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  Trumbull continued to avoid me until a two-vehicle convoy of British soldiers pulled up in front of the Turkish Consulate at nine P.M. to escort us back to the PRT.

  Stefan walked me to the door and gave me a farewell peck on the cheek, which I wanted to return but did not. An unsmiling Trumbull had been observing us closely throughout the evening and I was not going to provide him with any ammunition to use against me later.

  “Remember to call me the next time you are in Kabul, Angela,” said Stefan as I climbed into the truck with Trumbull.

  I was sad that the evening was over. It had been such a delight to spend a few hours talking, drinking, and laughing with an attractive, intelligent diplomatic colleague who actually seemed to enjoy my company. Stefan waved again as we pulled away from the consulate. I hoped we would be seeing each other again very soon.

  Trumbull said nothing about Stefan on our ride back to camp. He departed for Kabul two days later and never returned to Mazār.

  After Trumbull’s refusal to share his contacts with me, I accepted the fact that I was going to be on my own in Mazār, at least until my new British counterpart arrived.

  It remained unclear to me what I could accomplish with no formal introductions, virtually no instructions or guidance from the embassy, and no specific tasks to accomplish in this corrupt, chaotic, male-dominated culture.

  Accompanying Harry to his meetings was useful, but I had to establish my own identity. Charging across the buzkashi field on that stallion without getting thrown off had boosted my confidence, despite Major Davies’s harsh reprimand, but it did not make me feel any less alone at this PRT. After my panic attack in first-aid class, Mike had urged me to start conquering my fears by focusing on the reality around me. Getting on that horse had been a huge first step. Step number two would be getting myself outside the walls of this camp on my own terms.

  NINETEEN

  February 18, 2005 ✦ ANDKHOY, FARYAB PROVINCE

  “Angela Morgan? My name is Bob Donovan. I’m with the ambassador’s security detail at the embassy,” announced a brusque voice on my cell phone. I was standing outside in the rose garden, where I’d gone for a few minutes to recover after another Estonian demolition had rattled the windows in the bullpen and sent my pulse into overdrive. These neglected bushes were in desperate need of pruning. Next time I’d bring some scissors.

  “Yes, how can I help you? ”

  His reply came back like machine gun fire. I held the phone away from my ear. “The ambassador may fly up in a few weeks to meet with General Kabir and his followers at the general’s residence in Andkhoy. We need you to arrange with the general for the loan of some of his SUVs and places to sleep for our five-man security advance team.

  “They’ll land at a nearby airstrip our guys built a few years back. Kabir’s men can pick them up there. The old man likes Americans, fought with us against the Taliban after 9/11, so there should be no problem. Think you can handle that? ”

  “Of course,” I said, trying to sound confident but wondering how I was supposed to convince this powerful warlord, who was also Governor Daoud’s sworn enemy, to provide sleeping accommodations for an American security detail. At least it would give me an excuse for a meeting.

  When I explained my travel plans at our daily ops briefing, Harry was agreeable to my request to meet with the general. Major Davies was not.

  “Sir, General Kabir is the most notorious and brutal warlord in northern Afghanistan,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “We believe he is guilty of serious war crimes. I don’t think it’s advisable for Miss Morgan to make this trip.”

  “Mark, neither we nor any of our diplomats have had contact with Kabir for months, and he is not one to be ignored. We all know he has close ties with the American Special Forces, so I don’t believe Angela will be in danger. I can’t spare any officers to go with her, but we’ll send her with two vehicles, an interpreter, and four soldiers. Do you think you can handle this on your own, Angela?” Harry asked with a slightly worried look on his face. “I’m sure you’ll bring back some useful intel for the major and his staff.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, looking defiantly at Davies.

  Early the next morning, Rahim, Fuzzy, Jenkins, and I were off to Faryab Province in the Beast. Another PRT vehicle followed close behind.

  Halfway to Andkhoy, I spotted across a weed-covered field near the road the three-meter-high, hundred-meter-wide excavated mound of Tillya Tepe, which Jeef had mentioned at our dinner in Kabul. Two decades ago, local inhabitants had dug small pits all over the site in their search for gold coins and jewelry that the archaeologists had missed. Now the entire area was off limits due to the thousands of unexploded land mines and ordnance that had been scattered across the landscape by the endless parade of warring factions.

  “Do you know about the Bactrian gold they found at Tillya Tepe?” I asked Rahim. He hadn’t said a word since we left the PRT, and I thought this might be a good way to draw him out.

  “No, Angela,” he replied, his voice annoyingly flat. “Where is Tillya Tepe?”

  “It’s right out there,” I said, pointing north toward the flat earthen mound, “the legendary ‘hill of gold.’” I told him the story of the discovery, which had taken place only a few years before he was born.

  “When the French archaeologist comes up this spring, I’ll take you to meet him. It’s your heritage and you should know about it.”

  “All Afghans should know these things,” Rahim said, staring out at the pockmarked field.

  General Kabir’s deputy Abdul had taken my call the previous afternoon as soon as I got off the phone with the embassy security officer. According to Rahim, Abdul spoke fluent English so I wouldn’t need an interpreter to make the call.

  “The general would be happy to provide accommodations for the ambassador’s security detail.” After a long pause, he added, “Why don’t you come to Andkhoy tomorrow to confirm the arrangements? The general is in residence and would like to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. This was going to be easier than I expected.

  “General Kabir has been good friends with your American soldiers since he fought so bravely to drive the Taliban from the north in 2001,” continued Abdul breathlessly. “He has never met a female American diplomat. It would please him. You are invited for lunch, then you can join us for a celebration of the first day of Id al-Adha, when the people of this province will pay their respects to the general at our town soccer field.”

  Rahim’s presence was not strictly necessary for this trip, since Abdul spoke English, but Harry insisted he go with us. “If you break down or have any trouble with the locals during your eight-hour round-trip, you will need a Dari speaker, Angela, and it can’t be you. I’m afraid Rahim will have to go along. I’m aware that he hasn’t completely accepted his role as your interpreter, but he has to start getting used to it.”

  Kabir’s compound was hidden behind massive walls that towered over the houses surrounding it. Three heavily armed guards wearing expensive ski jackets and sunglasses waved us through a set of ornate iron gates and into an enormous courtyard dotted with elaborate fountains and a large, empty swimming pool.

  Fuzzy, Jenkins, and the two soldiers in the other vehicle stayed outside with their engines running. They were already digging into their sack lunches as Rahim and I followed one of the guards toward Kabir’s pool house where the general’s interpreter waited to greet us.

  “Welcome, Miss Angela,” said Abdul, standing in front of the glass-walled atrium. As he motioned for me to follow him, Abdul approached Rahim and hissed in Dari, “Why did the woman bring you today, when she knows I speak English? ”

  “I don’t know,” replied Rahim, who towered over the wiry aide, but had assumed a submissive posture in his presence. “I certainly had no wish to accompany her on this trip.”

  “The PRT commander could have at least sent your senior interpreter, Professor Sayeed, as a sign of respect for the general,” A
bdul huffed.

  Rahim ignored Abdul’s insult. “The professor is ill and has been staying with his family in Kabul,” he said wearily.

  “You are not really needed at this lunch,” Abdul continued, “but since you are here, we must let you join us. You may follow.”

  Switching to English and smiling at Rahim, he added for my benefit, “Rahim, old friend, how nice to see you. Please join us for lunch.”

  The meal was as surreal as it was delicious. Kabir, who had already settled into a throne-like chair at the head of his long, elaborately laid table, greeted me politely but without standing. The table had been placed next to an Olympic-size indoor swimming pool. To Kabir’s left and right were his robed and turbaned commanders, who glared at me and fawned over their general.

  Hanging on the wall directly behind Kabir was a large flat-screen TV, displaying a National Geographic special on the mating habits of primates. The sound was off, but the images of copulating gorillas flashing on the screen just above the general’s narrow, balding head were hard to ignore. Rahim, who had been placed next to me to provide a buffer between the general’s male guests and the “woman,” could not keep his eyes off the TV. As world-weary as he often seemed, I was reminded again just how young and innocent he really was.

  Servants padded quietly around us, filling our glasses with Coca-Cola and setting out steaming plates of roast lamb, fragrant rice, boiled eggplant, yogurt, naan, dumplings, and other Afghan delicacies. There were gold-plated forks and spoons at each place, but once Kabir began eating with his fingers, everyone, including me, followed suit.

  Chewing a mouthful of lamb, Kabir turned to Abdul and said, “Ask her why the Americans decided to send a woman instead of a man to Mazār.”

  “Miss Angela, General Kabir welcomes you to Andkhoy,” said Abdul with a forced smile. “He asks how a woman came to be chosen for this very important position at the PRT in Mazār-i-Sharīf.”

  “Please tell the general that all the men they asked to come were afraid, so my government sent me instead,” I replied, suppressing a grin and curious to hear how Abdul would translate my flip reply.

  As Abdul repeated the literal if not figurative meaning of my words in Dari, the commanders stared at me in silence. Kabir was watching me for another reason.

  I had pinned Tom’s Scythian brooch to my tunic for today’s lunch, and Kabir had been staring at it throughout the meal. He stroked his drooping white mustache and turned to Abdul. “Tell the woman her gold pin is very beautiful,” he commanded from his end of the long table. “Tell her it reminds me of the photo from my presidential campaign posters where I am riding my favorite chestnut stallion—my best buzkashi horse.”

  I could hear Rahim gasp. In this part of the world, custom dictated that an overt compliment from someone as powerful as Kabir required the admired object to be handed over immediately as a gift.

  “Angela,” said Rahim, his voice quaking, “the general wants your pin.” He looked genuinely worried, and I was touched by his concern, but there was no way I was letting that man take my brooch. I also knew that such a blatant request was the general’s way of testing how far he could push me.

  I waited for Abdul’s translation, then rose to my feet, praying that the trembling in my knees wouldn’t be too obvious when I started to speak. In my best Russian—which I knew Kabir understood well—I began. “General, with all respect . . .” His eyes narrowed. I had his full attention. “It has been an honor to dine with you and your brave followers in this magnificent guest house. Thank you for inviting me.”

  Abdul and the commanders, who had no idea what I was saying, stopped eating to watch the general’s face for his reaction to being addressed by a woman.

  “As the senior U.S. government representative in northern Afghanistan, I would also like to thank you on behalf of my ambassador for your generous offer to assist his security detail with vehicles and sleeping quarters if he should decide to make a trip north later this month to meet with you.”

  Kabir continued staring at my brooch and licking the grease from his fingers while I spoke. Rahim lowered his eyes and was slowly moving food around his plate with one of the golden forks.

  Kabir’s comment about my brooch had awakened emotions buried so deep, I had all but forgotten them. I now used these feelings to add strength to my speech. “General, the United States is very much looking forward to your leadership in the northern provinces as the Afghan government begins to disarm the illegal militias. You have the power and the influence to make this effort a success by convincing all of your commanders to turn in their weapons and ensure a peaceful future for Afghanistan.” Fat chance, I thought.

  “I am honored that you find my pin so beautiful. Just before my husband was killed by a terrorist bomb in Beirut in 1983, he gave me this brooch and told me to keep it close for good luck. I swore to him I would do just that.” Kabir nodded gravely. “I am certain you will understand my deep attachment to something as worthless as this small piece of costume jewelry.”

  Kabir rose from his chair, cleared his throat, and replied in Russian, “Angela Morgan, I am deeply sorry for your tragic loss. We are united with you and your country in fighting all terrorists and other enemies of our nation, and we fully support our president’s disarmament plan. Please send my highest regards to your ambassador.”

  I acknowledged his statement with a silent nod and remained standing. Despite Kabir’s reputation for drunken rages and the mass exterminations of his enemies, his charisma and influence were palpable. I felt no fear as we eyed each other from opposite ends of the table. At that moment, I felt only the small satisfaction of having made an important point about disarmament to an Afghan leader who actually had the power to convince his followers to start turning in their “real” weapons. Whether he would do so was another matter.

  Kabir stepped away from the table, signaling to all that the lunch was finished. Over the scraping of chairs on the tile floor, his voice boomed out once again in Russian, “I hope you will be able to join us for the ceremony downtown.” It appeared that my refusal to hand over Tom’s brooch had not totally soured our relationship.

  “It would be an honor, General,” I replied with a deep sigh of relief that the lunch was finally over.

  Kabir continued to stare at me with narrowed eyes and added, “My compliments on your excellent Russian.”

  Rahim and I were the last ones out of the pool house. I was lost in thought, trying to analyze what had just happened. Should I have made that joke about men being afraid to take my job? Probably not, but I couldn’t resist. Was it wise to address Kabir in Russian? Definitely. Was I glad that none of the officers from the PRT had accompanied me to this meeting? Yes. But best of all, my self-confidence had soared to new heights after I had faced down Kabir in front of his men.

  Rahim followed me without speaking to the parking lot, where Fuzzy and Jenkins were sitting in the Beast with the engine on and the heat blasting. They were laughing hysterically at a bootleg copy of School of Rock, which they were watching on Jenkins’s battery-operated DVD player. The other two soldiers had driven over to the PRT’s Andkhoy safe house to wait for us.

  As we climbed into the Beast, Rahim finally spoke. “Angela, I didn’t know you spoke Russian.” He didn’t mention the brooch.

  “Rahim, there are many things about me that you don’t know, and I am sure there’s still a lot about you that I don’t know,” I replied with a smile that he immediately returned. Standing up to Kabir, and doing it in Russian, had impressed him far more than I’d imagined.

  We followed Kabir’s convoy of six black Mercedes with dark-tinted windows into the soccer field downtown, where the excited crowd parted for the general like the Red Sea for Moses. The motorcade stopped ten yards from the center of the field, and Kabir climbed out with his entourage in tow.

  Fuzzy started to follow me when Rahim and I began to wade in behind the general, who was being welcomed loudly by his cheering followers.
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  “I think it would be better if you stay back here with the vehicle, Fuzzy,” I said to my grim bodyguard. “I’m afraid your uniform and loaded weapon may not be appreciated by this crowd.”

  “Angela, I’m supposed to provide you with close protection at all times.”

  “I know that. But look at the women in this crowd.”

  The few adult females who were standing with their husbands, all political supporters of General Kabir, were bundled against the cold in long dark coats and head scarves. The cultural influences of the former Soviet Republics just across the northern border had filtered down to some of the more educated ethnic Uzbek women in this province, where a small but growing number of them no longer wore the all-enveloping burka at public gatherings.

  “With Rahim at my side and my hair wrapped in this black scarf, I’m going to blend right in,” I argued.

  “All right, Angela, but I don’t like it,” muttered Fuzzy as he turned and headed slowly back to the Beast.

  The speeches by provincial and local officials had already begun, with each man heaping ever-greater praise on Kabir’s leadership. His dark, narrow face beamed with pride and the rows of medals on his ancient olive drab uniform jangled noisily as he approached the podium.

  I had been invited at the last minute by Abdul to stand next to the general during the ceremony, but I had declined, arguing that it would not be appropriate for me to usurp the place of one of Kabir’s loyal supporters. In truth, I didn’t want to be seen in public standing next to a man whom many in the international community considered to be a war criminal.

  Abdul told me that the general would be very disappointed if I didn’t accept, but I stood my ground and positioned myself next to Rahim behind several rows of the party faithful, who were anxiously waiting for the general to begin his speech. The sky was clear, but a cold wind blew across the soccer field where the general’s audience huddled together and tried to stay warm.