ZABUL PROVINCE
Omar Defari fumbled in his pocket for the source of the vibration. Dropping the bag of fertiliser he had just hauled up the creek bank, he pressed the green answer button.
‘Omar Defari?’ a female American voice enquired.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘My name is Steph. Faisal Khan gave me your number. I really hope that you are well and that your family are healthy and well too?’ Her fake courtesy grated on Omar.
‘I’m in good health, thanks be to God. Faisal told me that you would call someday.’
Steph explained to Omar how she might be able to help him and his family. Omar listened to her speak; although her arrogant American drawl irritated him, her naivety regarding the complex situation in Afghanistan actually amused him. But when she started to explain that she would pay for the information he provided, Omar took more notice. Perhaps, he thought, she could help him after all.
‘I was told that you’d like to meet to give me the information in person,’ the American said.
‘Are you able to send money first?’ Omar asked. ‘So we know that we can trust each other?’
‘I could give you half upfront and half after you have delivered the information,’ she offered, then named a sum that was more than Omar could ever have dared to imagine.
‘But, Omar, the information must be worth it,’ the American cautioned as they concluded their conversation.
‘It will be,’ he assured her.
Ending the call, Omar shouldered the twenty-kilo bag once again and walked slowly through the archway leading to the pomegranate orchard. He strolled along the narrow gravel path. On either side were the new pomegranate saplings, planted just last spring. He entered his family’s compound to the sound of children playing happily in the courtyard – just as children had done in Zabul for as long as he could remember. This area of the province had been left mostly untouched by the last ten years of war, and in the twenty years before that the Soviets had dared not venture too far up into these higher areas. It was peaceful here: the perfect spot for his younger brother to command a powerful legion that was determined to rule the surrounding valleys and beyond.
‘Mouza, how are you on this day?’ Omar asked the eldest of his brother’s wives. She was sitting on a stone step watching the children playing in the yard. She looked up at him through the narrow slit in her veil.
‘I’m well, Omar, thanks be to God. What have you here?’
‘This is for the orchard – it’s food to help with the new plants. Fasili in Arghandab brought it for me. You remember: he is the cousin of Faisal Khan. He dropped me off and has just left now.’ Omar settled down next to her, stroking his grey beard.
‘Oh, I should have liked to have seen him. His family, are they fine? Did you ask if they are in good health?’ She coughed gently into a piece of white embroidered cloth and then passed him the plate of dates that she had been picking at.
‘God has seen to it that they are all well,’ said Omar, selecting a few dates and then settling back against the cool wall. The shade of the larger trees gave much-needed shade in the height of summer and kept the compound wall surprisingly cool. Omar had sat on this step for more than fifty summers and knew the seasons from the shadows of the trees. He was already conscious of the cooler months now approaching.
‘Faisal also saw Ahmed last week, Mouza.’ Omar looked down at the cracks in the ground and watched a trail of small ants scurrying towards their nest. He picked up a stick and scraped it across the line of insects. ‘Ahmed gave him this bag to give to you.’ He put down the stick and, picking up a small bag, handed it to Mouza. ‘He wants you to keep it safe for him.’
Mouza took the bag and held it against her chest. Omar could tell that she missed her husband. In his absence, she was required to maintain his part of the family. This included organising the two other wives, managing their part of the plantation and keeping their young sons from taking off into Kandahar. Ahmed’s remaining six boys were almost teenagers and, with the loss of their brother as a martyr, they needed their father here now more than ever.
‘On Friday, while we prayed together in the Arghandab mosque, Faisal told me of an American woman who was going to help stop the foreigners from taking our fruit. She called to talk to me just now. I don’t know what she thinks she can do. She talks of markets, new roads to Kandahar and new machinery. She asked me to go to Kandahar to see her – she had many questions. She says she will pay me a thousand US dollars just to meet with her. We could use that money, Mouza – it’s more than the Iranians will pay and more than Ahmed can hope to make fighting.’
‘Well, you must tell Ahmed,’ she counselled. ‘He would want to know all about this. Perhaps it’s a trick. Remember, brother: Ahmed is in charge of this whole tribal area now. He knows what he’s doing. Soon enough he could go to Quetta. Imagine then! Imagine the wealth he will send back, the future that the children might have.’
‘Future? What about the past? I remember when our fathers’ fathers owned all these orchards, Mouza, peace be upon them. Our families were rich and had all they could need. I went to school in Kabul. We learned the language of the West. Now we give these other foreigners the fruit for our own protection, they pay but a fraction of its true worth and leave us with hardly enough to survive. Their protection from God should not be so assured, I feel.’ Omar picked up the stick again and smashed it into the hole the ants had been disappearing down.
‘Be careful, Omar,’ Mouza cautioned. ‘God knows what is best for all of us. Anyway, Mullah Ghazi has never raised these issues that you speak of.’
‘Hmph, Mullah Ghazi! Who is he? A foreigner, that’s who. What would he know of our troubles? My father was the mullah here when I was a boy, not some teacher from the madrasas in Pakistan. He brings me these sickly creatures. They can’t even tend to the trees let alone fight. They sit in the mosque and eat our food then when I send them with a vest to take a message to the Americans they can’t even stand up long enough to get close and kill them.’ Mouza ignored the reference to the Pakistani suicide bombers. Ahmed would not approve of her taking an interest in the suicide bombings. Ahmed and Omar kept these things between themselves. It wasn’t her place to think about such things.
‘They disappear, Mouza, one by one only to be replaced by others. And all the while Mullah Ghazi poisons our own boys’ minds and they leave us for Quetta. Your boys will be next, Mouza, wait and see.’
‘Your father is gone now, Omar. You need to talk to Ahmed before you speak to any other foreigners, be they Muslim or infidel.’ Mouza’s tone was firm and it unsettled Omar; he decided to change tack.
‘You are wise beyond your years and station, Mouza. Perhaps you’re right, sister. But I cannot tell Ahmed – he will not be back from Tarin Kowt until the end of the summer and I promised not to contact him; he worries about the ears of the West, you know.’ Omar looked back out along the path and up into the mountains at the end of their valley.
‘He is safe enough, Omar. Abdul Rahman is a good host. I suspect they are very busy there.’ Mouza opened the bag to look at the contents.
‘And not just fixing motorcycles in Rahman’s shop, either,’ said Omar.
Mouza glanced across at him and then started to unpack the contents of the bag; she was becoming annoyed by the old fool.
‘Look at these things: old broken watches, all these phone parts, hair dye, black eyeliner, an oven timer and these – what are these? They look like the eyes of a giant bug.’ Mouza held up the strange goggles to examine them. They had long black lenses with rubber caps on each end and were held on a frame that was made of grey aluminium. An American flag was stamped on the left and dried blood covered the right tube. She dropped them back in the bag, not wanting even to speculate how her husband had chanced on these.
‘Ahmed has vowed revenge for your father’s death at the hands of the Americans. Why have you stayed here instead of helping him?’ she demanded.
‘I do what I can, sister, but I am growing old.’
‘Dropping a suicide bomber on the side of the road and then blowing him up in the name of Allah is not going to avenge him, brother Omar,’ she said.
Omar looked up at the trees and slowly shook his head. ‘I am old, Mouza, and I have been waiting for Allah to show me how I can right those wrongs.’ He coughed into his open hand, as if to further reinforce his aging years. ‘Did you know that my father’s father had enough money from these lands to open a cinema in Kabul some sixty years ago?’ Omar missed his childhood; from having so much, they had to struggle now merely to survive.
‘I know that, Omar, but is life really so much worse now?’ his sister-in-law asked. ‘At least this valley has seen no violence, no fighting.’
‘I saw black-and-white photographs of my mother riding in a car. She wore modern clothes – a loose shirt, trousers, a colourful headscarf. She could have been mistaken for the wife of American President Eisenhower, who visited Afghanistan that same year. Then the Soviets came, followed by the Mujahedeen and then the Taliban; and now the Americans are back to try to make it like it was supposed to be. They were here not even a month when my father was killed. His only crime was that he was sitting, talking to a man in a field at night. We had hoped for so much when I was a boy. All the men my age that lived in the city will remember what it was like. I was a friend to girls that were at the school next to mine. Girls at school, Mouza – can you believe it?’ Omar sighed. He was worn out from the long trip and the conversation had now made him sad.
‘You spoke of your mother, Omar, but I ask you: what happened to her? What did the Mujahedeen do to her because of her lack of faith? Tell me that.’
‘I must go now, Mouza,’ said Omar. ‘The night approaches and the water pump won’t turn itself on.’ He sighed to himself as he got up, taking his fertiliser with him. ‘See you later this evening for the meal.’
Omar walked away thinking of his youth. He was old now and knew that his years were coming to a close. Secretly he envied his brother. People respected and feared the name Ahmed Defari. This American woman might be the answer to his prayers. The money she would pay could help the family and make the coming winter more bearable and the money that his family would receive if he was to do the task that Faisal asked of him would see them through many more winters. But there was so much more to it than just money. This was how the aging Omar could be remembered, sung about and revered as the one who stood up when he was needed. Perhaps God was showing him how he should help, and perhaps Afghanistan just wasn’t meant to be as it was when he was a child. Yes, this American woman was the answer.
• • •
Mouza sat for a while longer, and then headed inside to her family’s room. The bag intrigued her. She sat on a red velvet cushion on the dusty floor and opened it again. She picked up the goggles once more, shivering at the sight of the blood. She felt sorry for the young infidel who must have once owned these. Mouza missed her own eldest son now. Initially his loss had been celebrated by the village, but now she questioned the cost.
Mouza recognised Ahmed’s phone when she had looked in the bag before: a black Nokia he had bought when they were in Kandahar together, maybe four years ago. He never used his phone anymore. Perhaps he had a new one now. All the phones had been taken apart and the little cards that made them work were in the bottom of the bag. She hadn’t been allowed to use a phone, and really had had no interest in them before now. As she looked at the pieces it became clear how they all fit together. It must need one of these cards and a battery, she thought. She slid the small card inside and looked at the parts on the floor for a battery. Finding one that fit the space, she slotted it in place. The phone screen came to life. She smiled. Her father had always said she was the smartest of the sisters.
There was a shout from the courtyard, startling her. She quickly put the contents back in the bag and slid it under a set of drawers in the corner of the room. It was time to go prepare the evening meal. Ahmed would be proud of her, she thought. Perhaps he would even call her one day; that would be a treat.
• • •
In Kandahar, a small red dot came alive on the computer screen of the signals intelligence analyst. An aircraft above the country had recognised the phone coming to life. Some thirty minutes later, a drone was on station high above the mountain passes that secured Zabul from the rest of Afghanistan. Its payload was generally lethal but also highly intelligent. The electronics on this drone interrogated the mobile phone sitting under the cupboard some four thousand metres below. A handshake was established and the cloning began. All the texts, call registers, photos and other data ever stored on the SIM card was sucked up by the National Security Agency. Within minutes the intelligence was shared across the task forces of the Americans, British, Canadians and Australians. Any Special Forces outfit that had made it their business to prosecute high value targets was notified.
Captain Sam Long, sitting behind his desk in Camp Russell, smiled and leaned back in his chair. Now we know where you’re from! He looked at the images as they started to flash up onto his screen. So which one of you is Rapier? he wondered.
Usually information is gathered through diligent research and judicious use of intelligence resources, but sometimes, just sometimes, it falls straight into your lap.