One Child

by Jeff Buick

  Kandahar came into view. From the air it appeared peaceful. Kites cut through the air on summer breezes and traffic moved on its boulevards and streets. The Old City was congested with street markets and thick with people on foot and bicycles. Life on a normal day. The only problem was, normal in Kandahar would be considered insanity in any other city of half a million people. Arms deals, drug dealers, insurgents, soldiers and a wary civilian population shared the same space. Everyone carried weapons, many of them hidden under loose-fitting robes, and the guns were loaded. The view from the chopper was a lie. People died violently every day in and around Kandahar. And that world of deceit and treachery was the one Andrew and the rest of the ISAF soldiers lived in.

  The helicopter hovered over the landing pad and dropped slowly to the ground. The rotor wash whipped up a cloud of sand and small pebbles and the military personnel working the landing area covered exposed skin to keep from being sandblasted. The rotors slowed and then stopped. Andrew pushed open the door and stepped out into the quiet as the dust settled. A thin man dressed in civilian clothes was leaning against one of the mud buildings adjacent to the landing area. He had blond hair, was tanned and wore sunglasses. At his feet were two bags. Andrew recognized one of them as a reinforced camera case. He had his journalist. As Andrew walked toward him, he could feel the man's eyes focusing on him. Evaluating him.

  "Russell Matthews?" Andrew asked when he reached the man.

  "Yes." Matthews removed his sunglasses.

  "I'm Specialist Andrew James. I'll be taking care of you while you're in Kandahar province."

  Matthews extended his hand. "You. Personally?"

  "Yes, sir," Andrew said. He shook the writer's hand, surprised at the strength in the man's grip.

  "Please," Matthews said. "Do me one favor."

  "Of course, sir."

  "Do not call me sir. Not ever. It's demeaning."

  "I refer to all my superiors with that word. I don't think it has a demeaning connotation."

  "Not to me," Matthews said. "To you."

  Andrew studied the reporter. He was squinting to keep out the blinding sun, but had angled himself so that even with his sunglasses off, he could still see. There were small crow's-feet at the edges of Matthew's eyes - premature for a man in his mid-thirties. His eyes were observant, and without fear or panic. Andrew knew that look. It was the same one that was in his eyes. The look of someone who had seen more than anyone should see in one lifetime. Someone who wore those memories in quiet solitude. Russell Matthews was a player.

  "You got it." He motioned toward the chopper. "You ready to get out of the city?" he asked.

  Matthews nodded. "Please. I need a break from all the noise. I'm looking forward to a little quiet time at the FOB."

  "Yeah, it's pretty quiet," Andrew said. "Aside from the mortars."

  "Damn things wake you up," Matthews said. He picked up his bag and walked toward the chopper. "Shotgun."

  Andrew grinned at the man's back. He liked Russell Matthews already.

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  Chapter

  17

  Day 10 - 8.05.10 - Morning News

  Kandahar, Afghanistan

  Halima ran her finger over the bandage on her leg. She had seen bandages on other people lots of times, but had never felt them against her own skin. The texture was strange, like the shell of one of the small, green turtles that lived in the reeds by the river. The wound from the shrapnel didn't hurt - rather it was more of a constant throbbing. Mostly, for the past three days, she had ignored it. She was too busy fetching water and cooking qorma and kachaloo for her family to fuss over a cut on her leg. With her father not working, there was no meat to supplement the potato and vegetable dishes, and no money to buy any more food. She could see the worry etched in his face.

  At least she was okay. Safa was still in bad shape from the landmine blast. The metal that pierced her cheek had broken a bone in her jaw. Ahmad had taken her to the hospital in Kandahar and had waited sixteen hours for a doctor to stitch her cheek and the gash above her hip. Halima had visited her friend once since the accident and didn't want to go back. Not until her face healed and she could speak. Halima hated sitting beside her in silence, listening to her moan in pain. Her father, who had left at an unusually early hour, returned and sat on a blanket. He was quiet, careful not to wake Aaqila and Danah.

  "Can you fetch water today?" he asked.

  "Yes, of course." She studied his sun-drenched face. He looked worried, but recently he was always worrying about something. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

  The look faded and he smiled. "Everything is fine." He dug inside his tunic and pulled out a small wad of dog-eared bills. "I have seventy Afghanis. Enough for some vegetables and pulao. Maybe some naan. Does a trip to the marketplace interest you?"

  She brightened. "More than fetching water."

  "Do you enjoy bartering with the merchants?"

  "I do. They're very nice and there is one man who always gives me the best tomatoes on his cart."

  Concern washed over his face. "Does this man ever touch you?" he asked. She looked puzzled by the question and he said, "Like to pat you on the head, or adjust your scarf so it covers your hair."

  Halima shook her head. "No. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason, Halima." He handed her the money.

  Kadir closed his eyes and imagined a world where there were no Taliban or foreign soldiers and young girls were safe. Where poppies grew for their natural beauty, not for opium. Where fathers didn't have to sell one of their children to feed the others. Where his wife was still by his side and their children had a mother. That world existed somewhere, but not in Afghanistan. Maybe that world would return to his country, but it had been so long since they had known peace that it was hard to imagine living without death and pain as neighbors. He opened his eyes as she slipped the money from his fingers.

  Seventy Afghanis. Enough to feed them for a couple of days. The last of his money. After this, there was no more. Nothing to sell. No way to feed the girls. He needed Ahmad to make the connection to the man in Peshawar who arranged to have girls work for rich families. Halima would have a better life, with a bed and a good diet. And school. He could not even fathom sending Halima to school to learn mathematics and reading. Books and paper and pens cost money, and he needed her to fetch water and watch Aaqila and Danah on the few days when he could find work.

  "I'll go now," Halima said, rising and stretching. "Before it gets too hot."

  "Yes. That is a good idea."

  She collected the canvas bags and tucked them under her arm. Chances were good that with seventy Afghanis to spend she would only need one bag, but she took both, just in case. Halima glanced back from the door and waved to her father, who gave her a tired smile. The strange look had returned to his face. She carefully navigated the stairs and made her way through the courtyard. Outside the wall, the street was empty. She headed toward the Old City, a spring in her step.

  Her father was giving her more responsibility now. She was tired of watching her sisters and the trips to the market were fun. It was a long walk, and the bags were heavy on the way home, but she was helping with her father's burden and that was important. She liked bartering with the merchants, especially with the man with thick eyebrows who wore the pale blue turban. He gave her more tomatoes than he should. Probably because she didn't have a mother. She saw the look in his eyes when she told him that her mother was dead. It was a look she had seen a hundred times. The brief moment when the mask that concealed hidden emotions was stripped from the person's eyes and the pain of loss escaped. Everyone in Afghanistan had lost someone close to them. It was the ugly product of three decades of war and unrest.


  Halima rounded a corner and walked into a group of girls playing a pickup game of soccer with a bright plastic ball. Three of them broke off and came running over to her. She knew two of them, sisters from the neighborhood and had talked a few times to the oldest one, who was about her age. She had even joined in on some of their games. But not today. She was entrusted with an important job and having a good time wasn't part of it.

  "Halima," Jahenn, the older girl, gasped. "We heard you and Safa exploded a landmine."

  Her sister, Ramin, and the other girl stared with wide eyes and Ramin asked, "Did Safa lose her leg?"

  Halima shook her head. "No, she still has her leg. A goat set it off. Safa and I were close enough to get hit, though."

  The third girl pointed at Halima's bandage. "Is that from the mine?"

  Halima nodded. "Yes. A big piece of metal was sticking out of my leg. My father pulled it out with his bare hands. He said it was very hot and burned his hands."

  "Did it feel hot?"

  Halima thought about the question. "No, not really." That surprised her. It was the first time she'd really comprehended that the metal that had been embedded in her leg was too hot for her father to grasp. She hadn't thought about it until she said it out loud. "It hurt a lot."

  "My brother lost a leg when he stepped on a mine," the nameless girl said. "He used to be a tea-runner but he can't do that anymore. He sits at home now and doesn't go outside much."

  "My uncle was driving to visit his sister in Helmand Province about a month ago and he hit a mine in his car," Jahenn said.

  "What happened to him?" Halima asked.

  "He died," she replied. There was no emotion in the words. The tone was the same as if she was asking a merchant for two apples. No spark fired in her eyes. No anger at her uncle dying in a mangled wreck of twisted metal on a road to nowhere. No hate for the men who had planted the bomb under a thin covering of sand and rocks with the sole intention of killing or maiming a completely random person.

  "The shells that don't explode scare me," Ramin said. "I crawled in a bombed-out building and I saw one. A big one. It was jammed between two stones. I wanted to touch it but I wasn't brave enough."

  "You don't have to be brave to touch them," her sister said. "Just stupid. The boys like to touch them."

  "Boys are dumb," the other girl stated.

  A man appeared in a doorway and yelled at the girls that it was time for school. They wished Halima a speedy recovery and asked her to say hello to Safa. Then they scampered off and picked up their books and pencils and fell in behind the man as he walked briskly down the street.

  Halima clutched her canvas bags. "And I have to do some shopping at the market," she said to the deserted street. She was surprised at the feeling of emptiness that swept over her when she thought about the other girls attending school. On rare occasions she thought about sitting in a classroom and working on lessons. Learning to read and write and add numbers together to make bigger ones. Passing exams and becoming a teacher, then standing in front of the class as the children stared at her with inquisitive eyes. She knew it was a dream, and when the thoughts floated through her mind she chastised herself for wasting time. Nothing tangible was to come of such farfetched thinking. She had other things to do. Shopping for the family was a job. A real job with great importance attached to it. Something she took very seriously. Halima started down the street.

  A tiny wave of pride surged through her as she walked. Maybe this was how the shopkeepers felt when they stood behind their piles of rugs or goods and customers strolled past looking at their wares, ready to buy. Working and making money. She wasn't tending a stall like the merchants - she was only taking money to the market and spending it on things, but to her it was a job. Without her effort, the family would go hungry and thirsty. Which gave the job a tangible importance.

  The sun was high enough now to find its way into the cracks between the single-story buildings on either side of the street. It was already blistering hot, a precursor of what was coming. When September rolled around it would cool down and her daily outings to the well for water would be easier. Two women in burqas passed her and Halima wondered how uncomfortable it was inside the garment. It must be awful. Already her father was talking about buying her one and seeing which boys were available for marriage. She didn't want a burqa and she certainly didn't want to get married. Boys made no sense to her. They played silly games and they all wanted to carry guns. None of her girlfriends were interested in guns. Only the boys. They wanted to shoot things. Some of them wanted to shoot people. One boy who lived near the Old City and walked with a limp wanted to kill the soldiers. He hated them and wished he had a gun every time they walked past, rifles on their chests. He took the candy they offered, but swore behind their backs that when he was old enough he would perform his own jihad and take as many heads as he could before they killed him. Halima steered clear of him as best she could, but he always came running to talk with her. Being near him made her nervous.

  She didn't mind the soldiers. Her father told her that until they came, the Taliban were monsters. They still were. Halima could sense the fear in his voice when he spoke their name.

  She was nearing the market now and there were more people on the street. A group of soldiers passed her, single file and spaced far apart. Even she knew why they walked like that. One of them smiled at her and she smiled back. Something twigged in his eyes and inexplicitly she wondered whether he had children. She looked around and noticed that most Afghans who were on the street were busy with their daily activities and ignored the soldiers. Everyone ignored her. The soldiers filed past and disappeared around the corner. A dark-skinned man in a deep burgundy turban stared at her as he passed, a hundred meters behind the soldiers. His eyes were black and intense. She sunk back into the wall, trying to make herself small. He turned the corner, still following the soldiers. Halima wondered if he was Taliban. It was hard to tell.

  She pulled herself away from the rough stone wall and wove through the people to the edge of the market. Maybe her favorite merchant would be working his stall today and she would get an extra tomato. But he still had to earn her business. She only had so much money and she needed the best deal possible. No friendships here, this was business.

  She entered the market, clutching the ratty cluster of bank notes tightly in her tiny hand.

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  Chapter

  18

  Midtown Manhattan, New York City

  "The weapons are at the Kandahar airfield," Jorge Amistav said.

  "Yes, I received your e-mail," Fleming replied. "That's excellent news." He glanced at the date on his copy of the New York Times - August 5th - then set the paper on his lap and looked out the car window. Midtown Manhattan flashed past. "That was fast. When I talked to you about a week ago they hadn't shipped them yet."

  "They came in by air from Germany. It's an established route and we have people at both ends. It doesn't take much time to load the plane and fly it in from Europe. The paperwork is fairly easy and it gets e-mailed directly to the logistics people at the Pentagon. I think it's best if you give it another couple of days to make sure the shipment has been logged in, then send the invoice."

  "Sounds good," Fleming said.

  He pushed the end button on his cell phone and dropped it on the seat next to him. Thirty-five million for doing absolutely nothing. Aside from having the seed money to cover the payments to Amistav and his contact who had amassed the cache of substandard weapons. Money attracted money. Money didn't care who owned it. He figured it might as well be in his bank account instead of someone else's.

  The limo began the climb onto the Queensboro Bridge, Manhattan in the rearview mirror, La Guardia the desTination. His corporate Gulfs
tream V was on the apron, fueled and a flight plan to Houston registered with the tower. Houston in August held little appeal to him, but he had a meeting that he needed to attend in person. Most times he could delegate business meetings to his staff, but not for this one. He didn't mind too much - his share of the hostile takeover and dissolution of the board of directors was twenty million. The lawyers had taken care of the details and all that was required now was his presence and his signature. The upside was that he was only in Houston for six hours before heading to his private villa in Cabo San Lucas.

  Fleming pulled his Blackberry from its perch on his hip and checked his daily schedule. The fourth item caught his attention. It was the shortlist of candidates for the HFT positions. He had meant to send it to Carson Grant but had left it sitting on his desk. He swore under his breath and dialed Carson's line.

  "Carson Grant," the voice said.

  "Carson, it's Bill Fleming."

  "Mr. Fleming. What can I do for you?"

  "The shortlist of candidates is on my desk. I'd appreciate it if you could pick it up and look it over. Set up some interviews and pare it down to the top three before I get back to New York."

  "That's not a problem," Carson said. "When are you back?"

  "On Friday, the 13th."

  "I'll have it ready."

  "Fine. Arrange for interviews the following week. And check my schedule with my secretary."

  "Yes, sir."

  Fleming hung up without saying goodbye.

  The limo reached the east end of the bridge and touched into Queens. This was a different world from Manhattan - the cheap seats in a world-class arena. Three-story apartments overlooked the freeway, dirty curtains hanging at odd angles in the windows. Fords replaced the BMWs and jeans with T-shirts were the choice of clothing. Queens always brought out a quantum shift in his thinking. He wondered what sort of life it was to work fifty hours a week to pay the bills and have enough left over for a movie and a tub of greasy popcorn. People with no money talked about the importance of the struggle. It was a fallacy. The struggle wasn't necessary. If they were motivated and set their minds to becoming rich, they could eliminate eking out a living and have a good life. A great life. But they didn't. They settled for mediocrity in a world where opportunity surrounded them. And at the end of the day, they sat staring across the river to the island with sad eyes, wishing they could be part of that world.