by Paul Haven
Mr. ul- Hazai was there, too, chatting with the other members of the Brotherhood: Faz Arbani and Qari Rahim, whose homes had been robbed in Gosht and Kishawar; Sharti Alani, the owner of the department store chain in Hamburg; the Sydney surfer Buzz Kagani; and Abdullah Atafzai, the pizza prince of Chicago.
As usual, Silas Finch was running a little late.
Thanks to Oliver, Silas had gotten a world exclusive on the quest for King Agamon's treasure, and the New York Courier had run it on the front page under the headline OUR BOY IN BALABAD. Below the headline was a photo of Oliver emerging from the Salt Caverns, the crown of golden flowers atop his head and the sword clutched in his hand. Ever since the article had appeared, Silas had been busier than ever, constantly taking calls from his editors back home.
Oliver hoped his father would make it in time.
“How wonderful it is to be home again,” said a man whose Baladi accent was tinged with a Midwestern twang.
Oliver looked up to see Abdullah Atafzai standing before him. They had met the night before at a feast Mr. ul- Hazai threw to mark the Brotherhood's reunion and had hit it off immediately, getting engrossed in a conversation about baseball and fast food.
Abdullah stared wistfully out at the enormous crowd below.
“Ten years is far too long to have been away,” he said.
“We are very glad to have you back,” said Alamai. “If only you could stay a little bit longer.”
“I must admit I have been thinking exactly the same thing,” Abdullah replied, his voice serious.
He turned to Oliver.
“You're a New Yorker, right?” he said. “Let me ask you something. You think this country could handle a really good pizza joint?”
Oliver's eyes opened wide, and his mouth started to water at the thought.
“Could it ever!” he said.
At that moment, the carved wooden doors to the parlor swung open, and a small army of aides rushed in, followed by a dapper man in a dark suit, cape, and conical fur hat.
“That's President Haroon,” whispered Zee as his father walked over to greet him.
“The Brotherhood of Arachosia,” said the president as the members each bowed and clasped his hand. “Together again, after so many centuries. Now, where are those children who have saved us from such treachery? I am very anxious to meet them.”
Oliver gulped as Mr. ul- Hazai beckoned them over.
“Looking at you children, I am reminded of a saying in my village,” said the president. “It says, the young do not know their limitations, and so are capable of great things.”
“Hear, hear!” said Mr. ul- Hazai. “Though I think the full saying is that they are capable of great and foolish things.”
“You are correct,” said the president with a chuckle. “I thought it best to leave the last part out on this occasion.
“And now, I have a small gift to present to our new heroes,” said President Haroon.
A guard standing behind the president stepped forward, holding five flowing green robes in his arms, each embroidered with golden threads and inlaid with tiny mirrors. The president took one of the robes from the man and placed it around Mr. Haji's shoulders.
“You and your family have guarded our nation's most important secret for five centuries,” said the president. “I hope you will accept this robe as a sign of our gratitude. You are a great Baladi.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Haji, bowing low.
“And you, Hamid Halabala,” said the president, reaching for a green robe the size of a small tent. “You are already renowned as a brave warrior. From now on, you will be known as an even greater man of peace.”
Hamid Halabala bowed his head in appreciation.
One by one, the president slipped the robes on Alamai, Oliver, and Zee.
“After all these centuries of disaster, you have given our nation a new life,” he said. “In a few moments, I will tell the people of our plan to rebuild this country. There will be new roads, new schools, new hospitals and libraries. We will sell only as much of Agamon's treasure as is needed to pay for it. The rest will be put on public display so that all of Balabad can share in our heritage.”
“It is a wonderful plan,” said Mr. ul- Hazai. He turned to Oliver and Zee. “I told you one day Balabad would be as beautiful as London or New York. I just never realized it would be so soon.”
The president looked at his watch.
“We have a few minutes before the ceremony begins,” he said. “Now, children, why don't you wait by the window. I would like you to precede me onto the balcony, since it is you whom these people really want to see.”
Scarlett took Oliver's hand and started to lead him across the room.
Suddenly, the door to the state room clicked open, and Silas Finch crept into the room. He tiptoed over to Scarlett and Oliver, snapping his little silver cell phone shut and flashing an apologetic smile.
“Sorry I'm late,” he whispered, catching his breath. “These editors never stop with their questions!”
“That's all right,” said Oliver. “At least you made it in time for the ceremony.”
Silas wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he took off his glasses and cleaned them against his shirt.
“Anyway,” he said, grabbing Oliver and Scarlett by the shoulders and pulling them off to the side. “I just got off the phone and I have some extremely exciting news.”
“You do?” said Scarlett.
“What is it?” said Oliver.
“Son, you are looking at the New York Courier's new deputy foreign editor,” said Silas, a proud smile crossing his face.
Oliver froze.
“You're kidding!” he said, his heart beginning to thud.
“I certainly am not,” said Silas. “The job is waiting for me in New York as soon as we can get there.”
Oliver stared down at the floor, but he didn't say a word.
“What's the matter?” said Silas, the excitement draining from his voice. “I thought you'd be thrilled.”
“Don't you miss all your friends back home?” Scarlett chimed in.
“I do,” said Oliver. “It's just…”
His eyes flitted from Alamai to Zee and back again. Alamai was talking in a soft Baladi whisper to her father, her hand wrapped in his great paw. Zee was loudly retelling the story of the damsons to Mr. Haji, his sunglasses perched on top of his head.
“If we wrap things up in Balabad quickly, we could be back in time for the start of the school year, not to mention the playoffs,” Silas said, leaning in to give Oliver a playful punch on the shoulder.
“Uh-huh,” Oliver muttered.
Silas straightened up and looked at Scarlett, who shrugged.
“Gee, I really thought you'd be excited,” Silas said. “Of course, I haven't accepted the job yet. We don't have to go anywhere, if you would rather stay.”
Before Oliver could answer, a pair of footmen hurried past them and unbolted the French doors. As they swung back, the murmur of the crowd filled the room. President Haroon gestured at the children to take their place on the balcony as a band outside struck the first chords of the Baladi national anthem.
“Come on, Oliver,” said Alamai.
“Showtime!” said Zee, flipping down his sunglasses.
Oliver pulled the green robe straight and squared his shoulders. Then he took a deep breath and walked over to join his friends. As the children stepped out onto the balcony, a shower of rose petals fell from above, and the crowd erupted in wild celebration.
Oliver glanced back at his parents, a wide smile creasing his face.
“The thing is,” he said, “I think I'm beginning to like it here.”
“I think I'm beginning to like it here.”
had the honor of living in Afghanistan and Pakistan during a difficult but fascinating time in both countries’ history, starting not long after the September 11, 2001, attacks on the United States. Balabad is a fictitious place, but my time in the region, parti
cularly in Afghanistan, inspired this book.
I would like to thank all my great friends from that extra ordinary country—especially Amir Shah, Mohammed Gul, Rahim Faiez, Noor Khan, Mossadeq Sadeq, Abdullah, Sher Aga, Jameel, and Waheeda. They have seen far too much hardship, but they have never lost their love of life, nor their sense of humor. I also want to thank my colleagues and friends from Pakistan, who are too numerous to name but are always in my heart.
I am hugely indebted to my agent, Zoë Pagnamenta; my editor, Suzy Capozzi; and my publisher, Kate Klimo. No writer could wish for a more talented and enthusiastic trio of mentors. Finally, special thanks to my wife, Victoria Burnett, my fellow traveler in Pakistan and Afghanistan and a patient reader and sounding board for this book. Only she can say which has been the greater adventure!
orn and raised in New York, Paul Haven always knew he wanted to write and travel, so after graduating from college, he moved to South America and worked as a reporter. In 1994, he joined The Associated Press, working and living in Colombia, New York, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. As The Associated Press Madrid bureau chief, Paul now covers Spain and Portugal. He currently lives in Spain with his wife and two children. This is his second novel.
Text copyright © 2009 by Paul Haven
Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Mark Zug
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Haven, Paul.
The seven keys of Balabad / by Paul Haven; illustrated by Mark Zug. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Unlike his news-reporter father and art-historian mother who find
living in the ancient, war-torn country of Balabad endlessly interesting, twelve-
year-old Oliver, homesick for New York City, feels very much out of his
element until he gets caught up in a centuries-old mystery involving stolen
artifacts and buried treasure.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89249-3
[1. Buried treasure—Fiction. 2. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.
3. Middle East—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Zug, Mark, ill.
II. Title.
PZ7.H2987Ou 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2008009725
v3.0
