by Mark Terry
The restaurant had about six outdoor tables. The food was cooked outside on a grill. Lamb, goat, chicken, or maybe they were ducks or geese. Behind the grill a bearded guy cooked on a couple woks. It smelled terrific. Noa asked about John Landing.
The cook muttered something. Noa said, “He’s not here. And he doesn’t know where he went.”
“When was he here last?” Johnston asked.
She asked and came back with, “A couple days.”
Derek pointed at strips of meat. “Is that like jerky?”
Noa glared at him. “We have a job to do.”
“Ask him.”
She spewed off some Urdu and said, “Smoked goat.”
“I’ll take some.”
She shot him a disgusted look and bargained. “No,” Derek said. “I want a bunch. In a bag.”
“Hungry?”
Johnston merely watched with a bemused expression on his face.
Goat jerky packed away, they wandered further into the bazaar. Derek stopped at a rug shop, looking at the gorgeous rugs. He picked through some, finding a small one. “What do you think?”
“I think if you want souvenirs, you’re in the wrong business.”
Derek turned to Johnston. “You like this one?”
“Doesn’t match my décor.”
“I like it. It’s small.” He gestured for Noa to start bargaining. Her expression was mostly covered by her scarf, but there was no doubt about the body language.
“Just do it,” he said.
The rug merchant watched the exchange with interest. With unconcealed disdain Noa turned to the Afghani and started bargaining. Finally she got a price she deemed was reasonable and Derek paid for the rug and slung it with a cord so he could carry it over his back.
They continued on to the remaining possible locations of John Landing. Along the way Derek bought dried fruit, a bag of dates, tea, candy, and three small cooking pots. Finally they arrived at a hookah restaurant. Men lounged around small tables, smoking the water pipes. Derek wondered if they smoked tobacco, hashish or opium. Most of the men seemed reasonably alert, but the further into the shop they went the more stoned they seemed to be.
Toward the rear, back to the wall, was a westerner. Johnston looked at him. “Landing?”
Blowing out a smoke ring, he said, “You Johnston?”
Johnston made introductions as they joined Landing at the table. Landing wore wrinkled khakis and an unbuttoned white shirt that revealed a chest full of wiry gray hair. Similar wiry hair covered his head. His skin looked like it had been left out in the sun for a couple dozen years, the creases around his eyes deep as if he spent most of his life squinting at the horizon. He gestured at the hookah. “Feel free.”
Noa looked at Derek. “You going to buy one, too?”
“Nope. I’ve had the privilege. Not my thing.”
“Stillwater? Heard about you. Had an adventure in Cuba, didja?”
“Si.”
Landing grunted. “Okay. Guess you’re here for the next stage of your snipe hunt. Any of you guys got a map on you?”
Digging into his pack, Derek supplied a map. Noa had one in her hand as well. Landing took the two, and tossed Noa’s back to her. “Crap. Think Mossad would do better than that.” He held up Derek’s, which was a detailed topographical map. “My kind of guy. Got a pencil?”
Johnston supplied a pen. Sucking on the water pipe, Landing spread the map out on the table and started making X’s and circles. “’kay. Here’s the deal. Most of these sites are over in Afghanistan. Afghanistan, in my opinion, is made up of a bunch of fucking barbarians. Pardon my French, Mz. Shoshan. But Pakistan is the goddamned center of civilization compared to Afghanistan, which is a mountainous, desert wasteland. You children familiar with the Durand Line?”
Derek raised a hand. “Yes, Mr. Landing.”
“Oh good. A smartass. You, general-sir?”
“Sorry, no.”
“How about you?”
Noa nodded.
To General Johnston, Derek said, “Back in the 1800s Britain imposed a border between the two countries. For over a hundred years everybody in the world treats it as the legitimate and official border between Afghanistan and Pakistan.”
“But?” Johnston said.
“Everybody but Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
“Swell.”
“My point,” Landing said, “is that some of these places are Afghani and some are Paki, but it might be kind of hard to tell until the people tell you which is which. Anyway, here’s why you’re here, right? Reds left a bunch of hardware lying around when they left. Afghans laid claim to it. So do the Pakis. The muj, lot of those guys weren’t Pakis or Afghans. They were just Muslims from wherever.”
“Saudi,” Noa said.
“Sure. Saudi and Egypt and Algeria and Sudan and Syria and everywhere there’s a poor, angry Muslim who wants to shoot somebody.”
“Doesn’t narrow it down much,” Noa said.
“No, it doesn’t. Anyway, we’ve run into some folks that think the Ruskies might have left a few things besides AKs and S-8 missiles lying around. That’s where you come in.” He tapped a particular X on the map. “Seems like some folks here died of mysterious symptoms, like they got exposed to nerve gas or something. I guess that’s where you come in.”
Derek peered. “Zin. That’s why I’m here.”
“And more?” Noa asked.
Blowing a series of smoke rings thoughtfully at the ceiling, Landing said, “Couple things. In addition to a lot of guns, and possibly, y’know, some bio and chemical munitions, it’s possible there’s a stray nuke or two laying around – doubtful, but possible – and of course, we’re fairly concerned about angry Muslims getting their hands on anti-aircraft missiles. Hell, I’ve heard a rumor there’s a Russian chopper pilot living back in there somewhere who for the right price will shuttle people and weapons wherever they want to go.”
“Bullshit,” Johnston said.
“It’s a rumor. Haven’t been able to verify it.”
Noa rested her elbows on the table. “It’s a rumor I’ve heard too. The Afghan tribes are still fighting over control. They get in wars with each other. If one of them can get enough money together, they can hire this Russian and his killer helicopter to provide a little air support.”
Derek cocked his head. “Enough money to pay for fuel? Selling opium?”
“Rumor is he’s hooked,” Landing said. “So, you know, as a bonus, it might be useful to know if this is just a rumor.”
“Anything else?” Derek asked.
“Well, if you can find out if any of these stray nukes, bio or nuclear weapons are getting in the hands of the Pakis or some Muslim terrorists, that would be good. And, you know, stop that from happening.”
4
THE FIRST VILLAGE THEY HEADED for was in the Spin Ghar mountains on the Pakistan side of the border. Technically they didn’t expect much. The Soviets hadn’t really come this far into Pakistan during their invasion, but Landing and the CIA wanted them to check out the village of Garha. The air was thin and cold and black clouds threatened rain.
Johnston was driving, the Land Rover struggling with the incline and thin air. As they pulled into the village of Garha, Derek, sprawled in the rear, said, “Welcome to Garha, population 133.”
“I think you’re counting the goats and chickens,” Johnston said, slowing to avoid running over some of both, which were crossing the dirt track that the Pakistanis called a road. He pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road and waited.
“Waiting for the welcoming committee?” Derek asked.
“I’m sure it knows we’re here.”
They didn’t have long to wait. After about two minutes a burly bearded man in salwar kameez and turban strode toward them, an AK47 slung over his shoulder. The three of them piled out of the truck. The man squinted, studying them. Finally he said something in Urdu. Noa responded. They spoke for a few minutes. Finally she turned and said, “
This is Abasin Yusufzai. He is, I guess you would call him the mayor, of Garha. Mayor isn’t exactly the right word, but he’s in charge. He wants to know why we are here. I told him we were passing through and that we were looking for a place to spend the night.”
Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of dried meat. “Tell him I have a gift for him.”
She and Derek stared at each other, then she turned and spoke to Abasin Yusufzai. After a moment he nodded and accepted the food. He spoke. Noa translated.
“He thanks you for the gift and invites us to have dinner and stay the night with his family.”
“Tell him we happily accept,” Johnston said.
Minutes later they found themselves in Abasin’s house, which was made of stone and mud walls. It was small, with basically three rooms. It was one of maybe fifty houses, more or less set inside a walled compound and surrounded by farmland.
Abasin’s wife wore traditional Pakistan clothing with her dark hair covered by a purple scarf, and busied herself around a fireplace. A pot hung over it into which she tossed chunks of meat and vegetables. Three small children, two boys and a girl, probably ages two through six, watched them curiously but shyly. Abasin shooed them into a different part of the house.
He brought up a kettle that was by the fire and began to prepare tea. Noa translated.
“Are you Americans?”
“We are,” Derek said, gesturing to himself and Jim Johnston. “Our translator is Pakistani.”
“With the government?”
“International Health Alliance,” Derek said, launching into their cover stories. “We’re an NGO, a non-governmental agency. We are surveying villages, trying to figure out what people need. Then we’ll prepare reports for IHA and the World Health Organization.”
Abasin spat into the fire, an apparent sign of disgust. “They never came here.”
“You never saw Russians?”
“I did. But not here. I fought them.”
“You’re a mujahideen?” It was a loaded question and Derek wasn’t sure if it was a safe question to ask.
Abasin’s expression was not friendly. He spoke for a long time, Noa listening carefully. Finally she turned to Derek. “He says he is a Muslim and that he is a Pakistani. But he had a cousin who fought against the Russians, so he went to fight alongside him. He says that the mujahideen were fighting for freedom, protecting Afghanistan, fighting the Russians, defending their homes. But some of these mujahideen, they were fighting a holy war, a jihad. But he says that these men, they will call everything they do a jihad to justify themselves. So he does not think of himself as a mujahideen. Now he is just a farmer.”
“What does he farm?”
“Cucumbers, barley, and corn. He has goats and sheep.”
Derek wanted to ask if they grew poppies, but held his tongue. That wasn’t why he was here. He said, “How is everyone in the village? Is everyone healthy?”
Abasin’s wife, who had remained silent, jumped slightly as Noa translated the question. Noa noticed as well.
“Some children have been sick,” Abasin said. “Yes.”
Derek stroked his cheek with his fingers. The beard was at the scratchy stage. Another week, though, and it would fill in. “I’m not a doctor, but I have medical experience. I would like to see the children.”
Abasin nodded. “But first we will eat.”
The food was good. They started with something called bolaanee, which resembled triangular pierogies, filled with potatoes and deep-fried. A salaata, which was a salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes and onion. And the main meal was kofta, which was a ground lamb dish placed over rice, served with tea. Abasin and his wife and children asked them many questions about America, which they were happy to answer. And they were more than generous about the food, insisting they eat until full.
When the hospitality part of dinner had finally passed, Abasin led them out of his home and across the village. The houses were made of stone and mud, the streets not much more than dirt paths. There were a few trucks and bicycles and a couple of motorcycles. There were also mules and horses. People were working in gardens, or tending to animals, or sitting on the stoops of houses smoking pipes. There were not many women to be seen, but there were plenty of children, who would swarm toward them until a few sharp words from Abasin scattered them.
Finally, on the other side of the village they came to a low, flat building. Abasin pounded on the wooden door. A woman whose entire face was covered by a scarf except for her eyes, came to the door. He spoke to her softly and she waved them in.
It was some sort of hospital. There were six people on beds. Two of them were adults. Four were children, none older than four years of age.
Abasin talked, telling the woman who they were. Noa translated. Johnston excused himself and left the building, indicating he was going to go back to the truck. Derek asked him to bring his backpack along if he got the chance.
The woman explained that the two adults were sick with fever, but it wasn’t anything unusual. The children, though, she didn’t understand. They had complained of headaches, vomiting, sore throats. None of those were unusual, but they also seemed to be weak. Two of them had seizures, but the woman explained it was not epilepsy. She’d seen epilepsy and this wasn’t epilepsy.
Derek questioned the woman about her background and found that she was the local midwife, nurse and general healthcare worker – she had spent a year training in Islamabad. He asked her if he could examine the children. She looked at Abasin, who nodded.
The oldest child, a boy, was sitting up, but his eyes were glazed and he twitched as if he had some sort of neuromuscular disorder. His name was Malik. Derek felt his forehead, but didn’t think he had a temperature. He asked the nurse about diarrhea. She said yes. He asked her if there was any blood in it. Yes. But that in itself wasn’t unusual. Dysentery was common.
But the tremors were unusual. All the children had tremors. One of the other children was drooling. He asked the nurse if the amount of drool was unusual.
“Yes,” she said. “For all of them. They’re spitting a lot or drooling.”
Derek sat back on his haunches, thinking.
Glancing up at Abasin, he said, “What’s the water supply for the village?”
“We have a well.”
“I’d like to see it.”
AS ABASIN WAS leading them to the village well, General Johnston appeared carrying Derek’s ruckpack. “What’s up?”
“We’re going to look at the community well.”
Johnston’s bushy eyebrows arced, but he nodded. He asked Abasin if he could walk around, look at the crops. Derek suggested Abasin point him in the direction of the well, but Noa and Johnston go with Abasin.
The well was in the middle of the village, a round concrete turret about three feet tall, about six feet in circumference. It was a hand pump. Several women were filling plastic jugs. He pointed at himself and to the pump. They nodded and he pumped while they filled the containers. The water had a slight sulfur smell, but looked clear enough.
Finally the women left, hauling their water away. From his backpack Derek removed an M272 Chemical Agents Water Testing Kit. He pulled out a variety of test tickets for different nerve agents and wet them with water from the well. He then pressed them against the test patches. As he watched, several of the tickets turned blue.
He then took several test tubes and filled them with the water and added drops of chemicals to each one, waiting for a reaction. This time nothing happened.
Packing the kit way in the backpack, he stood up and looked around. The village was built on a plateau. Below spread fields of corn. Above the village an arc of crops separated the village from several ridges of mountains. At this time of year it was dry. He knew that in the winter there would be snow and much of the village’s water came from snowmelt. From the looks of the sky, dry wasn’t going to be a problem. The clouds hung dark and low and filled with rain. The air smelled like rain.
Shouldering the pack, he started hiking to the high ground above the village. As he left the village, he was stopped by two men carrying AK47s.
Derek’s grasp of Urdu was slim, but he had learned a few phrases. “Salaam! Dost Suno.” Which, roughly translated, meant, “Hi! Hey! Friend!”, which, he had found, was a useful phrase in any number of languages.
They glared at him through their bushy beards, jabbing their AKs at him. He kept his hands up, but said, “I’m an Amereykey scientist.” He wished he knew the Urdu word for scientist. “I’m with Abasin Yusufzai.”
“Abasin?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Abasin. Ap aneguereyzey beoletai heyn?” Do you speak English?
“Abasin?”
“So, you don’t speak English,” he said. He gestured toward one of his pockets. “I’m going to reach in here, okay? Really slow.”
Carefully he plucked out a bag of candy he had bought in the bazaar. He held it out to the two men. They looked suspiciously at it, then at him. Cautiously one of them plucked a candy out of the bag, peeled the cellophane off it and popped it into his mouth. He nodded, smiling. Derek offered the bag to the other man. He too took some candy.
“I’m trying to help,” he said, knowing that speaking English wasn’t getting him anywhere. “Help. You understand ‘help?’”
They stared at him.
Feeling like an idiot, he patted his chest, then pointed toward the fields. Then he made his two fingers move like he was walking. “I want to look around. You can come with me.”
They still stared at him. The guns, at least, were no longer aimed at him.
He tapped his chest again. “Derek. My name is Derek Stillwater. Amerekyey.”
One of the men tapped his chest. “Abdullah.”
The other pointed to himself. “Mohammed.”
Derek offered the bag of candy again. They each took one. “Tafey.” Candy.
“Tafey,” Abdullah said in agreement.
“Now we’re cooking with gas,” Derek said, smiling. “We’re just like the fucking U.N.” He waved toward the farmland and tried again. “Bagh. I wish to look at the bagh.” Garden. He wished he knew the word for farm. “Peyaden in the bagh.” He felt like his IQ was dropping every time he opened his mouth. Peyaden meant “on foot.”
