1900h.
The Kandahar combat hospital, deep in Taliban territory, was well fortified, but convalescing in bed wasn’t on Major General Jack Robertson’s bucket-list. An I.V. tube and pump, secured to his left wrist with tape, hobbled his movements. He shifted his weight and tried not to unseat the photo array spread on his lap. He had work to do; decisions to make; coffee to drink. A framed photo of his ex-wife sat atop a two-drawer nightstand to his left and provided the room’s only adornment. Sofia had remarried. The general’s weary adjutant, Tom Flint, also divorced, sat on an orange plastic chair to his right watching the I.V. drip, wondering if he needed to be concerned about accidentally being hypnotized.
Robertson studied each photo and read each voice transcription. “Thankfully, Tommy, these show but one offensive action.”
“Don’t you mean, defensive action, General? The Pakistanis were just protecting their turf. They had no clue as to why our jeeps powered down to Peshawar unannounced. In their shoes, I’d have issue the kill order at the border.
“At least you are in your shoes. Halloween in Havana, I’ve got to get out of this bed.”
An orderly knocked on the glass, opened the slider, and stepped into the room. “Sir, your breakfast.”
“Put that on hold. I need a few more minutes to digest what’s on my lap.”
“But? Yes sir.” The slider slid, the orderly turned around, and a third serving of the general’s overcooked toast vanished from the tray. Overhead, a four-lamp fluorescent fixture flickered, buzzed, and scolded. The orderly looked up. “Mind your own business.” He shifted gears and pushed the four-wheel stainless-steel cart down the polished cement corridor.
“Close that door again, will you Tommy?”
“It’s shut, Sir. Clean glass.”
“So, whose still alive over there?”
“Sir, you will remember that neither Captain Durant’s body nor his dog tags were recovered at the blown bridge between Kandahar and Kabul. On point, he wasn’t among the dead left behind by Billie Joe and his thugs. And if they had left Durant with the Taliban, he’d be on the evening news by now, don’t you think?”
“Agreed, maybe.”
“Perhaps Quagmeyer kept him alive as a hostage.”
“Or bait, Tommy. Or bait.”
“But why leave the Humvee behind in Peshawar last evening, General?”
“Goggle-gump, I forgot about the Humvee. These confounded drugs in my system have me spinning. Step out and tell the nurse to come check my morphine pump. I need a fix.”
Twenty minutes later, Major General Robertson picked up where he’d left off. “Tommy, show me the photo location of the Humvee? And why did Quagmeyer leave it behind in Palermo?”
“That would be Peshawar, Sir. Palermo is in Sicily. Different war.”
Robertson sighed, shifted his wounded leg, and several photographs fell to the floor. Forgetting his question, he reached over and thumbed the morphine pump while Tommy retrieved the fallen photos, found the requested image, and pointed. “It’s right there, Sir, parked on the edge of what looks to be a town square. Having studied these photos while you were in the head, I’d say the good citizens of Peshawar deserve credit for running Billie Joe’s gang out of town, Sir.”
“Send word to Colonel – – – Who is the acting C.O. in Kabul?”
“Major Killpack, Sir.”
“What happened to Howard? Oh no, no, never mind, I remember. Sad, sad. Send word to Major Killpack that Billie Joe Quagmeyer, alias Karim of Kandahar, and his henchmen were terminated by the Pakistani air force. On second thought, forward all this stuff, stamped confidential, through SATCOM to our Three-Star.” Trying to clear his mind of cobwebs, the General hesitated. “No other Pakistani aggression?”
“No, sir. What they did was purely a defensive response, and given the chatter, the Pakistanis had to believe they were attacking a convoy of American soldiers. I believe we have only hours before they drop in on Peshawar looking for more soldiers; maybe minutes, Sir.
“Logical conclusion, my friend. Could be Durant is in Palermo. Before we forward this to D.O.D., anything else I should have picked up on?”
“Take a close look at this photo . . . lots of people bunched together not long after the fire. Note the two standing on a roof.” Tommy pulled a pen from his pocket, clicked, and pointed it at the two small figures.
“Well, I’ll be a dogleg’s paw; one of them is in uniform! And he’s a woman! I mean, she’s a woman.”
“Yes, sir. No doubt about it–high def from sixty-five thousand feet, and she’s carrying an M-24. Cute, too. The rifle of course, not the woman. But I’ve seen no evidence of Captain Durant.”
The General’s blood pressure ramped up. “Sniper’s rifle! Holy Toledo. Sergeant O’Dwyer. Jinny. She’s alive! Ring up Colonel Killpack.”
***
Dawn danced through the perforated, transparent veil stretched across the eastern horizon—a vista ever changing, ever enchanting. No dust stirred in the Pass; no one sounded reveille; no villagers rushed to the rooftops; no one died, but a large, lonely figure had trudged off the Islamabad road during the night. He slept sequestered against the wall behind the hospital generator. It, too, was out of gas.
Jinny awoke and found herself wedged between two small boys; a young woman lay but a dream away– tossing and turning, her pillow wet. Jinny pitched sideways, rolled onto her hands and knees, and straddled Asif. She stared down at slumbering innocence. Expressionless, she pushed up to her feet, shuffled to the window, took in a shallow breathe, and shuddered. It wasn’t cold outside. Safeed’s hand-stitched crimson bedspread—intricately leaved and veined with blues, greens, and purples—had fallen from Gharam’s bed. Jinny picked it up, folded it in half, and laid it at the feet of the slumbering saint. And then with a finger, Jinny lingered long enough to trace one purple vein all the way to the bound, frayed edge of the quilt. She caressed the broken cloth, then absentmindedly wrapped the quilt around her shoulders and stepped away.
Gharam leaned down and gently tugged on Asad’s sleeve. He awoke. “Asad, where is Jinny?”
“Is she in the bathroom?” Gharam crawled off the foot of her bed, left the room, and then returned shaking her head.
“No, I awoke to street noise, and the downstairs entry door is ajar. Come, we must find her.” Asif awoke wondering why his dream had no ending. His eye still bandaged, he and Asad followed Gharam down the stairs and into the alley. Pulling a small red wagon laden with a few candled eggs toward the square, a passer-by,cheerfully greeted Gharam.
“You and the boys are up and out early this morning.”
“Jinny has disappeared. I am worried. We must find her. Rami, will you knock Dalal’s door and ask her to check the roof and shimmy up the pole to the lookout?”
“For you, anything,” Rami replied. She left her wagon unattended and hurried toward Dalal’s apartment a block away.
Asad tugged on Gharam’s sleeve. “Gharam, wait, where did Safeed die?”
“In front of the hospital, I think.”
“Follow me.” Asad abandoned Gharam and Asif and raced toward the village square. He found four villagers stoically huddled around Jinny. She had fallen to her knees, head bowed, with the bedspread still draped around her stooped shoulders, and was staring vacantly at the ground. Dalal looked on from the crow’s nest where she had stood breathlessly for three minutes.
Gharam waved and Dalal, tucked an arm around Jinny, and whispered, “Come love, we must get you home.”
Jinny mouthed the word: “Home.” Inwardly she was adrift at sea; outwardly she was as dry-docked as a tall sailing ship in need of a patch. Only when the boys tied on, hand in hand, did she yield to their tugs and follow them into the small sea of sympathetic faces.
“Abdul Akim! But how did you know to come?” Abdul made no reply to Gharam but appeared relieved when the man and woman clutching his arms let go and rushed, full of smiles, to the boys. They knelt and extended their arms, anxious to embrace Asad and Asif.
Asif blurted, “Do not touch me. My eye is bandaged.”
Asad raised a palm defensively, leaned back against Jinny, and demanded, “Should we know you?”
In practiced Pashto, the woman responded, “Why, I am your mother’s sister. I am Wahida, dear Asad—little Sweet Pea. Little geechee-goo. Your uncle and I feared you lost, kidnapped, or dead.” She glanced up at Jinny, who hypnotically stiffened at the knees. Asad studied Wahida’s red, blunted nose while she absentmindedly twisted a few unkempt hairs with a finger and thumb. Other hairs looked like strangled drinking straws. The hijab abruptly terminated at a granny knot tied across her bifurcated chin—so tight that her bifurcation looked like a suntanned hourglass.
Asad stuck out his chin, placed a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder, and grinned. “Geechee-goo? Sweat pea? Really?”
Latif edged forward and dropped to his knees. His most distinguishing feature was a large black mole centered curiously above his nose. It made him look cross-eyed. Wahida smacked him on the back as one would cue a toy that had stopped working. “Yes, yes, Asif,” he chortled. “My wife, Wahida, is indeed your aunt, and we thought—I mean, we presumed you taken or dead. Where have you been . . . little Sweet Pea?” His duplicitous remark drew another swat, this time to the back of his head.
Asif gathered courage. He lifted Jinny’s hand as a referee would a winning boxer’s glove at the end of fifteen rounds. “This is our Mama now; she is from God’s country.” All present were taken aback by his quiet resolve, and at that moment it was as if someone repeatedly rang the bell to get everyone’s attention. Jinny dropped to her knees, drew Asad and Asif close, and uttered five words: “Yes, they are my sons.”
Gharam stepped forward. “We must help Jinny to her bed. She is still in shock and needs rest.”
“But what about us?” huffed Wahida contemptuously, stirred by a mixture of distress and disdain.
Latif arose and placed his hand firmly on Wahida’s shoulder—a manly token that his wife should also regain both her feet, a measure of decorum, dust herself off, and admit defeat; but she still had some fight left in her. “Perhaps we may call upon you later today, Miss Gharam?” The couple turned and looked back at Abdul-Akim for support.
He nodded. “Yes, Wahida and Latif, come. Perhaps we will visit the boys later in the day. Will that be alright, Gharam?”
“As you wish, Uncle.” Pointing and wagging a finger she added, “But please do lunch before you come, and do climb the stairs quietly. Jinny may be resting.”
Wahida’s lips moved out of sync with her heart as she bid Abdul-Akim farewell at his door. “Dear and wise old man, with your help our family will soon be reunited—the four of us. God is good. Good is God.” Bowing and chaining arms with Latif, Wahida slithered off across the cobblestone street. “Those children will be worth a small fortune in Islamabad, but don’t you ever grab my shoulder like that again, brother.”
Abdul-Akim collapsed into his overstuffed chair. Usually comfortable, this morning it was uncomfortable. He muttered as senior citizens are wont to do: “Have you been duped again, old man? How could the children not recognize such close relations? They claimed to have seen Asad and Asif yesterday evening at the graveside service. Were they even at the funeral? Not until they knocked your door this morning did you ever suppose that Latif and Wahida are husband and wife.” Abdul drew two conclusions: 1. “Although they claim to have followed us from Rasht, Wahida and Latif are imposters with scurrilous intentions. 2. “Stop talking to yourself. The two of you have but one point of view. You must broaden the field of your inquiry,” he chuckled. After three painful heave-hoes, Abdul escaped from the couch and dropped to his knees to pray, his early morning attempt having been interrupted by Latif and Wahida.
He awoke, still kneeling, several hours later, and chided himself. “Old man, do not expect answers to prayers that end with a snort.” Abdul retained but four words from his dream: Your mission is complete. Interested in making further, he paused and heard a tentative twist of the front door knob. The deadbolt did not release, of course. It was locked. “Time for some new intel, as Jinny would say.” Abdul crawled on all fours, pressed his ear to the keyhole, and listened.
“Wahida, you headstrong baboon, I told you the old fool keeps the door locked when he sleeps. Come, we must not draw further attention to ourselves. We will return later.”
“NO!” Wahida sniped. “Number one, Abdul is asleep; number two, Abdul is rich; number three, you are a mouse. If our plan for selling the little males in Islamabad unravels, we must at least leave here with something. Keep watch while I pick this cheap lock.” Reluctantly, Latif stepped forward to shield his sister’s duplicity from observation. Click. The door crept open, the pair crept in, and Wahida’s words crept off her tongue, “Good, the old fool has gone to his bedroom to nap; move quickly and quietly.”
They tiptoed from room to room, rummaging through drawers, snooping, and sniffing as if they were DEA dogs who had been dismissed for insubordination. Finding nothing of value, they crept to Abdul’s closed bedroom door, held their breath, and listened. Silence. Wahida cautiously turned the knob, pushed, and peaked through the crack. The bed was empty. Pushing further she felt resistance. Together they forced the door open and looked down at who had resisted their intrusion—Abdul Akim.
“Be sure he’s dead. Most old men look and smell dead. Slap him to be sure.”
Latif complied. “Yes, he is dead, but if someone sees us leaving this place he will think we knocked the old man on the head.” Wahida was preoccupied with a letter pulled from between Abdul’s fingers. Unable to read English, she wadded and threw it on the worn, woven rug by the bed. Suddenly as irritated as a newborn F-5 tornado, Wahida spun toward the front door, her brother right behind, wishing he’d never left home. Latif scoffed, “I’m glad he’s dead, stone-cold dead, but by whose hand? Weren’t we the last to see him alive?”
Wahida seethed, “The old man is not dead. He’s on to us and has gone to warn Gharam and the others. DALAL! She’s trouble. She saw me kill the soldier hidden on her roof.”
“Wait, wait, wait, back up. The old man is dead. And you did what? Are you mad? Have you lost your mind?” Taking his sister again by the shoulders, Latif screamed, “Two dead, you deranged donkey? We’ve got to get out of here.”
Wahida strong-armed Latif, pushed him off balance against the door, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and slapped his face.“I looked back through the doorway, and Abdul’s body is gone—gone I tell you. So it matters little what or where he is. Follow me to the hospital. We’ll load Karim’s collection into the Humvee and, if I can start it, we’ll drive to Islamabad and sell all as salvage. If we remain here, I will be stoned and you will be castrated.”
“Only you would choose that as my fate.” Latif peeked through the window drape and, seeing no passersby, the pair of deuces slipped out the door hoping to be dealt a new hand. Neither had ever played with a full deck of unmarked cards. As the door latched, Wahida’s lock-pick fell, undetected, from a shallow pocket.
“Come, be quick, we must hurry.”
As they hightailed it toward the minaret, turned south, and disappeared from Hafiz Street, Abdul stood in his doorway, a wry smile on his face, and waved. “You didn’t check my pulse, you scoundrels.”
Neither scoundrel detected the slumbering vagrant as they slunk by the compressor toward the rear hospital door. “Latif, hand me your lock-picker.”
“What do you mean, my lock-pick; it’s yours.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Nothing. Nada. The practiced pick-pockets concluded their search in vain. Like converging bogs, brother and sister wallowed in one another’s misery—they squabbled, rolled over and over, scratched, bit, pinched, and punched. The ruckus solved nothing. Still no pick. No loot.
“You must have dropped it at the old man’s apartment. We’re done here. Somebody’s bound to put one and one together—one and one equals two—me and my stupid brother.”
“You mean, they’ll think we murdered Abdul?”
Clenching her fists, Wahida’s sallow complexion reddened. “For the last time Neanderthal, he isn’t dead.” She readjusted her back-pack straps and decided to go straight–straight toward Islamabad. After mulling over his options—the least desirable of which was the companionship of his sister—Latif tried the rear hospital door. “Locked out. Story of my life.” He swore loud enough to awaken and embarrass even Sailor’s Cap, and then trotted down the road after Wahida. The shmucks shifted into third gear, forgot to keep an eye out for booby-traps, and with abandon continued the marathon run toward Islamabad. Three hours later, two remnants of rotten fruit fertilized the local vegetation. IED.