Farishta (40 page)

I cleared my throat so as not to startle her. “Nilofar, how are you feeling today? ”

She turned toward me. As always, I had to force myself not to flinch at the sight of her bruised and swollen face. “I am much better, Angela-
jan,
thank you.” Her expressionless voice mirrored the psychological pain I knew she would bear for months if not years to come.

“I’ll be going back to Mazār tomorrow morning, Nilofar. I wanted to say good-bye to you and make sure you have everything you need.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You are leaving?”

“I have to go back to work,” I said, kneeling next to her chair and taking her trembling hands into mine.

“I’ll call you every day. I promise.” I struggled to keep from crying in front of her. “You’re safe here.”

“I know that. The women are very good to me and the other girls,” she said, her eyes glistening, “but I will miss you, Angela-
jan.
”

It broke my heart to see this strong, smart, brave young woman—an asset to her country and her people—reduced to a battered, frail shell of her former self. She squeezed my hands and stared at the mountains in the distance. “Rahim called me this morning,” she said. “He calls me many times every day.”

I nodded but was now choking on my own tears and unable to respond.

“He will be leaving for Paris very soon,” she continued. “I may never see him again.”

“You will see him, Nilofar, I said, stroking her hands. “Professor Mongibeaux and Professor Fazli are working hard to find an Afghan family in France to sponsor you.”

Her eyes brightened but only for a second. “How will Rahim ever want me now after what those men did to me? The doctors say I will never be able to have a child.”

“Nilofar, Rahim loves you very much, and nothing those men did will ever change that,” I assured her.

After one of the servants brought us fresh cups of tea and a tray of biscuits, Nilofar and I sat quietly together in the fading afternoon light until the embassy driver called to say he was waiting for me outside.

 

 

I was anxious to cross the eleven-thousand-foot Salang Pass by car, even though it would be painful to make the trip without Jenkins behind the wheel and Fuzzy riding shotgun. My driver and vehicle commander were as young, polite, and competent as my boys had been, but it wouldn’t be the same without the familiar banter we had developed after so many long patrols.

It was a grueling fourteen-hour slog with heavy snows and several accidents on the road slowing our progress. The snow was even heavier when we emerged on the much colder northern side of the Hindu Kush from the long, unlit Salang Tunnel.

When our convoy arrived at the PRT, the new Swedish troops and the British officers from the regiment that had replaced the Royal Gurkha Rifles welcomed me back and insisted I attend every meeting they held. I was now the PRT’s éminence grise on Afghanistan.

It was a sad commentary on our knowledge of this country that someone like me, who had spent less than a year in country and had traveled—almost always—under heavy security restrictions, was now considered an expert. I was far from it. How could any of us really know what was going on in the minds of the tribes, sub-tribes, clans, and families of this feudal land. We couldn’t.

I resisted forming any new friendships. My remaining time here was too short, and my emotional well had been sucked dry. I was counting the days until Mark and I would be together in London.

“Promise you’ll write nothing personal in an e-mail, Angela,” Mark pleaded during one of his infrequent phone calls from Basra. “Use the blueys.”

The onionskin blueys, he repeatedly assured me, were the most secure and private way for us to communicate. Each letter would take up to ten days to reach its destination, but only he and I would see the contents.

His first bluey arrived with the British Army mail call only three days after my snowbound trip back to Mazār. He had sent it the morning he left Kabul for Basra.

His next one arrived as predicted ten days later. Three of mine had passed his traveling in the opposite direction—the great disadvantage of snail mail—but we had e-mail for short notes. Nothing personal and nothing long, just: “I’m fine. Miss you” or “First snowstorm in Mazār, roads closed.” “Heard about new bombings in Basra. Be careful.”

I had been asked to stay in Mazār for an extra six weeks until my replacement arrived. Since Mark would be in Basra until March, I agreed. The promotion list would be out in a few more days, and I was optimistic that after this year in Afghanistan, I would be on it and guaranteed three and perhaps even four years in London.

As the weeks passed, Mark’s letters began to paint a seriously worsening security situation in southern Iraq, but they all ended the same way.

Colonel Jameson departed for Kabul early Friday morning to meet and brief his successor, who was scheduled to fly up on Sunday and assume command. The new Swedish chief of staff, who had come just a week earlier, would be in charge until Jameson’s replacement arrived.

I had given up trying to take Fridays off and was tapping away at my computer in the bullpen when Rahim appeared at the door.

“Farishta-
jan,
today is Friday. You are supposed to rest.”

“And do what, Rahim? Sit in my room and read books I’ve already read three times?”

“No, you should go to a
buzkashi
game. Some of the soldiers are going, and I am no longer on duty. The Swedes will go to the airport after the game, and they have promised to drop me at the bus station. I have two days off and will go to Kabul to see Nilofar.”

He stood beaming in the doorway of the bullpen. I hadn’t seen him this happy for a long time.

“Perhaps you will be invited to ride by one of the
chapandaz
,” added Rahim. “I have never seen you on a horse, but everyone knows you rode in a
buzkashi
game many months ago.”

“It’ll be a little hard for me to climb up on a horse wearing twenty-five pounds of body armor, Rahim, but I wouldn’t mind watching one more game before I leave. Tell them I’ll join them.”

“We’re leaving in thirty minutes. See you downstairs, Farishta-
jan
.”

“Right, Rahim. Thanks for the invite,” I said, smiling to myself at this resilient young man. He had come to the bullpen earlier in the week grinning from ear to ear to announce that friends of Jeef had found a sponsor for Nilofar in France. They had even arranged for her to continue her law studies once she was fully recovered from her injuries. After all their trials, they would finally be together.

“Angela, we’re short one driver and one vehicle for our outing to the
buzkashi
field. More of the fellows want to come. I understand you’re allowed to drive your shiny new State Department vehicle,” said one of the new British officers. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” I replied with a smile. Although the Gurkha Sergeant Major had refused to let me drive the Beast, his replacement didn’t seem to mind if I made short trips into town in my new lightly armored Land Cruiser as long as I wore my body armor and was accompanied by someone with a weapon.

It was sunny but cold as our vehicles pulled onto the berm that lined the northern side of the
buzkashi
field. Several thousand cheering Afghan men had gathered to watch the game. The ones on our side of the field made way for our vehicles and welcomed us into their midst with the usual smiles and greetings in broken English.

I wore a long wool head scarf and a heavy winter jacket over my Kevlar vest. There was no longer any point in hiding my identity.

I didn’t mind that I couldn’t ride. I was happy just to have one last chance to watch this magnificent pageant of horses thundering across the open desert. It had been almost a year since I’d mounted that black stallion and galloped down this field. That ride—my boldest, most impetuous, and most exhilarating act in years—had been my first step in emerging from the shell in which I’d been hiding from life for far too long.

The entire scrum of more than one hundred horsemen had raced to the far side of the field where I could see a small caravan of Kuchi nomads passing silent and unnoticed behind the crowd. They were moving south into the foothills of the Hindu Kush where they would pass the winter in a protected valley. Four men in Biblical garb led seven camels carrying women, infants, tents, cooking utensils, and a child’s bicycle. A small flock of goats and sheep trailed behind them. Several Kuchi children and their huge dogs kept the animals moving in the right direction. On the back of the last camel, a square of foil glinted in the late afternoon sun. I looked through the telephoto lens of my camera and zoomed in to confirm that it was as I had expected—the reflector of one of my solar ovens.

The Swedish MOT with Rahim parked their vehicles next to ours and pulled out their cameras. They were on their way back to Stockholm after having served six months at the PRT’s safe house in the neighboring province of Jowzjan. This would be their last chance to photograph a
buzkashi
game.

After two hours, the wind picked up and the sky darkened. When it began to rain, the senior officer in our group announced that it was time to leave. We drove off the field in single file with the Swedes in the lead.

Our vehicles would follow theirs into town until the road forked and they headed east to the airport. As I maneuvered into a sharp turn around the Russian bread factory, I noticed that there was no one on the street except for a sickly stray dog—odd for midday even on a rainy Friday afternoon.

Without warning, a blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion transformed the lead Swedish vehicle into a fireball. The vehicle behind it was knocked onto its side, spraying gray mud into the air as it slid off the road and punched through the mud-brick wall of a family compound. The shock wave from the blast hit my Land Cruiser, and I pumped the brakes to keep from ramming the vehicle ahead of me. The British soldiers reacted instantly.

“Angela, are you all right? ” shouted the corporal who was next to me in the passenger seat. He had been thrown with his rifle against the windshield, but had suffered only mild cuts on his forehead. As always, I had been the only one wearing a seat belt.

“I’m fine,” I muttered as I stared at the carnage in front of us.

“Get in the backseat and stay down,” he shouted as he and the other soldiers grabbed their weapons and a first-aid kit and rushed toward the Swedish vehicles.

One soldier radioed the PRT for help while others formed a defensive perimeter around the blast site and the wounded men.

I obeyed the order to stay put until I remembered that Rahim was in one of those vehicles. My heart sank. I couldn’t bear to lose my friend. Not when everything had been so bright for him.

When I raised my head, I could see Rahim lying in a pool of mud on the side of the road. He had been thrown clear of the second vehicle when it rolled over. The one medic in our group was busy stabilizing the most seriously injured Swedes. I jumped out, ran to Rahim, and was overjoyed when I saw him push himself into a sitting position. He was dazed and unhurt, but lying near him was another badly injured Swede who had also been thrown from the vehicle.

“Angela, get back in the vehicle now!” ordered the Royal Marine, who was the most senior officer present.

“This man’s hurt. I’m staying with him until someone can help,” I shouted back as I knelt next to the soldier and began to tick through my first-aid checklist. He was still breathing but unconscious and in shock.

His face had been lacerated by broken glass, and a thin shard of metal protruded from his stomach. He had not been wearing body armor and was rapidly losing blood. I wrapped my head scarf around the metal to stabilize it and gently pressed the ends of the scarf into the gash to staunch the blood.

When he awoke and began to moan, I took out the morphine pen I had carried with me for the past eleven months and pressed it hard against his leg. The spring-loaded needle penetrated his skin and the morphine quickly took effect. He closed his eyes and began to breathe softly.

Despite the cold rain, a crowd of Afghan men began to gather in the street. The British soldiers, running now on pure adrenaline, pointed their weapons at the men and ordered them to move back. Rahim stayed with them to translate.

Within forty-five minutes, British and American soldiers had widened the security perimeter around the blast site. Medics from the Forward Support Base took over the care of the wounded, loading them into their vehicles and heading for the airport.