by N G Osborne
The Prince lets off another clipload. The Saudi guard and some nearby mujahideen burst into roars of ‘Allah akbar’. The Prince beams. Tariq sees Ashfaq, a mujahid who joined the group at the same time as him, dancing with his arms in the air. He staggers over to him.
“What’s going on?” he shouts.
“We won,” Ashfaq says.
Oh no, Kabul’s fallen.
“When? Who?” Tariq says.
“The Soviet Union, it exists no more. We destroyed them.”
Tariq wants to weep with relief. They won’t be going back to Peshawar. Not yet at least.
“Allah akbar,” Ashfaq shouts.
Yes He is.
The Prince shoots off one last burst and heads back inside. Tariq surveys the ever growing, grinning, dancing, gun firing mass of mujahideen and shakes his head.
You won’t be celebrating in a year, you fools. Not once Afghanistan plunges into civil war, and the wolves descend on you with a vengeance.
Tariq traipses back towards his tent. There is a momentary lull in the gunfire, and he hears a distinctive snort. He freezes.
Iqbal.
He looks back. No one seems to be following him.
Maybe I imagined it.
He continues on and as he passes the next tent he glances right. One row over a man is keeping pace with him.
Could it be a coincidence?
He carries on. The gunfire starts up again as secondary celebrations break out across the camp. When he passes the next tent on his left he glances in its direction and sees another figure walking at a similar pace.
Nasir.
He stops and looks back. Ten yards away a man is facing him.
Salim Afridi.
Tariq’s hand reaches for his Beretta and aims for the man’s chest.
Go on. Do it.
He presses down on the trigger just as the camp is bathed in phosphorescent light from an RPG shell exploding overhead. He realizes that the man is nothing more than a kameez hung out to dry.
Thank God. It’s just the two of them.
He thinks of running back to the Prince’s tent and seeking sanctuary.
You’ll never make it. They’ll shoot you in the back before you ever get there.
He forces himself to keep walking and tries to figure out their strategy.
It can’t be to stab me in the back. If that was it they’d have surely done it by now.
He recalls Salim Afridi’s words to him in – ‘don’t fear, I’ll be sure to make it as agonizing as possible’. He trembles as he imagines how one will restrain him as the other cuts off his balls. There’s only one place they could do that.
My tent.
He picks up his pace. He sees it up ahead. The entrance flap is open.
Did I leave it that way?
He knows he doesn’t have time to ponder the question. He nudges the cloth back with his gun and lunges inside. No one’s there.
Thank you, Allah.
He stumbles towards the back and kneels down facing the entrance. He puts his Beretta on the floor and turns off the lamp. He snatches the gun back up and waits in the darkness. Outside the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire intermixes with the boom of RPG shells. He hears footsteps approaching.
Stay calm, stay calm.
He bites down on his hand to stop it from shaking.
Another RPG explodes, and he sees the outline of a man outside his tent. The man pulls back the flap. Tariq wills himself to wait.
Not yet.
Nasir’s head pokes through. He looks at Tariq in shock.
Tariq unleashes a fusillade of bullets at Nasir’s chest. Nasir tumbles face first in front of Tariq. Tariq fires over Nasir’s body to where he presumes Iqbal is standing. His magazine empties, and in the fading light of the RPG burst he searches for his second.
Tariq hears a tearing sound behind him. He swivels around to see a gash opening up. Iqbal comes charging at him, a knife in his hand. The knife sinks into Tariq’s left shoulder. Tariq screams in pain.
The two of them fall to the ground. Iqbal pulls the knife out, and Tariq twists away just before it can plunge into his stomach. Tariq drops his Beretta and grabs a hold of Iqbal’s wrist. Iqbal uses his other hand to punch Tariq in the face.
If you let go now, you’re dead.
The punches keep coming; blood pours from Tariq’s nose. Tariq tries to knee Iqbal in the groin but it’s to no effect. Tariq feels his grip weakening.
He jerks his head to the side just as the next punch rains down. For the briefest moment Iqbal is off balance. Tariq brings his head up and sinks his teeth into Iqbal’s ear. Iqbal’s roars are drowned out by a volley of gunfire from outside.
Tariq jerks his head and his teeth come away with a chunk of Iqbal’s earlobe. He lets go of Iqbal’s wrist and pulls himself towards the front of the tent.
He hears the whoosh of the knife. It barely misses his calf. He flips over and kicks out a leg. It catches Iqbal in the chest. Iqbal tumbles backwards.
Tariq’s hand searches for his Beretta and the second magazine. He fails to find them and instead latches onto one of Yousef’s grenades.
He brings the pin to his mouth and pulls it out. Iqbal is struggling to his feet. Tariq lets the grenade fall to the floor and barrels outside.
One, two, three, four, five—
He looks back.
Iqbal stumbles out after him only to catch his foot on a cord and go tumbling. Tariq keeps running.
Six, seven, eight, nine—
Tariq dives for the dirt and screws his eyes shut.
Ten.
Nothing.
He waits a moment longer.
Oh no, it’s a dud.
He twists onto his back. Iqbal is on his feet, blood pouring down the side of his neck. Iqbal reaches inside his waistcoat and emerges with a pistol.
“O Allah,” Tariq mumbles, “please help me in this moment of need—”
There’s a blinding explosion. Tariq’s head slams back against the ground and he lies there, his ears ringing. How long he stays there he doesn’t know, but when he opens his eyes a light is shining in his face, and a group of mujahideen are bent over him. They sit him up and offer him a water canteen. He gulps down its contents. A large crowd has formed. They all nod at him as though he’s just lost his two greatest friends in the world.
The mujahid says something, but Tariq doesn’t catch it.
“You’re lucky,” the mujahid shouts. “Some fool fired an RPG into your tent.”
Tariq stands and staggers over to what was once his tent. Iqbal and Nasir are on their bellies, their clothes shredded by hundreds of shrapnel wounds.
He hears frantic shouting, and the crowd parts. Salim Afridi emerges and runs to his two fallen sons. He twists them over, first Iqbal then Nasir. He lets out an anguished wail and slaps Nasir’s cheeks in a forlorn attempt to wake him. When that fails he lifts his oldest son into a sitting position and holds him tight. He catches Tariq’s gaze and stares up at him with unadulterated hatred.
“May Allah have Mercy on them,” Tariq says.
Tariq walks away. He feels something lodged in his mouth and spits it out. It’s the piece of Iqbal’s ear.
FORTY-TWO
NOOR SITS IN front of the speakerphone, Elma across from her willing her on.
“We zijn bijna bij het einde,” one of the interviewers says back in Amsterdam.
“We’re almost done,” Elma mouths to Noor.
Noor nods, relieved.
When they had woken Noor didn’t think it was possible to feel any more nervous. Elma had decided they’d do the call at her office. That way she could listen in on a speakerphone and put it on mute if Noor needed a question translated.
Now an hour later they are almost done. Noor can hardly recall a question she’s been asked or an answer she’s given. Words had come out of her mouth but whether they were the correct ones or were in the right order is another matter.
“Verwacht je problemen met het aanpasse
n aan de Nederlandse samenleving?” the interviewer says.
Noor looks across at Elma; she doesn’t know the word ‘samenleving’. Elma hits mute.
“Do you think you’ll have any problems adjusting to life in Holland?” Elma says.
Noor nods, and Elma unmutes the line.
“Een beetje,” Noor says.
A little.
“In het verleden heb ik me vaker aan nieuwe omgevingen moeten aanpassen—daarom maak ik mij niet veel zorgen.”
In the past I’ve had to often adjust to new situations –therefore I’m not too worried.
Elma gives her a thumbs up.
“Als laatste,” another interviewer says, “zou je iets kunnen bedenken waardoor je zou afzien van het aanvaarden van deze studiebeurs?”
“Could you think of something which would prevent you from accepting this scholarship?” Elma mouths.
“No,” Noor says. “I mean ‘geen’.”
At the other end someone laughs. After an hour, at last some human emotion from one of the interviewers.
“Dit zou een droom zijn,” she says.
This would be a dream. It truly would.
Elma leans over the speakerphone and asks the main interviewer if he needs anything else from them. He says he doesn’t.
“Then I just want to add,” Elma says, “that I’ve yet to meet a more exceptional young woman than Noor. The University of Amsterdam would be lucky to have her.”
“Coming from you, Elma, that means a lot,” the interviewer says. “We’ll be in touch.”
Elma hangs up.
“Thank you for saying those kinds words,” Noor says.
“I said it because I meant it. Gerben and I were at college together.”
Elma lays her hand on Noor’s.
“Trust me, you’re so close to being out of this hellhole I can smell it.”
Noor refuses to believe it.
Not until I am stepping onto a plane.
FORTY-THREE
THEY SIT CROSS legged on three sides of the vast Afghan rug. Forty men all looking in the Prince’s direction. Behind the Prince stand his two most trusted bodyguards. Others dot the perimeter.
At least you’re safe from Salim Afridi in here, Tariq thinks.
“Time is running out,” the Prince says, his hands waving around as if he’s conducting an orchestra. “I received word today that Massoud and Dostum have come to an agreement, and Hekmatyar and Sayyaf are now gearing up their forces. Even Rabbani has gotten off his fat ass.”
Snorts of laughter breaks out. The Prince waits.
“Tomorrow we’ll steal a march on them and claim Kabul in the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. All that’s left to discuss is the plan of attack. I want to thank Salim Afridi for being here in this trying time. His sons were true martyrs and are now enjoying the fruits of paradise.”
The depths of hell more like, Tariq thinks.
Tariq knows his Quran, and it’s explicit that paradise is reserved for men who die fighting for Allah, not for the petty plots of their father.
Salim Afridi starts his presentation, and Tariq feels his hopes slipping away. Earlier that day he’d received another letter from Yousef in which he’d relayed the news of their near miss. Along with the letter Yousef had sent the leather notebook that had slipped from Noor’s grasp. It was a curious thing, the quote a perfect example of the fatuous nonsense his father and sister subscribed to.
Did Noor have it engraved herself? Or was it a present from Baba?
In either case he wonders how they could afford it.
At the end of the letter Yousef had quoted the twenty-third surah and remarked how he was sure Tariq would be rewarded if he too were patient. The problem is patience requires time, and Tariq knows he has little left. He grimaces from the pain in his crudely sewn up shoulder and focuses on what Salim Afridi is saying.
“This is not an enemy we need fear, brothers, this is an enemy we can dispose of with one lightning punch. We take the Jalalabad road at speed, in one column. A vanguard of two pick-ups, two hundred yards ahead, to draw fire and warn of any potential resistance. This will be no different than the Nazi blitzkrieg. We do not stop until our objective, and that objective is the capture of the Presidential Palace.”
The assembled break out into shouts of ‘Allah Akbar.’
Tariq rolls his eyes. Salim Afridi’s acclaim as a military tactician comes from the guerrilla battles he’s fought. He’s no offensive genius, and in Tariq’s mind to draw a comparison with the blitzkrieg is ridiculous. The Nazis had battalions of tanks. They, on the other hand, have four the Soviets lost in battle, manned by mujahideen who’d be hard pressed to hit a house at fifty feet.
“Any objections?” the Prince says.
The Prince looks around the assembled group. Tariq lowers his gaze.
“I sense hesitation on your part, Tariq,” the Prince says.
Tariq looks up; the Prince is staring right at him. He wonders how he should play it. If he disagrees with Salim Afridi, and the plan succeeds, his reputation will be in tatters.
Yet so what?
If it does succeed the Prince will return to Saudi without him, and he’ll be as good as dead.
However if it fails, I’ll be the one prophet amidst this flock of fools.
“I remember Jalalabad,” Tariq says.
“This is not Jalalabad,” Salim Afridi snaps.
“I understand, and I mean to show you no disrespect.”
Except of course he has.
“I’d just urge caution. It might take an extra week but why not use side roads, split the force in two so it’s less concentrated, allow scouts to go further ahead so if there is actual resistance we have time to react in a proper manner.”
Salim Afridi goes to say something, but the Prince waves him quiet.
“Your plan seems abundantly cautious,” the Prince says.
“Even the Americans, your Highness, went into Kuwait in more than one column.”
“Are you comparing our wondrous warriors to infidels?”
“Of course not.”
The Prince stands and points his finger at Tariq as if he were some ancient doomsayer.
“Perhaps the real issue is you’ve no desire to be a martyr.”
Everyone’s eyes drop to the mat. In this company there’s no worse insult.
“There’d be no greater glory than to die a martyr,” Tariq says, “especially in the service of your Highness.”
“Then you should lead the vanguard.”
Tariq knows there’s no way he can object.
“I’d be honored, your Highness.”
A few of the men glance his way as if he’s already dead. Tariq shivers.
How did this all go so wrong, so quickly?
FORTY-FOUR
CHARLIE SITS WITH a piece of paper in front of him. Next to him is a screwed up pile of failed attempts. He stares out the blown out hole in the wall at the moonlit mountains in the distance.
Come on, give me some inspiration.
He blows on his freezing hands and picks up his pen. Twenty minutes later he’s done. He thinks about re-reading the letter but daren’t in case it joins the pile beside him. He knows it’s clumsy, but it’s the truth.
“Never say I gave up on you,” he says as if Noor were standing right there beside him.
He slides the letter into an envelope and licks it closed. Someone knocks, and he turns to find Najib at the door.
“Are you alright, Mr. Matthews?”
“Yeah, you just caught me daydreaming. What’s up?”
“We were wondering if you were going to join us.”
“Give me a minute, and I’ll be right out.”
Najib departs. Charlie takes another piece of paper and writes Wali a short note asking him to get the letter to Noor. He trusts Wali will; the man is nothing less than ingenious when it comes to such things.
He gathers up all the failed attempts, lays them on the earthen floor an
d sets fire to them. He walks outside and heads along a pitch black alley. In the distance he can hear the wailing of an Afghan song. He comes upon the village’s steep lane. At the bottom of the hill the men are sitting around a blazing fire, a jukebox blasting away. Some are singing along, others smoking. Charlie makes his way down and plops next to Obaidullah, who’s staring up at the stars.
“To think that God created all that above,” Obaidullah says.
“Think there’s any life out there?”
Obaidullah shakes his head.
“That against your religion?” Charlie says.
“To be honestly I do not know.”
“There’s like billions of stars and planets, you’d think there’d be life on one of them. I mean why else would God go to all that trouble?”
“Maybe to show us how special we are.”
“Yet when I look at them I feel totally insignificant.”
“That is the genius, no?”
Charlie has no answer. It’s the most profound thing he’s heard in a long time.
“Mr. Matthews,” Obaidullah says, “I sincerely wish—”
“I know.”
“You will pray very hard on this?”
“Every night, Obaidullah.”
The music changes to a more upbeat track. Yunus and Bakri start dancing with their arms up in the air, circling each other, their bodies swaying from side to side like drunks on a boat. Everyone claps. When they finish Najib and Zahoor take a turn. Charlie turns to Obaidullah.
“Want to go next?”
“I couldn’t,” Obaidullah says.
“Come on.”
“Really I am no good at such activities.”
Charlie looks around and spots Mocam.
“What do you say?”
Mocam smiles, and when Najib and Zahoor sit down, he and Charlie spring up. A loud cheer goes up. Mocam stretches out his arm, and Charlie entwines his elbow with his. Round and round they twirl, whooping and hollering, the embers from the fire floating around them up towards the stars.
FORTY-FIVE
