anderson passed Castaneda a large manila envelope.
“Dental records?” she asked.
“And some photos of the girls,” he said.
She nodded and passed the envelope to Noica for cataloging.
“You guys ready?” she asked.
“Fuck no,” said Sal. “I can’t think of anything I’ve ever been less ready for.”
“You want to stay out here?” asked Mark being serious.
“Damn right I do,” Sal replied equally seriously. “But you and I both know I don’t really have a choice here.”
“Sure you do,” Mark said. “One of us is good enough.”
“Nah. I don’t. Let’s get this shit done.”
Dunn walked forward. “I hate this part of the job more than anything else,” he said. “I tell ya Sal, if I had any choice in the matter I’d be out of here like a shot.”
The walk down the corridor was all too short for Mark as well. In no time they were standing before the first of the room’s autopsy tables. On its top a full-sized, sealed body bag lay spread out barely deformed by the contours of the small body within. With only the barest of glances in the body’s direction they made their way to the wall counter and donned gloves before turning back to the table.
“We’ll start with the younger girl,” said Castaneda scanning the eyes of the police officers standing in a tight arc across the table from her. They barely nodded in reply.
“Recorder on Alexandru? . . . Okay then. This is District 5 case number 07 dash 00039. Jane Doe Four, date of birth unknown and date of the examination is Wednesday March 7th, 2007 at 1007 hours.
“Persons attending the examination are Sergeant Gary Dunn of the Marion County Sheriff’s Office, Detective Tyron Anderson of the Ocala Police Department, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Mark Winters and Staff Sergeant Salvadore Watt both of the US Army Criminal Investigation Command.
“The external investigation shows that the body was received in a body bag with a yellow locking zip tag bearing a seal from the Marion County Sheriff Office.” She reached down and turned the seal. “Number 0016734 dated 5 March 2007.”
She reached down and cut the seal handing it to Noica and then pulled down the bags zipper exposing the charred remains of the small child.
Mark had always thought that people who compared the smell of a burned human body to that of roast pork had never actually smelled one. The odor was like no other and the one coming from this bag fully attested to that fact. Predominant was a smell that could only be described as raw sewage which came from the residue of the girl’s ruptured bowels and another that was of a metallic copper which came from the burned blood in the body’s tissues. Next there was the assault of burned hair, an acrid odor somewhat like charcoal from the blackened skin and finally wisps of some petroleum product, most probably gasoline. None of these odors had ever accompanied any roast meat that had been served to Mark.
Mark’s stomach roiled and it took some serious effort to control it. He had never been much affected by some of the human damage he had seen but was particularly susceptible to fetid odors. Max’s soiled diapers had had him closer to vomiting than the sight of blood ever had.
Beside him, Sal stood rigid.
It was going to be a long day.
The first autopsy, while demanding, had been uneventful.
The body of Jane Doe Four had been positively identified by her dental records as being that of Emma Lewis, a Caucasian female born on the 14th day of March 1996. Date of death on the 5th of March 2007 just a little more than one week short of her eleventh birthday. No sign of any bullet or knife wounds but a broken hyoid bone was highly suggestive that the probable cause of death was strangulation. There was evidence of a sexual assault and, surprisingly, residual traces of seminal fluid had been found with a better than even chance of producing DNA evidence. No soot was found in the lungs which, as a small mercy, indicated that she was dead before her body was set on fire.
Lunch had been coffee and salads all around with little small talk.
The afternoon had brought them back for Jane Doe Five.
Her autopsy had progressed in the same manner but had reached an abrupt obstacle early on when Castaneda tried to compare the body’s teeth to the dental records. They did not match; close, but no match. The teeth had given Castaneda even more pause as she examined them closely as best as she could within the remnants of the small ruined face. She’d called Noica in for a close look.
“Look at the mandibular first molars. How many lingual cusps do you count?”
He examined the mouth closely with a magnifying glass before replying, “It l
ooks like three. Looks like there’s a Tuberculum Intermedium between the disto-lingual and mesio-lingual cusps.”
“Yeah that’s what it looks like to me too. When we get to the examination of the head we’re going to need to expose the nasal structure and maybe more.”
The examination had continued on in what Mark by now had recognized as Castaneda’s routine. The result was the same; Jane Doe Five had neither been shot, nor stabbed but instead had been strangled to death. A lack of soot in the lungs indicated that she too had been dead before the body was burned. Residual semen had also been collected and retained for DNA analysis.
The procedure changed after Castaneda had completed her usual examination of the skull by the removal of a portion of the skull and the removal and examination of the brain. She had then proceeded on with cuts that allowed her to peel back most of the burned skin and flesh on the center of the child’s face thus exposing the structure underlying the nose. Mark noted a few of her observations.
“The form of the nose is broad . . . nasal profile is straight . . . nasal bone is of a medium size . . . Nasal spine reduced . . . Nasal sill is absent . . .”
Beside him Sal whispered, “What’s going on?”
Mark’s muted reply was simply, “You got me.”
The answer wasn’t long in coming.
“Subject to confirmation by DNA, Jane Doe Five is an unknown Negroid female approximately eleven to thirteen years of age.”
The four were back at the Ramshackle for an early dinner. The atmosphere this time was significantly more upbeat than lunch had been. The tragedy that had befallen the unknown black girl could only mean one thing.
“She’s got to be alive,” said Sal. “Megan has to still be alive otherwise why would some psycho kill a black girl the same age to throw in and burn with Emma. He’s obviously trying to make it look like he killed both of them.”