Farishta Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ONE - June 2004 ✦ WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TWO - August 2004 ✦ ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  THREE - November 29, 2004 ✦ WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FOUR - December 20, 2004 ✦ LONDON

  FIVE - December 22, 2004 ✦ DUBAI

  SIX - December 24, 2004 ✦ KABUL

  SEVEN - December 25, 2004

  EIGHT - December 28, 2004

  NINE - December 29, 2004

  TEN - December 30, 2004

  ELEVEN - January 3, 2005 ✦ MAZĀR-I-SHARĪF AIRFIELD

  TWELVE - January 4, 2005 ✦ PROVINCIAL RECONSTRUCTION TEAM, MAZĀR-I-SHARĪF

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN - January 6, 2005

  FIFTEEN - January 14, 2005

  SIXTEEN - January 15, 2005

  SEVENTEEN - January 18, 2005

  EIGHTEEN - February 8, 2005

  NINETEEN - February 18, 2005 ✦ ANDKHOY, FARYAB PROVINCE

  TWENTY - February 23, 2005 ✦ MAZĀR-I-SHARĪF

  TWENTY-ONE - March 7, 2005

  TWENTY-TWO - March 12, 2005

  TWENTY-THREE - March 16, 2005

  TWENTY-FOUR - March 17, 2005

  TWENTY-FIVE - March 21, 2005

  TWENTY-SIX - April 3, 2005

  TWENTY-SEVEN - April 8, 2005 ✦ THE VILLAGE OF MARMOL

  TWENTY-EIGHT - April 16, 2005

  TWENTY-NINE - April 17, 2005 ✦ KABUL

  THIRTY - May 2, 2005

  THIRTY-ONE - May 3, 2005

  THIRTY-TWO - May 5, 2005

  THIRTY-THREE - May 24, 2005

  THIRTY-FOUR - May 29, 2005

  THIRTY-FIVE - June 9, 2005

  THIRTY-SIX - June 29, 2005

  THIRTY-SEVEN - July 2, 2005

  THIRTY-EIGHT - July 10, 2005

  THIRTY-NINE - July 13, 2005 ✦ HAIRATAN, BALKH PROVINCE

  FORTY - July 14, 2005 ✦ MAZĀR-I-SHARĪF

  FORTY-ONE - July 23, 2005

  FORTY-TWO - July 24, 2005

  FORTY-THREE - July 25, 2005

  FORTY-FOUR - August 12, 2005 ✦ SAR-E POL PROVINCE

  FORTY-FIVE - August 21, 2005

  FORTY-SIX - September 1, 2005

  FORTY-SEVEN - September 5, 2005

  FORTY-EIGHT - September 7, 2005

  FORTY-NINE - September 12, 2005

  FIFTY - September 16, 2005

  FIFTY-ONE - September 18, 2005

  FIFTY-TWO - October 2, 2005

  FIFTY-THREE - October 15, 2005

  FIFTY-FOUR - October 17, 2005

  FIFTY-FIVE - October 31, 2005

  FIFTY-SIX - November 2, 2005

  FIFTY-SEVEN - November 4, 2005

  FIFTY-EIGHT - November 5, 2005

  FIFTY-NINE - November 17, 2005

  SIXTY - November 25, 2005

  SIXTY-ONE - December 10, 2005

  SIXTY-TWO - January 1, 2006

  SIXTY-THREE - January 14, 2006

  SIXTY-FOUR - January 21, 2006

  SIXTY-FIVE - March 30, 2006

  Acknowledgements

  RIVERHEAD BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014 , USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ο RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R οRL, England

  Copyright © 2011 by Patricia McArdle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McArdle, Patricia.

  Farishta / Patricia McArdle. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51531-0

  1. Women diplomats—Fiction. 2. Americans—Afghanistan—Fiction.

  3. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Afghanistan—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.C266F

  813'.6—dc22

  Map on pages vi–vii by Meighan Cavanaugh

  The opinions and characterizations in this book are those of the author, and do not necessarily represent official positions of the United States Government.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Farishta is dedicated to the soldiers and civilians

  who are risking their lives every day

  to bring peace to Afghanistan.

  ✦

  AFGHANISTAN

  PROLOGUE

  April 1983 ✦ BEIRUT, LEBANON

  “Ange, I don’t think you should be riding anymore until after the baby’s born.” My husband made this not unexpected announcement as we led our horses, still breathing hard, through the paddock and under the shaded archway of the old brick barn.

  “You can’t be serious, Tom. I’d go nuts if we couldn’t get out of the city every Saturday for these rides.”

  Mohammed, the stableman who cared for the horses at the Kattouah Riding Club as if they were his own children, stepped out of an unused stall where he had been grilling his lunch over a small clay brazier. He had two lamb brochettes in his hand. He couldn’t understand a word we were saying, but he sensed the tension between us and was planning to defuse it with food. “Salaam aleikum,” he greeted, flashing his gap-tooth smile, handing us the sticks of sizzling meat and taking the reins from our hands. “This good, you like!”

  When Mohammed led the horses away, Tom wrapped one arm around me and tipped my chin up until our eyes met. He was right, of course. Our first child was due in less than four months.

  The Lebanese ob-gyn I was seeing had assured me that as long as I took it easy, I would be able to work at the embassy until I was in my seventh month, then fly back to my parents’ ranch in New Mexico to have the baby. Tom would pack us out and join me in Albuquerque for the birth. After a month of leave, we would all go to Washington, D.C., where Tom and I would start Russian language training for our assignments in Leningrad.

  “I stopped galloping three months ago, Tom. What if I promise not to trot or canter? ” I pleaded with a halfhearted pout.

  “Ange, knowing how you ride, I’d say that would be an impossible promise to keep.” He laughed as he popped a spicy lamb cube into my mouth.

  The following Monday, just as my taxi driver swung onto the broad corniche facing the Mediterranea
n, he tapped the brakes on his ancient Mercedes to avoid ramming the seawall and turned to gaze at a large yacht anchored just offshore. His unexpected stop threw me slightly forward in my seat, and I instinctively placed both hands over my swollen belly in that protective gesture of all mothers-to-be.

  “I’ll get out here, driver,” I said in rapid-fire Arabic as I handed him a fistful of Lebanese pounds. I had reluctantly agreed on Saturday to Tom’s request that I stop riding my horse, but I still needed exercise. On this warm April morning, I would walk the final three blocks along the esplanade to the embassy.

  For the past few months, our sector of Beirut had been relatively free of the sporadic bombings and gun battles that still raged in other parts of the city. A few American diplomats, including my husband, even jogged along the corniche before work.

  My meeting with a group of Lebanese journalists had gone well, and I was planning to join Tom in his office for a lunch of falafel, hummus, and fresh pita bread I’d purchased from a street vendor. I grabbed the greasy paper bag of food from the backseat of the taxi and set off on foot for the embassy, absently patting my stomach and enjoying the fresh salt air. When I glanced out to sea for an instant to watch a flock of battling seagulls, my life suddenly ended—or should have. A blast of hot air, followed by a roaring in my ears, threw me hard against the cement seawall. The bag of food flew out of my hand, over the wall, and sank beneath the waves.

  As I struggled to my feet, I could see a roiling black cloud rising into the air where the embassy stood just around the corner. Cars parked close to the compound had flipped over and were on fire. People were lying in the street. They were bleeding. Their mouths were open. They must have been screaming, but I could hear only a loud ringing in my ears. I began to run through the falling debris, one hand still on my belly to protect my unborn child. The entire front of the embassy had collapsed. Where Tom’s office had been, there was nothing.

  ONE

  June 2004 ✦ WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The first ring jarred me awake seconds before my forehead hit the keyboard. I inched slowly back in my chair, hoping no one had noticed me dozing off.

  Narrowing my eyes against the flat glare of the ceiling lights, I scanned the long row of cubicles behind me. I was alone.

  The second ring and the scent of microwave popcorn drifting in from a nearby office reminded me I was supposed to meet some colleagues for dinner and a movie near Dupont Circle at eight. It was almost seven thirty.

  The third ring froze me in place when I saw the name flashing on the caller ID.

  If irrational fear could still paralyze me like this after all these years, then perhaps it really was time to give up.

  It wasn’t only real danger that would accelerate my pulse and cause me to stop breathing like a frightened rabbit staring down the barrel of a shotgun. It was little things. Tonight it was a telephone call.

  I forced myself to grab the receiver halfway through ring number four.

  “This is Angela Morgan,” I said, struggling to suppress the anxiety that had formed a painful knot in my throat.

  My computer beeped and coughed up two messages from the U.S. Embassy in Honduras. I ignored them and began taking slow, measured breaths.

  “Angela, you’re working late tonight. It’s Marty Angstrom from personnel.”

  Marty’s chirpy, nasal voice resonated like the slow graze of a fork down an empty plate.

  He was stammering, obviously surprised that anyone in the Central American division at the State Department would pick up the phone this late on a Friday evening. I had apparently upset his plan to leave a voice message that I wouldn’t hear until Monday morning.

  “Hello, Marty. It’s been a long time.” My heart was thundering. “Is this a good news or a bad news call? ”

  “It depends,” said Marty.

  “On what?”

  “On what your definition of good is.” He chuckled.

  The wish list I’d submitted to personnel for my next overseas diplomatic posting had been, in order of preference: London, Madrid, Nairobi, San Salvador, Lima, Caracas, Riga, St. Petersburg, and Kabul. I’d thrown in Kabul at the last minute, thinking it would demonstrate that I was a team player and increase my chances for the London assignment. But they would never send me to Kabul, not after what had happened in Beirut.

  “Marty, please get to the point. Did I get London?”

  I could hear him breathing through his nose into the phone like an old man with asthma. He sounded almost as nervous as I felt. Not a good sign. Was I being sent south of the border again just because I spoke Spanish? But why would that make Marty nervous?

  Before I retired or was forced out of the Foreign Service for not getting promoted fast enough, I was hoping for just one tour of duty in Western Europe. Foreign Service Officers, like military officers, must compete against their colleagues of similar rank for the limited number of promotions available each year. Consistently low performers are drummed out long before reaching the traditional retirement age of sixty-five.

  I desperately wanted an assignment in London, but I’d settle for Madrid. After all I’d been through—I deserved it.

  “Well, you’ll be spending a lot of time with the Brits,” Marty replied eagerly.

  “Meaning?” I put him on speaker and began to rearrange the stacks of papers on my desk. My pulse and breathing were returning to normal.

  “Listen, Angela, I know you had some tough times a while back, but that was more than two decades ago.”

  Tough times—a dead husband and a bloody miscarriage. Yeah, those were definitely tough times, I thought, looking over at the small silver-framed photo of Tom and me. We were sitting on our bay Arabian geldings at the Kattouah stables near Beirut. Our knees were touching. His horse was nuzzling mine. We were laughing.

  Tom and I had met for the first time in 1979 at a private stable in the Virginia hunt country, where we’d arrived separately to rent horses for a few hours on the weekend. Although we were both studying Farsi in preparation for our first assignments as junior diplomats to the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, we had different instructors at the Foreign Service Institute. Our paths had never crossed until that warm summer morning, when the New Mexico rancher’s daughter and the southern prep school boy discovered the first of their many common interests.

  “Ange, you’re going to get kicked out of the Foreign Service in another year if you don’t get promoted,” warned Marty.

  That was true. After the embassy bombing killed Tom, and I lost the baby a few days later, the Department had ordered me back to the United States to recover, but not for long. I stayed with my parents for three months, was given a low-stress desk job in D.C. for the following year, and was then expected to start Russian language training and take the assignment in Leningrad where Tom and I should have gone together.

  During that two-year tour of duty in the Soviet Union, I had developed a taste for vodka—which became my painkiller and therapist of choice—an affinity that led to a series of less than stellar performance evaluations. After that disaster, I was exiled to Central and South American outposts where the Spanish I’d learned from my mother would come in handy and nothing I did would have serious policy implications for the U.S. government.

  My father’s prolonged illness and my frequent trips out west to see him had made it impossible for me to take any more overseas assignments for the past six years. My career had been dying a slow and painful death in a series of dead-end positions at State Department headquarters in Washington.

  “Continue,” I replied, growing weary of Marty’s little guessing game.

  “You really need this promotion, Angela.”

  This conversation was becoming unbearable. I focused on my breathing, willing my anxiety not to resurface.

  “Marty, I’m going to hang up the phone right now if you don’t tell me where the Department is sending me.”

  “Okay, you’re going to Afghanistan in December.”

  Oh, God,
this has got to be a joke. I laid my head down on the desk blotter and closed my eyes.

  “Marty, I don’t know a thing about Afghanistan,” I whispered into the speakerphone. What I didn’t add was that serving in another Islamic country, war or no war, was an experience I didn’t think I could handle.

  “It doesn’t matter. Neither does anybody else. You put it on your bid list.”

  “It was the very last post on a very long wish list, Marty,” I said, trying to maintain my composure.

  “Listen, Ange, at this point we’re filling positions in Afghanistan and Iraq with anyone remotely suitable who volunteers. We may eventually have to start forcing people to go, but you’ll get more brownie points if you go willingly now. I know this was your last choice, but it’s only for a year, and I promise to try and get you an onward assignment to someplace great . . . like London!”

  In 2004, the United States was fighting not one but two wars. The one in Iraq, begun the previous year, was sucking most of the air out of the State Department. Meanwhile, the “forgotten war” in Afghanistan had been relegated to the back pages of The Washington Post and a few understaffed offices at the State Department.

  I shared the sentiments of many of my Foreign Service colleagues, who believed we should have stayed out of Iraq and completed our mission in Afghanistan. A few brave souls actually spoke up and even resigned in protest. I’m ashamed to admit that I, like many, kept my head down, stayed focused on my less controversial part of the world, and tried hard not to think much about either war.

  “Marty, I don’t speak Dari or Pashto.”

  “Your personnel file shows you have an extremely high aptitude for foreign languages. It says you got the highest score ever recorded at the Foreign Service Institute when you took Farsi.”