Days of Fear by Daniele Mastrogiacomo Page A

stunned by his request at the time, for the price struck me as unusually high. We discussed the matter in Kabul, and his response to my objections was firm: “All the TV stations pay the same amount. It’s also a kind of safeguard.” I explained that I work for a newspaper and wouldn’t be needing the kind of support that entails an entire crew. But I intended to use a video camera, and this fact alone put me in the same category as his previous clients. I’d been about to give up on the interview. Ajmal had become too costly. But in the end, slightly annoyed, I accepted.
    It was right before they stopped us. We were traveling along that final stretch of road, a road littered with large stones, and I handed him the money. Four thousand dollars—in the end, he had given me a discount. He put the money in his pocket and that’s when they stopped us. They found the money straight away. The Taliban suspect that the money is mine, but, on the other hand, it could just as easily be the fruit of Ajmal and Sayed’s labors, as spies. They want answers: they don’t remember whose jacket they pulled the money out of when they searched us.
    I reassure Sayed. I tell him there’s no problem: what he said during his interrogation seems credible to me. It’s only logical that that wad of cash, the four thousand dollars, belongs to me. But I’m underestimating the shrewdness of the Taliban, together with their desire to squeeze me and, as they will continue to do, punish me for every lie, even the smallest.
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    It’s my turn. Ajmal is sitting on his heels in front of the door to the second room. He looks down, without a word. His face is dry. He has not shed a tear. They take me into the first room. They’re all standing there in a circle. They tie my hands and my arms behind my back with some rags and move me to the center of the room. I ask if Ajmal can be present. I know that I’m going to be interrogated, and at this point there can be no misunderstandings: Ajmal must be in the room to translate their questions and my answers.
    They begin by asking what I had in my computer bag. I list off some items: books, pens, notepads, a red notebook, receipts, and money. How much? I don’t know, perhaps two, maybe three thousand dollars. It’s the truth. I watch them, waiting for a reply that does not come. They ask once again: What did I have in my computer bag? I picture my black computer bag, mentally searching the inside and outside pockets. Maybe I’ve forgotten something. But I have no reason to hide anything. Wires, technical equipment, network cables, I say. “I don’t know what else to tell you, really. That’s it. You have it now, you can check.”
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    What item has betrayed and condemned me, I wonder. Nothing comes to mind, unless they saw some news article they didn’t like. Though that seems unlikely—they’re all in Italian. There are numerous dispatches from Jerusalem: maybe they object to my trips to Israel. But many Palestinians still live in the Holy City. I promptly dismiss these possibilities. That they object to something they found on my computer seems suddenly too complex a hypothesis. These mujahedeen would not be able to translate articles written in Italian. What’s more, they’ve never even seen a computer before. Indeed, the Taliban who are interrogating me focus on the money, they want to nail the driver, maybe the interpreter, too. They use me as a witness for the prosecution. They’re fishing for something that will confirm their suspicions. They know that the four thousand dollars is mine, but the important thing is to figure out who I paid, my driver or my interpreter. Whoever it was, they hold him responsible for having introduced a spy into their territory.
    They ask me how much the interpreter and the driver cost, all together. I reply according to the agreement I have with my cellmates. I don’t