An oval table, tipped on its edge, fortified the upstairs apartment door. Jinny and Dalal, also on edge, braced against the table. Jinny might have smiled when she spied the chewing gum stuck to its underside, but Asif’s traumatic eye injury kept any sort of joy at bay—no, not ‘at bay’, far out to sea. A bedroom door blocked the pretty partisan’s view of her boys, who sat cross-legged on the floor beneath Gharam, who sat on her bed and quelled her own anxiety by reading aloud from the dog-eared pages of a battered book. She roll-played each character’s tone of voice. This only added to the present gloom, for the tale was as cheerless as collective hopes that a refreshing breeze would climb through the window unannounced:
. . . From time to time, Mateen nodded off like a congregant during a boring sermon on a warm Sunday afternoon—down, up, down, then up again. He listened for an “amen.”
‘Hela, enough talk!’, he exclaimed.
Hela stood, kicked an ember from the fire, and watched it roll into the salty surf, where it hissed, sputtered, and died. Startled by the splash and sizzle, a lonely gull took flight and, without hesitation, sliced its way into the foggy future.
Hela whispered, ‘I told you we should have fled south with my friends, not back to the Caspian. Tell me again, why did you insist that we stop the night on this desolate shore? Mateen? Mateen, have you fallen asleep?’
He had. ‘Come again?’
‘I would never backtrack to Rasht again.’ A Caspian breeze cycled in and out of the shallow cave, unsettling then re-settling Hila’s long, black hair over her ears and shoulders. Mateen, mesmerized by flickers of light dancing on his sister’s Saint Christopher medal, drifted off yet again while she watched the tide race ashore, change its mind, and then hasten a cowardly retreat— over and over.
Hila winced when a slanting raindrop stung her cheek. ‘Last night was perhaps the longest of my life. While you slept I listened to the cursing, stomping, upending of our furniture, and babbling until dawn. Such language.’ Taking a chill, she returned, sat near the crackling driftwood, and rubbed her hands together. ‘I am so hungry.’
Asad piped up, “Me too.”
Gharam laid the open book face-down on the bed, reached for her bag, and trimmed her hollow rejoinder to fourteen words: “I have two snacks on the menu today. Take your pick–almonds, or ‘ammans’, as they say in California.” Both boys cupped their hands for the handout, and then munched noisily.
“Shall I continue reading, or have you had your fill of the story?”
Asad yawned. “Skip to the good part, for my head nods like a sleepy congregant. What’s a congregant?” Gharam retrieved the book and resumed reading from where she had left off.
‘We have but a half bag of almonds, and I’d say we’ve eaten our ration for today.’
Asif piped up. “Really? Is that what Mateen said to Hila?”
“No child, I was just trying to make the story more digestible.”
“It’s digestible enough.” Gharam continued reading.
Hila’s disheveled hair cushioned her head when she leaned back and rested against Mateen’s burly arm. The fire crackled and spit, and within minutes Hila was asleep. When she awoke–darkness. Her stomach churned, and her head now rested against folded burlap. It smelled of onions.
‘Mateen? Mateen, where are you?’ Hila sprang to her feet when she heard a spasmodic cough, accompanied by approaching, hurried footfalls.’Mateen, is it you?’ The wailing wind muted her cry and buffeted her hopes. She stumbled to the cave entrance and shrieked, ‘MATEEN?!’
‘No girl, I am not Mateen,’ laughed an out of breath, churly voice. The pockmarked apparition grabbed Hila by the hair and snarled, “Gotcha.’ Asad and Asif scrambled under the bed; Gharam got the message–her listening audience had taken a chill.
“Shh, did you hear that? Dalal, who just came in? Is it Safeed?” Voices buzzed, the knob turned, and the bedroom door swung slowly open—very slowly.
“ABDUL!” Gharam relaxed—but not Asad and Asif. The stranger wasn’t smiling, and he sweat so profusely that to them he looked like one of the story book’s villains, bent on blocking their escape from the room.
Dalal stepped forward from behind, wrapped hers around the old man, and broke the tension with a hug. “Papa, I am so glad you are safe. I had imagined the worst.”
Abdul shook the hem of his thwab and fanned his perspiring chest. “What happened to the boy’s eye?” Gharam brought a fist to her mouth, climbed from the bed, pushed her way past Jinny, and left the bedroom.
“These days it doesn’t take much to tip her scales,” whispered Dalal. “But this is bad. The boy’s name is Asif. His eye has been poked by a broken broom handle—an accident.”
Abdul knelt and without smiling said, “Come, come, boy, let me have a look. Life’s long journey causes us to be poked and prodded many times along the way, eh, Asif? May I examine your eye?” After an encouraging nod from Jinny, Asif slid warily forward. Asad considered his options and exited from under the side of the bed closest the window. The bandage was pulled away and Abdul reacted as if someone had touched him unexpectedly on the nose. He gently pressed the bandage back in place and then, while still kneeling laid hands on Asif’s head, closed his eyes—for what seemed to all but wisp of time—and concluded with, “ammim.” To all who looked on, Abdul’s countenance bespoke pure compassion.
Like an inflating dirigible he rose to his feet as Gharam returned to the room blowing her nose. “What are you doing, Abdul? Do you know know that Safeed, too, is badly wounded? He insisted on walking to your quarters, stubborn man that he is. Do you bring us word of his condition? Do tell, where is my brother? Have you no care?”
Outwardly, Abdul appeared as calm as an autumn leaf floating to the grass in an Abilene park on a Sunday afternoon. He stalled, trying to orchestrate a lullaby-like reply, and sat on the bed pretending to evaluate the softness of the mattress. May I answer on my back. May I lie down for a few minutes, Gharam?
“As you wish, Uncle.” Gharam wrung her hands against her chest.
“Lift my legs if you will, please, Dalal. Oh yes, thank you.”
Asad and Asif spotted the table barricading the exit. Wide eyed, they stared at one another, arose, and scooted out of the room to explore Safeed’s bedroom while Abdul Akim’s lungs expanded and contracted, expanded and contracted. Exhaled harmonic vibrations melodized his sad tidings. “Gharam, I’m sorry, but I can’t think of a gentler way break the news. Fasad—yes, the Fasad whom I loved as a brother—stood at my open door and betrayed Safeed into the hands of the inebriated American expatriate. And then, two of Karim’s henchmen dragged Safeed to the village square to be hanged.”
Gharam shrieked. Tears tumbled. Abdul’s lips trembled. He self-consciously veiled his mouth with the hem of the tattered thwab and spoke as if from the grave. “Fasad, Fasad, my life-long friend and victim of Karim’s treachery—bagged pieces of silver hang from your stiffened neck and you lie in state near the minaret. Such a waste, such a terrible waste of life, dignity, and honor.”
Subdued colors—organized colors hanging lopsided in a gilded frame on a straight wall—caught Abdul’s eye. He longed to float upward into the painting and sit alongside Jesus, who, from the palm of his hand, was feeding a lamb. When such a teacher looks to the stars, the whole class looks heavenward. And so it was that when Abdul paused to admire the painting, everyone looked up; but serendipitous serenity was short-lived.
Abdul sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed just as Asad and Asif returned, clamoring for a chance to ask the big question. They knelt eagerly at his feet, leaned forward, and stared into his reddened eyes. “There’s a table blocking how WE got in, so, how did YOU get into Safeed’s bedroom? It has no fire escape.”
“And no window,” added Asif, obviously in pain. “Did you sneak in where Safeed sneaked out?”
“Yes.” Abdul again fanned his chest with the hem of the uncomfortably warm thwab.
“When you are rested will you show us how you came?”
“I don’t know if I will ever be that rested.” The corners of Abdul’s thin lips turned up. “Can you keep a secret?”
Asad nodded, and Asif replied, “Pretty much.”
“Then be patient and, yes, I will show you. But it must remain our secret. But first, Dalal, Safeed is in grave danger, as Gharam rightly perceives.”
Jinny swept up her rifle up by the sling, looped it over her arm and shoulder and declared, “Sir, Karim wants to kill me—a member of the United States Armed Forces—and Safeed is the bait! I am the one who must don my uniform and face the brute. Am I right?” Asad and Asif darted from the bedroom into the kitchen and buried their heads beneath Jinny’s bandied wings.
“Hold on, Mother Goose!” entreated Abdul as he arose from the bed. “Change clothes if you must, but please here me out.” He shuffled into the kitchen, led Jinny into Safeed’s bedroom, and closed the door. “To your earnest question, soldier, I answer with a yes, you are right, but do temper your resolve with a cool head. Think of the children.” The tone and tenor of Abdul’s voice had changed. “Karim intends to capture you, humiliate you, hang you, and through this dark design incite panic and drive our people into the streets.”
“I am not afraid of the madman or his followers, Sir.”
“Yes, but know this, he is as unpredictable as the stock market. He must not be underestimated. If he does not make good on his promises, he’ll be left standing alone in front of the exchange with a gun i his hand, and then who knows what he might do.” Abdul reached down and quickly yanked open the door. “Surprise, surprise.” Dalal and Gharam stood leaning forward, a sheepish look on their faces. “Gotcha, this time.” No one smiled, but Abdul didn’t skip a beat. “Ah, Sergeant O’Dwyer, see how these two good, inquisitive women stand at ready?”
“Yes, I see: At ready, at aim, and at fire, Sir.” Jinny looked for a complementary response. Sober faced, neither Dalal nor Gharam even pasted a smile. Jinny seized the moment. “You both realize, don’t you, that we are all being watched by the Pakistanis. Right? And I’m sure their rules of engagement include armed drone recon far more sophisticated than your sorry eyes and ears. Don’t you get it? If provoked or threatened, all they have to do is push a button and we turn to dust. Ding louie, they could target us just for having walked into their country uninvited. If we had a Sat-Phone, which we don’t, I could radio for assistance. My cell-phone died a thousand deaths, without assistance.” Stirred like a beehive, Jinny turned to face Abdul and added, “What we really need is a plan B, Sir.”
Dalal intervened, “Father, excuse her impertinence. What shall we do?”
Abdul Akim replied, “Will you excuse us for just a moment? It will give you time to change into your uniform.” He ushered Dalal into Safeed’s bedroom and again closed the door. At length, a whispered conversation concluded with a terse and audible, “As my husband before me, I trust you, dear father. I will do as you request.”
“Then be off.” The door swung open on the windowless bedroom. Abdul stood alone, his arms folded; he smiled at the children and Gharam. “For now, will you excuse my lack of transparency, as the American government would put it?” Taken aback by the phrase, transparency, neither child nodded. Abdul placed a veined hand on each of Gharam’s shoulders. “As for you, maiden of mercy, given what you’ve been through I’d say you have borne your losses well.”
“I will be well, Uncle, when Safeed is home, sitting by my side, and sipping cocoa.” She pushed his hands away, sat down, and stared at the barricade.
“Home! Yes, one day we shall all return home. In the meantime, have faith Gharam, have faith.”
Gharam shuddered. “And this is your way of telling me Safeed is dead?”
“I do not know. Have faith that he lives. Do not lose hope. Now where did the soldier go?” Gharam’s bedroom door swung open and their stood Jinny, as beautiful as ever—if one ignored the inflamed gash on her cheek.
Clad in her helmet, BDU, boots, and carrying her rifle, she mumbled, “I’m ready. Sir.”
Abdul nodded. “This may seem a tad melodramatic—to borrow from an American idiom—but you look both as brave and as war-worn as George Washington crossing the Hudson.”
“That would be the Delaware River, Sir, and he was freezing to death.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Be that as it may, Safeed reported last night that you and ‘your sons’ –as you are wont call them—have endured much in your short time together. And, unlike many of your military, it is plain to me that you have been sustained by the hand of God.”
“Yes, without a doubt, Sir.”
“So hear this, Sergeant. Although your military took up residence here years ago, it was without an invitation. That goes for the Brits and your other allies, too. Most Arabs and Persians chafe at your presence in this part of the world. We wish you would all go home. I have been puzzled that your government seeks to impose their will upon our conflicted countries without taking into account our needs and wants. In Afghanistan alone, there are twenty-thousand isolated villages, each independently ruled. Your republic tramples our traditions and restricts our freedoms by tariff, occupation, and intimidation. Yes, we are afraid of you. But then, I am from Iran. Perhaps I have said too much.”
Seeing that his plain-speaking elicited no visible reaction from Jinny, he continued. “I have visited your country. Your leaders are so polarized. What is it that drives the choices of those who govern in the United States? Fear? Vanity? Pride? Promotion? Profit? First came the British, then the Russians, and now you Americans. The tragic outcomes you have witnessed for yourself. The mujaheddin only grow stronger. And our Khomeini? Well, I won’t go there just now.”
Jinny replied, “I too, am plain spoken, and so I will tell you I have remained behind this barricade for the sake of my sons. I am neither afraid of Karim nor his men. And if he is an American, I am ashamed and sorry for the way he misrepresents the vast majority of American citizens; but I am in this far off place on orders from my Commander and Chief and need to get back to my unit. Like you, I am a patriot.”
“I understand and agree. But first, it is within your power to help rescue our Sunni flock from those below who have abandoned their humanity. If you will follow me, we will see this present dilemma to its conclusion—together. Call it Plan B, if you like.”
“Very well, I will follow you, Abdul Akim.”
“Gharam, will you guard the children?
“We will guard Gharam.” Asif folded his arms and stood tall, as he had seen Abdul do.
After handing Gharam her sidearm, Jinny knelt and promised the boys she would soon return–but chose not to say, goodbye–as she followed Abdul to his secret exit. Again, wearing the wrinkled uniform of the United States infantry, Jinny paused and looked back at her sons.
Abdul beckoned, “Come, we must go. Place your hands on my shoulders and walk slowly.” Abdul and Jinny vanished from the room. “You will not die today. The children will be well attended.”
Jinny treated the old patriarch with wary respect but had questions. “Sir, I could sure use some fresh intel about now. Our primary mission objective is to rescue and exfil Safeed, right?”
“Yes, Sergeant O’Dwyer.” Jinny flipped down her mounted night vision device. It was no longer operational.
“And where is this dark deployment taking us?”
“This ancient tunnel leads to the minaret, a symbol of the Muslim faith; but to us, it is simply a convenient lookout tower.”
And here in the dark ‘I’ve finally found someplace drearier than Corker’s barn.
“Rest assured, I can make the upward climb with my eyes closed.”
Jinny smiled at the remark but kept hers eyes wide open—open to her childhood rides atop Caleb’s shoulders; open to Thrush Hollow hunts with Conor; open to life-lessons learned, both bitter and sweet; open to miracles and more. For a while Jinny lost track of both time and steps, but she had never lost touch with God; and now, she clung to the shoulders of a good old man whom she thought had little in common with her father.
After traversing a dimly lit passage up and down and up again, the unlikely duo popped a camouflaged hatch and climbed into dwindling daylight. Together, they had traversed three blocks and now sat breathing fresh air 18 meters [sixty feet] above the desert. They rested, let their eyes adjust, and pinched cobwebs from their faces, hair, and Jinny’s rifle. Mission critical, the minaret’s enclosed, circular deck commanded a birds-eye view of village rooftops to the west, south, and the village square below. The roost—dubbed by Jinny, the crow’s nest—was all but enclosed to the height of a man by decorative latticework and bore a riveted, silver label: Manufactured in Marrakesh, Morocco. A pitted, brass pole spanned the distance between the nest and the blackened roof and parapet twenty feet below. The pitted pole, not visible from the courtyard, had been cleverly attached to an awning hanging over the small exterior exit, also not visible from the ground.
“Sergeant, do you see a body slumped at the base of the pole?”
“No, no body, Sir, and glad of it. I see laundry flagging surrender. It looks scorched.” Jinny recognized the municipal building below, its northeast corner mated with the minaret. Abdul rubbed his eyes but still could not see very well.
“There is more to tell, but later. For now, content yourself with being my eyes.”
“I am all eyes, Sir.”
“Call me Abdul.” He followed Jinny’s clockwise rotation two clicks. She stopped and looked down at Faisia Street. “Yes, yes, that’s my street. Please, tell me what you see.”
Without cocking her head around to reply, Jinny reported, “I see one casualty.” She held back from sharing details.
“That will be Fasad, my lifelong friend. I imagine vultures will soon work up the courage to pay him a visit. They always have an appetite.”
‘It looks like lunchtime, Sir, I mean. Abdul.” Fasad’s remains were being fussed over by a squadron of flies and two vultures. Jinny watched as one satiated glutton lifted off with some difficulty–a purse dangling from its beak–and flew west toward the setting sun.
Sergeant O’Dwyer continued to rotate clockwise. Click. She spared Abdul a description of the body dump across the road to the east, but advised, “Abdul, the road to the Pass is clear of bodies and traffic.” Click. Cautiously completing the sixty-second rotation, Jinny’s eyes locked on the courtyard to the south. Horrified, she gasped, “No, no, Safeed, what have they done to you?”
Yes, it was Safeed, bound hand and foot, nearly naked, and noosed tightly around the neck by two strands of clothesline. His feet teetered precariously on a three-legged chair in front of the hospital stoop while he watched his life’s blood drip, drip, drip, and pool on the porch.
Karim sat next to him menacing a semi-automatic pistol and looking the worse for wear. His uniform was unbuttoned, his empty boot hosted three comatose scorpions, and his very big toe was cocked against Safeed’s precariously balanced perch. Soured, exhausted, idle witnesses sat on the ground or knelt, heads bowed, with weapons locked and loaded. Zero hour had arrived.
Now or never.
Jinny knelt, pushed her rifle’s barrel through one of twenty-four decorative quadrangles making up the facade, and whispered, “I have the primary the target in focus, Abdul. From here I can eliminate him and perhaps two or three more bogies, but our primary mission objective would be sacrificed and our location compromised.”
A bull-horn bellowed. Karim had flipped it on and raised it to his slobbering lips. Exhibiting the manners of an ornery Brahma stud, he snorted and rubbed his nose against his sleeve. “SUNNI OF PESHAWAR-WAR-WAR-WAR, HEAR ME-ME-ME-ME. THE FIRE IS OUT-OUT-OUT-OUT . . . FOR NOW-NOW-NOW-NOW. COME TO THE PARTY-PARTY-PARTY-PARTY, OR BARBECUE-CUE-CUE-CUE, WE WILL-WILL-WILL-WILL . . .” He shook and glared at the bull horn ,and yelled, “You’re mocking me.” The horn flew and flopped. Karim skillfully executed a psychopathic tonal modulation and continued—sappy sweet—as if someone had stuck a giant, lemon lolly-pop in his mouth.
“Send out the American and I will give up your Sunni pig. I know you hate Americans as much as I does, and your leader’s oil pan is about drained. If you do what I just told you before I kick over this chair, your man lives. If not, you will miss his gag and dance, and no duck will drop down and pay you a dollar; his neck will snap like a twig, and that’s all folks. I’ll be-a, I’ll be-a, I’ll be-a seeing you, just like Elmer Fudd use to say; or was it Groucho Marx?”
No one responded, not even his beleaguered followers.
Filled with two quarts of vitriol, the fast-aging Mississippi orphan had worked up quite a sweat, and he was beside himself—meaning, he was clinically schizophrenic. “She MUST die; I tell you she must die! She must pay! I am the great Karim of Kandahar, and I HAVE SPOKE. Give her up to be skinned and gutted like an Arkansas catfish.” Karim again paused, manipulated his tone of voice one last time and added, “You may come out and watch if you like; free admission; and no danger to yourselfs.”
Checking his timing with a companion and getting a nod, Seaman’s Cap blurted out for the first time, “Hey boss, don’t you forget your promise: Loot and women.” Then lowering his voice, he added, “and I don’t nominate me for your new lieutenant. Their life expectancy don’t look too good.” His half-circle of dimwitted compatriots nodded compliantly. One of them even chuckled, then feigned a sneeze. Quick thinking. Poker faces were the order of the day since Karim held all the cards, stared daggers, and held a gun in his hand.
“Hush your mouth” he replied to Seaman’s Cap. “One thing at a time.” Karim yelled, “We’ll count down from fifty. Naw, that’s too hard; we’ll count up from nothin’. If we get to fifty and the woman isn’t kissing my feet, then Safeed dies, and we burn this govermint relocation project to the ground—all of it and all of you!”
Stirred up by their boss’s resolve, collective enthusiasm foamed like froth on a mad dog’s mouth. Karim led the count:
“Altogether now—FIFTY, I mean, ONE!” His followers took up the count. “Two, three, four.” The chanting spawned a diatribe. “LOUDER.” Jinny chambered a round in her M-24, aimed at Karim’s lethal big toe, and readied to squeeze the trigger. “Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-six . . .” Karim accelerated the count. His toe twitched against the chair leg. From seventy yards, Safeed reminded Jinny of a pheasant about to be looped on Conor’s belt.
Remember, Jinny, first shot’s at the cord, second at Karim’s big toe.
“Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five . . . “
Jinny stood—feet spread apart, the rifle tight against her shoulder, her arm braced by the sling, the barrel resting on the facade; she placed the scope’s cross-hairs on the twisted cord above Safeed’s head. To slow her heart rate, the trained sniper breathed slowly in, out, paused, and squeezed the trigger.
Click. NOTHING. Not losing her cool, Jinny attempted to eject the dud from the chamber. No can do! The rifle had been damaged by the fall. It was worthless.
Abdul Akim had slid down the pole and ducked behind the parapet. Hearing the click, he froze.
“Forty-seven, forty-eight-forty-nine . . .”
” BLAM!”
A blast from seven feet behind Safeed stopped the count, severed the cord, and Safeed fell from the chair, landing unconscious on his right shoulder. Dalal stood in the hospital doorway, shotgun smoking, and shifted her finger to the second trigger. “I am an educated woman. I will finish the count for your men. Fifty. Now your’re finished.” Nobody moved.
The last of two shotgun shells had Karim’s name on it. Swiveling only his head, he peered into the double-barrel and pondered how he’d look without a head. Dalal could not see his gun slowly crawling across his torso. To his great surprise, Jinny and Abdul, exposed above the knees, popped from behind the parapet. Jinny held her useless rifle rigid, Karim’s head in her cross-hairs. She called out. “Mr. K., it’s me; just me; combat ready, sniper qualified, and, well, you do know I can shoot, right? Through my scope your head looks bigger than a watermelon. Oh no, let’s be truthful, it looks bigger than a garbage can. Do your men know that I can also take out five of them before they get me?”
Karim swallowed his chaw; his breathing was labored; the semi-automatic fell from his hand and discharged into the dirt. Dalal hadn’t budged; she held the barrel of her shotgun two feet from his knotted, greasy hair, and ordered, “Put on your shoes.” Aghast, his men watched him cram his toes into the boots and crush the critters inside.
Abdul-Akim gleefully cupped his hands to his mouth. “Your strategic advantage is at an end. Look to the windows and alleys.” Dozens of rifle barrels protruded through open shutters, glistening in the late afternoon light. Doors opened. Men and a few women stepped into the streets and alleys, armed with anything that could be thrown or hammered. Dropping their instruments of destruction, Karim’s men waited for him to say something, to say anything—hopefully, let’s get the blank outta here.
Karim pulled a few nose hairs; his eyes watered. “Naw! You wouldn’t shoot down an unarmed civilian now, would you?”
“You are already down, or hadn’t you noticed?” replied Dalal.
“Awe, why don’t we forget the whole thing and just throw in with each other.”
“You do make me want me to throw . . . up,” concluded Dalal.
Abdul offered the benediction: “You and your men get into the jeeps and drive swiftly toward Islamabad. Do you hear me? You will leave as you arrived. Quickly! Stop to collect nothing.” That aroused a murmur from Karim’s crew. “Leave the Humvee; set a proper example for your chief, and lead him to his jeep. Drive east. Now.”
“Or never,” screamed Jinny, not lowering her rifle. Abdul held up both hands and dropped one finger at a time.
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.” By the count of five Abdul had been joined by a mixed chorus of villagers–sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses. Choice and accountability: Blast off or get blasted. Karim abandoned hopes of picking up the sharp, broken pieces of his dream. He leaked gas like a punctured blimp all the way to the lead jeep. Disarmed and disillusioned, he flashed the international sign for vulgarity and within minutes, dust and an obnoxious smell were the only remaining sign of the convoy.
Dalal emerged from the hospital, her arms full of medical supplies, and knelt by her cousin. Too late. Looking up, she shook her head. Jinny hadn’t relaxed her grip on the rifle but her eyes blurred, unable to see through the scope. The sun would soon settle behind the Hindu Kush, leaving behind a brief blaze of glory, but no one felt like celebrating.