Beijing
‘Carter is not in China.’ Rong entered Hsu’s office. ‘He left the country the same day he attacked us.’
‘How do you know that?’ The MSS chief muted the TV that was playing in his office.
‘We got nothing from any security camera, as you know. But I found this on a tourist’s blog.’
He played a video of the traveler narrating his experience in Beijing. ‘There, that’s the one they call Bwana.’
Hsu squinted at the tall, heavily-muscled man sipping a drink at a food stall. He took the phone from his deputy and zoomed in. ‘Shi.’ He nodded finally. ‘That’s him. Carter?’
‘No sign of him. He must be behind his disguise.’
‘Shi. Why didn’t we spot Bwana?’
‘I think he had his head down always. Besides, our facial recognition software can be glitchy.’
A deep sense of relief swept over Hsu, but he didn’t show it. That would be a sign of weakness. He had spent the days since the attack cooped up in his office. The only time he ventured out was to commute to and from his residence in Zhongnanhai. He had told the president and various ministers that Zhao and her rebels were responsible for the attack and had prompted Rong to raid several suspected activists’ residences and make arrests.
‘Why would he leave like that?’
‘I can’t read minds, Jimmy,’ he said in irritation. ‘He will be back. Can you get an upgrade on our software? We have to capture him when he returns.’
‘Shi, laoban. I’ve got our technicians working on it.’
‘Threaten them if they aren’t moving fast enough.’
‘Do you think he left because of that?’ Rong gestured at the news clip playing on TV.
‘Taliban demanding Pasha back?’ Hsu asked in surprise. ‘What’s that got to do with Carter?’
‘It’s such a coincidence. The attack and their demand happened on the same day.’
Both watched the clip for several moments and then looked at each other.
‘The Americans will never find Pasha.’ Hsu smiled cunningly.
‘No, laoban,’ Rong grinned.
Badakshan
It was getting dark when Zeb’s convoy drove through the enormous province of Badakshan and reached the Sori valley. They parked on the outskirts of Sarhad and hid their vehicles, now covered in a film of dust, in thickets by the track and walked into the village.
His friends spread out when they hit the village’s equivalent of Main Street. A short line of shops with their wares displayed in the front, under tarpaulin awnings. Fruits, grains, vegetables, meat—the smells and sounds of an evening market lit by electric lights and oil lamps.
‘If the Russians hadn’t come to Afghanistan,’ Broker wondered, ‘would this market have been the same? Everything that happened to Afghanistan in modern times started with the Soviets.’
Zeb grinned at his friend’s philosophical musing. ‘We’ve been to parts of the world that time hasn’t touched. No reason to believe this market would have been any different.’
‘But for the young people,’ Chloe said bitterly. ‘Look around. Most of the folks here are old. The young … they’ve gone to fight with the Taliban, or have died, or have gone to bigger cities.’
She’s right. We have played a role in that, too.
He passed Maher’s store on his right without stopping as he sized up the market. Many people were armed, some of them with Lee Enfield rifles, a few with AKs. The emergence of the extremists had led many Afghans to arm themselves for self-protection.
‘No threats that I can see,’ Beth called out as she inspected a shawl dangling from a store’s awning.
‘Me neither,’ Bwana murmured from the far end of the alley.
Zeb turned back and felt a watermelon in a basket outside Maher’s store.
‘Those are fresh, sahib,’ the young storekeeper said brightly when a customer had left. ‘From Fayzabad. I get them every week. Stock came in only today. My store is the only one that has them,’ he said proudly.
‘Tannaz said you’ve got to reduce eating those sheerpira sweets. You’ll put on weight and then no one will marry you.’
The Afghan started and took a hard look at Zeb.
‘You are Darwish’s friend?’
‘Call him on video and show me on camera.’
The storekeeper took a melon from the basket and hefted it in his hand as he pointed out other fresh fruits in his store.
He’s experienced at this. He knows how to maintain his composure.
Maher brought out his phone as he still kept up the sales talk and casually pointed its lens at his visitor. He nodded several times and hung up.
‘You speak Dari well.’
‘I can speak Pashto, too. Everyone in my team can.’
‘Is that big man in your team?’
‘Which one?’
Bear’s as large as Bwana.
‘The mean-looking one.’
‘Yeah,’ Zeb replied, chuckling.
That’s a good description.
‘What can I do for you? My uncle said this shop is yours. I hope he didn’t mean it literally … I don’t think you know the first thing about fruits and grains.’
Zeb smiled as he took an immediate liking to the shopkeeper. Maher had thick hair, stylishly cut, an expressive face and intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a loose shirt over a pair of trousers, and the sneakers on his feet were a known brand.
‘We come from wealth,’ he stated when he took in his visitor’s gaze. ‘We are always a target for the Taliban—’ He broke off when the twins and Chloe came to the store. They had changed into suitable clothing in their vehicles before coming to the market. Dark kameezes with embroidery around the neck fell below their knees, over cotton salwars. The sisters hadn’t disguised their green eyes, however.
‘We’re with him.’ Beth smirked at the admiration in his eyes. ‘You were saying?’
‘The Taliban.’ Maher cleared his throat. ‘They harassed us constantly. They demanded protection money for letting us run our businesses. They even killed several of my relatives … that’s when we started our intelligence network.’
‘We know Darwish very well,’ Meghan informed him. Letting him know subtly that they knew the family’s back story.
‘Yes, of course,’ the shopkeeper said hurriedly. ‘What do you need from me?’
‘What will you tell the villagers? They’ll have noticed we are strangers.’
‘You are American tourists, exploring Badakshan. We get foreigners. It’s not uncommon. It’s best to stick to a believable story.’
‘You’ve done this before.’
‘Like I said, it runs in our family.’
‘Where’s Atash Faroukh?’
Maher took the melon from Zeb’s hands and placed it back in the basket. He took apples from their shelf, polished them against his trousers and offered them.
‘He’s up there.’ He jerked his head at the mountain looming into the sky. ‘Some of his people came this morning to buy groceries. It’s the same men who come every time. That’s how I know.’
Zeb bit into the fruit as he studied the distant peak, on which a few lights were visible.
‘He’s dangerous,’ the shopkeeper whispered. ‘Evil. You have to stay away from him, especially you, khanom,’ he told the women. ‘He has raped Western women before—and beheaded them.’
Doesn’t look like Darwish has told him who we are.
Zeb swallowed the last of the apple and drank water from his bottle. He didn’t take his eyes away from Sori as he addressed Maher.
‘We want to meet him. Can you arrange that?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
‘Can you set up a meeting?’ he countered.
The shopkeeper stared at him and turned to take in Bwana, Bear, Roger and Broker, moving toward them with languid ease, like panthers on a stroll.
He frowned thoughtfully as he sized them up and turned to Zeb. ‘It was you. My uncle said an American agent impersonated an Afghan and lived here for some time. I wasn’t here, then. I was in Fayzabad. You killed Pasha. Here.’ He glanced around casually, drew a key out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘Darwish said you would need a place to stay. We have a family place near the approach road. You must have come into the village on that route. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house with a gate, on the left, as you enter the village. I can show it to you if you wish.’
‘We’ll find it.’ Meghan pocketed the key. ‘You have a phone?’
‘That meeting?’ Zeb reminded him when he had recited his contact number.
‘It will be difficult, but I can set it up. You’re going to kill him?’
‘No. We need his help.’