“Come, Shafiq, sit beside me. It is a momentous day. We shall watch history unfold together.”
Jabir was in an excellent mood. Sitting cross-legged on a plump velvet cushion embroidered with gold thread, he popped a grape into his mouth and gazed down into the valley. Far in the distance, he could just make out the Dhala dam. “Ibrahim, bring me a glass of tea and my binoculars.”
Shafiq sat down. “Do you think they’ll cancel the president’s speech?”
“Perhaps, if they are wise. But no matter. The destruction of the dam will proceed and the world will realise that, even after years of war, we Taliban still control our country.”
It was six o’clock. The sun was low and cast a rich golden glow over the Arghandab valley. Shafiq sighed and then looked all round. “Where’s Father? He will want to watch this too. I haven’t seen him all day.”
Jabir laughed lightly, reached out and placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You should feel proud. Faisal volunteered to lead my men. Your father — my brother — will soon be making the journey to Paradise.”
Shafiq frowned. “What do you mean, ‘to Paradise’?”
Jabir pointed towards the Dhala dam. “He is there. Hiding in the maintenance tunnels. Watching over the explosives. He will detonate them at exactly seven o’clock. But do not worry, Shafiq. Your father will become a shahid, and will pass first through the gates of Paradise.”
Shafiq leaped to his feet. “No! He can’t! He mustn’t. I don’t want him to die.”