Farishta Read online

  “You don’t think I’ll be worrying about you in Iraq? ” I asked.

  “Is there someplace we can go to talk privately, Angela?” He was starting to look quite desperate. “I only have a few hours. My driver will be back at nine forty-five to pick me up.”

  “There’s really no place on this compound where we can have any privacy except for my hooch,” I said, feeling uncertain about what to do next until he put his arm around my waist.

  “Shall we?”

  We walked between the long rows of white shipping containers and entered my hooch in silence. I motioned for him to sit in my only chair.

  “May I offer you a glass of sherry,” I asked, forgetting for a moment that I only had one glass. “You take the glass. I’ll just drink out of the bottle.” I laughed as I began to remove the cork.

  “Angela.” Mark rose from the chair, took my hands in his, and brought them to his lips. We moved into each other’s arms and were one breath away from kissing when a key slid into the lock, the knob turned, and there was DEA special agent Sally Dietrich wearing her black body armor, black uniform, and combat boots. A black pistol was strapped to her hip and a black duffel bag and semiautomatic rifle slung over her shoulder.

  “Angela! Oh, shit! I’m so sorry,” she cried at the sight of the two of us staring at her and moving apart with our arms dangling at our sides.

  “They didn’t tell me I was sharing, or I would have knocked. Hell, I would have asked for another hooch. Christ almighty, what horrible timing,” she moaned, then added with an embarrassed grin, “but I suppose it could have been worse.”

  “Sally, what a surprise,” I stammered, looking from her to Mark as they both stared at each other and then at me.

  “This is Mark Davies. We worked together at the PRT in Mazār. He’s on his way to Iraq tomorrow morning. Mark, this is Sally Dietrich. She’s with our Drug Enforcement Administration and is training Afghan counter-narcotics squads. We shared a hooch when I arrived last December.”

  Mark and Sally shook hands, and the three of us stood in awkward silence not knowing what to say or do next until Sally took control of the situation.

  “Listen, I have an early call tomorrow and have got to get some shut-eye tonight, but you two look like you really need some alone-time. Here’s the deal. I’ll head over to the cafeteria for dinner and join my boys for a beer, but at 2200 hours I’m coming back. I swear on my mother’s grave, Angela, I will not step through this door one minute earlier or one minute later than ten P.M.”

  Without waiting for a response, she tossed her rifle, pistol, and duffel bag on the unused bed and was out the door.

  “So now we have privacy,” I laughed. “Almost four hours, and you’re not leaving this room, Mark Davies, until I’ve finished with you,” I said as I grabbed the collar of his uniform and pulled him into my arms.

  Mark buried his face in my hair, which, untouched by scissors for the past eleven months, now fell in dark waves below my shoulders.

  “I’m glad you haven’t cut your hair,” he murmured. “It smells like the roses in your garden at the PRT.”

  “It’s only shampoo,” I whispered as my lips parted and we became one sweet, sensuous tangle of teeth and tongue. He began to kiss me with an urgency that was frightening in its intensity. My response was equally violent.

  “What are you thinking about, Mark? ” We were resting quietly in each other’s arms. An hour had passed since we’d spoken and there was a sadness in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.

  “I’m thinking about my biggest regret of the past year,” he replied, brushing his lips down my neck and across my shoulder.

  “And that was what? ” I asked after catching my breath.

  “That it took me so many months to acknowledge my feelings for you.”

  We kissed again and all conversation ceased. When I next looked at the clock on my desk, I sat up quickly.

  “Sally will be back in less than an hour, Mark.”

  “A few more minutes? ” he pleaded.

  “We really can’t have her walking in on us like this.” I laughed, throwing back the blankets. “I made her a promise. We’ll have plenty of time in London.”

  As he began to rise, I grabbed his shoulder and ran my fingers over the delicate indigo script that curled around his bicep, “Mark, your tattoo,” I said. “It’s in Arabic.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Can you read it? ”

  “Never give up,” I murmured as he pulled me into his arms again.

  We dressed quickly when we saw how late it was and walked hand in hand to the main gate, where I signed him out. A British Army truck, idling in the road under the halogen glare of a security lamp, was waiting to take Mark back to Camp Souter for his early morning departure. I stood on the street watching until his vehicle vanished around a barrier of sandbags and barbed wire, shivering in my light jacket, until one of the Nepalese guards touched my elbow.

  “Ma’am, you should go back inside,” he said gently.

  When I awoke the next morning, Sally and her weapons were gone.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  November 5, 2005

  “Here it is! Your new chariot,” announced an embassy staffer from the motor pool. “It’s only ‘lightly armored’ so you can still roll down the windows and of course you’ll have to wear body armor,” he added. I didn’t bother to ask what he meant by “lightly armored.”

  We were in a parking lot behind the motor pool. My shiny white “lightly armored” Toyota was parked next to a fully armored embassy vehicle, which the day before had run over an IED on a road just outside Kabul. Although the front was a burned-out, spaghetti-like tangle of twisted metal, the passenger compartment, including windows, was completely intact.

  “How are you planning to get your van back to Mazār?” he asked as I continued to stare at the blackened vehicle next to my white one. “If you want it flown up, it will be weeks before I can get space on one of the C-130s.”

  “The PRT sent some of our soldiers down to Kabul this morning,” I replied. “They’ll be driving my vehicle and several new British Army vans back over the mountains. I’ll be riding with them.”

  “I don’t think that’s allowed,” he said, scratching his chin.

  “They’re picking me up tomorrow morning, and I’ve already signed all the papers for this Land Cruiser, so unless someone stops me, I’ll be driving away with the Brits at 0800 hours.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “It’s your neck.”

  I went to say good-bye to Nilofar that afternoon. Two burly Afghan guards posted outside the high, unmarked walls of the compound where she was in hiding greeted me by name as I climbed out of an armored American Embassy vehicle. I’d been spending all my free time with Nilofar since bringing her to Kabul.

  The Norwegian director of the center led me to a small garden where Nilofar was sitting alone in the sun. “Her parents haven’t called,” she said with resignation, “and I don’t expect they will. We’ve had many girls staying here who were disowned by their families after being raped.”

  The day was cold and the cloudless sky a deep cerulean blue. Nilofar was wrapped in the red shawl she’d been wearing the night Mark found her with Rahim. A cup of tea sat cold and untouched on the table next to her.

  I cleared my throat so as not to startle her. “Nilofar, how are you feeling today? ”

  She turned toward me. As always, I had to force myself not to flinch at the sight of her bruised and swollen face. “I am much better, Angela-jan, thank you.” Her expressionless voice mirrored the psychological pain I knew she would bear for months if not years to come.

  “I’ll be going back to Mazār tomorrow morning, Nilofar. I wanted to say good-bye to you and make sure you have everything you need.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “You are leaving?”

  “I have to go back to work,” I said, kneeling next to her chair and taking her trembling hands into mine.

  “I’ll call you eve
ry day. I promise.” I struggled to keep from crying in front of her. “You’re safe here.”

  “I know that. The women are very good to me and the other girls,” she said, her eyes glistening, “but I will miss you, Angela-jan.”

  It broke my heart to see this strong, smart, brave young woman—an asset to her country and her people—reduced to a battered, frail shell of her former self. She squeezed my hands and stared at the mountains in the distance. “Rahim called me this morning,” she said. “He calls me many times every day.”

  I nodded but was now choking on my own tears and unable to respond.

  “He will be leaving for Paris very soon,” she continued. “I may never see him again.”

  “You will see him, Nilofar, I said, stroking her hands. “Professor Mongibeaux and Professor Fazli are working hard to find an Afghan family in France to sponsor you.”

  Her eyes brightened but only for a second. “How will Rahim ever want me now after what those men did to me? The doctors say I will never be able to have a child.”

  “Nilofar, Rahim loves you very much, and nothing those men did will ever change that,” I assured her.

  After one of the servants brought us fresh cups of tea and a tray of biscuits, Nilofar and I sat quietly together in the fading afternoon light until the embassy driver called to say he was waiting for me outside.

  I was anxious to cross the eleven-thousand-foot Salang Pass by car, even though it would be painful to make the trip without Jenkins behind the wheel and Fuzzy riding shotgun. My driver and vehicle commander were as young, polite, and competent as my boys had been, but it wouldn’t be the same without the familiar banter we had developed after so many long patrols.

  It was a grueling fourteen-hour slog with heavy snows and several accidents on the road slowing our progress. The snow was even heavier when we emerged on the much colder northern side of the Hindu Kush from the long, unlit Salang Tunnel.

  When our convoy arrived at the PRT, the new Swedish troops and the British officers from the regiment that had replaced the Royal Gurkha Rifles welcomed me back and insisted I attend every meeting they held. I was now the PRT’s éminence grise on Afghanistan.

  It was a sad commentary on our knowledge of this country that someone like me, who had spent less than a year in country and had traveled—almost always—under heavy security restrictions, was now considered an expert. I was far from it. How could any of us really know what was going on in the minds of the tribes, sub-tribes, clans, and families of this feudal land. We couldn’t.

  I resisted forming any new friendships. My remaining time here was too short, and my emotional well had been sucked dry. I was counting the days until Mark and I would be together in London.

  FIFTY-NINE

  November 17, 2005

  “Promise you’ll write nothing personal in an e-mail, Angela,” Mark pleaded during one of his infrequent phone calls from Basra. “Use the blueys.”

  The onionskin blueys, he repeatedly assured me, were the most secure and private way for us to communicate. Each letter would take up to ten days to reach its destination, but only he and I would see the contents.

  His first bluey arrived with the British Army mail call only three days after my snowbound trip back to Mazār. He had sent it the morning he left Kabul for Basra.

  His next one arrived as predicted ten days later. Three of mine had passed his traveling in the opposite direction—the great disadvantage of snail mail—but we had e-mail for short notes. Nothing personal and nothing long, just: “I’m fine. Miss you” or “First snowstorm in Mazār, roads closed.” “Heard about new bombings in Basra. Be careful.”

  I had been asked to stay in Mazār for an extra six weeks until my replacement arrived. Since Mark would be in Basra until March, I agreed. The promotion list would be out in a few more days, and I was optimistic that after this year in Afghanistan, I would be on it and guaranteed three and perhaps even four years in London.

  As the weeks passed, Mark’s letters began to paint a seriously worsening security situation in southern Iraq, but they all ended the same way.

  . . . I am counting the days until we are together again in London . . . wearing out your letters from carrying them in my pocket and rereading them to the point of obsession. I long for each one to arrive and I long even more to hold you in my arms again.

  I love you, my darling.

  Stay safe.

  Mark

  SIXTY

  November 25, 2005

  Colonel Jameson departed for Kabul early Friday morning to meet and brief his successor, who was scheduled to fly up on Sunday and assume command. The new Swedish chief of staff, who had come just a week earlier, would be in charge until Jameson’s replacement arrived.

  I had given up trying to take Fridays off and was tapping away at my computer in the bullpen when Rahim appeared at the door.

  “Farishta-jan, today is Friday. You are supposed to rest.”

  “And do what, Rahim? Sit in my room and read books I’ve already read three times?”

  “No, you should go to a buzkashi game. Some of the soldiers are going, and I am no longer on duty. The Swedes will go to the airport after the game, and they have promised to drop me at the bus station. I have two days off and will go to Kabul to see Nilofar.”

  He stood beaming in the doorway of the bullpen. I hadn’t seen him this happy for a long time.

  “Perhaps you will be invited to ride by one of the chapandaz,” added Rahim. “I have never seen you on a horse, but everyone knows you rode in a buzkashi game many months ago.”

  “It’ll be a little hard for me to climb up on a horse wearing twenty-five pounds of body armor, Rahim, but I wouldn’t mind watching one more game before I leave. Tell them I’ll join them.”

  “We’re leaving in thirty minutes. See you downstairs, Farishta-jan.”

  “Right, Rahim. Thanks for the invite,” I said, smiling to myself at this resilient young man. He had come to the bullpen earlier in the week grinning from ear to ear to announce that friends of Jeef had found a sponsor for Nilofar in France. They had even arranged for her to continue her law studies once she was fully recovered from her injuries. After all their trials, they would finally be together.

  “Angela, we’re short one driver and one vehicle for our outing to the buzkashi field. More of the fellows want to come. I understand you’re allowed to drive your shiny new State Department vehicle,” said one of the new British officers. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I replied with a smile. Although the Gurkha Sergeant Major had refused to let me drive the Beast, his replacement didn’t seem to mind if I made short trips into town in my new lightly armored Land Cruiser as long as I wore my body armor and was accompanied by someone with a weapon.

  It was sunny but cold as our vehicles pulled onto the berm that lined the northern side of the buzkashi field. Several thousand cheering Afghan men had gathered to watch the game. The ones on our side of the field made way for our vehicles and welcomed us into their midst with the usual smiles and greetings in broken English.

  I wore a long wool head scarf and a heavy winter jacket over my Kevlar vest. There was no longer any point in hiding my identity.

  I didn’t mind that I couldn’t ride. I was happy just to have one last chance to watch this magnificent pageant of horses thundering across the open desert. It had been almost a year since I’d mounted that black stallion and galloped down this field. That ride—my boldest, most impetuous, and most exhilarating act in years—had been my first step in emerging from the shell in which I’d been hiding from life for far too long.

  The entire scrum of more than one hundred horsemen had raced to the far side of the field where I could see a small caravan of Kuchi nomads passing silent and unnoticed behind the crowd. They were moving south into the foothills of the Hindu Kush where they would pass the winter in a protected valley. Four men in Biblical garb led seven camels carrying women, infants, tents, cooking utensils, and a
child’s bicycle. A small flock of goats and sheep trailed behind them. Several Kuchi children and their huge dogs kept the animals moving in the right direction. On the back of the last camel, a square of foil glinted in the late afternoon sun. I looked through the telephoto lens of my camera and zoomed in to confirm that it was as I had expected—the reflector of one of my solar ovens.

  The Swedish MOT with Rahim parked their vehicles next to ours and pulled out their cameras. They were on their way back to Stockholm after having served six months at the PRT’s safe house in the neighboring province of Jowzjan. This would be their last chance to photograph a buzkashi game.

  After two hours, the wind picked up and the sky darkened. When it began to rain, the senior officer in our group announced that it was time to leave. We drove off the field in single file with the Swedes in the lead.

  Our vehicles would follow theirs into town until the road forked and they headed east to the airport. As I maneuvered into a sharp turn around the Russian bread factory, I noticed that there was no one on the street except for a sickly stray dog—odd for midday even on a rainy Friday afternoon.

  Without warning, a blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion transformed the lead Swedish vehicle into a fireball. The vehicle behind it was knocked onto its side, spraying gray mud into the air as it slid off the road and punched through the mud-brick wall of a family compound. The shock wave from the blast hit my Land Cruiser, and I pumped the brakes to keep from ramming the vehicle ahead of me. The British soldiers reacted instantly.

  “Angela, are you all right? ” shouted the corporal who was next to me in the passenger seat. He had been thrown with his rifle against the windshield, but had suffered only mild cuts on his forehead. As always, I had been the only one wearing a seat belt.