Termination Orders(13)

Once the villagers and their guests were done with their prayers, preparations for the celebration continued. “Tonight, we feast!” Mirzal explained with relish and anticipation. “We have many guests this evening, so Patasa is butchering a lamb. We will roast it here and have a banquet.”

Faqeer smiled contentedly.

Zalmay made a show of appreciation, but his own apprehension would not allow him to enjoy the festivities.

Time passed. By the time it was dark, the fire was blazing high. The villagers and guests had gathered around for light and warmth, when he heard a rubab, the stringed national instrument of Afghanistan, which had become somewhat rare after confiscations during the post-Soviet and Taliban government music ban of the 1990s. Its three-string twang of hypnotic rhythms was joined by the percussive beat of a tabla and dohol. Dozens of voices joined in, enchanting the night with epic narrative songs about heroes and heroines, brave death, and struggles between men over land, women, and status.

All that was missing were the belly dancers for an evening of klasik, history sung as folk music. The villagers sang of love, of war, of cruelty, and the national identity of a people who had never once been defeated, not by the Mongols, not by the Soviets, not by anyone, ever.

Meanwhile, the lamb was cooking over a pit, and they were served plain, slightly undercooked white rice in a clay bowl. It wasn’t much, but to Zalmay, who hadn’t eaten all day, it was a feast.

Despite the merry mood, Malang, the muezzin, was skulking around and scowling at them. “Malang does not approve of our mirth,” said Mirzal, when Zalmay asked him about it. “He fancies himself a mullah. Thinks he is the keeper of propriety. But we in the village don’t have patience for his preaching.”

The lamb was carved and the meat distributed to the guests first, as Pashtun hospitality demanded. Zalmay, for the first time since leaving his apartment, felt relaxed, and he allowed the joy of the moment to enter his heart.

And then he saw the headlights. They were coming fast toward them. Others saw them, too, and the music trailed off. The vehicles stopped at the edge of the village. By the light of the fire, Zalmay could make out two pickup trucks, with men in the truck beds. A group of them jumped to the ground, and as they came into the light, Zalmay saw that they wore turbans and had dark, scraggly beards. Each cradled an AK-47. He didn’t have to see Malang’s manic glee to know that the village had just been overrun with Taliban insurgents.





CHAPTER 6


One of the insurgents raised his Kalashnikov into the air and fired. The villagers recoiled in fear.

“We are fighters for God, and we demand hospitality in your fine village,” he said. “We will need beds and food for all my men.”

Zalmay tried to remain calm. He had nothing incriminating on him, and the memory card was safely tucked away back in the truck. He had a well-rehearsed story about why he was on the road, and he did not look like a Tajik farmer, whom the Taliban, who were almost exclusively of the rival Pashtun ethnicity, would undoubtedly target first. As long as he stayed quiet, he told himself, he would live through this.

“You will stop your sinful music now, and the women will cover up appropriately,” said the leader.

Malang, looking positively triumphant, came forward to greet the man.

“Welcome, talib,” he said. The word was the proper singular of Taliban, and meant student. Malang continued, “We honor your presence in our simple village.”

Everyone else was too terrified to move, but a few were suppressing looks of indignation. Zalmay looked at Faqeer, who was standing across the square and whose fury was barely checked. He was fuming, and his eyes were wide with mad hatred.

“We claim all the vehicles in this village, along with anything else that might aid us in our fight against the invader.”

Don’t do anything stupid, Zalmay urged Faqeer in his mind. Please. The leader, who had been ambling as he spoke, now stood in front of Faqeer and apparently saw the expression on his face.

“Do you have something to say?” the talib demanded.

Faqeer did not answer but managed to restrain his emotion; his face became blank and accepting. The talib seemed satisfied that he had cowed Faqeer into submission, and he turned away. But it was a mistake: as soon as his back was turned, Faqeer pulled out a short revolver and shot the man twice in the torso.

Everyone watched in complete silence as the dead man fell to the ground. Faqeer panted, with wide-open, crazy eyes. And then, almost immediately, there was a burst from the AK-47 of a nearby insurgent. Faqeer crumpled to the ground, his final expression of wild anger frozen on his face. One of the villagers, a wizened old woman who had been in the line of fire, fell down as well. She began to wail pitifully. All the villagers and their guests gasped and recoiled, except for Gorbat, who ran to succor her. The assailants raised their weapons to make very clear what would happen if anyone decided to pull a similar stunt.