doesn’t matter if someone’s chasing you. If you don’t get three hundred yards from here, you’ll be blasted to smithereens along with me and the rest of the heathens. Do you understand?’
The driver nodded, sobbing.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Please, I have a family. I am a Muslim!’
‘It’s going to be fine, just do as I say. Take off your seat belt.’
The driver obeyed eagerly. One click, and then the sound of the belt as it retracted into its holder. Mahmoud leaned forward, peering toward the flashing lights. He could make out a number of police officers farther up the road. Flashlights and automatic weapons. Three cruisers, from what he could see. Maybe ten cars between his car and them. Not yet. The timing had to be perfect.
‘Do you see that little street over there?’ he said.
He pointed diagonally across the immobilized intersection, toward a narrow, poorly lit street running between small, gray row houses.
‘You’ll be safe over there. On the count of three, you open the door and run faster than you’ve ever run before, okay?’
The driver’s eyes followed Mahmoud’s finger. He nodded and turned back toward him. His eyes filled with gratitude. As though Mahmoud really were about to save his life. Only five cars between them and the roadblock now.
‘Ready?’ Mahmoud said.
His mouth tasted like steel and blood. The stress was suddenly real, palpable, almost overwhelming. He took a deep breath.
‘Yes!’ the driver almost shouted. ‘Yes! I’m ready!’
‘Good. On three. One. Two. Three.’
Mahmoud had barely uttered the last number before the driver flung the door wide open and threw himself out. He stumbled at first, and for a second Mahmoud thought he might fall, but he regained his balance, got to his feet, and ran with a frenzy that belongs only to those who are hunted by death. Across the street, in between the cars, straight toward the small residential street Mahmoud had pointed to.
It took less than a second for the police officers, twenty yards away, to understand what was happening. An Arab was running as fast as he could away from the roadblock. A moment of chaos and confusion, before someone shouted an order, flashlights were turned, rubber soles began to move across the pavement.
Mahmoud didn’t wait any longer. As gently as he could, he slipped out of the passenger side door and disappeared in the opposite direction. Behind him he heard loud voices, the metallic rustle of weapons. Crouching, he disappeared behind a hedge, onto a smaller street behind the roadblock.
Going to the police no longer seemed like a particularly good idea.
18
Spring 1988
Afghanistan
Finally, they sent me here. To beautiful, unyielding, horrible Afghanistan. Here, where time stood still, where time is standing still.
‘You know the region,’ my new bosses say.
They know nothing but hallways and conference rooms.
‘You speak the language,’ they say, their thoughts already elsewhere, onto the next meeting, the next fawning conversation.
I don’t have the energy to explain that I speak Arabic, not Farsi, not Pashtun. In my hands, I already have a plane ticket, a new identity, the promise of oblivion, the promise of a future.
We drive a rusty old Toyota truck across the border from Pakistan, wearing head scarves and Kalashnikovs, indistinguishable from any other gangsters in these mountains. Just roads, potholes, gravel, and sand. In a market outside Jalalabad, I ask my interpreter to buy an English bayonet with the year 1842 stamped onto the steel. These mountains are the tombstones of the kingdoms who thought they could possess them. The English. Now the Russians. They retreat, confused, bruised. What is it about these mountains? I send reports back to my superiors about the mujahideen—they are indomitable, intractable. But also impossible to coordinate or control. One day we’ll have some inkling of what we have created. The layers are peeled back one by one. In Washington,
The driver nodded, sobbing.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Please, I have a family. I am a Muslim!’
‘It’s going to be fine, just do as I say. Take off your seat belt.’
The driver obeyed eagerly. One click, and then the sound of the belt as it retracted into its holder. Mahmoud leaned forward, peering toward the flashing lights. He could make out a number of police officers farther up the road. Flashlights and automatic weapons. Three cruisers, from what he could see. Maybe ten cars between his car and them. Not yet. The timing had to be perfect.
‘Do you see that little street over there?’ he said.
He pointed diagonally across the immobilized intersection, toward a narrow, poorly lit street running between small, gray row houses.
‘You’ll be safe over there. On the count of three, you open the door and run faster than you’ve ever run before, okay?’
The driver’s eyes followed Mahmoud’s finger. He nodded and turned back toward him. His eyes filled with gratitude. As though Mahmoud really were about to save his life. Only five cars between them and the roadblock now.
‘Ready?’ Mahmoud said.
His mouth tasted like steel and blood. The stress was suddenly real, palpable, almost overwhelming. He took a deep breath.
‘Yes!’ the driver almost shouted. ‘Yes! I’m ready!’
‘Good. On three. One. Two. Three.’
Mahmoud had barely uttered the last number before the driver flung the door wide open and threw himself out. He stumbled at first, and for a second Mahmoud thought he might fall, but he regained his balance, got to his feet, and ran with a frenzy that belongs only to those who are hunted by death. Across the street, in between the cars, straight toward the small residential street Mahmoud had pointed to.
It took less than a second for the police officers, twenty yards away, to understand what was happening. An Arab was running as fast as he could away from the roadblock. A moment of chaos and confusion, before someone shouted an order, flashlights were turned, rubber soles began to move across the pavement.
Mahmoud didn’t wait any longer. As gently as he could, he slipped out of the passenger side door and disappeared in the opposite direction. Behind him he heard loud voices, the metallic rustle of weapons. Crouching, he disappeared behind a hedge, onto a smaller street behind the roadblock.
Going to the police no longer seemed like a particularly good idea.
18
Spring 1988
Afghanistan
Finally, they sent me here. To beautiful, unyielding, horrible Afghanistan. Here, where time stood still, where time is standing still.
‘You know the region,’ my new bosses say.
They know nothing but hallways and conference rooms.
‘You speak the language,’ they say, their thoughts already elsewhere, onto the next meeting, the next fawning conversation.
I don’t have the energy to explain that I speak Arabic, not Farsi, not Pashtun. In my hands, I already have a plane ticket, a new identity, the promise of oblivion, the promise of a future.
We drive a rusty old Toyota truck across the border from Pakistan, wearing head scarves and Kalashnikovs, indistinguishable from any other gangsters in these mountains. Just roads, potholes, gravel, and sand. In a market outside Jalalabad, I ask my interpreter to buy an English bayonet with the year 1842 stamped onto the steel. These mountains are the tombstones of the kingdoms who thought they could possess them. The English. Now the Russians. They retreat, confused, bruised. What is it about these mountains? I send reports back to my superiors about the mujahideen—they are indomitable, intractable. But also impossible to coordinate or control. One day we’ll have some inkling of what we have created. The layers are peeled back one by one. In Washington,
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