American Blood: A Vampire's Story (21 page)

The six daughters were taken to a large room with the strong scents of spice and cinnamon. Several brass fixtures hanging from the ceiling brightly illuminated the room. Unlike the women and children’s quarters, the
Sardar’s
residence had electricity powered by a large diesel generator at the rear of the building. The room had several low tables to one side with drinking cups and plates of dried fruits. A single hand-knotted wool rug of the finest artisanship dominated the space. Sitting with his legs folded before him on the large rug with three other men was the
Sardar
, the
tabar
chief, wearing a resplendent turban of black and silver. The nine women knelt down to show their submission before him with Zamda alone in front.

Calida gently mind-locked with Husaam who sat at his father’s right. The reading of his thoughts was no longer needed. The joining of their minds was now about suggestion and control.

“What has my first wife brought before me?” the
Sardar
asked. He was older than the other men; his beard longer and his voice commanded respect.

“These are your six daughters to be presented before the
Amir
, my husband.”

The
Sardar
placed his hands on his knees. “They are the prettiest of my daughters?”

“Yes, my husband.”

“Zamda,” and the
Sardar
coldly laughed, “if the
Amir
is not pleased, I shall not be pleased.”

“The
Amir
shall be pleased, my beloved husband.”

Husaam leaned close to the
Sardar
. “As I feared father. My sisters are soiled and dirty . . . why has my mother brought them before you in these shameful rags?” He then looked at his mother with obvious disgust. “They must be given new ones if we are not to insult the
Amir
.”

“Yes, Husaam, they are not fit to be seen.” The
Sardar
smiled at the other two elderly men sitting to his right and picked up a thin wooden stick that lay next to him. He slowly stood up and looked directly at Zamda. “Why have you allowed my daughters to come before me like this?”

Zamda cowered. “No, please, I asked them to wear their very best.”

“They look of filth . . . they would dishonor even the cows in the field.” The
Sardar
calmly stepped over to Zamda and started beating her. The stick gave off a whipping sound with each stroke. “Perhaps you should take a place before the
Amir
?” And now each vicious swing was tied to a word. “You are fortunate that you are too old and ugly.”

Zamda collapsed on her side and reached out with her hand to ward off the blows as the brutal beating continued.

“
Please
. . . my husband . . .
forgive me
. . . I—I shall give them my very finest . . .
forgive
. . . .” Zamda’s voice was shrill with pain.

“Then hurry to your quarters,” the
Sardar
said, and he ended the beating. “If we are not timely with the
Amir
, or if he is ill pleased for any reason, I shall beat you again when I return . . . now go.”

Zamda struggled to her feet, her ragged breaths easily heard by everyone. She pulled in her arms to hide the painful cuts from the stick. “Yes,
Sardar
.”

“And make sure you do not stain the fresh
burqas
with the blood on your hands,” the Sardar said. He gave Zamda a hard kick as she turned to flee.

Calida stayed huddled down like the other women. To draw the
Sardar’s
attention for the slightest reason would be rewarded with a beating just as severe as that given to his wife. Calida knew all too well how these tribal men could treat their women. They hid behind the ancient code of
Pashtunwali
, which demanded the respect of a woman’s honor, but would ignore the code when a husband or other male family member physically abused a wife or sister. The Pashtun term for a man who does not publicly beat his wife is “a man with no penis.” Calida had witnessed long ago that for traditional Pashtuns the public beating of women by their husbands was a form of village entertainment. Zamda might be the
Sardar’s
first wife, but that didn’t exclude her from regular beatings at the hands of her husband.

Husaam stood up. “My sisters must be taken to remove these rags,” he said and pointed at Calida. “You, take them behind the silken screens and await our mother’s return. There are men not of our
tabar
with us so do not allow their faces to be seen—they must not break
purdah
—or you shall also be punished.”

“Yes, my brother,” Calida said, and she led the women to the back section of the room where silver and red silk panels hung from the ceiling all the way to the floor. Calida pushed a panel aside and allowed the women to pass within. When it came Iffat’s turn to pass behind the screen, Calida reached out and stopped her. “Go see that Zamda is not delayed or I fear we shall all be beaten.”

Iffat hesitated for a moment, then backed away and deeply bowed to the men who watched her leave.

Calida carefully closed the panel so there wasn’t a gap through which a man might peer in and see them. She turned to the six women. “Now off with your dirt . . . Pamir, you shall change first, then Ghazala and Nafisa. When you are ready you will go before the
Sardar
and take your place.” Calida nodded her head with great exaggeration. “If the Sardar is pleased, then Kashmala and Roshina must quickly follow. Amina, you shall go last and help me with the unclean
burqas
. We do not want to be beaten for leaving a mess in the
Sardar’s
chamber.”

“But who are you?” Amina asked. “I do not know your voice.”

“I am a woman of this
tabar
.”

“Then you are nothing.”

T
he small LCD screen of the tracker gave a directional heading and distance to the programmed sensor that had been surgically implanted in Calida’s right shoulder two days before they left for Afghanistan. The two original sensors had been removed as their power supplies were nearly spent.

Ryan studied the screen for a moment. “She’s stationary right now . . . forty eight hundred meters south-southeast.”

Sergeant Bob frowned. “Is she still alive?”

“So now you’re worried?”

“And so are you . . . you’d make a lousy poker player.”

“And I’d bet you’d go all in on the first hand.”

“For a civy you’re not too dumb, Ryan.”

“What do we do?” Ryan asked. “Sit here and watch to see if and when she moves?”

Sergeant Bob checked his watch. “Hmm, 2230 . . . let’s get back inside the cave. We’ll take another position check in fifteen minutes.”

The two men went back through the narrow opening. Ryan sat down in the same place as before and put the tracker in standby to conserve power.

“How do you communicate with her exactly?” Sergeant Bob asked, matter-of-factly.

Ryan straightened his legs out and leaned back on an elbow. “I’m not supposed to tell you any of this but to Hell with it . . . you’re out here risking your lives, too.” Ryan picked up his half-eaten ration and began to pick at it with the provided plastic spoon. “Our friendly neighborhood super vamp is telepathic . . . when she wants me to know something she tells me.”

Sergeant Bob’s mouth opened. “Has she told you anything since she jumped?”

Ryan cleared his throat. “She has.”

Sergeant Bob shook his head and grunted. “Do you think you might let us in on these . . . uh, mission updates?”

“If she says anything related to the mission I’ll let you know.”

“Please do that.”

“Hasn’t she been inside your head?”

“How would I know?”

“If she wants you to it will
sound
clear as day. If she’s just listening you wouldn’t know if she doesn’t want you to.”

“Then I better be careful what I think about.”

“Yeah? Good luck with that.” Ryan looked over at Squalls who appeared to be taking a nap. “Hey, Corporal, toss me another Gatorade.”

Without opening his eyes Squalls reached into a crate he was lying against and came up with a blue Gatorade that he tossed to Ryan.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” Ryan said, and twisted open the plastic bottle.

A few peaceful moments passed and Sergeant Bob rolled forward on his knees and stood up. “Let’s get an update on her position,” he said, and went through the opening.

Ryan took a final mouthful of the sweet liquid, followed him outside where he came up alongside Sergeant Bob, and pushed a switch on the tracking device. “Just needs a second to power out of standby.” A small green light came on and Ryan pointed the tracker’s small directional antenna to the south. “Hey, look here.” He tapped a finger on the screen. “She’s now sixty-six hundred meters distant almost due south.”

“She’s on the move along the western side of the valley,” Sergeant Bob said. “Toward the south end it curves slightly to the east.” He glanced up at the night sky and its attendant starry companions. “There’s a MILSAT due over head in twenty minutes. Stay out here why I get the satellite phone. It’s time to send an update on our situation.”

Sergeant Bob disappeared back inside the cave while Ryan watched the distance between Calida and himself widen on the screen.

“Our enemies our innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.”

—
George W. Bush

T
he two old Soviet built KrAZ-255B troop trucks bumped and jostled their way along what had little resemblance to a road.

Calida had used her short time alone with Amina to persuade her, in a very vampiric way, to remain behind. The men of the
tabar
now had a little wolf in their midst. The test for Amina was to stay hidden from all eyes during the seven days of transformation. She would then have to take on a new appearance. In some ways, Amina was now her daughter, but Calida held no illusions of a special bond existing between them. Once she turned a woman, they would become fiercely territorial and not suffer the presence of another female vampire, even her. Calida had told Ryan she wouldn’t harm this daughter, but she wondered if he would interpret what she had done to Amina as leaving her unharmed. Whether the decision was good or bad, at least the beating of the women and children would soon end.

They had journeyed to the southern end of the
Sardar’s
valley where it opened up into a small, relatively flat confluence with a small canyon that ran down from the mountains to the east. To the west of the confluence, a forty-foot cliff guarded a narrow mountain lake fed by a glacier attached to the mountainside three thousand feet above.

Just over this last ridge of mountains to the east was the city of Quetta, which served as a strategic hub for the movement of arms and opium, a mecca in its own right for weapons traders and militants looking to thwart America’s growing influence in the region.

And it was here, in the mountains and plains north of Quetta, where the Taliban’s exiled leader of the faithful, the
Amir al-Mu’minin,
maintained his control of his followers in Afghanistan. There were many inhabited valleys and remote tribal villages sympathetic to the Taliban in this area, but the
Amir
found it prudent, and of course safer, for the various tribal sardars
to come meet him on his own terms which meant he kept on the move.

So the trucks left the valley and soon came upon three large tents sitting next to a huge extrusion of naked granite that had been thrust up in the middle of the confluence by the shifting faults deep below the earth.

Calida was in the truck with the other five daughters. No other women from their
tabar
were allowed to accompany them to this special
jirga
between the
Sardar
and the
Amir
.
The truck came to a stop and two Pashtuns from their
tabar
quickly opened up the canvas flap at the back of the vehicle, ordering the six women to get out. The women were herded like a small flock of blue wraiths to a place away from the tents where several men, in the characteristic black garments of the Taliban, searched them without any regard for their observance of
purdah
. After the men were satisfied there were no obvious dangers beneath, or within the women’s clothing, they were passed over by hand held metal detectors.

“Oh, do not weep my little blue flowers,” one of the Taliban warriors said. “Have you not heard that we do not always beat our women?”

“That is true,” another said, smiling at the women. “You shall only be beaten if you do not obey the laws of the
Sharia
.”

Calida understood that this meant they could be beaten for anything that these men on a whim decided was a transgression of Islamic law.

After being subjected to several minutes of waving and prodding with the metal detectors, the six women, most of them quietly weeping, were led into the middle tent.

The space inside was well lit with rugs of all sizes covering the ground. A semicircle of seven men sat with their legs crossed making humorous conversation with each other. Calida noticed that the
Sardar
and Husaam were sitting to the right of a man with a long unkempt beard wearing a perfectly straight, simple black turban. She also observed that his right eye was missing, but he wore no patch over the vacant socket. The three men on the other side of the one eyed man were dressed in black
qmises
and
shalwars
with white sleeveless vests over the
qmis
. They also wore the same straight black turbans.

The six women were led before the men and instructed to sit on their knees with their feet directly beneath.

“They possess no hidden dangers,” said the Taliban warrior who led the daughters into the tent.

The
Amir
nodded and the warrior left the tent. “Your tribute has pleased me,” he said to the
Sardar
, his voice was high pitched and rough sounding. “Many weapons can we purchase in Quetta to fight the American infidels.”

“My eldest son has brought you a great cache from selling the opium to the decadent west. He is honored that you are pleased.” The
Sardar
turned toward his son and smiled.

“Thank you, father.”

“And what do I see before me?” the
Amir
asked.

“Another tribute, great one, but of lesser value than the money, I fear.”

The
Amir
laughed, unpleasantly. “What can be more important than the American dollars to buy the weapons we need to fight them in our homeland?”

“Nothing,
Amir
.” The
Sardar
turned and faced the women and waved his hand in a sweeping arc. “These are my most beautiful daughters,” he now proudly said in a loud, clear voice. “May they be allowed to serve the
kahwah
I have brought?”

The
Amir
looked at each daughter—his single eyed stare was more unsettling then a man with only two eyes. “This shall be our third cup of
kahwah
between us,” the
Amir
said.

“Yes, we have shared tea twice before,” the
Sardar
said. “The
kahwah
that I’ve brought was prepared with only the finest spices grown in my valley.”

The
Amir
held his hands out. “I shall accept this kindness after you tell me how your
kahwah
tastes.”

Calida silently observed this exchange of distrust between the two men.

“Husaam, my son, have your sisters bring us the
kahwah
.”

“Which of my sisters shall pour?” Husaam asked.

Five of the women cast nervous glances at each other from behind their veils and after a moment one of the
Sardar’s
daughters gracefully stood up.

“Show your hands,” said one of the
Amir’s
men.

The daughter put out her hands and showed her palms to the men. The
Amir
nodded and she bowed. She walked over to a small rug that had a metal tray with shallow silver cups and a large pitcher of steaming liquid. She knelt down in front of the tray and carefully poured a dark green aromatic tea with hints of spice into the seven cups.

“Who shall bring the sugar?”

A second daughter stood up, showed her hands, and after being given permission from the
Amir,
walked over to the tray and picked up a small glass container that had cubes made from unrefined sugar cane.

“Bring to me the
kahwah
and sugar,” the
Sardar
ordered.

The two daughters came to the
Sardar
who held out his right hand. The daughter with the sugar took a single cube from the glass dish and placed it in the
Sardar’s
hand. The
Sardar
put the cube in his mouth and his other daughter gave him one of the silver cups that he brought up to his lips and quickly drained.

“Ah, yes, it is the finest quality
kahwah
. The spices from my valley are the best in all of Pashtunistan.”

The
Amir
studied his guest and after several moments, he appeared to relax. “You may have your daughters bring the cup to me.”

The two daughters stepped over to the
Amir
and again a sugar cube was placed in the
Amir’s
right hand, which he put in his mouth and then accepted the cup of
kahwah
. He brought the cup close to his face and breathed in deeply.

“Yes
Sardar
, it smells of your beautiful valley,” he said, and began to sip from the cup. After a moment, he looked at the two daughters. “Serve the others then sit with your sisters.”

The daughters did as instructed and after serving the remaining five men in the same manner, went back to their places among the other women.

“Which three shall you choose?” the
Sardar
asked. “They are all beautiful. Now that we have shared the third cup of tea, we are family. Their
purdah
is no longer required.” The
Sardar
turned to his daughters. “Lift your veils and show the
Amir
how beautiful you are.”

The daughters looked toward each other and removed their veils, but they kept their eyes lowered toward the ground before them.

“Have I not told you the truth?” the
Sardar
asked. “All are young. All are beautiful.”

“You have given me three difficult choices.” The
Amir
put down his cup and continued his inspection of the women. “You,” he said, pointing. “The one who stood first . . . what is your name?”

“Nafisa is my name.”

“Lift up your face,” the
Amir
requested. “Yes, you are very beautiful.”

“And you, the eager one with the sugar, what is your name?”

“Amina.”

“I know this name.” The
Amir
gave the
Sardar
an approving nod. “Amina was the mother of the prophet Muhammad. It is an honored name among Muslims.”

Calida smiled but remained silent.

“And you are also very beautiful . . . but what is that on your hand?” The
Amir
began to shake his head. “How did you come by this scar on your hand?”

Calida reached out to Husaam. “It happened when I was a little girl,” she replied.

“How?” the
Amir
again asked.

There was an image now in Husaam’s mind. He remembered.

“The
Amir
shall not ask a third time,” the
Sadar
said, agitated.

“The scar was given to me by Husaam when I was ten,” Calida answered.

“Why would Husaam do this?” the
Amir
asked.

“I had shamed him by winning a contest of
buzul-bazi
before the other boys.”

The
Amir
laughed and was joined by the other men except for Husaam. “
Sardar
, your son does not take losing kindly, even to a little girl while playing with sheep knuckles.”

Husaam turned to the
Amir
as if to speak, but gave out a short breath and remained quiet.

The
Sardar
stopped laughing for a moment. “He has been raised well,
Amir
. Since he was a small boy others have learned to be careful when challenging him to any contest.”

“It pleases me that he has been raised in the oldest traditions of our people,” the
Amir
said. “I have need of such honorable men in the
jihad
against the invaders of our homeland.”

“We are very pleased by your graciousness,” the
Sardar
said. “Husaam is ready to bring my
tabar’s
honor to your service.”

“Then we shall talk about Husaam,” the
Amir
said. “But I still have not chosen the three daughters who shall come and bring service and honor to my tent.” He again turned his eye to Calida. “You are chosen if only to keep Husaam’s anger from again marking your lovely skin.”

“And what of the other two?” the
Sardar
asked.

“Nafisa I shall also take. She is the youngest and the most willing to please.” The
Amir
looked at the remaining four daughters. “I shall leave the third choice to Husaam. Only he would know if one of the remaining four has shamed him while playing games.”

The men again laughed while Husaam quietly sat with his eyes fixed on his sister, an embarrassed grin across his face.

Calida kept her head down and let go of Husaam. He was of no further use to her and was now merely food. If she again mind-locked with him it would be to acquire a blood meal. She trained her mind on the
Amir
. When she had picked up the sugar cube for his tea, she released the messengers from her fingers onto the sugar. Already they had traveled inside his blood to his skull.

As Husaam finally chose the third daughter, Calida entered into the private sanctum of the
Amir’s
thoughts. The tenants of his faith, just as with Husaam, made for difficult reading and his mind was also plagued by a cloud of distrust that was the lens through which he interpreted the world. Even through this cloud Calida found  a name that had a presence in his thoughts, a presence that was almost an obsession.

Calida was startled by a sudden revelation. She reflexively looked up at the
Amir
and just as quickly lowered her eyes. The man she had been forced to find and kill; the man who was the single most hated enemy of the American government; the man who through his warped understanding of the Islamic faith had brought the Afghani people yet another war . . . the Sheikh, the exiled son of Saudi Arabia was—

“Amina?”

Calida looked up.

“We must leave the
Amir
and
Sardar
to discuss their matters,” Ghazala said. “Come to the tent that has been prepared for us.”

Amina replaced her veil and stood up. She followed Ghazala and Nafisa outside where the three daughters who had not been chosen were waiting with two Taliban guards. They were led toward one of the other tents and as they walked, one of the daughters joined Calida who was last.

“Oh my sister,” Pamir said. “Shall I not see you again?”

Calida stepped close. “Do not be surprised if you find me back with our
tabar
. . . perhaps very soon,” she whispered.