Chapter Thirty-two

IN THE YEARS that had passed since their last meeting, Lord Abdul Mohammad Khan had come to look more like a medieval painting than a warlord. His skin was the texture of tooled leather and he wore a chapin – the long traditional Afghan robe – of the finest cloth, a gold dagger as a symbol of his authority, and highly polished calfskin boots. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by a gold Rolex as big as a microwave.

The years hadn’t been kind to him – then again, the years are never kind to anyone in Afghanistan – but he could boast of one thing few of his contemporaries could: he was still alive. In his late sixties now, he was the warrior-father of his clan, and both soldiers and visitors stood aside in true deference as he limped through his stone-paved compound. All of them wondered who the muscular man was who had arrived at the gate and who Lord Khan had rushed to meet with such speed.

Some said he was a former comrade, a muj hero, while others claimed he was a doctor who had come to treat Khan for some terrible illness. Whatever the stranger’s background, he was being afforded an honour denied to any of them: the great Khan had his arm around the man’s shoulder, personally escorting him into his ornate audience chamber.

The room had once been the office of the British commander of the North-West Frontier and, as a result, featured high ceilings, a fireplace imported from England and a raised platform on which had stood the commander’s desk. This was now covered with antique carpets fit for a museum and silk cushions that had crossed the border from palaces in Iran and China. A gold brazier burned incense in the corner, the fireplace housed all the equipment for making tea, but, of all the exotic and beautiful things in the room, it was the wall opposite the fireplace that monopolized every visitor’s attention.

Khan watched from beneath hooded eyes as the Saracen caught sight of the massive concrete blocks set into it. The visitor stopped and stared at the bas-relief of the struggling limbs and screaming faces of the two men who had betrayed Khan, captured for ever – crystallized – in the moment of death. For some reason, he had always imagined the men were not much more than boys, but now he saw they were full-fledged warriors – tall and heavily armed – and that made their terror even more powerful.

The Saracen walked closer. Age and smoke had given the blocks a patina the glow of honey, and he was surprised at how much they resembled something cast in bronze. Lord Khan came to his side. ‘You like my sculpture, huh? You know what their names are? ’

The Saracen shook his head. Even though he had been told the story many times, he had never heard that part.

‘Dumb and Dumber, ’ the warlord said, and roared with laughter. ‘That’s what a CIA guy called ’em when he visited years ago – now it’s the name everyone uses. ’

The Saracen stiffened slightly. ‘Does the CIA come here often? ’

‘Every few years, ’ Lord Khan said with a shrug. ‘Always trying to buy my support for whatever faction they’re backing that month. ’ He walked towards the fireplace. ‘I’ve never taken their money but, I have to admit, I like their sense of humour. ’

An old man sitting cross-legged in the gloom, his eyes misted with cataracts, unfurled himself, about to start preparing tea for his master and the guest. Lord Khan stopped him and turned to the Saracen, indicating the staff and a dozen bodyguards spread around the room. ‘You want them to leave? ’

The Saracen nodded – privacy was exactly what he needed. Khan smiled. ‘I thought so. Nobody comes to Afghanistan on a social visit. ’

As the room emptied, he began spooning leaves into a pot. ‘You remember the last time I served you tea? ’

‘The war was over, ’ the Saracen replied. ‘We were striking camp; you and I sat in the kitchen smoking cigarettes. ’

Lord Khan’s face softened – they had been good times, full of comradeship and courage, and he liked to recall them. ‘I was heading home, you were starting on a much longer road. ’

The Saracen said nothing, taking two delicate cups out of a rack, placing them next to the fire to warm.

‘The last time I looked, ’ Lord Khan continued quietly, ‘the House of Saud still had its palaces and power. ’

‘For how much longer? ’ the Saracen asked, equally softly. ‘Maybe we’ll learn soon enough if they can survive without the help of the far enemy. ’

The two men looked at one another. ‘When I heard you were a travelling doctor, ’ Lord Khan said, ‘I wondered if you had changed, mellowed as you got older …’ His voice trailed off. ‘So you are still doing God’s work, then? ’

‘Always. I need three people, Abdul Mohammad Khan, three dispensable people. If you can help, I am sure God will be well acquainted with what you do. ’

‘What do you mean exactly – how dispensable? ’

The Saracen made no reply; he just turned and looked at Dumb and Dumber.

‘Oh, ’ said Lord Khan, ‘that dispensable. ’ He needed time to think, so he walked to a balcony overlooking the compound and started yelling orders to the soldiers gathered below. Whatever the risks, he realized, he had little choice: the Saracen had been willing to lay down his life for Khan and his people, and that was a debt which could never be repaid. He returned to finish making the tea. ‘Any preference regarding the prisoners? ’ he asked.

‘Jews would be perfect, ’ the Saracen said.

Lord Khan laughed at the joke. ‘Sure, ’ he replied. ‘I’ll check the local synagogue. ’

The Saracen grinned back. They both knew there hadn’t been a Jew in Afghanistan in decades, not since the last of the once-flourishing community had been forced to run for their lives.

‘Seriously, ’ the Saracen continued, ‘they have to be young and healthy – and no Muslims. ’

‘Or Americans, ’ Lord Khan added. ‘Abduct one of them and it brings down a world of grief on everyone. ’

The Saracen nodded: ‘If Muslims are excluded, it means it has to be foreigners – so I guess there will be trouble enough without asking for more. ’

The proposal had one huge chance of success, Lord Khan thought. Afghanistan was awash with potential victims: European aid workers, Christian missionaries, English reconstruction workers, international journalists.

Though he said nothing, he also knew men who had been in the kidnapping-for-ransom business for years. They were a gang of a dozen brothers and cousins who had once fought under his command and now lived across the border in Iran. Just as importantly, they would die for Abdul Mohammad Khan if he asked – he had once saved their mother’s life.

‘One final criterion, ’ the Saracen said. ‘The prisoners don’t have to be men. ’

That pleased Lord Khan – women made it a lot easier. They were more difficult to abduct but easier to control and conceal: no foreign soldier would ever dare look beneath a black veil and full-length robe.

‘Can you give me three weeks? ’ Khan asked. The Saracen couldn’t believe it – he would have waited three months if he’d had to. Not trusting words to express his gratitude, he reached out and warmly embraced the old warrior.

Their business concluded, Lord Khan pulled a bell rope, summoning his staff back into the room. He didn’t say it but the less time he spent with the Saracen alone, the easier it was to disclaim any knowledge of future events.

‘And what of you, my friend? ’ he said as the door opened and his guards entered. ‘You are blessed with a wife? ’

Lord Khan was making casual conversation for the benefit of his retainers, but he knew from the shadow of grief that passed across his visitor’s face it was a question which would have been better left unasked.

‘I was blessed, ’ the Saracen replied softly. ‘Immediately after I graduated as a doctor I went to Gaza, to the Jabalia refugee camp. I knew that was where the people’s need was the greatest. ’

Several guards and retainers exchanged a glance – Gaza was not somewhere to be taken lightly; it was probably the only place in the world that made Afghanistan look safe.

‘I had heard a woman lecture about it while I was studying medicine in Beirut; she was the one who introduced me to the idea of the far enemy, ’ the Saracen continued.

‘After I arrived I found her again. Two years later we were married and then—’ His fist clenched and he shrugged, the simple action conveying more about loss than any words.

‘How did she die? ’ Lord Khan asked. Nobody in the room took their eyes off the visitor.

‘An Israeli rocket – she was a passenger in a car. ’

There was a long silence. None of the listeners had anything new to add; everything they felt about the Israelis had been said long ago.

‘She was targeted? ’ Lord Khan asked finally.

‘They said she wasn’t – collateral damage. But you know how the Zionists lie. ’

Khan nodded his head then spoke reverently. ‘Peace be upon her. What was her name? I will pray for her. ’

‘Amina was what most people knew her by. Amina Ebadi, ’ the Saracen said. ‘My wife, the mother of my only child. ’