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CHAPTER 8



The argument was in remission, though not gone the next morning. They walked across the street for breakfast, not sure if she’d actually be there. She might have decided to simply avoid them.

But Nasima was there, and cleaner than the night before. Her dress was vertical stripes of black and purple, with a black-edged head scarf printed in geometric reds and yellows. Whatever the requirements of dress here, they didn’t let themselves be drab. Her black hair was clean and hung over her shoulders past the cloth, and she rose to meet them, bowing slightly.

They nodded back and sat. With her was a man, fiftyish and lean. His hair was largely gray, bald on top, and all of it kept short, including his beard and moustache. “This is Kamgar,” she said. “He owns the school.”

Assalam u alaikum,” Kyle said with a nod.

Wa alaikum u ssalam,” he replied with a broad, friendly grin.

“I will need money,” she said, “and you must pay Kamgar, or some of these people will think I am a prostitute.”

“Right,” Kyle said. “How much?”

“Five hundred American dollars,” she said. “Or Afghanis or rupees to equal it.” She looked ready to defend the demand.

Considering the standard of living here, it was a high rate, but reasonable for professional consulting, Kyle decided, especially in light of the risk involved. And hell, Uncle Sam could afford it.

“Sure,” he said, and waved his hands a bit. “But let us pretend to make small talk first. Can I get you some breakfast?” he asked in English, pointing at food and making an open-armed gesture to the table.

Kamgar agreed, grinning comfortably. Everyone was as they said they were, and they all relaxed. Kyle was still glad to be armed. There was no way to know who people were around here, with assorted tribes, the war with India to the east, Afghan refugees, black market dealers . . .

Shortly, they had all eaten, cash had been exchanged, Allah praised, and a letter provided introducing Nasima as the servant of the school’s owner, working for the two Americans and an honorable Muslima. She should be treated as a lady and given leeway to speak for the foreign guests. It seemed professional enough and clear for the local customs, and everyone was happy. It didn’t quite seem like Kyle was renting a mule.

They walked back across the street to the hotel, Nasima following with a backpack and small suitcase. She was short, Kyle realized, maybe five feet two. A slip of a woman by Western standards, maybe a hundred pounds. More of the poor diet, he presumed. But it hadn’t affected her mind, if she had a PhD in economics from a Western university, nor her looks. She was a gorgeous combination of Indian, Caucasian, and Persian with a hint of Chinese. Her almond eyes were deep and mesmerizing.

Khushal was waiting for them. “He’s one of our party, and watches our gear,” Kyle said.

“I understand,” she said. At once, she introduced herself and chattered away. Khushal looked confused, then a bit disturbed. He replied slowly.

“He says he’s glad for a translator. But I feel he’s not thrilled with the idea. His father is in charge?”

“Well, that depends,” Kyle said. “I’m in charge, he’s the local guide for our project. I do take his advice.”

“I see. By the way, what is your project here?” she asked.

“It’s a military mission,” he said. He’d decided he had to tell her that much. “We’re looking for some specific information for a study.”

“I understand,” she said. It was clear she wasn’t going to leave it at that, but would for the time being.

A few minutes later, there was a familiar knock at the door. Wade nodded, Khushal opened it, and Qalzai came in with Bait, his assistant. At once, they spoke. Qalzai looked up at Nasima, at Kyle and Wade, and started to speak.

He made it clear he wasn’t happy with a woman along. Nasima translated easily for him. “He says I’m a woman and have no place in the battles of men.”

“Well, tell him if he can find us a good English speaker, I’ll leave you behind, but I’m not doing this mission unless I’ve got someone who can help us,” Kyle replied. What was the problem? It seemed to be more than the gender issue. They seemed uncomfortable that he was showing initiative.

Nasima turned back and rapid-fired Pashto at Qalzai. She held her body so as to indicate she was the poor, meek feminine underling he expected, but there was steel in her voice. She’d play the local game to get the job done and teach her kids, but it was only a game to her. Kyle was developing a lot of respect for this young lady. There was no way in hell he’d play the slave for these people, or for anyone else.

He realized that she’d have a much easier life in one of the larger cities, which were much more modern and Westernized, and that she liked where she was and what she was doing.

His musing was interrupted when Nasima turned back and said, “He says I can come along until the last part of the mission and then must stay behind, and that you are responsible for me. The word he used isn’t ‘father’ or ‘husband’ but more like ‘keeper.’ ”

“Isn’t that so thoughtful and modern of him?’’ Kyle muttered. “Agreed,” he said. “So let’s stock up on food and supplies and get to it.”

“Very well. Kyle?” she asked. “What is it we are to do?” She’d already asked, but he’d clearly been evasive.

“Oh, I’m leaving that one to you, boss,” Wade said, chuckling nervously.

Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Kyle said, “First, we’re going to find someone.”

“And then?” she asked, looking curious and distrustful.

“And then I’m going to shoot him,” he said. He realized he had some defiance in his voice. What about it, lady?

She paused for only a moment. “Very well. So long as I know.”

They were saddled back up within the hour, and rolling west. Nasima sat in back on one of the spare tires. The others introduced themselves, gave her nods of acknowledgment that were a mix of surly, friendly, and gallant, and then kept quiet.

The hills would continue through the area around Quetta, a sizeable town, where they hoped to get some intel. They’d avoid the town proper and hit the outskirts. There was no need to court official notice by the government.

It was very disturbing, Kyle thought, that Qalzai was their only source of information. They had nothing current from American sources. Who had ultimately planned this mission, and what were they basing it on?

Sighing, he leaned back in the cramped seat and tried to relax. Hopefully, it would all make sense afterward.

He wasn’t really asleep, more just zoned, when he heard what was obviously a curse from Qalzai, then from the others.

“What?” he asked.

Qalzai steered the truck off the rocky road in a hurry, shouted something, of which the soldiers caught, “Lar!” Quickly. There wasn’t really anywhere to hide, the hills steep and straight, the growth low. Kyle moved for what concealment there was, trying not to jump to frightening conclusions.

They were urged out, and Shamsuddin, Mirza, and Ajmal joined them. All their gear was tossed over the side, everyone gathered up an armful, and they ran for cover in the rocky terrain. As soon as they were clear, Qalzai took off, tires spinning on the shingly surface. Nasima was with him.

“What the hell?” Kyle asked.

“I think,” Wade said, “I saw the edge of a tank over the next ridge. Might be a convoy.”

“Ah, hell,” Kyle said. “Last thing we need.”

He could hear a rumbling and the clank of road wheels. The occasional revving diesel confirmed that it was a line of military vehicles.

Mirza was saying what was obviously “Quiet!” as they ducked low behind rock.

Kyle looked around. Wade had the .50 and the M4 in addition to his ruck. Kyle had his ruck and someone’s old Russian rig and an AK. Shamsuddin had Kyle’s briefcase and laptop. Ajmal was invisible behind a pile of valises and bags. It appeared everything threatening was accounted for.

They sat there silently, not daring to speak, while the convoy rattled past. Qalzai and Khushal had driven on, with Bait, Qalandar, and the others. And Nasima. Kyle assumed they intended to return after the. convoy was gone, but still felt very lonely all of a sudden.

The convoy was a tank, a couple of M113s, four cargo haulers, and two jeeplike technical vehicles. The troops were professional, but bored, and apparently hadn’t seen fit to stop Qalzai. Of course, finding two Americans along would likely have changed that.

Once it had passed, they all sat facing each other, waiting quietly until the valve clatter of the truck returned, and Qalzai’s voice called out. They rose, trooped down the hill lugging their gear, and clambered back aboard.

They rumbled along in the cramped vehicle for several more hours. It was near dark when they could see the glow of a city ahead. It wasn’t bright, but it was definitely civilization. It was something familiar to Kyle and Wade, and helped them relax.

Quetta was large enough to have modern conveniences, including hotels. It also had an Army base. They detoured wide around it, with a glimpse of a perfect turquoise lake in the middle of desert mountains to the east. Once clear around to the west of the city, they sought a smaller town, Bemana’abad.

While small, it was modern enough. There were modern signs, paved roads, and some light industry. There was working electricity and lights, and quite a few more cars, though most were old and rattly and animal power was still very common. Small stores were scattered along the street as they headed in, mixed with houses and small industrial shops. There was a major marketplace, with gorgeous tile work in blue over the arches and columns of obvious Islamic architecture. The blue was lapis lazuli, which was native to the area and not many other places. Street vendors pushed their way through the evening crowds. As they drove through, Kyle thought longingly about a proper shower and clean clothes. But they had to blend in, so he killed the idea.

“Let’s spend some money for good will,” Kyle decided on impulse. “Qalzai, ghuaram kheh otel.” Nice hotel. He flashed the corners of a handful of rupees, keeping it low and discreet. “Was that correct?” he asked Nasima.

“Ah, hoo. Sta na shukria!” Qalzai said, all grins. The rest of them lit up, too.

“No,” said Nasima, “but I understood your intention. Money translates universally.”

They were a sight. While remote, Bemana’abad was a town, it had a government and business. They were hillbillies in Des Moines, and looked very out of place. And weapons were not encouraged here. Still, they made it inside, Kyle paid for two to a room, with a room at the end for Nasima, and they headed down a long bricked walk to their lodgings.

The water was cold, but clean, the heater lacking the capacity for a large crowd. There was a lamp in the room. No TV, but there was a radio, all in languages the two didn’t speak. The facilities were shared with the entire hallway, and were typically Eastern. But the mattresses were clean and modern, and Kyle and Wade were both able to stretch out, sleep unfettered, and their only sop to security was to sleep with loaded pistols and the M4 between them, there being only one bed. “Just don’t grip that trigger late at night,” Kyle joked.

“It won’t be the trigger I grip, trust me,” Wade replied. But he pointed the muzzles at the foot of the bed, rather than the head, just in case.

The next morning they were all much refreshed. Khushal sat down with them at the laptop, while Qalzai stood behind them. Nasima arrived, and they left the door open for reasons of “modesty.”

Nasima looked furtively around to make sure no one was in the hallway, moved in close and said quietly, her eye on Khushal’s back, “The man whose name in English is what you use to fish is an Afghan, not Pakistani. He moved here a few years ago.”

“Okay?” Wade prompted while looking at the computer. “Hell,” he said. “Not working.” He examined the case, which had a huge ding. As it had been in a nylon carrying case during the rush out of the truck, it had been one hell of a smack.

Kyle sighed and jiggled the battery. He tried the external power. Rebooting, sliding drives out and back. “Near as I can tell, the hard drive is damaged,” he said. “No way to get that fixed here.”

“Or rather,” Wade said, “there might be, but not quickly, and it would make it very obvious that two Americans are here, and all the data on the disk would be unsecure while a tech looked at it.”

“Right. So we can’t fix it here. Dammit, must have been when we bailed out of the truck. Was it that rough a landing?”

“Oh, yes. We hit the ground pretty hard,” Wade said.

“Hell. So we smash the drive and dispose of the pieces . . . okay, Nasima, what about that man?” Fish with Bait. Right. And she didn’t want to say his name where it might be overheard.

“I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s not part of the clan, and he’s very condescending, even by local standards.”

“That’s disturbing,” Wade said, while doing another check of the laptop, just in case. “We’ll keep it in mind. Anything specific?”

“No,” she said. “But I have a feeling he’s not right. I know it sounds silly.”

“Not at all,” Kyle said. “We work that way, too. Thanks for the input.”

“You are most welcome, and do be careful,” she said.

They tried to hash out what details they could. They were waiting here for more info, apparently, no more than a day, then they would go west again. They had an approximate area for their target, and Qalzai was sure that was the right place.

“Well,” said Kyle, “it’s only money, we might as well stay right here until we hear more. We can afford it.”

“Sure,” Wade said. “I think we might have been a bit obvious when we showed up, but staying won’t hurt anything, and might give the impression we’re U.N. types or reporters. Next time, let’s bring cameras to use as cover.”

“Good idea,” Kyle agreed. He thought for a moment and said, “Very good idea, actually. We should suggest that.”

“Let’s suggest they send an entire squad, or better intel, or just bomb the hell out of somewhere instead,” Wade said.

“True,” Kyle nodded. They were discreet, certainly. But he wasn’t sure how effective they could be. And two men alone in hostile territory was still bringing back memories he didn’t want.

“Whatever,” he said finally. “Let’s get Khushal to sit the gear, and take a look around. We need to get acclimated, and not just be trained monkeys for these guys.” Dammit, he wanted more intel. Nasima was helpful, but it still felt as if he was a hireling to the locals, not a soldier with an independent command.

“There is that,” Wade agreed. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Khushal was agreeable, and they promised to bring him back a Coca-Cola. He might be a militia fighter, but he was also a teenager, and travel into this part of the country was an adventure to him. He had a small camera he’d bought earlier that day, and intended to record the mission. Both Qalzai and Kyle had cautioned him not to take photos of any of their people or gear, only of the surrounding areas.

The two men dressed in cleaned clothes, had Khushal help them wrap their lungees and drop the tails across their faces, now with short but covering beards, and headed out into the nightlife of Baluchistan Province.

The city had a liveliness to it. Even late at night with the vendors gone, there were tea houses open, and restaurants. Parties here and there celebrated weddings or births, some buildings decorated with colored lights like those for Christmas trees.

It was becoming familiar. That brought its own dangers, of course. Familiarity breeds contempt, and there were hundreds of cultural cues the two of them would miss. Much like tourists learn to feel safe in New York, London, or Havana, only to be caught by a mugger or gang by missing obvious local hints. Still, the look around helped them acclimate further. They were trained enough to stay cautious.

Kyle decided he’d never acclimate to the beard. It was still itching. Sighing, he scratched at it as they walked.


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