by Jeff Buick
"The Iranians are good people. They have helped us many times."
Kadir took a sweet and popped it into his mouth. It had been so long since he had tasted sugar. He tucked it under his tongue so it would last longer. "My family stayed in an Iranian refugee camp when the Taliban were in power. They were kind and welcomed us into their country."
"What will you do now?" Ahmad asked.
Kadir shook his head. "I don't know. I have no food, no house, no furniture to sell. I am a damaged man with no wife and three daughters. The job building the well paid six American dollars, but that will be gone soon. Things are very difficult."
Ahmad stroked an eyebrow and asked, "How old is Halima?"
"Eleven, almost twelve. Her birthday is in two weeks."
Ahmad sipped his tea and gave Kadir a thoughtful look. "Maybe there is a way for you to feed your children."
Kadir leaned forward. "How is this possible?"
"I know of a man, a Pakistani who lives in Peshawar, who travels to Afghanistan to find girls to live with rich families in his city. The girls must work to earn their keep, but they get a small room with a bed, all their meals, and a chance to attend school."
Kadir looked confused. "Why does he come to Afghanistan? Why not find girls in Pakistan?"
Ahmad laughed and the sound reverberated off the thick, mud walls. "The girls in Pakistan are spoiled. They are not at war like us. They think nothing of having new clothes and food on the table twice a day. This man travels to Kandahar because the girls who live here understand that such things are luxuries. They don't mind working hard, scrubbing the dishes and changing the bed linens to earn their keep and live in a nice house."
Kadir nervously licked his lips. "Would this man be interested in taking Halima to such a house?"
"Maybe," Ahmad said. "I could ask. I have only seen him once. He came for a girl whose family lived in a tent on the south edge of Kandahar. He was very nice, and the girl's parents received pictures of her at her new house in Peshawar. I saw the pictures. She was very happy, smiling and wearing a nice dress. And the house they live in - it is beautiful."
Kadir frowned. "But how does that help me feed Aaqila and Danah?"
Ahmad grinned. "This man receives money from the family in Peshawar for finding good, hard-working girls, and some of this money is paid to the girl's parents."
Kadir's hands were shaking and he set his tea on the sturdy wood table to keep it from spilling. "How much money?" he asked through dry lips.
"The family living in the tent received one thousand five hundred American dollars."
Kadir's head swam at the thought of such a fortune. He could find a small apartment and feed Aaqila and Danah for years if he had that kind of money. And Halima would be safe and well fed. With an elegant roof over her head. He may not have many chances to see her, and Halima would not be part of watching her younger sisters grow up, but those were small considerations given the opportunity. He took a second mint from the clay dish and picked up his tea. He sipped the steaming liquid.
"Is it possible to meet this man?" he asked. His voice was different, like it was in a tunnel. It didn't sound like him. He hoped that his words and his tone weren't giving Ahmad the impression that he was desperate. Even though he was.
"Perhaps. I can talk to the family of the girl who moved to Peshawar. They only live a few blocks from here in a small house they bought with the money."
Kadir's heartbeat quickened. This was a dream. Halima safe and living a good life and his other daughters living in a house with their father, a landowner. A dream that could come true.
"Could you please try, Ahmad?" Kadir asked. "It would be greatly appreciated."
"Of course."
Halima and Safa, Ahmad's daughter, came running in from the courtyard and the small room was filled with laughter. Aaqila and Danah remained in the back portion of the house with Ahmad's wife. The older girls had the family goat tethered to a short section of rope. The goat, and the girls, were anxious to leave the house.
"Can we play in the field by the stone wall?" Safa pulled on the rope, trying to keep the goat in the house. "The goat needs some exercise."
Ahmad wagged his finger at her. "It isn't the goat that needs exercise, it's you and Halima. We can't hear ourselves think with all this racket."
"Can we?" Safa begged.
Ahmad looked at Kadir, who shrugged that he didn't care.
"All right," Ahmad said sternly, "but Kadir and I will come and watch. We don't want the goat to get too much exercise."
The girls ran out the front door and down the street toward the open fields on the edge of town. The men followed behind them, their steps slow and deliberate. They talked as they walked the deserted roadway, about the weather and their common friends and the young people who were leaving Kandahar for Kabul, where it wasn't as dangerous and work was easier to find. Although Kadir wanted to talk about the situation with Halima, his friend had said he would look into it and it would be rude to broach the subject again. They reached the stone wall, a meter high and equally as thick, and watched the girls chase the goat about the dusty pasture, bordered on three sides by the wall and the fourth by a crumbling, abandoned building.
"I'm glad they never knew the Taliban," Ahmad said. "Life is so much better for girls and women now that the soldiers are here."
Kadir stroked his damaged hand. The agony of each crushing blow shot through his brain. Painful memories were always the most enduring. Nothing about the Taliban was pleasant. Their mark on the country - on the people - was a swath of misery and brutality that refused to fade. And despite being driven out of the cities and back to their caves, they were still omnipresent. A stain that couldn't be washed out. He wished the soldiers could end the terror. He prayed for them to end the terror. Daily.
"So much better," Kadir agreed.
They turned their attention to the girls, who had fashioned a game with the goat and an empty tin can. Every time they kicked the can, the goat would bolt toward it, then lose interest when it stopped bouncing. Halima and Safa squealed every time the goat charged the can. Halima bent over and scooped up the can, then threw it as hard as she could. The goat took off the second it hit the ground.
The small, fragmentation landmine was Russian, and had sat just under the sand for over twenty years. Many feet had trod over it, never causing it to explode. But the force of the goat's hoof as it veered sharply toward the can was at exactly the right angle to depress the switch and trigger the jammed detonator. The mine exploded, sending shrapnel in all directions. The upward force of the explosion tore the goat's torso in half, shredding its vital organs and killing it instantly. The lateral spray of hot metal, designed for maximum collateral damage, sliced through the air, slamming into mud and stone.
Safa went down screaming and holding her side and her face. Halima buckled under the force of a red-hot sliver cutting into her calf muscle. Both girls lay writhing in the sand and rocks. Kadir and Ahmad jumped over the fence and raced to the girls. Neither were doctors, but it was obvious that Safa had taken the worst of the shrapnel. Her cheek was a mess, the metal still protruding from her skin. Another piece had punctured her skin above her hip. Kadir turned his attention to Halima. He grasped her leg and pulled at the metal. It was scalding hot and burned his fingers. He ripped off his shirt, wrapped it around his good hand, grasped the metal and pulled. Halima screamed as it wrenched free.
"Does it hurt anywhere else?" he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes wide and scared.
"I need to help Ahmad. Safa is badly hurt," he said.
"Yes, I understand," Halima managed through tears and gritted teeth.
Kadir slipped his hands from under her and turned to Ahmad and his daughter. She was in shock and bleeding from numerous cuts. Her father was holding her, unsure what to
do.
"We need to get the metal out." Kadir touched the piece protruding from her cheek. "It's hot and it's hurting her."
"Then pull it," Ahmad said. "I will hold her." He grasped the girl's arms and pinned them to her side and wrapped one of his legs over hers. "Do it," he yelled.
Kadir yanked on the shrapnel, but it stuck. It was implanted in her jaw. He gripped it tighter and pulled again. This time it came free. Safa passed out from the pain. Blood was staining her blouse and Kadir lifted it so he could see her side. Another piece had cut through the flesh immediately above her hipbone. He rewrapped his shirt on his hand and pulled. It came free. A small trickle of blood followed, then stopped.
"The heat of the metal has cauterized the wounds," Kadir said. "She shouldn't bleed much."
Ahmad nodded that he understood and checked Safa for any other wounds. He found none. "We need to get her home. To clean the cuts and dress them."
"Yes," Kadir agreed. "Halima as well."
Ahmad lifted Safa and started for the fence. The remnants of the goat were splayed out over the ground, the blood staining the dirt a dark purple. He stepped over the carcass and onto the street. Kadir was behind him with Halima in his arms.
"We were lucky today," Ahmad said as they walked quickly up the street. "The girls could have been killed."
Kadir simply nodded. Visions of Halima living in a nice house in Pakistan flooded his mind. He had to get her out of here. To give her a chance at a good life. Kandahar was their home, but the dangers were too great. He needed to make it happen. And when it did, when Halima was safe, then he would take the money and move to a quiet part of Afghanistan, where Aaqila and Danah would be safe as well.
Nothing could stand in his way. Nothing.
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Chapter
14
Day 8 - 8.03.10 - Morning News
Midtown Manhattan, New York City
Tuesday, August 3rd dawned sunny and clear in New York. Carson was in his office and poring over printouts at seven-ten when William Fleming appeared at his door.
"I saw Monday's tapes on the NASDAQ and BATS. We led the market yesterday."
Carson allowed a slight grin. That was exactly the information that was sitting in front on him on his desk. "Yes, we did."
Fleming walked into the office and stood near the window. "You like it here?" he asked, staring out over the park.
"Very much. Especially the private bathroom."
Fleming nodded, then turned away from the view to face Carson. "First week on the job and you nailed the bid-ask spread on sixty-one stocks."
Carson knew the teams at Goldman and Citigroup would be racing to catch up. "The other firms will notice that they were tapped by odd lots," he said. "They will be looking for us."
"Let them look," Fleming said. "If we're faster, we can keep pinging them with small orders, then front run them. It's all about the algorithm."
Carson didn't answer. Fleming was right and they both knew it. The firm with the fastest computers and slickest algorithm controlled the new trading floor. The one that existed in cyberspace. The one where almost eighty percent of America's stocks were traded every day.
"Do you know how much money we made by being the fastest yesterday?"
Carson shrugged. Those figures weren't on his daily reports. "No idea," he said.
"Including the rebates from the exchanges, one-point-seven million." Fleming let the figure sink in. "If we continue to run a mil or two faster than the other firms, these numbers will be the norm. That's eight-point-five a week. Four hundred and forty-two million a year." Fleming flashed a wide smile. "Imagine your Christmas bonus."
"They'll catch us," Carson said. "If we're beating them by a millisecond, they'll find a way to shave two off their algo."
"Then we shave one off ours."
"I have Chui working on it. Yesterday's trading was with a band-aid fix. Alicia stripped the iterations. But we should have something solid up and running within the month."
"How many iterations did she take out?" Fleming asked.
"Two. We went from seven to five. I don't think it compromises the program."
Fleming nodded his agreement. "Five is fine. For now. I don't think we want to run five forever. Remaining stable is crucial. We don't need a meltdown."
Carson felt a bit of wind pull back from the sail. Shortcuts were risky. The sub-prime fiasco came to mind. Packaging the sub-prime mortgages in bundles and selling them as asset-backed securities to the banks was the con of the century. It was a moneymaking strategy that had collapsed when the housing market stalled. Part of the blame fell on Wall Street and the MBA's who had been willing to take risks with other people's futures. Being part of the group that had orchestrated the downturn was a bitter pill - one that he often choked on. Fleming's voice cut through his thoughts.
"How is your fiancee?" he asked.
"Nicki is doing so-so, not great. She's on the list for a double lung transplant, though."
"Will she be okay when she gets new lungs?"
"Maybe. Cystic fibrosis is genetic - the new lungs will never get the disease and her breathing should be normal. But there's always the possibility of rejection. She'll be on a lot of immunosuppressant drugs."
"Nasty disease."
"You have no idea," Carson said quietly.
Fleming glanced out the window, then walked to a wingback chair in front of Carson's desk and sat down. "I want to expand your department and I have a shortlist of candidates for you to look over. I think you're a bit light on the technical side right now. Another programmer or two would help. What are your thoughts on that?"
"Chui and Alicia and their staff are running hard," Carson said. "Extra bodies are appreciated." He paused, then qualified that statement. "But not just any bodies - we need the best minds on the market."
"We pay well. We'll steal them. You can look over the shortlist and arrange for interviews. I'll sit in on the last interview with the final three candidates if you don't mind."
"Love to have you there."
Fleming smiled. "Well, good work, Carson. Let me know when Chui gets the new algorithm up and running. I'll be interested to see how much faster it is."
"Sure, I'll do that."
Fleming retreated from the office and into the hall. Carson watched him leave, then swiveled around in his chair and stared out the window. This is where all the late hours at MIT, alone with his books in the study hall, or at his tiny desk in the corner of his dorm, had gotten him. His dedication had propelled him forty-six floors above the mayhem that ruled the sidewalks of New York. Forty-six floors above minimum wage and subsistence salaries. A world above mundane.
He spun back to face his desk, picked up the phone and called his home number. Nicki answered. "Hey, you," he said. "How are you doing?"
"Okay." Her voice was strained. Weak. "Having breakfast," she lied. The thought of food made her violently ill. Typical for end-stage CF patients.
"Good. You need to keep up your strength. I was thinking of calling a Realtor and setting up some showings. Are you up to looking at some places?"
"Sure." She didn't sound sure.
"Fleming was just in my office. He was talking bonuses. He said mine could be pretty substantial if the numbers keep up."
There was silence on the other end of the line. A disapproving silence.
"Yesterday's numbers were good," he continued. "Fleming is impressed."
"That's one day, Carson. We can't make a decision to buy a condo in Midtown Manhattan based on you having one good day at work."
"Two good days," he replied. "Yesterday we made a ton of money. Today Fleming came into my office and to
ld me I'm doing a great job. That's two good days."
"Okay, funny guy." She coughed, a thick sound that came from the depths of her chest. It continued for almost a minute. When she was finished, she said, "We can look at a couple of places, but not right away. I'm not a hundred percent on this yet."
"Okay. We'll wait a few days. Talk to you later."
"Later."
Carson heard the coughing as he set the phone back in its cradle. Nicki's lungs were getting worse. Much worse. Without the transplant, she would be lucky to make it for another six months. The nagging doubt returned. What was he doing? He was on the top of his game, thirty-six years old and set to pull down an income of well over a million a year. He could have his pick of intelligent, attractive women. Manhattan was full of eligible girls in their early thirties who would date him in a minute. Sleep with him. Marry him.
He pushed the thoughts aside. Nicki was everything to him. He loved her, and Nicki and he were forever. Whatever forever was.
* * *
Soho, New York City
Nicki hung up the phone and gasped for air. She pushed the oxygen hose tight against her nostrils, closed her mouth and breathed through her nose. The oxygen-rich air satisfied her body's craving and she slumped back into the chair.
She was dying. Her lungs were filling with phlegm and mucus faster now than even a month or two ago. Even with the physiotherapist beating on her chest and back to loosen the thick liquids, she was going downhill at a horrific rate. She needed a lung transplant or she wouldn't see Christmas. She didn't need a doctor to tell her that. The cystic fibrosis was winning. It always did.
A tear spilled from her eye and started down her cheek. She wiped it away. Her parents would have to know soon. They were living in the family home of thirty-three years in Michigan and blissfully ignorant of how quickly she was deteriorating. She only called them on the phone when her breathing was good and she had enough stamina to talk for a couple of minutes. And close to dinner so when she was too exhausted to speak she could lie to them that Carson had food on the table. Another tear caressed her cheek and she ignored it. This one was for her mother. For the woman who had always felt guilt for bringing a child into the world with a fatal disease. CF was genetic. She didn't get it from making bad choices or living a questionable lifestyle. It was embedded in her at the cellular level. Forever.
