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CHAPTER 12



So, bin Qasim thought, there were Americans in country. Or more accurately, more Americans in country. The CIA was getting tricky. This pair had not come to his attention through the usual sources. His informants in the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence had not mentioned them. He would have to caution them against contempt. The Americans were not to be underestimated. Their money and arrogance could not stand against faith, but it was still a threat, which is why jihad was necessary.

Whoever they were, the illiterate savages of the border were keeping them busy. Faithful, those tribes, if stupid. But it was their place. All who worshipped Allah were assured of the rewards of faith, but Allah chose which gifts to bestow upon His people.

It was also possible they were SEALs or Delta, those annoying thorns in his side. Or perhaps Marines or Air Force. The Americans had a bureaucratic mindset that caused every service to duplicate efforts, including commandos. That maze of paperwork often kept data hidden for months, even years. Of course, that same morass had kept the September 11th attack hidden at their end, so perhaps he shouldn’t curse the inefficiency. It was also a blessing that he’d just moved his headquarters. Darting through the ground like an animal was undignified, but it was one of the many sacrifices he’d had to make for Allah’s will, and he bore the burden stoically.

Either way, military or CIA, ISI should know. Pakistan had one security apparatus. It simplified working with them. So someone needed a reminder of his human failings, and urged to dig deeper. Perhaps Shujjat’s daughter would serve to guarantee his future loyalty. And if he proved unreliable, she might be most entertaining.

Bin Qasim smiled as he picked up the phone.


After a breakfast Kyle didn’t remember, bleary-eyed and nauseous with fatigue, they rolled again. Nasima had asked more gently probing questions the night before. It was reasonable for a traveler to ask about threats, and the local people were friendly and liked to chat. He did vaguely remember the herder and his wife talking about the tribes, how they had shifted over the years from bolt rifles and shotguns to captured Soviet and surplus Pakistani military weapons. The farmer had a well-worn Russian side-by-side shotgun in the corner that he had pointed to.

“All I have, all I need,” he’d said. Kyle had picked up enough vocabulary to grasp the statement. The man was in his fifties, gray and lean, and seemed wistful and reminiscent.

They thanked the man and his wife, who had accepted Nasima’s story that the men were mercenaries looking to set up a smuggling route. The government was a remote concept out here, and smuggling not regarded as a sin, only a crime on paper. It wasn’t the safest story, but it was the best available to explain two foreign men toting rifles and radios.

They were on the road again, with curried rice and vegetables wrapped in bread for lunch. Kyle had left a little more money, offering it as a gift, not as pay. These were a very proud people, and he didn’t want to offend them. Given better access to modern technology, he saw them becoming a major power in the world. They had far more independence and self-reliance than say, former French colonies.

“So what now?” he asked Nasima.

“We know who we are to talk to,” she said. “Though it’s difficult.”

“Difficult how?” Kyle asked.

“One of the leaders mentioned is named ‘Qalzai,’” she said. Their stunned looks must have been visible even with her eyes on the road, because she said, “Yes, it is the same man. He is not involved with the Taliban, but he will not be friendly to you. I’m told he is trying to avoid them, and has paid several bribes of weapons.”

“Oh, great,” Kyle said. “That’s all we need. So he did know, but wasn’t going to queer a deal he already had. And by using us to gap his local enemy, he was trying to avoid more trouble. That fucking weasel!”

“About right,” Wade said. “And I assume that by now, everyone has heard of us?”

“Yes,” Nasima said. “I’m also in danger. They are told of a woman translator. So from now on, one of you must lie down in back and not be seen.”

“At least,” Wade agreed.

“Then there’s the other tribe, under a man named Gol,” she said.

“What about them?” Kyle asked.

“They were under a man named Rahman, who was shot only three days ago,” she said.

After that sank in, amid fifteen seconds of silence, Kyle said, “Wade, how would you feel about bugging out right now? We’re not that far from the border here.”

“Tempting, my friend,” he said. “Nasima, what do we do? Is there any way we can find out what we need safely?”

“Safely? Where the Taliban and al Qaeda are concerned?” she asked. “There is no safe in this.”

“Not anymore,” Kyle agreed. “What do we do, then? Pull out? Go elsewhere for allies?” “We must meet with them,” Nasima said.

“What?” Kyle asked. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Carefully, of course, but we must meet and explain, so they stop the rewards for you.”

“Nasima, they aren’t going to drop it with an apology, believe me.”

“Believe you?” she asked, voice rising. “Who has lived here? Who speaks the languages? Who has traveled the world and learned the language of the other? What makes you an expert on the ways of my people?” She was panting when done, and clearly annoyed.

For a moment, Kyle said nothing. Everything in his experience said she had to be wrong. Yet, he understood intellectually that this was a different culture with different rules.

“Okay, Nasima,” he said, “I’ll listen to your expertise. And I’m sorry.”

It was her turn to stare for a moment. Clearly, she’d expected him to argue more.

“Very well,” she said. “And I shall explain my reasoning.”

“Please,” he said. “It’s outside my experience.”

Taking a deep breath, she began to lecture. “Nearly all these tribes have fought each other at one time or another. They shift sides and allegiances as Americans change musical tastes. Bitter enemies today might be allies tomorrow, and change sides in the middle of battle.”

“Okay,” Kyle said. “But I don’t find that reassuring.” He could see finding new allies who would also want him to settle a score. He felt like a cross between a mercenary and a charitable organization.

“Maybe not,” she said, “but it is the way. That is why prisoners are so hard for your army. One group captures others, and a brother of a cousin of a stepson reminds one of an obligation, and gets his group set free, or offers to change sides if the loot looks good.”

“Right,” Wade nodded. “I’ve heard of that. You think we can exploit it?”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “I don’t know. But we must try. You can’t accomplish your mission otherwise.”

“True,” Kyle said. There was something else he needed to ask, and he hoped it wouldn’t make her angry.

“So tell me,” he said, “why are you helping us? We appreciate it, but what’s in it for you?” The right phrase came to mind and he said, “I know it’s not about money.”

“No,” she said, eyes glazed. “It’s about my job as a professor, gone because I’m a woman. It’s about other women treated as dogs, run over in traffic, dead from lack of proper medical care. It’s about children blown up by land mines, because cards or games to teach them what to avoid are ‘gambling tools’ or ‘distractions from the Holy Quran’ or ‘American Satanist capitalist attacks on our purity.’ It’s about our homeland, torn apart by tribes, armies, terrorists, religious extremists, and the Russians. The Taliban and al Qaeda are creating trouble where there was more than enough already, and turning families against each other. People are poor and starving already, now they are weeping with hopelessness. The people you hunt are demons, and if I can help you kill them, I will.” Both men sat silently for some time. Nasima was literate, well spoken, controlled, and mature and had the deadly poise of a coiled viper. Small and feminine she might be, but she was sharp-witted and determined. No amount of religious fervor would shake her foundation beliefs.

“Good,” Kyle said at last. “So tell us what to do?”

“First,” she said, studying her hands on the wheel, “we must find someone who will carry a message to them.”

Another tiny village was ahead. Kyle was slightly smaller than Wade. Only slightly. So he agreed to be locked in the trunk, so long as he was armed. He could breathe well enough through a gap in the rear deck. Wade lay down in the rear footwell, covered with rubbish and an old cloth they found. That left Nasima to ask questions like a local, while they sweated from heat and fear.

Had I known all this when the job was offered, Kyle thought, I would have laughed and asked for a discharge. But he knew he wouldn’t have. Men like him were soldiers because of the constant trouble. They’d be bored to drink by doing nothing.

With sudden clarity, Kyle realized that his assignment to the Sniper School, good as it was, was the wrong task for him at that time. What he’d needed was to be tossed back in, like this, to recover his nerve and work through the pain.

The door opened and slammed, the engine started, and as the car pulled back onto the road, he heard Nasima mutter something. Wade said, “Okay,” and there was no further response, so he concluded that he should just wait.

“I have found where Gol is,” she said loudly enough to be heard. The gap through the rear deck meant it was clear, just distant. The only muffling was from engine noise and the rattling exhaust under Kyle.

“Excellent,” Kyle said. “I hope.”

“Yes, it’s good news,” she said. “But the meeting is going to be tense and awkward. I’ll translate, and you’ll have to take my advice.” She seemed nervous about that.

“Nasima, we’ll do exactly as you say in this area. You’re the expert,” Kyle said.

“Good,” she said, and there was a slight sigh. Egos here could create trouble, and Kyle and Wade knew that. Kyle regretted his earlier condescension to her, but it seemed best to simply ignore it rather than dwell on it. He’d offended her, and that disturbed him on a professional level, and on a social level below that where he really shouldn’t go.

“You should not carry rifles,” she said as she pulled over. Kyle gratefully squeezed out of the trunk and squeezed back into the rear seat, as Wade slipped up front. Chinese fire drill done, Nasima resumed driving. They’d have to hide again when they stopped, but for now, the fresh air was welcome.

“Yeah, that would seem to be provocative,” Kyle said, thankful for the interruption. “I’d like to have a pistol, though. Just in case.”

“Okay,” she said. “But don’t handle it or draw it. Just keep it inside your coat.”

“Agreed,” he said, as did Wade. No doubt, he’d carry his Beretta.

“So where are we going?” he asked.

“Another farm,” she said. “The people we want to see are there now.”

“Now,” he repeated. “Well, I suppose there’s no need to delay.”

“You are nervous,” she said.

“No,” he said. “There are people who want us dead. People who betrayed us and now realize we’re a threat and want us dead. Not to mention other people we’ve offended who are likely to want us dead. Not nervous at all,” he said.

“‘Terrified’ is, I believe, the word we’re looking for,” Wade said.

“Terrified,” Kyle admitted. And his pulse, respiration, and body temperature agreed. Facing a threat across the battlefield was bad enough. Walking into the home of someone who had every legal and moral right to execute them for murder was an entirely new level of pucker factor.

It was less than an hour, while they sweated and worried and discussed their negotiations with Nasima, before they drove off the road onto a worn but maintained track on a low slope. Goats covered the area, cropping at what low greenery there was. They appeared well fed. Whoever this Gol was, he was considerably better off than Qalzai’s bunch. He even had a Mercedes, ten years old but in good repair, parked outside the broad house.

A teenage boy watched their approach, and Nasima waved. He returned the gesture, but wasn’t smiling. It was simply an exchange that acknowledged their arrival wasn’t clandestine, but a public entrance. Nasima drove up near him and got out. She said, “You should stand against the car so you can be seen as not a threat.” They nodded and stretched.

The pending meeting was enough to cause near panic, and both men kept glancing at each other as they surreptitiously checked their pistols. Rifles they’d agreed would be obvious, of little use in close quarters, and could be perceived as a threat. But both wanted to be armed.

“What do we do if they tell us to disarm?” Kyle asked.

Wade pondered, and said, “I say we do it. It’s not as if we could do more than take a couple with us if they want us dead, and I don’t see them waiting for us to get that close if they plan to.”

“Right,” Kyle agreed. “So why are we bothering at all?”

“Because there might be an impulsive idiot,” Wade said.

“And it makes us feel five percent better.”

“That, too.”

Kyle didn’t know what it felt like to face a firing squad, but this had to be close. And very well might be doing so.

Nasima returned a few minutes later. They climbed in and let her chauffeur them, hoping she was as competent as she was confident.

The house was spacious enough; Gol was definitely more prosperous than Qalzai. The trucks were newer, and there were several of them. Two Nissans were behind the Mercedes. The courtyard had tall plants arranged, and was neatly paved. The gateway actually had a gate, of wrought iron. The pattern of it was interesting, but they were through too fast to decipher it. Inside, the wind was the barest zephyr with a faint smell of flowers. It wouldn’t have helped cool them, even if they weren’t terrified and sweating, hearts palpitating all the way up their throats. Brave men can face death. But only fools are fearless.

The men within did not look friendly. Kyle was glad he had his pistol, but equally sure it was only a reassurance, and wouldn’t matter squat if it came to a fight. They were crammed into a small common room with chrome chairs, like those from a 1950s American diner.

Nasima introduced the Americans. She never got a chance to introduce the locals.

The headman, Gol, stormed at her, while pointing at them. He didn’t shout, but the deadliness came through his voice just by inflection.

There was fury, hatred, murder there. She spoke back, when he stopped for breath, in slow, measured tones. Then he’d rage some more. Kyle felt partly that he should step in and take the blame, and partly that he should stay the hell out of it. He might just get them all killed. And for now, the men were waiting for Gol, and Gol was still talking with Nasima . . .

Realistically, Kyle couldn’t blame him. If someone had shot one of his friends from 2,000 meters, he’d be pissed as all hell, too. Still, that wasn’t reassuring.

He noticed, however, that Nasima was getting in longer and longer phrases. Her exotic features were calm and unafraid, and she seemed to be holding his attention. No wonder she can handle forty kids, he thought. She had the poise of a master actor.

It took about a half hour, during which time he and Wade sat motionless and aged ten years, before the two were speaking in conversational tones. Kyle no longer felt naked and vulnerable, but he still let his fingers brush his little Colt. Things weren’t good, but at least they weren’t ugly.

He realized how far things had progressed when Nasima interrupted his musing. “Kyle,” she said, “now is the time to apologize.”

He stepped forward nervously in the small room, and stood before the short, wiry man. “Gol,” he said, “Wobakha. I’m sorry about the shot.” Nasima translated as he spoke. “He wasn’t the man we were sent to shoot, and we have no quarrel with you. Our quarrel is with others, and with those who set us up to attack you. They’re cowards, afraid to fight their own battles, but we won’t fight for them. I just wish we’d known sooner.”

Nasima’s translation ended, and Gol replied. “I accept it as honest,” she said for him. “Though I am angered in my heart, raging. Your truth doesn’t change the event. But fighting you will not help us, and won’t bring to justice the ones who were behind it. I forgive you.”

“Sta na shukria,” Kyle said. “I will have my government make compensation, if it will help a family in need.” He’d phrased that carefully. An offer of a bribe wouldn’t go over well. But it was possible, even likely, someone had been widowed or orphaned.

“The family is in need,” Gol agreed, “and it would help much if you provided compensation.” Kyle nodded to Gol and quickly flicked his eyes to Nasima. “How much should I offer?” he asked.

She replied at once, “Offer him a thousand dollars’ worth of rupees. I will tell him it is a personal gift from you, because you haven’t spoken to your government yet. That will make it seem more of a sacrifice on your part.”

He nodded and drew two stacks of money from his pocket. They’d been counted into wads before the trip, for easy bookkeeping. That way, he didn’t have to flash any more than that.

Sixty thousand rupees. A thousand dollars. That was a fair price for a human life out here. Part of him wondered what twenty million in the right place would do.

Likely screw things to hell, he thought. Money didn’t solve problems. But it did occasionally make things easier.

Gol accepted the money gravely, then handed it back to another with what were obviously instructions on where to take it. As his assistant nodded and scurried away, Gol turned back to Kyle and said, “That is thoughtful and gracious of you,” was the reply. “An honest man fixes his mistakes. Let us eat and talk.”

And only then did Kyle take his hand off his pistol. An offer to eat was an important aspect of hospitality, and that meant they were safe. For now.

So they sat and smoked—Kyle and Wade faked it—and ate lamb with noodles and a ton of cumin. Between tobacco fumes, spicy aromas, and body heat, the air was quite thick. To clear the tears, they drank water and imported grape juice. Gol laughed at their discomfort, then had less incendiary dishes brought. It seemed he accepted them on some level, at least.

Kyle decided he’d run a gauntlet of paddles, tar and feathers, if it would ingratiate them to these people and not get them killed. The hot food was hardly a real test.

When he thought that, he was afraid their new hosts might see it that way, and devise something really rough.

It didn’t seem as if their hosts had warmed to them. But they were at least now distant professionals who could collaborate, much like another tribe or faction. No one was about to shoot them, Kyle was sure, and honor was a significant factor here. With that in mind, he relaxed just a little, and looked at Wade.

“So far, so good,” he said.

“We hope,” Wade replied.

Nasima came over and sat with them. “Welcome back,” Wade said. “And thanks.”

“Yeah, you’ve saved our behinds. Again,” Kyle admitted. If they’d had her along from the start . . . Part of him wondered if the CIA could use her. If they’d sought someone like her in the first place, this mission would have been a lot smoother. Trust the bureaucrats to act before thinking.

Another part wanted to get done and leave her in peace. She was a fine lady, dammit, and didn’t deserve all this crap.

“We are all saved, for the time being,” she said. “I am in the odd position of sitting in a man’s meeting, from their view. I am needed as a translator, and to tell them about you. So if things seem a little strained, that’s part of it.”

“I’d be surprised if there weren’t many more straining things,” Kyle said.

“No,” Nasima replied, shaking her head vigorously. “Changing alliances are the way, here. They are sad still, but you have acted honorably. They might be stiff, but that is their own discomfort, not any fear of you. Our situation is much improved,” she explained.

“Good,” Kyle said, believing her intellectually. He just wished his stomach would relax. He was still in fight-or-flee reflex mode. “When are we going to discuss the situation?”

“Soon,” she said. “We can’t impose on hospitality for long without a reason.”

“Will they be receptive?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said. “There’s little love for the others here, and I’ve not heard anything that would suggest it with this tribe. Remember, these are working people. They have to do more than worry about religion. Religion is very important, but civil life also has its needs. Those are subordinate to God’s, but they still exist. If they are offered something worthwhile, they are less inclined to stray. America is a place they only hear about, it’s not real, so there’s no strong urge to fight it.”

“More money?” Kyle asked.

“Properly offered, yes,” she said. “It must never appear as a bribe, but as a gift or contract.” That was fine, Kyle thought. Buying their way out bothered him morally, but they had the cash, and if that’s how things were done here . . .

After they were done eating, and the cigarettes and pipes were puffing out smoke, Nasima prompted Kyle. “Now would be a good time to talk,” she said.

Nodding, Kyle took a deep breath and said, “Gol, we’re grateful for your hospitality. It’s been a tough time for us all lately. Now I need to ask for your help with a task.”

“What do you need?” Gol asked back, blowing smoke from his nostrils. It ringed his head as it eddied and rose, giving him a sinister look despite his almost smile.

“We are sent to hunt a man,” Kyle said. He wasn’t ready to throw a name out yet; he needed to feel his way. “We need help finding him and getting to him. The people we dealt with turned out to be less than honorable and clumsy, too. But from what I have seen of your people, you could help us. I want to persuade you to do so.”

“Americans need our help?” Gol replied through Nasima. “That’s a change from the past.” He didn’t sound unfriendly, but he did sound a bit put upon. The irony in his voice was clear.

“America has always needed your help,” Kyle said. “You live here, and know more about this region than we ever can. Any soldier knows this. Our politicians just think they know everything.”

“Much like ours,” Gol replied with a grin a foot wide. He chuckled. “Who is this man, and why do you seek him?” he continued, serious again.

“His name is Rafiq bin Qasim, and he’s an enemy of our people,” Kyle said. And again, he was glad for the Colt under his coat. A wave of tension swept across the room. It was palpable, almost physical as it silenced everyone.

“Mr. Qasim is well respected by some,” Gol said, waving his hand to calm those nearest him. “He provides money for the poor and helps with those wounded in our battles.”

“Be careful, Kyle,” Nasima added.

“Oh, I will be,” he said. Facing Gol, holding his eyes, he said, “In some ways, he may be well respected. But that is an act. He wants to use your people as a shield, because he knows we won’t bomb him that way. In the meantime, he was part of the attack against our people.”

“I have heard of that,” Gol said. “They crashed planes into your greatest buildings.”

“Those weren’t just our buildings,” Kyle said. “There were embassies in them. Also offices for the poor. Many were Muslims. Very few soldiers were attacked, because these people are too cowardly to fight real warriors. They now hide among other women and children, afraid to come out. There’s only the two of us,” he indicated himself and Wade, “but they still won’t fight like men.”

That seemed to have some effect. “Coward” was a grievous insult here, and while the Americans were not held in high regard, the two snipers versus bin Qasim and his personal army were a David to Goliath. They could call him afraid, and only by meeting them would he be able to prove his courage.

The faces around them were full of conflict. People don’t like having their values challenged, nor being taken advantage of, and the suggestion of both was causing turmoil and debate. At the same time, there was no doubt that al Qaeda was being generous in the region to maintain diplomacy. The Taliban were loved by some, loathed by others, but feared and respected as Islamic warriors with a mission.

Wade caught Kyle’s eye. He had something to contribute, and Kyle nodded. The man knew his history and politics, and Kyle was glad to have the backup. Wade had been an excellent choice for the mission.

“The people they attacked were innocents,” Wade said. “They were women and children, tourists and workmen, merchants and diplomats. As I understand, the Quran says that such people should be left out of war. Some of the victims were American and Eastern Muslims. This was not an attack on our government, it was an attack against children.”

Kyle took over again, “If they want a fight, we’re here for them. I’ve already told you how sorry we are for our mistake. Imagine if we’d sent a plane to bomb the village. We pick our targets with care, because we don’t want to hurt the innocent. These, Nasima, please find a word for ‘scum,’ preferably involving pigs in a crude fashion, want only to create trouble. They seek a martyrdom.”

Gol had been listening calmly, with nods and gestures to prompt them on. He spoke at last. “What if they seek a martyrdom? It is their right, even duty.”

Wade said, “Gol, if they want to meet Allah, we are here to provide the travel arrangements. But it is not just they who will suffer. We’ve had people in America speak out against all of Islam. We know you are respectable, and Nasima, and the Kuwaitis we met on the way”—they hadn’t really met any, but a global view couldn’t hurt—“but our people at home don’t. All they know is that they were attacked by men who claimed to speak for Allah. If you help with this, it will be a favor to our innocents, and let you . . . show the true face of your God to these corrupt idolaters. If everyone unites against them, they’ll go away. Then we can devote our efforts to peace and farming.”

Gol was nodding more often.

“I think he sees the logic of our position,” Wade said.

“Right,” Kyle said. “Do you think they agree enough to help us?”

Nasima spoke again, her poise very submissive, almost begging. The exchange went back and forth for several minutes.

“Dude, we’re still waaay up the creek here,” Wade said.

“Don’t I know it. And that bodyguard type looks nervous, so let’s stop talking.” Kyle didn’t point at the man in the comer, arms crossed, who was a knotty giant by local standards.

Neither Kyle nor Wade said anything. Nasima talked on and finally turned back.

“He says he doesn’t want a fight with America. But he also doesn’t want a fight with the Taliban or other tribes.”

“So tell him we don’t want a fight, either. We haven’t done anything over here since we sent weapons to the mujahedeen, and we will leave as soon as we get rid of al Qaeda, because they are hurting our people at home,” Kyle said. This wasn’t easy, trusting to a translated phrase to carry the proper logic and emotion for the diplomacy he wasn’t trained for anyway.

Nasima spoke again. He wondered how she did it. If this screwed up, she’d be killed out of hand, or worse. Kyle had an oath and a mission here, what did she have?

He remembered her speech and decided she had her own country to protect. And by getting rid of the Taliban influence, even on this side of the border, she had a better chance at a life. Probably her motives were better than his.

Nasima interrupted his thoughts. “He says that America didn’t do anything to stop the Taliban from taking power, and forgot his people after the Russians were gone.”

“Dammit, I was afraid he’d see it like that,” Wade said.

“So you phrase our arguments. It’s your field,” Kyle suggested.

“I’ll try,” Wade sighed. “We don’t make policy for our government. Our leaders are as fragmented and childish as some of the tribes here are.”

She looked wide-eyed at him. “But that’s insulting—”

“Yes, I know, but tell him that,” Wade said. “Then tell him we came here because it’s easier to talk to leaders here, who can clearly see their own interests, than to our leaders, who are interested only in money.”

Kyle saw where Wade was taking it and nodded. That might be a better approach. Let the locals think they could do things the U.S. government could, which was true enough, and that they’d be heroes out of it, even if only they would know.

Nasima got both phrases out in a hurry, even if she seemed to protest a bit. Don’t blame me, I’m just telling you what the Yankee said to say.

But Gol nodded very slightly and turned his lined face back to Kyle. Nasima translated his reply as, “I am a man of my word. I feel sorry for you if your leaders are not.”

Wade said, “Tell him we’re sorry, too, and wish our government had done more. The people here are kind, generous, and we’ve made many friends. We’re sorry Qalzai lied as he did, and we’ll try to see that something is done. But that’s not our mission. Our only mission, our jihad, is against al Qaeda and only al Qaeda. We have to do it, and we’re going to do it.”

As soon as she finished speaking he added, “But we’d like his help, because he is more trustworthy than our former allies, and knowledgeable of the area. We can’t buy that kind of ally; we can only gain one through trust and faith.”

Still thinking as he went, he said, “And if he’ll do it, he’ll have our gratitude, and will sooner see the day when all his enemies leave him alone to live in his own land.” He motioned at his pocket. Nasima nodded, and he drew out another packet, containing almost $2,000 in rupees. “How do we offer it properly?”

“I’ll tell him it is a gift with which to buy weapons and equipment.”

“Not peaceful stuff?” Kyle asked. He didn’t really care; he knew where it would go. It just seemed an odd way to offer it.

“That would imply he cannot take care of his people alone,” she said. “But if it’s offered as foreign aid for defense, so to speak, it’s diplomacy, not charity.”

“Right,” he agreed.

Gol nodded at this and accepted the money coolly. He didn’t even bother to count it. Clearly, the money couldn’t be perceived as a bribe. His reply was slow and measured. “You flatter him, he says. But it’s honest and restrained flattery, and there’s logic to what you say. He’ll help you find your man. But in exchange, he expects that you will fight for him if he finds Qalzai.”

“In a second,” Kyle agreed. “As long as our first priority is our target. We’ll nail Qalzai if we see him, or afterwards if there’s time, but our mission is first. As Wade says, it’s our jihad.” Nasima said to him, “I think you actually understand jihad, rather than it being merely a phrase to you.”

“Damn straight,” Kyle said. “We’ll haunt him as ghosts if we have to. But I’d prefer a good, clean shot.”

After another exchange, Gol started laughing. Nasima said, “I told him everything, including your last phrase. He says you are a hill man at heart.”

It was late by the time everyone had agreed to work together. They were shown to rooms, Nasima with an eldest daughter, Kyle and Wade to a room along the outside wall.

They slept adequately. The beds were comfortable, with real mattresses. The room was lighted and heated, if small. And it had a poured concrete floor. All in all, it was about equivalent to a military barracks or cheap rustic motel. The facility wasn’t the problem. The pending fight and the prickliness of new allies was what was still a worry.

They had tea and naan again for breakfast, with jam and butter. It was tasty, but Kyle agreed with Wade’s comment that, “I can’t wait to get back Stateside for bacon and eggs.”

“Yeah, but they’re better than MREs or T-packs.”

“True,” Wade said. “I’ll stop the bitching.”


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