“I’ve seen weather charts from the CIA,” said Junaid. “No rain for at least the next four days, so it should be fine.”
Impressed with Abdul Latif’s command of the landscape, Sikander felt increasingly secure around the man. Whatever lay in front of them, as long as Abdul Latif was with them, they would surely get through it.
“That’s about the measure of it,” responded Arif. “Once you get to Laghar Juy, the next part is down to the Soviets and where they’d like to be when you hit them!”
“So? What about the Soviets?” asked Abdul Latif, directing his attention to Junaid, who until now was mostly listening with fascination and a tinge of envy for the young men following Abdul Latif into the enemy’s backyard.
Although he was a member of the ISI, four years earlier Junaid spent part of his military career with the SSG mountain unit, one of just six commando units in the Pakistani military at the time. During his training he had been sent to the United States to be with the First Special Operations Detachment Delta—or Delta Force—right after its creation. He had also done a stint with the Strategic Support Branch of U.S. Special Operations Command, which was a combination of CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency units, where he learned much of his intelligence basics. These days, the ISI had a special Afghan Section headed by Colonel Mohammed Yousaf, and “Junaid” was one of Yousaf’s best officers.
“The Americans believe that between five and ten days from now, a Soviet brigade strength force will be heading from Jalalabad toward Torkhum near the border,” Junaid began. “We expect them to split up somewhere between Batawul and Hazar Now. If they do, then about two thousand of their troops supported by T-55s and more than a squadron of Hinds will come rolling south toward all these villages—including Laghar Juy. To prepare for that offensive they’ll be assembling their tank units to the east of Batawul. That way, they can keep watch on them from their base in Jalalabad. You and the other forces of the Hezb-e-Islami Khalis could, inshaAllah, inflict some heavy damage on them if you can carry off an ambush as soon as the tank unit is fully together but before it’s out of Batawul. It’ll mean keeping a close watch on Batawul, though,” he explained.
“We may be able to keep some spies in the villages nearest the road,” noted Abdul Latif. “We have some we can station at Anarbagh at least for a short while. There’s also some high ground at Mar Koh. That would get us within a kilometer of the road near Batawul and we could try watching from there at night, but we have to be careful to avoid alerting the Russians.”
Exchanging a glance with Saleem, Ejaz pointed out that one of his uncles—a brother of Abdul Latif’s sister-in-law—lived not far from Mar Koh, so, when the time came, he could be relied upon.
“Very well then,” said Arif. “Brother Junaid, I think we’re done for the night and it’s time for these mujahideen to retire.”
All eight of them stayed together long enough to complete the isha prayer, after which Junaid promptly stood up to leave.
“Let me see you to the door,” Abdul Latif offered, rising to accompany Junaid as they disappeared up the stairs. Shortly afterward, Abdul Latif came down again, yawning and looking like he was ready to drop anywhere.
Meanwhile, Arif led Abdul Rahman and Abdul Majeed out to the back of the house where the Pajero was parked.
“We’ve had it cleaned up inside,” he said, “but we didn’t want it to be too attractive on the outside. Don’t want the thing stolen before you even get going! The steering’s got some slack, so be especially careful when you take that last trail off the N5 highway,” he pleaded. Although it was technically the ISI’s vehicle, it was in his care and he had grown fond of it. In the rough country around Peshawar, its performance was stellar. Arif also revealed a couple of secret gun-stashing compartments in the back in case anyone riding in the vehicle needed “insurance.”
With the Pajero inspected, the three of them re-entered the house to join Abdul Latif, Saleem, Ejaz, and Sikander for a good night’s sleep before the trip ahead. Sikander was weary. It had been a long day. He felt a wave of remorse for having left everyone at home without a word. He had occasionally gone off with friends after school until relatively late in the evening so the family might not have been alarmed until now, but he knew that the worry would be building rapidly.
The minutes slipped by. Sikander was consumed by thoughts of family, and how his father would now be dealing with the new crisis of his son’s disappearance. He resolved to call his mother as soon as he could and let her know something of his plans and maybe even learn from her that a solution might have emerged for the business problem.
But there was no question of him backing out of this mission. Not now, after committing himself. These were tough times in Afghanistan. Everything was down to the mujahideen resistance and now that he’d been given the opportunity, he was determined to make a difference.
Chapter 3
Khyber Nights
IT WAS TOO FAR TO THE NEAREST mosque, so the dawn prayer was performed in Arif’s home when the men awoke the following morning. After returning to sleep for a couple of hours, they awoke a second time around nine o’clock. As everyone gathered for breakfast, Abdul Latif laid out the day’s plan. “Arif will help you three load the truck and make sure that it’s oiled and fueled,” he said, directing his gaze at Saleem, Abdul Majeed, and Abdul Rahman. “Ejaz, you and Sikander will come with me. We need to return to Jamrud to pick up more supplies. We should be back by eleven-thirty or so. After that we’ll grab something to eat and get going. Let’s try making the drop-off point before sunset.”
After a short breakfast, the young men assigned to the vehicle promptly set about their task as Abdul Latif, Sikander, and Ejaz left for Jamrud Bazaar. Wandering among its cramped and bustling stalls, Sikander took advantage of the opportunity to buy a hooded nylon rain jacket and a pair of short hiking boots, which he reasoned would be much more suited to what he might face in the coming days than his present counterfeit Nikes. He particularly liked the boots, but was surprised when he turned one of them over and saw unmistakably Russian characters in the arch just ahead of the heel. Abdul Latif explained that Soviet soldiers sometimes bought their way out of trouble by offering various items to their would-be captors including, on many occasions, weapons. Such items were simply too valuable to consume, and frequently found a profitable outlet in the markets on Pakistan’s side of the border.
“So you simply let the enemy soldiers go?” Sikander was puzzled.
“Sikander, you’re a Pashtun. You should know we have melmasthia. It’s important to us.”
“Melmasthia? Yes, but I never thought it applied to—”
“Look, if someone, even an enemy, comes to my house I’m honor bound to protect them and treat them like a guest. Oh, we might take a ransom, and we certainly don’t have to like them, but if they ask for protection, we can’t touch them. But we can’t afford to keep them for prolonged periods and we have the benefit of selling their gear. So, we take their stuff and let them go.”
By late morning, along with Sikander’s purchases, the men were hauling small sacks of lentils, chickpeas, and rice, for which Sikander insisted on paying. On the way back to Arif’s with his companions, a sense of growing unease preyed on him. He would soon be departing Peshawar and his commitment to leave his family would be irreversible.
“Brother Abdul Latif?” Sikander asked. “I’ve been away for two nights now. My family hasn’t heard from me.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Abdul Latif replied. “What do think you should do?”
“I’m not sure,” Sikander replied. He didn’t want to appear to have second thoughts about continuing with them to Afghanistan.
“A phone call perhaps? From Arif’s? You could find out how your father’s progressing, let them know you’re safe, and that you’ve committed yourself to a worthwhile purpose. You wouldn’t need to reveal your whereabouts. There’s really no way for them to learn that anyway and they’d be wa
sting their time calling anyone; including the police.”
Abdul Latif’s simple analysis of the situation captured all the key issues, but something didn’t add up in his reference to the police.
“Why wouldn’t calling the police make a difference? I mean I understand that they would need to know where to look, and yes, we do joke about their ineptitude, but for serious things like this, surely they’d be worth talking to?” Sikander asked.
“I spoke with Junaid yesterday when seeing him out of Arif’s place,” replied Abdul Latif. “I mentioned to him that the police might be contacted by someone from Hayatabad claiming that his son had gone missing. Junaid didn’t think it would be a problem.” Abdul Latif smirked.
“Ah,” Sikander nodded.
Despite lugging a sack of rice over his back, Ejaz chuckled at their exchange. Abdul Latif had characteristically thought through all the angles.
Ejaz and his brother, Saleem, were quiet young men. They had lost their father, Abdul Latif’s younger brother, Abdus Sami, earlier that same year in the second battle of the Zhawar caves in Paktia Province. He had been with Younus Khalis’s Hezb-e-Islami Khalis forces under the nominal command of Jalaluddin Haqqani. Tragedy struck as they defended the caves. Army units of the Russian puppet Democratic Republic of Afghanistan initially mounted an offensive to recapture the caves. When their DRA clients failed to make headway, Soviet general Varenikov brought in his own forces and air power in early March. It took them until the middle of April to dislodge the mujahideen, which was when Abdus Sami was killed. It wasn’t long before the same mujahideen retook the caves.
Upon his death, Abdus Sami was celebrated as a great “shaheed.” Naturally, it fell to Abdul Latif, as the surviving older brother, to take his brother’s family under his protection.
By the time they returned to Arif’s house, the Pajero was packed, leaving only enough cargo room for what they had just bought. Arif stood by the vehicle, eyeing it as if it was his cherished offspring. “Fueled, oiled, and ready to go,” he said, tossing the keys to driver designate, Abdul Rahman. Abdul Latif could drive if pressed to do so, but his history with vehicles had been less than stellar. He avoided driving whenever he could.
“May we use your telephone before we leave, brother?” asked Abdul Latif.
“Go ahead.” Arif cocked his head toward the house. Abdul Latif beckoned to Sikander to follow him and took him into a living room on the first floor where on a small side table in a corner was a telephone.
“I’ll be outside with the others, when you’re done.” Abdul Latif said.
Sikander paused to rehearse what he would say in response to every point he imagined his mother or father making. Finally, feeling about as ready as he would ever be, he dialed.
A solitary ring was followed by: “Hello?” His mother’s clearly exhausted state and croaky voice drove Sikander into a reflexive gulp and the need for another moment to form his thoughts. A second, more plaintive “hello,” pursued the first.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum, Ammee-jan,” responded Sikander quietly.
“Sikannnder! Oh! Ya Allah! Shukr!” exclaimed Sofie, heaving a sigh. “Sikander, where are you? Where have you been? We’ve been out of our minds worrying!” With the realization that her son was safe, mounting anger crept into her tone. “Why aren’t you at home? Why? Your father and I, we’ve been so distraught. He even called the police! Have you no concern for what you’ve done to us, Sikander?” Unable to sustain her anger, she ended in tears. “See what you’re putting me through!”
“Ammee, I…I’m sorry for raising my voice to you the other evening. I shouldn’t have done that. But what Abba-jee said to me…it made me…well, it made me think about what I have to do. Ammee, I’m going to be gone for a while.”
The crying ended.
“Gone? What do you mean…gone?” she stammered, stunned at the absence of a simple apology and a promise of immediate return.
“Yes, Ammee… It’ll be for a while.”
Sikander explained how he had found Abdul Latif and how he was going to do what he maybe should have done a year ago.
“But Sikander, have you forgotten the trial your father’s going through right now? Have you no thought for how troubled and pained he’s been? What about school? And the family and everything else?” she asked. “What about Hamid and your other friends? You’re just going to abandon them? Sikander, bettha! Look…maybe I was a little harsh yesterday. And your father, well, you know what he’s going through. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you, Sikander. Come home, bettha. Please!” The anger melted away leaving only tears.
“Ammee, I really do love… I wanted to let you, Jamil, Sameena and…Abba-jee know I’m fine and inshaAllah will make you proud of your son, not…not ashamed. Ammee, I didn’t mean to expose the fam—”
“Sikander, these things happen sometimes. Your father and I, we…we were very…troubled!” she sobbed. “Be sensible Sikander. Come back. Come back now, bettha. Please!”
“Ammee, I will. That’s a promise. It just won’t be soon. I need to do this now. I can’t just return and go to school anymore. I know how I wanted to finish so that I could try for—anyway, that’ll all have to wait. College in America’s out of the question now, with the business being in trouble.”
Plainly getting nowhere with her imploring, Sofie regained a little of her poise as she tried to find an angle that might persuade her headstrong son. It struck her that she hadn’t told him about some of the good news during his absence.
“Sikander,” she started, holding the tears back, “your father’s managed to buy a little time. He’s convinced three of his customers to give him advances on the next few months’ worth of business. It’s going to give him enough to take down a quarter of what he’s lost with the Kabeers. He’s also managed to borrow some cash, and inshaAllah, if he can make two of his larger creditors wait for a few months, we should be able to pull through. We may…” Sofie took a deep breath. “We may still be selling the house and moving, but Sikander bettha, please come home.”
Her pleading was hard to bear, but a serious burden on Sikander’s mind had been eased. Life within the family home wasn’t about to collapse. He was, however, oblivious to the blow that his leaving school would deliver to his father. Having dropped out of school himself for his own father’s sake, Javed had always been anxious that Sikander not miss out on this important and defining part of his life. Javed always felt inferior when dealing with his in-laws because it was understood that his wife was better educated than he was. He’d be damned if he let that happen to his boys.
“Ammee, will you tell Abba-jee I’m sorry he had to see me behave that way to you? Tell him I’m pleased that he might have found a way through his problem. And tell him…tell him I want to make him proud of me, not wish me out of his sight—” Sikander paused. There was nothing left to say. “I have to go now, Ammee. I’ll call again. Give my love and salaams to everyone.” Unable to listen to any renewed pleas, Sikander cradled the handset. He stared at it for a moment, sighed and stepped out of the house to rejoin his companions.
The new supplies had already been crammed into the back of the vehicle, and after bidding Arif farewell and his bidding the travelers “fi-amanillah,” the six of them piled into it.
Much later than planned, at three in the afternoon they finally set off, heading south on Warsak Dam Road to the GT Road, turning west through the Baab-e-Khyber, past Jamrud Fort in the direction of Landi Kotal. The initial five kilometers bore the name, Jamrud Road before abruptly changing both character and identity. Heralding the fearsome passage ahead, it became the Torkhum Road, leading the travelers over one of the toughest roads on earth and among its greatest gateways, the twenty-five-kilometer Khyber Pass.
Steep vertical cliffs rose on both sides and at its narrowest point, the pass was barely three meters wide. On this day, the travelers would use only its first dozen kilometers before leaving it for their rendezvous with the Afridis.
/> The first set of guardian hills to the west of Jamrud formed the easternmost flanks of the Safed Koh, an Urdu term for White Mountains, running from south of Peshawar a hundred kilometers west and defining the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan along their westernmost and tallest seventy-five kilometers. In Afghanistan their name remained the same but changed languages to the Pashto “Spin Ghar.”
Two kilometers into these hills, as the climbing switchbacks were upon them, the road took on a menacing personality. The conversation died down with everyone’s eyes anxiously locked on the road. Abdul Rahman’s arms and hands scurried around the Pajero’s steering wheel through each hairpin turn. The steering’s slack was worse than Arif had described and to top it off, the afternoon sun, which had yet to drop low enough to be hidden by any but the most nearby mountains in the deepest ravines, shone annoyingly in their faces.
By four-thirty, having slowed to a crawl through the worst of the switchbacks, they entered the section where the road became two ribbons, one going uphill to Torkhum beyond the top of the pass, the other down to Peshawar. Continuing on the uphill side, they soon came upon the expected small open compound to the left of the road and turned into it. It looked abandoned with pieces of rusting equipment and machinery standing out in the open. At its far end, they saw an opening on the other side of which was visible a narrow trail winding back and forth up to the top of a hill where the house that awaited them was situated.
Slowly climbing the trail, the Pajero finally rounded the last bend, as the land flattened out. They were on an open expanse in the middle of which stood the house. Next to it, a large shed was also visible.
Tired but mostly relieved, after parking the Pajero, Abdul Rahman switched off the engine. The travelers spilled out onto the gravel in front of the house, from which four young men and an older one had already emerged to meet the new arrivals.
SIkander Page 5
