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  Harry was right on that count. The day after our meeting, I was hit with a miserable stomach flu. I spent the next two days in bed and in the loo next to my room. Fuzzy, Jenkins, and even Wickersham surprised me by taking turns bringing me trays of soda, broth, tea, and crackers from the field kitchen. Harry stopped by several times to make sure I was still alive. I heard nothing from Rahim.

  When I had fully recovered, I arranged to have Fuzzy and Jenkins take me out to meet the American soldiers. They and their commanding officer, Colonel Hugo Tremain, were with the Texas National Guard. This lantern-jawed American officer, a long, tall Texan and devoted family man, was in real life the chief of the fire department in his small East Texas town. Tremain was respected by the Afghans and adored by his own men, who welcomed me into their drafty plywood offices and immediately offered me all the Diet Coke, blueberry muffins, and Snickers bars I could carry back to the PRT.

  Tremain was a soldier’s soldier with one serious aversion. “Man dancing, don’t like it, won’t do it, Morgan,” he would remind me whenever we got into discussions about his Afghan counterpart, General Raisul, who occasionally invited him on overnight military exercises, where the soldiers would dance around the campfire in the evening.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Tremain said on more than one occasion, “every time they break out the drums and the flutes and those fiddles and start dancing, Morgan, I want to crawl into my tent and hide in my sleeping bag.”

  He further clarified his position on “man dancing” one afternoon when he had just returned from another patrol with Raisul. “Morgan, I will sit for five hours on a cold dirt floor with the general and his officers, drink twenty cups of green tea, and eat every speck of food I am offered with my bare right hand, including a sheep’s eyeball, but dancing should be like marriage—between a man and a woman. Period! ”

  FIFTEEN

  January 14, 2005

  After recovering from my bout of flu and making my initial call on Colonel Tremain, I spent the next few days in the bullpen getting to know my NATO colleagues and sorting through the thousands of documents Brooks had left stuffed in his filing cabinets.

  I tried to find out more about my mysterious predecessor’s activities from the NATO officers, but they had little to add to the few details I’d gleaned during my week in Kabul. Brooks had kept his activities and his contacts to himself.

  He had not learned Dari and had departed the PRT without warning, following a hasty transfer to Bangkok a month before his tour in Afghanistan was up. The rest of my queries about him were met with shrugs and apologetic grins from the bullpen crowd. I finally gave up asking questions about Mr. Brooks.

  Friday, the Islamic Sabbath, was the only day of the week that PRT personnel not on duty were allowed to sleep in. I had many more of Brooks’s files to sort through, but it was time to give myself a break. Late in the morning, I was stretched out on top of my sleeping bag, basking in the winter sun that streamed through my window. Sipping my second cup of tea and deep into a favorite Navajo detective novel, I was able to forget for a blissful few hours that I was in Afghanistan—until someone began pounding on my door.

  It was Jenkins. “Miss Morgan—Angela, Sergeant Major is letting us use two PRT vehicles to take some of the lads to the buzkashi game. Can we use the Beast so more of the fellows can come?”

  “Of course, you can.” The look of excitement on his face reminded me again that this wiry young soldier was also barely out of his teens.

  Jenkins walked to the end of the hall, then turned to face me as I was about to close my door. “Would you like to come? It is your vehicle after all.”

  As tempting as it was to stay cocooned, I knew that Doc and Ali would be terribly disappointed if they found out I had turned down the chance to see a real buzkashi game. “I’d love to.”

  Jenkins, who seemed less than thrilled that I had taken up his offer, told me to meet him and the others at the front gate in ten minutes.

  The day was bright, cloudless, and freezing cold. I dressed quickly in heavy boots, cargo pants, two sweaters, and my winter jacket. Tucking my hair into a black knit cap, I hoped the Afghans at the buzkashi field wouldn’t look too closely and would assume I was a male civilian working for the soldiers. As Doc and Ali had reminded me numerous times, women did not attend or participate in these games.

  The British soldiers parked on the northern end of the field near the towering silo of the abandoned Soviet bread factory. They were careful to keep a low profile at the games and always stayed as far as possible from the cement viewing stands at the south end of the field. That was where Governor Daoud and other provincial dignitaries gathered to watch the hundreds of horsemen who swirled in churning equine scrums as they chased one another across this broad tract of high desert.

  As I began taking photos, some of the younger noncompetitive riders and a few curious elders approached us to pose for pictures on their prancing steeds. They cantered back and forth in front of our vehicles as their horses shook their heads and arched their thick necks.

  One of the young men asked if any of the soldiers wanted to ride his horse, a huge black with a red tasseled bridle, dark liquid eyes, a thick tail that brushed the ground, and oiled hooves on long slender legs. The stallion chomped on its bit and scattered flecks of white foam in the air each time it tossed its enormous head. Its silky hindquarters, tendons flexing under a glossy black coat, were damp with sweat despite the frigid winter air. This horse was all power and muscle and yet full of beauty and grace. Its wild spirit reminded me of the mustangs that still roamed northern New Mexico. The boy pulled the reins tight as he paraded in front of us, daring the soldiers to accept his challenge.

  “You no want ride? Soldiers afraid? ” the boy taunted as his horse snorted, bucked, and chomped on its bit. There were no takers.

  Without being quite conscious of my movements, I handed my camera to one of the soldiers, stepped forward, pointed at the stallion, and then at myself.

  “Angela, are you out of your mind?” cried Jenkins, who grabbed my arm as I started walking toward the horse.

  “Probably,” I answered, pulling out of his grip.

  The young man jumped down from his saddle, a huge smirk on his face.

  “You not soldier,” he said, examining my clothing as I took the long leather straps from his hand and looped my fingers through a hank of tangled black mane.

  “Ney,” I said, shoving my left boot into the wooden stirrup, swinging into the saddle and digging my heels into the stallion’s flanks. It was a rush to feel a horse beneath me again. I felt suddenly invincible, as though this animal were transferring some of its strength to me.

  “Angela, you’re insane!” The voices of Jenkins and a few others trailed off as I thundered down the field clinging like a burr to the back of this magnificent stallion. It took the bit between its teeth, flattened its ears and, as it had been trained to do, charged right for the center of the buzkashi scrum, where the chapandaz were battling one another for possession of the headless calf.

  I did have enough sense to know that I had to keep far away from that roiling mass of riders, who were brandishing leather whips and urging their kicking, biting steeds into the fray. The discovery of a woman anywhere on the field would be scandal enough, but a woman in the actual game would bring shame on all the players and their patrons. I could feel the stallion’s muscles tense as we approached the other horses, and I used its momentary hesitation to shift my weight and jerk its head to the left. It worked.

  It was still fighting me, but I’d thrown it off balance enough to force it to turn and accept my control. As I slowed it to a canter, I realized how dangerously close I had come to the governor’s viewing stand.

  The stallion made one last effort to overpower me. When it reared, I shifted my weight again, spun it on its hind legs, and turned the horse north, coaxing it into a gentle lope back toward the bread factory. Two more PRT vehicles had pulled up next to the Beast, and I could see more s
oldiers climbing out and joining the crowd.

  I slowed the black stallion to a trot and then a walk, just before I jumped down and tossed the reins back to the stunned young rider.

  “What a fucking brilliant ride ! ” cried Jenkins, slapping me on the back. “I got some great shots of you in full gallop. Take a look,” he said as he handed me my camera.

  Fuzzy stood next to Jenkins, scratching his head and grinning broadly. “Angela, do you have any other surprises for us?”

  “I’m sure I do,” I replied with a laugh.

  “Is that one of our civilian contractors from the PRT? ” said a voice that I recognized but could not immediately place. It was coming from the newly arrived group of British soldiers. “What’s his name? ”

  “Well, you see, Major Davies, that ‘he’ is actually a ‘she,’” shouted Jenkins. “That’s Miss Morgan. I’m her driver, sir. Rides like a bloke, don’t she?” I could hear this conversation over the heads of the soldiers who had clustered around me, but I still couldn’t see Mark Davies, who had not been expected at the PRT for several more days.

  “You should give it a go yourself, sir,” added Jenkins. “I heard you played number three on the polo team at Sandhurst. That true, sir? ”

  “Yes, but that was years ago, Corporal, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to interfere with the Afghans’ game. Who gave the American woman permission to ride? ”

  “Why, no one, sir. One of the Afghans rode up to us and asked if anyone wanted to ride his horse. None of us did, but he kept asking and Angela finally stepped up to the challenge. We tried to talk her out of it, but she was up on that horse and gone in a flash.”

  “Major Davies,” I said, pushing through the crowd and extending my hand. “Welcome to Mazār-i-Sharīf. I see you arrived earlier than expected.”

  “Miss Morgan, you could have been killed out there,” he replied, ignoring my outstretched hand. “How would your driver have explained that to the colonel and to your embassy? ” he demanded, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I replied, shoving my hands into my pockets and returning his gaze without further comment.

  He spun around and walked back to his vehicle, which his driver had kept running. As soon as Davies climbed in, they pulled out and headed for the PRT.

  “Looks like you’re off to a great start with our new intel chief, Angela,” observed Jenkins.

  “Are all the officers like this? ” I mumbled under my breath.

  SIXTEEN

  January 15, 2005

  The following morning, I rose before sunrise. Since my arrival, my dread of encountering any officers on my way to the shower room had kept me tiptoeing through the hallways in the predawn darkness to take a speedy ship shower before any of them were awake.

  My luck ran out that morning. As I rounded the corner to the hallway where the showers were, I ran into Daniel and Ross, who both worked in the ops center. Bundled against the cold in robes as thick as mine, with blurry eyes, spiky hair, and unshaven chins, they surprised me by smiling and greeting me by name as we entered the shower room together, slipped into our curtained stalls, and waited for the icy water to warm up. When I came out ten minutes later, Daniel was shaving over the sink.

  I was headed for the door with my head down, when I heard the click of his razor on the sink and his voice addressing me.

  “Angela, I didn’t realize we had an expert equestrian in our midst.”

  “Oh, I’m not an expert,” I stammered. “I used to ride, but it’s been years since I’ve been on a horse.”

  “Until yesterday,” he said.

  “Yes, until yesterday.”

  “Word is you impressed the hell out of the Afghans,” Daniel said with a laugh.

  “I hear they all thought you were a bloke!” added Ross as he stepped out of the shower stall and rubbed his short blond hair with the edge of his towel. “Well done.”

  This was the first time any British officers except for the colonel had engaged me in friendly conversation. I turned to face them, my wet hair wrapped in a towel and cold water dribbling into my robe.

  “Thanks,” I replied, not certain whether I should continue this conversation or make a quick exit before any more officers came in for their showers.

  “Look, Angela,” said Daniel with a sigh, “I know some of the fellows have been a bit standoffish since you arrived, but I hope you haven’t taken it too personally.

  “Truth is, we were all bracing for another stuffy, secretive American like Mr. Brooks. When we heard the Yanks were sending in a female diplomat, we feared the worst.”

  “You were worried about having a schoolmarm in your midst? ”

  “No, not that,” said Ross. “Younger officers are actually quite comfortable with women around. Many of us trained with them at Sandhurst. My ex-girlfriend was a helicopter pilot, for Christ’s sake. It’s more the senior officers, noncoms, and some of the skinhead squaddies who still have trouble accepting a woman in their midst.”

  “Don’t forget the older ones from regiments like the RGR,” added Daniel.

  “The RGR?” I asked.

  “The Royal Gurkha Rifles. They’ll be here in a few months to replace our regiment. Many of them still have that South Asian cultural hang-up about being commanded by a woman. They’re about a century behind the rest of us.”

  “That bloke you had a bit of a row with at the buzkashi field was a Gurkha,” added Ross.

  “You’ve heard about that, have you? ” I said, blushing.

  “Not to worry, Angela. You’ll find that nothing stays secret for long at this PRT,” Ross added with a wink. “By the way, good luck with that weapons handover this morning. Those ceremonies are a bit of a joke, but we’re chuffed the colonel’s taking you with him.”

  “You are?” I was stunned since I was pretty certain that “chuffed” meant happy.

  “We need much better reporting on those meetings. The colonel doesn’t give us enough details. He’s a fine commander, but sussing out political nuances is not his strong suit. The officers leading the MOTs on their peacekeeping patrols aren’t trained political analysts, either.”

  “Since you fellows are so anxious to read my reports, how long will I have to wait before I’m allowed into the inner sanctum to read yours? ” I asked.

  “Right,” Daniel replied. “Isn’t the chief of staff sorting that out for you?”

  “So I’m told,” I said as I turned to leave, “but nothing’s happened yet.”

  “Angela,” called Ross.

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you ever eat in the officers’ mess? ”

  “No one has invited me.”

  “Consider yourself officially invited,” he shouted as I pushed through the swinging door.

  “Thanks,” I shouted back as the door swung shut behind me.

  Since Harry had asked me to be ready at 0630 hours sharp for our trip to the weapons handover ceremony, I came down for an early breakfast. The door to the officers’ mess was open when I walked by with my tray of eggs, toast, and orange juice. I could see Harry, Major Davies, and the chief of staff with their plates of food balanced on their knees, deep in conversation. The very sight of Major Davies, who along with the other two men was oblivious to my presence in the doorway, made me inexplicably uncomfortable. I decided this might not the best day to eat my first meal with the officers.

  I spotted Fuzzy and Jenkins in the soldiers’ dining area, wolfing down enormous plates of rashers, eggs, potatoes, and toast. On my first night in camp, they had taken pity on me and invited me to sit with them when I walked alone into their dining hall with a tray of food. Given my initial frosty reception by the PRT’s officer corps, I had since taken to eating alone with a book in the soldiers’ dining hall or joining Fuzzy and Jenkins at their table.

  “Morning, Angela,” said Fuzzy, nodding toward an empty spot next to him on the bench.

  “We’ll
be following the colonel’s car in the Beast to provide you with some extra security this morning,” announced Jenkins, still chewing a mouthful of food. “Some of those mujahideen blokes aren’t exactly over the moon about giving up their weapons, and you don’t want to get stuck out there with only one vehicle. You’ll ride with the colonel, and Rahim will ride with us. The colonel wants him to do the interpreting since Professor Sayeed is still sick.”

  “Who’s Professor Sayeed? ” I asked.

  “The head interpreter at the PRT. Used to teach English at Balkh University, so everyone calls him the professor,” said Jenkins.

  Fuzzy and Jenkins stood up together. “We’ve got to kit up and get the Beast topped off for our trip. See you outside in twenty, Angela,” said Jenkins as they carried their trays to the kitchen.

  By six forty, our two-vehicle convoy was bouncing out the gates and splashing through a long ribbon of gray mud in front of the PRT. Pools of water concealed deep holes in the road, which Harry’s driver and Jenkins behind us did their best to avoid. By the time we pulled onto the pockmarked asphalt road leading to the Sholgara Valley, our Land Cruisers were spattered with so much mud that the green NATO insignias on the sides of the vehicles were no longer visible.

  The British officers and soldiers had informed me they did not wear seat belts so they could swiftly exit a vehicle in case of an emergency. I didn’t feel safe without a belt and was glad I had strapped myself in when Harry’s driver began to dodge potholes and speeding trucks at fifty miles per hour. I was comfortably secured on my side of the backseat, while Harry gripped the handle of his door and struggled to keep from bouncing into my lap. We rode in silence past fallow wheat fields, mud-walled villages, and large earthen mounds, rising fifty feet or more into the air and dotted with circular openings—the ancient and mysterious stupas, which Jeef had described at our dinner.