by Eric Meyer
Chapter Two
Ahmed recognized the vehicle, Sheikh Daud's new black Toyota Land Cruiser. He was supervising his two sisters as they cleared the breakfast dishes and tidied the small farmhouse, when he saw it approaching. He walked outside and waited, it had to be serious for Sheikh Daud to pay them a visit. The Land Cruiser stopped, and the driver climbed out to run round and open the rear door. Sheikh Habib Daud, Chief Imam of Mehtar Lam, climbed out, and looked to make certain he wasn't about to step into a muddy puddle. He needn't have worried; the ground was still frozen hard.
"Sheikh Daud, welcome to our home."
"I am honored to pay you a visit," the other man replied.
They stayed on the porch, continuing the endless formalities his father had taught him as a boy. They were essential to ensure any visitor to their home received the greeting which custom dictated. Eventually, Daud explained the reason for his visit. Ahmed already knew it was nothing good.
"It is about your father."
"My father? He is in Jalalabad."
"Yes, I know. I'm afraid there's been an accident. He's dead."
He went on to explain how he'd been shot dead on the street and his possessions stolen.
Ahmed fought down his tears as the man explained how the police had discovered his body. He was killed by what appeared to be 7.62mm bullets, nothing unusual in a land where Russian ordnance was as common as opium.
"Do they know who killed him?"
After a long pause, Sheikh Daud went on. "It was an accident," he said again, "There was an altercation, which involved my cousin Sardar Khan. He has disappeared, so we don't know the exact circumstances."
Ahmed looked back at the respected Imam. He knew he had to be careful, but this was his father they were discussing.
"If the man who killed him stole his money, it must have been a robbery. If it were an accident, your cousin would have called the police. Instead, he ran away, so it must mean he robbed and killed my father. Are the police looking for him?"
The Sheikh's expression darkened. "They are not sure if he is the guilty man. They are still investigating. If I hear anything more, I will let you know." He rose, "I wish you and your family well."
He gave Ahmed a polite nod, and before he turned back to the Toyota, looked past Ahmed. The door of the farmhouse had opened, and Kaawa had emerged. The young girl he'd wanted for his cousin Sardar Khan. His gazed at her for a moment, then he swung around and walked to his vehicle. Ahmed watched the Toyota drive away, wondering how he could break the news to his sisters. Even more important, how could he make sure the murderer was brought to justice?
The girls had been listening. Rahima, the youngest, was sobbing quietly, her head buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook with grief. Kaawa was silent. He asked her why she didn't cry, and when she looked at him, the expression on her eleven-year-old face was like granite.
"Sardar Khan killed our father. I want the fucker brought to justice. I want him dead."
He was taken aback both by her vehemence and her language. "Fucker is not a word you should be using, Kaawa."
She glared back at him. "What would you call him, Ahmed? A murdering shit?"
He didn't reply. Couldn't reply, not at first. Finally, he nodded. "It is true, there are no words bad enough to describe that man."
"Sardar Khan must die." It was Rahima who'd spoken.
"Yes, he must die," he agreed, "I will go to Jalalabad. I have to make arrangements for his burial. I will also talk to the police and find out about the investigation."
"I do not believe Sheikh Daud," Kaawa said, "Sardar is his cousin, and he's protecting him."
"I agree. He may be in a difficult position because he is related to Khan, but it makes no difference. The police must find the murderer and execute him. Can you take care of the farm?"
Kaawa stared back at him. "We can do anything if it helps bring about justice for our father."
He nodded. "In that case, I will leave now."
He had a sudden thought. Ghulam Durani had taken with him almost the last of the spare cash. He doubted he had enough money to pay for the bus fare to Jalalabad. Then he had an inspiration. The Fordson model F. With the new engine, he could travel the forty kilometers to Jalalabad in three hours, perhaps less.
They had a number of Jerry cans of petrol stored behind the farmhouse. He could take more than enough fuel fastened to the rear of the tractor. He swelled with pride at the thought of taking charge of that magnificent machine. A second later he felt ashamed; the only reason he'd be driving the tractor was because his father was dead.
Sobered by that thought, he hunted around the farmhouse for the last of their notes and coins, made certain there was enough food and fuel for the girls, and went outside. It took him only a few moments to lash cans of petrol on the back of the tractor. He said goodbye to his sisters, started the engine, and hoped what he'd learned from the Fordson instruction manual would be enough for him to manage the vehicle.
The clutch was the most difficult. It was very heavy, and at first he couldn't fathom how it operated. After half a dozen false starts, while the old vehicle jerked and shuddered to his inexpert handling, he drove away, weaving and uneven path. To his astonishment, the speedometer quivered around the ten mph mark. It was true; the new engine was everything the mechanic had claimed. Except his father would never know the benefit. He wiped away a tear and turned onto the highway that led to Jalalabad. Highway was a misnomer. It was little more than a rutted track, packed earth littered with small stones. But the Fordson model F chugged along as if it had been built for exactly this task, to seek justice for Ghulam Durani. It was a noble task.
Sadness and despair for his father almost overwhelmed him. Yet his overriding emotion was the desire for justice. He wanted to see the evil man dead. Almost three hours later he braked the tractor to a halt outside the police station in Jalalabad, shut down the engine, and went inside. Sardar Khan's days were numbered.
Once I’ve spoken to them, they’re sure to track down and arrest the murderer. Sardar Khan, the executioner is waiting to greet you.
