Refuge (37 page)

“Your plan seems abundantly cautious,” the Prince says.

“Even the Americans, your Highness, went into Kuwait in more than one column.”

“Are you comparing our wondrous warriors to infidels?”

“Of course not.”

The Prince stands and points his finger at Tariq as if he were some ancient doomsayer.

“Perhaps the real issue is you’ve no desire to be a martyr.”

Everyone’s eyes drop to the mat. In this company there’s no worse insult.

“There’d be no greater glory than to die a martyr,” Tariq says, “especially in the service of your Highness.”

“Then you should lead the vanguard.”

Tariq knows there’s no way he can object.

“I’d be honored, your Highness.”

A few of the men glance his way as if he’s already dead. Tariq shivers.

How did this all go so wrong, so quickly?

FORTY-FOUR

CHARLIE SITS WITH
a piece of paper in front of him. Next to him is a screwed up pile of failed attempts. He stares out the blown out hole in the wall at the moonlit mountains in the distance.

Come on,
give me some inspiration.

He blows on his freezing hands and picks up his pen. Twenty minutes later he’s done. He thinks about re-reading the letter but daren’t in case it joins the pile beside him. He knows it’s clumsy, but it’s the truth.

“Never say I gave up on you,” he says as if Noor were standing right there beside him.

He slides the letter into an envelope and licks it closed. Someone knocks, and he turns to find Najib at the door.

“Are you alright, Mr. Matthews?”

“Yeah, you just caught me daydreaming. What’s up?”

“We were wondering if you were going to join us.”

“Give me a minute, and I’ll be right out.”

Najib departs. Charlie takes another piece of paper and writes Wali a short note asking him to get the letter to Noor. He trusts Wali will; the man is nothing less than ingenious when it comes to such things.

He gathers up all the failed attempts, lays them on the earthen floor and sets fire to them. He walks outside and heads along a pitch black alley. In the distance he can hear the wailing of an Afghan song. He comes upon the village’s steep lane. At the bottom of the hill the men are sitting around a blazing fire, a jukebox blasting away. Some are singing along, others smoking. Charlie makes his way down and plops next to Obaidullah, who’s staring up at the stars.

“To think that God created all that above,” Obaidullah says.

“Think there’s any life out there?”

Obaidullah shakes his head.

“That against your religion?” Charlie says.

“To be honestly I do not know.”

“There’s like billions of stars and planets, you’d think there’d be life on one of them. I mean why else would God go to all that trouble?”

“Maybe to show us how special we are.”

“Yet when I look at them I feel totally insignificant.”

“That is the genius, no?”

Charlie has no answer. It’s the most profound thing he’s heard in a long time.

“Mr. Matthews,” Obaidullah says, “I sincerely wish—”

“I know.”

“You will pray very hard on this?”

“Every night, Obaidullah.”

The music changes to a more upbeat track. Yunus and Bakri start dancing with their arms up in the air, circling each other, their bodies swaying from side to side like drunks on a boat. Everyone claps. When they finish Najib and Zahoor take a turn. Charlie turns to Obaidullah.

“Want to go next?”

“I couldn’t,” Obaidullah says.

“Come on.”

“Really I am no good at such activities.”

Charlie looks around and spots Mocam.

“What do you say?”

Mocam smiles, and when Najib and Zahoor sit down, he and Charlie spring up. A loud cheer goes up. Mocam stretches out his arm, and Charlie entwines his elbow with his. Round and round they twirl, whooping and hollering, the embers from the fire floating around them up towards the stars.

FORTY-FIVE

THE PRINCE SPEAKS
to his six hundred men in the early morning gloom, green flags, with quotes from the Quran on them, flapping behind him. Every one of them is looking forward to the day ahead. Everyone of them that is but Tariq.

Tariq is well aware of what’s promised him if he dies a martyr. Jeweled couches to recline on, youths waiting on him with bowls of fruit, seventy-two dark eyed virgins to whom he can make love for the rest of eternity. Yet he has no desire for it, not even with that pig of a wife he has now.

I don’t want to leave this life, not yet at least.

He glances at Salim Afridi, standing beside the Prince with his chest puffed out.

Do you blame yourself? Do you blame Allah? Or have you rationalized your sons’ deaths already? They can, after all, only add to your legend.

A final roar of ‘Allah akbar’ explodes from the men, and the mujahideen race to their assigned vehicles. Tariq watches the Prince and his bodyguards march to his Hummer. The rumor is that it’s armored to the same specifications as the American president’s limo.

You don’t seem so keen on leaving this world either
.

Tariq walks over to his pick-up and opens the passenger door. Three mujahideen are crammed up front. He suspects his father-in-law made certain of that. The only place left is the truck bed. He clambers into it and finds Ashfaq there.

“This is going to be a magnificent day,” Ashfaq grins.

Tariq realizes the fool volunteered for this assignment. He looks behind him and is surprised to see his father-in-law standing in the bed of the next pick-up, his arms draped over a machine gun welded to its roof. Tariq shivers. Salim Afridi is in the perfect position to shoot him when the firing starts. Salim Afridi shouts an order, and Tariq’s pick-up takes off. Tariq throws his hand out to steady himself, the icy wind blasting his face.

“O Allah,” he mumbles, “forgive my sins of which You are aware, forgive the sins done by the action of my eyes, the negligence of my heart and the movement of my tongue. I beg you to keep me safe this day, spare me Salim Afridi’s wrath and bring me back into the good graces of His Highness the Prince. Ameen.”

Four hours later, Tariq is beginning to believe that Allah has answered his prayers. They have reached the outskirts of Kabul without a shot being fired. There seems to be no city to speak of, just hillocks of rubble from the pounding Hekmatyar’s troops gave the area in the fall. The occasional building still stands, but none of them has a roof, and gaping holes dot their walls. They pass a burqaed woman wailing at the side of the road, her two small children lying beside her. There’s no way to tell if they’re alive or dead. Past her, sits the turret of a Soviet tank. Where the rest of it is, Tariq has no clue.

Is this what we’ve been fighting for all these years?

A young boy, no older than ten, runs into the road, and the driver is forced to slam on the brakes. The boy holds out his hands and starts babbling away.

“Get him off the road,” Salim Afridi shouts.

Tariq looks warily at his father-in-law.

“Now,” his father-in-law barks.

Tariq jumps down onto the asphalt.

Is this it?

Tariq braces for the barrage of bullets. They don’t come. Not yet at least.

The convoy begins to bunch up behind them.

“Please, sir, please,” the boy cries, “my mother is dying. Please, come help.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Tariq says.

The boy grabs a hold of Tariq’s sleeve.

“Please, she’s over there, she needs medicine, please.”

“What’s the hold-up?” Salim Afridi shouts.

Tariq ignores him. He hands the boy a twenty dollar bill.

“Here take this,” he says.

The young boy cries harder. Tariq takes the boy’s frozen hand in his, and walks him to the side of the road.

“She’ll be fine,” Tariq says. “I promise.”

The boy uses his sleeve to wipe the tears from his eyes. Tariq hears a low rumble and looks up into the grey sky. A dot is making its way towards them.

A MIG.

He grabs the boy’s hand.

“Run,” he shouts.

The roar builds. The boy trips, and Tariq yanks him up. They stagger on another ten yards when an explosion lifts them off their feet. Tariq tumbles to the ground. His ears ring, and his mouth fills with dirt. He looks back and sees his pick-up is nothing but a burning shell while Salim Afridi’s lies on its side. Tariq crawls around looking for the boy and finds him lying on his back. The boy’s eyes stare blankly up at Tariq, his hand still gripping the twenty dollar bill.

There’s another roar overhead followed by a second set of explosions further down the convoy. Tariq realizes there have to be two jets.

So much for the Communists not having fuel
.

Tariq stumbles back to the road. Mujahideen are falling out of their vehicles and scrambling to safety. Further up, two tanks are billowing pitch black smoke while the remaining two turn their guns up to the sky in a futile gesture.

Tariq reaches the road. Nearby Ashfaq’s head and torso are splayed on the road, his legs nowhere to be seen.

Tariq searches the sky. The jets’ fiery engines are arcing around; they’re making another run.

The Prince
.

He hears groans coming from the overturned pick-up and sees his father-in-law lying there, his right foot trapped under the back end of his pick-up.

“Tariq, help me,” he says.

There’s an almighty roar, and the ground shakes as two more explosions rock the convoy. The other two tanks have sustained direct hits.

“Tariq,” his father-in-law shouts.

Tariq ignores him and sprints down the road. He looks over his shoulder. The dots are coming closer once again.

Run.

He dives behind one of the burning tanks just before the first jet lets rip with its cannon. Chunks of road fly into the air, mujahideen are obliterated in a blink of an eye, vehicles are flipped on their side. The jet passes and the screams of the wounded and dying fill the air. Tariq waits. He feels the ground tremble, and the second jet unleashes a similar wave of destruction. He gets up and runs on. The road is a vision of hell, vehicles everywhere burning hot and bright.

Please Allah, don’t let the Prince’s Hummer be one of them.

A mujahid comes towards him, his eyes wild.

“Have you seen the Prince?” Tariq shouts.

The mujahid staggers on, and as he passes, Tariq sees blood streaming from the man’s ears. Up ahead he spies the Hummer ablaze next to an overturned supply truck. Boxes of ammunition and weaponry are scattered all over the road.

He scans the side of the road and spots the Prince crouching next to it, the bodies of his guard scattered around him.

Thank God.

The sole surviving guard tries to pull the Prince away, but the Prince resists, too frightened to move.

Tariq looks towards the horizon and sees the jets coming around again.

No.

He spots a metal box whose top has burst open. Inside it is a Stinger missile launcher. How many times had he and Yousef played with them back in the storeroom?

Tariq pulls the launcher out. He flicks on the switch. It beeps, and he realizes there’s no way for him to hold the launcher and pull the trigger at the same time.

“Help me,” he screams at the guard.

With his one arm he lifts the Stinger onto his shoulder and searches for the jets through the scope.

There. Just above the road.

“Help me, I said.”

The Stinger beeps, its seeker now locked in on one. He feels a presence beside him. It’s the guard.

“Pull the trigger,” he shouts.

The guard leans in and yanks it. In a plume of white smoke the missile blasts out of the tube and winds its way above the road. A massive fireball bursts in front of them, and the jet tumbles into a nearby field. Moments later the second plane screeches over their heads, its guns silent. Tariq watches the plane’s exhaust arc north towards Bagram airbase.

It’s over.

He sees the Prince still cowering by the side of the road and scrambles over to him. He grabs him by the arm. The Prince resists.

“It’s okay, I promise.”

He leads him onto the road and places the launcher in his hand. The surviving mujahideen begin to stumble back onto the road. Tariq lifts the Prince’s free hand.

“Allah Akbar,” Tariq screams.

The mujahideen look his way.

“Allah Akbar,” he screams over and over.

The survivors crowd around the Prince and hoist him up onto their shoulders. Color returns to the Prince’s cheeks, and he punches the launcher into the air.

“Allah has brought us a great victory,” the Prince says. “We return to Peshawar and regroup.”

Tariq wanders back down the road past the burning vehicles and sprawled bodies. To his disappointment, he finds his father-in-law alive.

“Where the hell did you go?” Salim Afridi says.

“I shot the plane down.”

Salim Afridi winces.

“Well come on, lift up the back so I can pull my foot out.”

Tariq gets behind Salim Afridi and puts his arms around him.

“Not me, you fool, the truck.”

Tariq slips his hand into Salim Afridi’s shoulder holster and pulls out his pistol. Salim Afridi turns to grab it, but by then Tariq is out of harm’s reach.

“I’ve always wanted to ask you a question,” Tariq says. “When you killed your uncle was he surprised to see you there? Or was there a part of him that had always feared that day would come?”

Salim Afridi looks around for help only to see nothing but dead around him. He swallows.

“Those were different times, Tariq. All is forgiven, any bad blood between you and I is in the past.”

“That’s what your uncle thought, and while times may change, human nature doesn’t. A son can never forgive the killer of his father, and likewise I see no way a father can ever forgive the killer of his sons.”

Salim Afridi yanks on his foot.