Farishta Page 26

  The taxi dropped me back at the PRT five hours later and drove off with Nilofar, who was late for her class at the university. I was elated at the enthusiastic reception we had received from the women in the camp. More than fifty had gathered to watch us boil water and cook rice with the sun. A caravan of Kuchi nomads had camped nearby to trade with the Hazaras, and several of their women who came to watch our demonstration offered to trade their bracelets for my solar ovens. I gave them three and told them to keep their bracelets.

  I made my usual call to Rahim, who sounded uncharacteristically annoyed when I told him I was ready to be let in. He hung up before I could ask him what was wrong. Was he upset because Nilofar had left without coming in to see him? I knocked three times on the heavy metal gate and waited. When it swung open, a very angry Major Davies was standing alone in the passageway.

  “Good afternoon, Angela.”

  “Mark! What a surprise!” I stammered as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  “How long have you been doing this?” he asked, slamming the gate shut, throwing the bolt, and blocking my exit with his arm.

  “Doing what? ” I replied in a hopeless attempt at innocence.

  “Leaving the PRT without authorization and protected only by the thin blue silk of the burka you have just stuffed into your rucksack.”

  “Look, Mark, I . . .”

  “Angela, I have the greatest respect for your efforts to help the women of Afghanistan cook with sunshine, and I wish you were getting more support from your embassy. While you are assigned to this PRT, however, the British Army is responsible for your safety.”

  “I know that, but . . .”

  “I’m not finished,” he snapped. My pupils had widened and I could just make out the sharp contours of his face in the dim passageway.

  “Are you aware that there is a war on in Afghanistan? Are you also aware that there are many people who would love to get their hands on an American diplomat, especially a female?”

  “Of course, I am, but under the burka . . .”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind, Angela?” He ran his fingers through his dark hair and grabbed my shoulders. “I thought last month’s episode with your Russian friend had knocked some sense into you. Apparently, it did not.”

  I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. If Mark was this angry at me, what had he said to poor Rahim? I’d had no right to implicate my young friend in my decision to break the PRT’s rules about travel outside the wire. How could I have been so thoughtless? No wonder Rahim sounded angry when I called.

  “The colonel, Sergeant Major—all of us, including you—are about to be overwhelmed with security preparations for the provincial elections, so I propose we keep this discussion and Rahim’s involvement between us as long as you agree to the following condition.”

  At least he was going to leave Rahim out of it.

  “What condition?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

  “Give me your word that you will never leave this camp again without a military escort.”

  I stared at Mark in silence, seething at his veiled threat. I knew he was right, and I had no defense for my actions, but I resented being treated like a child.

  “You really have no choice, Angela. Your only other option is to have me report this incident to the colonel. And in that case Rahim will become involved.”

  “You win, Mark,” I said, fighting back tears of frustration.

  “Angela,” he said softly as he released his grip, “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Please understand why I’m doing this.”

  “I do, Mark,” I said lowering my head in defeat. He glanced behind him and seeing no one in the courtyard, wrapped both arms tightly around me. I tensed and tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let go. My anger drained away, replaced by fatigue and resignation, and I slid my arms around him, resting my head against his shoulder. We stood quietly holding each other until a horn honked outside and the guards began to slide the barriers away from the gate.

  FORTY-NINE

  September 12, 2005

  As Mark had predicted, everyone was overwhelmed with meetings in preparation for the upcoming provincial elections. He and I saw very little of each other the week following our encounter at the front gate. I was also too busy to spend much time with Nilofar, who wanted to continue her regular visits to the PRT. They were ostensibly to brief me on her solar cooking and women’s rights activities, but they were also the only way she could spend time alone with Rahim.

  Nilofar’s attempts to interfere in arranged marriages were angering some of the most powerful warlords in the northern provinces. Her clandestine relationship with Rahim was also very close to becoming public and was even more dangerous for her now that her parents had forbidden her to see him. I worried about her constantly, awed at her courage but fearful that she was about to run afoul of the conservative Afghan society, which could so easily crush her spirit.

  I was unaware that Rahim was also starting to worry about me until he stopped me one morning on his way to breakfast and hit me with another of his off-the-wall questions.

  “Farishta-jan, are you a CIA agent?”

  I looked directly into his eyes and tried to keep my voice steady.

  “No, Rahim, I’m not, but why do you ask? ” Where the hell had that come from? During our morning staff meetings, a few of the officers occasionally teased me about being with the CIA, but I’d always assumed that their remarks were never repeated outside the secure vault of the ops center.

  “One of the terps heard the soldiers talking about you. It is very dangerous for you if the Afghan people know about this.”

  Had the soldiers been discussing my rescue from Stefan’s car last month? But that was impossible. The night patrol had been sworn to secrecy. “Please tell the interpreters that I do not and never have worked for the CIA. I give you my word on that, Rahim,” I responded in a firm voice.

  “I will do that, Farishta-jan,” he replied, looking relieved as he trotted off to the mess hall to load his plate with eggs and toast.

  “Colonel Jameson, there’s something I’d like to say before we begin,” I announced as we assembled for the officers’ morning staff briefing.

  “Go right ahead, Angela,” he said, noting the concern in my voice.

  I looked slowly around the room to ensure I had everyone’s full attention.

  “I know there has been some joking about my being in the CIA at these meetings, and I haven’t said anything as long as I thought it stayed in this room. Outside this room, however, it’s no joking matter,” I continued.

  “This morning, Rahim told me that one of the other terps overheard some of the soldiers talking about me being a CIA agent.”

  The officers remained silent and I pressed on. “Any gossip that implies that I am a member of my government’s clandestine intelligence service can put the lives of our interpreters, especially Rahim, in danger. The covert officers in my government’s CIA and in your MI6 have difficult and dangerous jobs, but I am not and never have been one of them. I am simply little old boring Angela Morgan, the diplomat.”

  “There is certainly nothing little, old, or boring about you, Angela,” teased Mark. There were a few knowing nods and snickers from the other officers around the room, but after that the rumors about my affiliation with the CIA ended.

  I joined Mark that evening for dinner and coffee in the officers’ mess. “It’s wonderful to know that you don’t find me old or boring,” I joked.

  “It just came out,” he said squeezing my hand under the table. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

  “On the contrary, Mark. I think we all needed some comic relief after my grim little speech.”

  FIFTY

  September 16, 2005

  My NATO colleagues and I were enjoying some of the French major’s espresso and sharing stories about our preparations for the upcoming elections when Colonel Jameson appeared in the doorway of his office and cleared his throa
t to silence us.

  “The police training center was hit last night,” he announced grimly. “One rocket passed completely over the compound and exploded harmlessly in the desert. Another landed inside near the trainees’ barracks. It woke everyone up when it exploded, but none of the Afghan cadets or instructors was harmed. The third rocket appears to have been a dud.”

  Although the entire country of Afghanistan was officially designated a “war zone,” it hadn’t really seemed like one in the north since I’d arrived in January. Except for that one trip with Mark to the Pashtun village when I’d been required to wear my body armor and helmet, the relative freedom we enjoyed here was extraordinary compared with my colleagues in Kabul and at U.S. PRTs in the south. I silently prayed that this incident was a fluke and not a trend.

  “This is the first attack on foreign forces in more than two years,” said the colonel, looking in my direction. He had read and concurred with a message I’d recently sent to my embassy describing the growing resentment of foreign forces in the north. Although our MOTs continued to maintain a low security profile, the same was not the case with the other foreign forces in the area.

  Colonel Tremain’s men in their new up-armored Humvees, the Germans who traveled over from Kunduz in their armored personnel carriers, and the Dutch who had been sent in to provide extra security for the elections were speeding around Mazār, with top gunners concealed behind sunglasses and bandanas, their machine guns aimed at pedestrians. Many locals had begun complaining to us about this, since as far as they were concerned all foreign military personnel were part of the PRT.

  “There’s not much more we can do to protect ourselves here since we’re surrounded on all sides by family compounds,” added the colonel with a resigned shrug, “but I urge you to keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Colonel, perhaps we should invite the local mullah and some of his followers to the PRT for a meal,” I said.

  I had often seen the old man from my window, standing under the pistachio tree in front of his mosque, gazing up at the antennas and guard towers of our compound.

  “With our high walls, razor wire, and the military convoys rumbling in and out of the gates, we don’t present a very welcoming appearance. The neighbors might be more willing to share information with us if they knew us a little better.”

  “Excellent idea, Angela,” the colonel replied. “I’ll get Sergeant Major and Rahim to set something up.”

  It took another month to organize, but eventually the old mullah and seven neighborhood elders accepted the colonel’s invitation to come for breakfast. They walked through the gates of the PRT that morning with great trepidation, but were quickly disarmed by the warm greeting they received from the soldiers and officers.

  The colonel gave them a tour of the PRT, which they seemed to enjoy as much as the orange juice, yogurt, and muffins we served them at a long table in the conference room. The mullah in his thank-you speech told the colonel this was his first invitation to visit the PRT since the U.S. Army had departed in 2003. I sat silently at the far end of the table, my hair wrapped in a scarf throughout the breakfast so as not to offend our elderly guests, whom I knew would probably be less than pleased to see a woman in this room full of men.

  The American Embassy never responded to my report on the aggressive security posture of new foreign forces in our area. Nor did they have any comments about the attack on the police-training center. The looming parliamentary elections had overwhelmed everything else.

  My British diplomatic colleague Richard Carrington had spent very little time in Mazār over the summer and as a result our professional relationship had improved markedly. He was about to be permanently assigned as the UK’s representative at PRT Lashkar Gah in Helmand Province to prepare for the arrival of the British Army in early 2006. Helmand was far more dangerous than any of the northern provinces, and I made sure he knew how much I admired him for volunteering to go. He’d come back to Mazār to help plan our itinerary through the Sholgara Valley, where he and I would be serving as official poll watchers on Election Day.

  “Right, Angela,” he said, picking up his dinner tray and heading out the door of the officers’ mess, “I’ll be flying to Kabul tomorrow to brief my ambassador on our plans, and I’ll drive back on election eve with my civilian security team. We’ll be ready to follow you and your boys in the Beast at 0530 hours sharp Sunday morning.”

  “Safe flight, Richard,” I replied, slipping my feet out of my sandals and curling up on the couch to watch the evening news on BBC. The room was empty. Every officer not at work had gone to the pub to watch another important sporting event.

  “Angela, may I have a word with you?” Mark entered the officers’ mess with a tray of food and sat down on the couch next to me.

  “Sure,” I said, slipping my feet back into my sandals. We’d both been so busy the past week that we’d hardly spoken.

  “I’ve missed our dinners together,” he said, “but my boys and I have been swamped with the elections approaching.” He set his tray down without a sound and ran his fingers through his hair. He was upset about something.

  “We’ll have plenty of time later, Mark,” I assured him. Since we were alone, I reached out and took his hand in mine.

  “I understand that you and Richard will be traveling into the Sholgara Valley for Election Day,” he said, squeezing my fingers.

  “We are, but don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of protection,” I replied, smiling up at his stern face. “I’m keeping my promise never to leave the PRT again without proper security.”

  “Are you aware that there is a single narrow road leading into and out of that valley with steep cliffs on either side? ”

  “Mark, you know I’ve been to the Sholgara many times.”

  “Have you read the intel reports from the MOTs about armed thugs threatening to invade the polling places and intimidate voters? ”

  “Of course I have, Mark,” I said, bristling at his condescending tone. I silently forgave him because I knew how worried he was about my safety, but I hated it when he spoke to me like this. “I believe that’s the very reason Richard and I have been asked to go to there.” My voice rose slightly, betraying my irritation. I didn’t want another lecture from him on the dangers lurking outside the PRT. “The presence of foreign observers is expected to help deter that behavior.”

  “Of course, but if you manage to enrage enough of those fellows during the day, you’ll offer them a very tempting target when you exit the valley through that pass late in the afternoon.”

  Rising from the couch, I snatched my tray from the coffee table and stared down at him. “I’m willing to risk it.”

  “I suppose we’re all here to take such risks,” he replied grimly, clearly wanting to say more.

  “Mark, I’m not doing this to make some point about my desire for independence. This is my job! It’s why I’m here.” I knew it would be impossible to convince him, but I had to try to make him understand. “These elections are critical. You know that. Monitors are coming to Afghanistan from all over the world to help ensure that the whole process is run as honestly and fairly as possible. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  Mark clenched his jaw in silence as I turned and left the room. He departed the following morning with MOT Bravo, which by design or coincidence was off on a four-day patrol into the Sholgara Valley.

  FIFTY-ONE

  September 18, 2005

  Election Day was chaotic, hot, and dusty. Weapons were not allowed in the polling places, which meant that Fuzzy and the embassy bodyguard could not accompany Richard and me to observe the voting. They had to stay in the vehicles at each stop along with Jenkins and Richard’s civilian driver while Richard and I went into the voting centers, protected only by the oversized international observer badges dangling from our necks. I would inspect the women’s sites on my own while Richard, accompanied by Rahim, who needed no badge, would observe the men.

  Some of the more remo
te female-voting stations I visited resembled raucous teenage parties. The women, their burkas thrown back, laughed and joked and leaned into one another’s cardboard voting booths as they searched the enormous full-color ballot sheets for the photo of their local warlord, provincial chief, or mullah. They knew whom they were supposed to vote for and would squeal with delight when they finally found the correct photo.

  The concept of a secret ballot had not yet filtered down to this corner of Afghanistan. For these rural women, the novelty of going into a semi-public place where they could throw back their burkas for a few minutes was enough of a treat.

  The last place I visited at the far end of the valley was quite a different story. Miriam, a local school principal, welcomed me warmly into her well-organized polling station. Her three assistants, who were also teachers in her school, handed the women their ballots, told them how to make their marks, and instructed them not to speak to one another until they were out of the tent.

  This orderly procession of female voters halted abruptly when three armed men, scowling and brandishing AK-47s, lifted the back flap of the tent and marched in uninvited. I remembered Mark’s warning about voter intimidation and prayed this would not turn into a violent confrontation. I was more angry than frightened, but I had no idea what to do.

  The men didn’t notice me at first, since the faces of all the women in the tent were uncovered. That lasted for lass than ten seconds, when every one of the female voters pulled their burkas back over their faces and squeezed into a tight knot at the rear of the tent. Only Miriam, her three assistants, and I still had our faces exposed.

  Miriam glared at the heavyset leader of the group, her wrinkled jaw twitching in anger. She was spitting mad and was having what Colonel Tremain would have euphemistically described as a Whisky-Tango-Foxtrot moment. The two younger men took several steps back to escape the heat of Miriam’s anger and looked to the older man for guidance.