Farishta (32 page)

“Irrelevant! There’s a good reason they lock their women up at night in this country,” he snarled.

“You can’t be serious, Mark,” I shot back. “I’m sure you wouldn’t come here and say this to a male Foreign Service Officer.”

“I’m completely serious, Angela. And yes, I don’t think it’s safe for any of us to be joyriding around in this country after dark without protection. Look at what happened when you left the MOT in Sar-e Pol and went off for a sleepover with the ladies. You almost got yourself shot by one of your own soldiers.”

I hadn’t been able to quash that story, which got more exaggerated each time it was retold in the pub by Captain Baker and his men, but that was my concern and not Mark’s.

He stared intently at me for several seconds without speaking. “What have you done to your eyes?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s just some kohl one of the village women had me put on—while I was having my ‘sleepover with the ladies,’” I added, echoing his sarcasm. “It takes several weeks to wear off.”

He continued to stare. “I hope your Russian likes it.”

“Jesus, Mark,” I snapped. “You really should mind your own business.”

“Angela, you really shouldn’t . . .” he began, his voice dropping to a whisper, which was interrupted by the honking of Stefan’s driver.

Unlatching the gate, I brushed by him, moved by his concern for my safety but irritated at his tone, which felt to me like a patronizing effort to control my movements.

“I’ll be fine, Mark,” I called over my shoulder.

As I slid across the soft leather backseat of Stefan’s official car, I could see Mark standing in the shadows of the passageway. His final “Don’t go” rang in my ears.

Stefan was as unaware of Mark’s concern—he didn’t even know Mark existed—as he was of the colonel’s requirement that I provide in writing my destination and precise time of return to the PRT whenever I went out after dark. Mark had never come up in our conversations—even that night in Kabul at the NATO bar, when Stefan had barely missed his awkward approach and hasty retreat.

Stefan and I had a delightful evening at the Mazār Social Club—a few drinks and a great discussion about disarmament with some UN weapons experts we met in the bar. When Stefan dropped me at the PRT just after nine P.M., we agreed to meet again when he returned to Mazār the following week. I went down to the ops room to sign in and Mark was still there reading reports. We exchanged polite nods, but no words.

The next day, I was pleasantly surprised by a last-minute invitation to accompany the soldiers from the Danish MOT, who worked out of the safe house in Aybak, on a three-day horseback patrol into a roadless part of Samangan Province. Their terp was sick, Colonel Jameson couldn’t spare any of our terps, and the Danes asked him if I could go along as their interpreter since they knew I could ride. I accepted immediately. Jameson announced my trip during the ops room briefing while Mark leaned against the wall, shooting disapproving looks in my direction, certain that my presence on that patrol would not be worth the problems I was likely to cause.

He was wrong on all counts and I felt vindicated. It was an outstanding trip. A local warlord, who let us use his best stallions, had them saddled and waiting for us at the canyon entrance where the road ended. The Danes inaugurated a new police station at a remote mountain outpost. I demonstrated one of my solar ovens to the policemen, who asked if they could keep it so they could make their tea without building a fire.

It was so warm at night that we slept without tents under the stars in a high valley carpeted with lemongrass and alpine sage. To top it off, the village men treated us to a wild, no-holds-barred
buzkashi
game on our last day. I couldn’t ride in the game, of course, but I took lots of photos.

 

 

“Angela, I’m back in town. Are we still on this evening for a drink at the Mazār Social Club?” It was Stefan calling, punctual and cheery as always. I was back at work in the bullpen. The week had passed so quickly, I’d forgotten about my promise to join him.

“Of course, Stefan,” I said. “I’ll be out at the gate at seven. I have some fantastic
buzkashi
photos to show you.”

“Excellent,” he said. “See you tonight.”

I signed out in the ops room as required and laughed at the jokes of the younger officers, who teased me about spending so much time with the Russian. I didn’t see Mark, who was barricaded inside his int cell processing reports.

The warm summer air in the garden of the UN guesthouse—thick with the perfume of the jasmine vines that covered its walls—was almost as intoxicating as that second gin and tonic Stefan handed me just after nine P.M.

I showed him the photos I’d printed from the
buzkashi
game and wanted to tell him more about my trip, but he insisted on changing the subject to Afghanistan’s burgeoning opium production, a significant portion of which was making its way into the veins of Russia’s youth. I was normally able to hold my own with Stefan during these discussions, but my words were having trouble keeping up with my thoughts.

I had foolishly skipped dinner at the PRT and was starting to feel lightheaded. That second drink had definitely been a mistake. My guard was down. Would I never learn?

“If we can’t offer these farmers something that will make them as much money as poppies, then the opium should be legalized and bought up by the Afghan government,” I declared loudly.

I was now totally out of line, expressing my personal opinions instead of those of the government I was supposed to be representing. I babbled on and Stefan did nothing to stop me.

“I see no other way to bring this mess under control.” I was starting to slur my words as I tried but failed to focus on Stefan, who was observing me with an intensity I had never noticed before. “There’s a serious global shortage of medical morphine. . . .”

I closed my eyes and sucked in a lungful of air.

“Stefan, I’m not feeling very well. Could you take me back to the PRT? I’m so sorry to cut our evening short.”

Without a word, he rose, took me by the arm, and gently led me to the consulate vehicle, which was parked just outside with its engine running. My head was spinning, and I didn’t resist when he slipped his arm around my waist to keep me from pitching against the car door.

The next thing I recalled was blinding lights outlining the hulking shadows of soldiers in full kit, their rifles drawn, surrounding Stefan’s car.

Someone was banging on the window, ordering him to hand me over. We were on a dark street, hemmed in by four vehicles, their engines running and their headlights—all on high beam, illuminating the interior of the Russian consulate car.

“Let Miss Morgan out of the vehicle now, and we will let you proceed without incident. There will be no report made of this to your embassy or to the Americans.” It was Mark.

“Stefan, where are we?” I asked—confused by the lights and the sound of a familiar voice, but too far gone to be frightened. “Why is Mark here? ”

“Well, my little one, it appears that this is where we must part company,” said Stefan, addressing me in Russian. His words tumbled in my direction as though flung from the far end of a tunnel.

“How unfortunate—this business of ours, Angela. It’s all such a sad little game.” He placed one finger under my chin and tipped it up until our eyes met. Mine were barely open.

“I know you can’t understand anything I’m saying,” he added, “but it’s just as well.”

I could in fact understand every word. It was just too difficult to respond. I seemed to be floating in a vat of novocaine. My body had gone completely numb.

He was about to move in for a kiss when he pulled back suddenly to prop me up with a hand on each shoulder. I heard the locks snap up and a sharp exclamation from Stefan’s driver as all four doors were pulled open by the soldiers. Mark dragged me out and shoved me roughly into the backseat of a PRT vehicle.

I held my head erect with great effort, my inhibitions now buried many layers beneath whatever had been added to that second gin and tonic. Falling across the seat, I leaned against Mark’s shoulder.

With my eyes at half-mast, I gazed into the face of this darkly handsome but very angry man. “Did you know you have little flecks of green in your eyes, Mark?” I mumbled, trying but failing to raise the corners of my lips into a smile. When he didn’t respond, I plunged ahead. “And here I thought they were just that gorgeous Paul Newman blue.”

“I believe you Yanks have an expression,” he said, ignoring my slurred attempts at flattery and snapping the buckle of my seat belt to keep me upright.

“Yes,” I whispered slowly, no longer able to keep my eyes open. “It’s ‘I told you so.’”

Even through the fog that had enveloped me I was dimly aware that 1) I had to stop talking before I said anything else I might regret; and 2) A diplomatic incident and the probable loss of my security clearance had been narrowly averted.

 

 

Colonel Jameson called me into his office the next morning to discuss the previous night’s events. I had no memory of the return trip to the PRT or how I got to my room, but I awoke with a splitting headache, still wearing last night’s clothing—my shoes squared neatly on the floor next to my bed.

“One of your UN friends at the guesthouse saw the Russian helping you to his car. Never having seen you the slightest bit intoxicated, he had the foresight to call our ops officer, describe the situation, and let us know that you were leaving.”

The colonel shook his head. “I should never have authorized you to leave the PRT after dark without a military escort. Thank God our patrol arrived before he got you inside the Russian consulate.”

My chagrin at having been the cause of this mess made me uncharacteristically silent.

“Angela, are you all right?” asked the colonel, concerned at the blank look on my face. “Shall we have the doctor check you? One of our medics took your vitals last night after the major got you up to your room. Everything seemed to be normal.”

“I’m fine and grateful to everyone,” I said, silently panicking because my fingers, toes, and the tip of my tongue were still numb. What had Stefan put in that drink? “But I’m mortified that I’ve caused so much trouble.”

“Actually, my dear, the trouble was minimal on our part. The evening patrol was getting kitted up to leave camp just before Mark took a cell phone call in the ops room from your UN friend. Mark went along with the patrol to plot the most direct route from the UN guesthouse to the Russian consulate, where he presumed your diplomatic colleague had planned to take you for a brief—and if I may put it delicately, unsolicited—photo session. We believe that Mr. Borosky must have—as you Americans say—slipped you a ‘mickey’ in order to get you into a compromising position and then blackmail you.”

Covering my face with my hands, I moaned, more to myself than to the colonel, “I’ll have to report this to my embassy.”

“That is entirely up to you, Angela. We promised the Russian that as far as we were concerned, the incident was closed once we had you back under our protection.”

Even though Stefan hadn’t successfully carried out his plan, I felt violated and betrayed. I had trusted him and really believed we were friends. The colonel’s reassuring words did little to lessen the anger I felt at myself for being so gullible.

“Nothing actually happened that would stand up in a court of law, Angela. You did nothing wrong, and the Russian, who of course has diplomatic immunity, can claim neither did he. You had one drink too many on an empty stomach, and he was giving you a ride home. Period!” The colonel downed the last of his coffee and continued.

“We kept the duty interpreter out of this, and the soldiers on last night’s patrol have been sworn to secrecy. I’m quite certain you will not be hearing from that fellow again. It appears that the ‘Great Game’ is still alive and well,” he said, laughing.

“You might want to thank Major Davies for his quick thinking and excellent map-reading skills,” added the colonel, rising from his chair to indicate that our discussion was over. “We might not have gotten to you in time without his help.”

After my dramatic rescue from Stefan, who did turn out to be a Russian intelligence agent, I could no longer deny the fact that Major Mark Davies was on my mind constantly. I tried hard to dismiss my feelings as the impossible longings of a lonely middle-aged woman. But I could not. I knew only that I had to extinguish this flame while it was still manageable and before I said anything more to Mark that I would regret. My drunken mumblings about his blue eyes the night he pulled me out of Stefan’s car were embarrassing enough, even though he had never mentioned the incident again.

Was it the difference in our ages that kept my behavior in check? I presumed but didn’t know for certain that Mark was ten if not fifteen years my junior. Was it the fishbowl nature of life inside the walls of the PRT, where there was no privacy at any time anywhere? All of these might have contributed to my uncertainty, but there was really only one thing that had kept me from making a total fool of myself in Mark’s presence. It took me far too long to admit it, but I was terrified of being hurt again.