The Chinese Spymaster Page 3

  “I am thinking of going north,” said Najmudin, soon to be called the Soldier.

  “Ah, you do not have to go. Our brothers will soon come recruiting.” The Pashtun guerrilla bands probably already knew of the raid.

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Have you discussed this with your uncle?” Najmudin’s father would not be returning any time soon, if at all. His mother’s older brother would serve as the head of their family.

  “Yes, he understands. It brings more sorrow to my mother, but my father’s dreams must be honored.”

  “You are a brave boy—man,” the Shopkeeper corrected himself. Najmudin and his brother were sixteen and seventeen years old, respectively. They had spent many weeks out in the mountains without shelter each year with their goats and sheep. The Shopkeeper also knew why it was the younger son who left. The older one pursued his dreams while his brother fought, shedding blood if necessary. He was the more practical and physical of the two.

  “Do you have any news about my father?”

  “Alas, no.” The Shopkeeper shuddered at the thought of dealing with the people in the plains. It was a matter of days, weeks at most before the next guerrilla band came to recruit and Najmudin left with them to become the Soldier. He was the only one from his village at this time, but there were many villages in the hills.

  It would be four years before his next visit to the village. He had to earn the trust of his superiors. By then, his mother had aged visibly but was delighted to find he’d grown stronger and that he had a full beard. They talked of a bride for Najmudin’s brother. Najmudin firmly steered the conversation away from any such discussion of his own prospects.

  Over the next six years, the Soldier would visit four more times. First, he came when he had news of his brother’s wedding, although he did not arrive in time for the feast. The girl was from a poor family in the village to the east, but his brother was happy. Najmudin found his mother quite worn out. She continued to grieve over his father’s “imprisonment,” and she constantly worried over his sisters and the prospects for their marriage. Without her brother, she would have found her life overwhelming. The Soldier came twice more to meet each of his sisters’ new families, but he saw his mother no more.

  The fourth time, he came to talk to the Shopkeeper. It was ten years after the army had taken his father away.

  He had news that would interest his father’s best friend. They had shared with particular intensity the Pashtun dream of an independent nation, separate from Afghanistan and Pakistan. After the soldiers had taken his father away “for questioning,” Shopkeeper Gholam helped the Soldier’s family.

  It was nearly dark, with a faint fingernail of a moon appearing over the hills as the Soldier stepped out of the forest into his uncle’s house. He nodded to an older woman, whom he did not remember. As his uncle came into the room, the Soldier bowed and kissed his uncle’s hand.

  “Najo, you are welcome,” a strong voice greeted the Soldier. His uncle was the only one left in the world who regularly called him, not only by his given name but by a form of it used for small children. The uncle had called him that ever since he was born, second son to his favorite sister. The Soldier’s older brother might call him that too if they ever met again.

  Despite his strong voice, the uncle was a shrunken man. Not only because he was old, but also because he had borne the burden of being the only adult male in his family for decades. His brothers-in-law, and then his sons-in-law, had all died in the wars. Thus, his wife, daughters, sisters, and nieces all depended on him for male protection. Even with such protection, it was difficult to escape the unwelcome attention or harassment of rich and influential men.

  Najmudin moved into a corner of the room and took off the cape-like shawl that covered his Kalashnikov, an ancient but still effective weapon he’d inherited from a member of his band. The rifle had first been “liberated” from a Russian regiment by the “Russian killer,” a legend in the stories about the freedom fighters. When the Russian killer fell in battle against the army of a warlord, amassing wealth and harassing his neighbors, the rifle had been retrieved by Najmudin’s commanding officer. He had given it to a member of his band who, alas, had more courage than good sense. Rifle and rifle-bearer had fallen. Najmudin picked it up as the band retreated.

  The Soldier wore the weapon with pride. Among Pashtun men, weapons were worn like jewelry or accessories, and this particular weapon had a provenance of renown. But the metal of the Kalashnikov glinted in the sun, so the Soldier had trekked with his shawl over it.

  With his cape off, he removed the rifle from the sling on his shoulder and laid it down behind a prayer rug rolled up in a corner of the room. He decided to go into the village without it to avoid comments or questions about the guerrilla band. He washed his hands by the front door as the woman poured from a large jug. He kissed his uncle’s hand again and spoke easily but briefly with him before leaving for the village tea shop to meet the Shopkeeper.

  There were, as usual, a few men in the tea shop. It was almost never empty in the evenings, but there was no sign of Shopkeeper Gholam. His nephew, Ali, greeted the Soldier and gestured to an empty cushion on the floor. The Soldier recognized him but knew only that he was about five years younger and had gone to work for a year or two in the nearest town in the foothills. The younger man had returned during the Soldier’s absence, so they had met only two or three times.

  He also recognized the other men, all older than he: Aziz, called the father from “the house of sons” because he fathered seven of them, though only two survived into adulthood; Abdul Gafoor, usually called the “father of daughters” because he had three children and all of them were girls; and Ali Madad, the “sultan of goats,” so named because his was the healthiest and largest herd. Over a cup of comforting sweet green tea, he learned that the Shopkeeper had been ill earlier that day but was expected in a short while.

  The Soldier exchanged friendly banter with the other men as he waited for the Shopkeeper. He was unaware that the news he had for the Shopkeeper would actually end up in the hands of Ali, the nephew, who was the Spy.

  There was a stir in the room as the Shopkeeper entered. Various greetings echoed as the old man shuffled, stopped to look around, and then ambled on to join the largest group of men. He exchanged greetings and news with them before eventually getting to the Soldier. It took more than one cup of tea to revive the Shopkeeper from the nap he had taken to ease his aches and pains earlier that day. His actions were shaky at first, although his words and replies to his friends and neighbors told them that only his body was weak.

  The Shopkeeper had protested loudly when the intelligence service had come to pick up Najmudin’s father ten years previously. Protesting was a brave thing, but his friend had not been seen again.

  “Salaam, Shopkeeper.”

  “Salaam, Soldier.” The Shopkeeper had finally made his rounds and reached the appropriate moment to stop by. His movements like that of most of the villagers followed a rhythm based on the ritual and custom that governed village life. He knew everyone in his shop, of course, some for a lifetime. But one of them had betrayed the Soldier’s father. Not that Najmudin’s father had been unusual in his talk about the brotherhood of Pashtuns and of their resentment against those who came by occasionally from the plains. There was nothing the village found remarkable about the Soldier’s visit, either. But if “they” should come while he was in there, he and probably many others would inevitably be picked up for “questioning.”

  “You look well, Soldier.”

  “I am sorry to learn that you have taken ill.”

  “It is nothing a sip from the fountain of youth could not cure.” The Shopkeeper said this with real feeling, and they both laughed. The nephew brought fresh cups of tea as the two settled back on their cushions.

  “Our brothers send their greetings,” said the Soldier quietly and conversationally, referring to the Pashtuns in the north, in Afghanistan. No on
e in the room appeared to have picked up on this remark, so he continued. “They dream of a reunion soon.”

  “We dream the same dreams,” replied the Shopkeeper. Only his eyes gleamed to show a heightened level of alertness lest there be a traitor among the other men in the shop. “I would like to see that before I die.”

  “May Allah grant you your wish.”

  “Will you be staying many days?”

  The Soldier shrugged. “I should see my brother.”

  “You know he is gone for about two weeks at a time. He left only two days ago.”

  “I cannot stay so long. I shall go and look for him in the hills.”

  “Perhaps you could take my nephew with you and show him the hills when you go looking for your brother. He has been cooped up here with this old man since he came back from the big city two years ago,” the Shopkeeper said with a chuckle. “He may need to be reminded of our ways.”

  “And I would like to learn a little of what life is like in the big city,” replied the Soldier enthusiastically and a little louder. This elicited the expected catcalls and hoots from the other men.

  “He may tell you of things that might keep you from going back up the mountains.”

  The Soldier laughed good-naturedly and joined in the banter for a while. He did not sense any threat or betrayal among those present. But then neither had his father ten years ago.

  “Do you have time tonight to break bread with us?” the Shopkeeper asked the Soldier as his customers started to leave. “Perhaps, we could also tempt you to smoke a little while?”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Guerrilla bands were sometimes strict in this respect. The leader frequently admonished the gang against indulging in the pipe and warned about the adverse effects opium could have on their field performance, although it was common knowledge that one or two of the other leaders always had their pipes well supplied. The Soldier did not care to indulge regularly, but that night it seemed appropriate. He would then sleep particularly well.

  The Shopkeeper waved to his nephew for bread and the pipe. A small boy brought a tray in with cheese and leftover lamb stew for the bread. The men ate with relish. The last of the customers had left when the Shopkeeper waved to his nephew to bring the pipe in. He lit it with gratitude but little ceremony. The Soldier said, “Our brothers to the north believe the next council of elders will agree on how Pashtuns will form a separate alliance that will include clans and tribes from both sides of the border.”

  “Your father always said they would, and I always told him that while I, too, want to see that happen, I fear that the many little things that divide us will prevent it,” said the Shopkeeper. “So much blood has been shed, and many think there will be much more.”

  “It is believed that if we all had something of great value, a talisman, all the clans and tribes would rally to protect it.”

  “What might that be?”

  “They say it is a weapon of great power—so desirable that all the Dari speakers and the Urdu speakers would fight us for it. They say it dwarfs what Baitullah Mehsud, may his soul rejoice in paradise, claimed to possess. It could be the talisman that unites the Pashtun.”

  In the silence following this tidbit of news, they lit and shared the pipe. The Shopkeeper waved to his nephew, indicating that he should join them. He had strained to listen to every word so far. He had also looked and listened for any indication that anyone might be near the shop and listening in on the conversation.

  “Who gets to keep this weapon?” asked the Shopkeeper as he passed the pipe to the Soldier.

  “That is what the Jirga must decide,” said the Soldier with a shrug as he inhaled.

  “Where shall we get this weapon?”

  “It is said that we already have it, even though no one has breathed a word about its location.”

  “When will they use it?” asked the Shopkeeper in excitement.

  “Simply having the talisman, they believe, is sufficient,” said the Soldier. “I understand the elders will announce their plans before the next full moon.”

  “God is great,” said the Shopkeeper. The pipe made one more round before the Soldier announced he was leaving for the night. He’d had enough of the opium, unused as he was to it, and he was bone weary from the strenuous two-day trek from his camp.

  The nephew spoke, “What time should we leave tomorrow?”

  “Noon. That will give me enough time to spend with my uncle. I do not wish him to think I take him for granted.”

  After the Soldier left, the Shopkeeper spoke to his nephew, “You are sure no one listened to our conversation?”

  “Yes, it was nicely timed. The other customers were leaving, and I did check around the shop afterward while you were talking. Only a ghost could have been near enough to hear anything.”

  “Will you go to visit the Captain in town soon?” asked the Shopkeeper. His nephew made a sour face and shook his head. The uncle said gently, “You do not like the city, but we should not keep the Captain waiting. And it is a good time to visit your sister.”

  “I shall go when it’s time to bring her back to the village.”

  The Shopkeeper got up with his nephew’s help and said, “We all love her, but we must remember she is now another man’s wife.”

  At noon the next day, Najmudin walked up to the tea shop just as Ali appeared at the doorway. They were both dressed as all the tribesmen in the mountains usually dress, in a loose tunic. In addition, they both had a shawl that served as a blanket to keep them warm in the night, like every Pashtun who hiked into the forests. The Soldier’s shawl only casually concealed his rifle. They walked in silence up the hills, in a direction perpendicular to the Soldier’s approach to the village the day before.

  “You remember these hills well, my brother?” Ali asked.

  “Do you not?” the Soldier replied with curiosity.

  “I don’t think I went up to them as often as you did. There were many chores that the Shopkeeper required of me. His wife, you may recall, did not bear him any children. He loved her too much to take another woman, even when her father, uncles, and brothers sent word that they would not object.” This was how women were supposed to be protected in such a male-dominated society—by their fathers, uncles, and brothers. But it did not always work out that way. They did not all have so many uncles and brothers, nor were their husbands usually as honorable as the Shopkeeper.

  The two walked in silence into the cover of the trees. From time to time, Najmudin pointed out a cave or a cluster of thorn bushes a little taller than a small boy, or a crevasse, and told a story from his memory. His companion would nod to acknowledge the significance of each location so indicated. Late in the afternoon, they reached an outcropping of large rocks that would have towered over any building in their village. Within them, the Soldier found a spring he remembered. From the spring, they drank clear, sweet water.

  “Is the water sweeter up north?”

  “I never thought so, but some fighters swear that it is.”

  “It is terrible in the city,” Ali said with disgust.

  “You stayed two or three years?”

  “Two. The Shopkeeper arranged for me to work with a classmate of his from the madrassah; he also had a tea shop.”

  “Did you see much of the city?”

  “Enough. I could not wait to get back to the hills. Even though the melons and apricots sold there appeared to me that they must be what they are like in paradise.”

  “Hm.” The Soldier was mildly curious about the reasons why anyone would go down to the plains to live but did not pry.

  As if in answer to his unasked questions, Ali said, “I was seventeen when I went to live in the city. The old mullah came to marry my youngest sister.”

  “Our mullah?” the Soldier exclaimed in surprise. Like all the boys in the village, he had spent much time learning to memorize the Quran with the village mullah and could not imagine he would use his influence as a religious teacher to impose on a
family with a young woman or girl.

  “No, it was someone else, older and more senior, from another village. He was sixty years old; my sister was not even fifteen. I found the idea disgusting. The Shopkeeper felt the anger in my heart and thought it wiser for me to leave for a while.”

  “That mullah was from the mountains?”

  “Yes. There are wolves even among us.” Ali spat. He had been too young, and his uncle too poor, to protect his sister from the determined mullah.

  “The army and intelligence service came once or twice each year after your father was taken away. They come less frequently now; maybe because the dog has stopped barking.” The informer in the village, whoever he was, had run out of information for “them.”

  The Soldier wondered about this statement and concluded that it was likely. The village was not remarkable in any way. It was not strategic in its location or particularly rich in men or sheep. It was a collection of a dozen mud huts and fewer than one hundred people. Even the guerrilla bands did not come as often as they once did.

  In any case, the Soldier was not a curious person. It was enough for him that the Shopkeeper dreamed the same dreams as his father and was eager to be kept informed of what their tribal relatives to the north might be thinking or doing. He had been told how his mother, while she lived, had as much tea and sugar as the Shopkeeper could spare and also that his uncle seemed to have inherited this favor.

  The Soldier could not imagine, nor could the Spy for that matter, that the information he delivered last night could be of value to anyone. Did not everyone already grasp that the mountain tribes would unite if they could? They would do this even if they did not have the support of every one of their own people in the foothills and valleys. But those of the mountains were badly divided.