“Now I know you have been here before,” he said. “Once the dust of Afghan has been tasted, no man wants to repeat the experience if he can avoid it.”
Bolan swung his backpack into place and adjusted the straps. He checked his filled canteen and clipped it to his web belt.
Lieutenant Pearson drove up in his Hummer. He had been assigned to drive Bolan and Azal for the initial part of their journey, where he would leave them in the foothills. The lieutenant was fully armed, and a second soldier sat in the seat beside him.
The trip took them a couple of hours, over rugged terrain that offered little relief from the ever present heat and the restless, drifting breeze. Serrated, undulating, the Afghan landscape had little to recommend itself. This was a savage and unwelcoming place, and Bolan knew that there might easily be armed figures waiting behind any one of a dozen boulders, or concealed in shallow ravines. Maybe he was in someone’s sights at that very moment. It was an unsettling thought, one he had experienced many times, so he accepted the fact because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Pearson slowed the Hummer, swinging the vehicle in a half circle at Azal’s instruction. When he came to a full stop the Afghan leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.
“This is the place. We go on foot from here.”
Pearson waited until Bolan and the Afghan climbed out.
“Good luck, Cooper. Don’t forget the ride home when you need it.”
Bolan nodded. “Thanks for the assist, LT. Take it easy on your way back.”
The Hummer sped away, leaving Bolan and his guide alone. Dust drifted in the Hummer’s wake. Azal turned to check the way ahead.
“You enjoy walking, Cooper?”
“Yeah. Let’s move out.”
They followed a faint track that led directly into the rugged hills. After a couple of miles even the thin trail vanished. Azal didn’t hesitate. He moved with great agility, ignoring the steep angle of the slopes. Azal glanced back a few times, smiling to himself when he saw the American keeping pace with him.
It was noon straight up when Azal called a halt. He guided Bolan to a wide overhang of rock that shielded them from the sun. From his pack the Afghan produced a loaf of bread and a wedge of goat’s cheese. He divided the meal, handing half to Bolan. The bread was coarse, the cheese strong. They ate in silence, washing the food down with water from their canteens.
“There is a small spring ahead,” Azal said. “We can refill the canteens.”
“You’ve known Mahoud a long time?” Bolan asked.
Azal nodded. “We were born and raised in the same village. We grew up together. Both our families were as one. Our fathers and grandfathers fought against the Russians. We both lost people in the war.” Azal shrugged. “As far as I can remember there has always been some kind of fighting going on. But we survived. We were never wealthy but life could be good.”
“Mahoud wanted more?” Bolan said.
“Even as a young man he was unhappy with the fighting, though there were times he had to use a gun to defend what was his. The tribal squabbling saddened him. He wanted changes. Everyone told him it could never happen. Sharif refused to accept that. He started to speak at village councils and traveled all over talking to people. He had a way with words. He sat and discussed matters with politicians and religious leaders. People trusted him. He settled local differences. It was good for him, but he was restless for more change and in the end he went away for almost three years. When he returned, he was different. Still passionate about making things better, but he said staying here wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had been accepted to a place of learning in France, where he could understand the ways of higher learning. It was all too complicated for me to understand. Sharif was away for seven years and the next time he came to the village he brought his wife and children with him.”
“Was he different then?”
“Yes, and no,” Azal said. “He was Sharif of the village, but he was also Dr. Sharif Mahoud, a man of the world. A learned man building his reputation as a negotiator. He had written books and articles for magazines. His qualifications allowed him to mix with powerful men and took him around the country and to far places in the Middle East. When he sat in his parents’ house he was one of us again. Everyone was so proud of Sharif. They took to his beautiful wife and their children. But when I watched his face, I knew he would not be staying for long. He had his path to follow and it was not just to be in Afghanistan. When we talked alone, he told me how he needed to travel to other places to do what he could for other oppressed people. To try and bring enemies together and settled differences.
“From his wife we learned of their other life. An apartment in Paris. Their visits to America and London. The important people they met. His work with government organizations. Sharif has gone far. Has helped many. His friends are all over the world.” Azal raised his hands. “But so are his enemies. He has disturbed many people who are angry at his attempts to make solid peace. For many reasons, Cooper. Money. Power. Religious intolerance. He knows this, but all he does is shrug and say it is something he has to bear.”
“These enemies are the ones who want him dead?”
Azal nodded. “Yes. The ones who murdered Jamal Mehet. The same ones who killed the man acting as a decoy. The same ones who tried to disrupt his meetings and forced his wife and children into hiding while Sharif had to seek sanctuary elsewhere.”
He leaned back, closing his eyes, and rested.
“We will reach our next place before dark,” he said. “A village I used to know well. It is empty now. You will see what the Taliban is doing to our life.”
THE VILLAGE had been empty for some time. Azal explained how the Taliban had driven out the occupants, forcing them to clear the village or be wiped out.
“They wanted to make an example to show how they were in charge. All around here the Taliban has been forcing people to do as they say. Anyone who defies them is either killed or beaten until they are crippled. This is the way the Taliban works. Fear. Violence. Their fighters wage war on women and children, and force the young men to join them, or watch their families be slaughtered. These villagers are poor. They have nothing, no power, so they can be exploited.”
“So where do they go?”
Azal shrugged. “Look around, Cooper. Where is there for them to go? Many of them simply vanish into the hills. They hide. Starve. If they are lucky, they make their way to the refugee camps many miles away. Some die on the way there. The Taliban is ripping out the heart of my country because so many refuse to bow to their demands.” The Afghan faced Bolan. “Now ask me why I believe in Sharif Mahoud. Because he is the one man who is prepared to face up to the truths about these people. He is willing stand up to them. Talk with the moderates and face the enemies of Afghanistan. I am simple man, Cooper. Not clever with words, but I would give my life so Sharif Mahoud can speak for me.”
“For a man who claims he is not clever with words, Rahim, you make your point well.”
Azal shook his head, smiling briefly.
“I will make tea. We will rest here overnight.” He turned to indicate the rising wall of the rocky hills behind the village. “Then we have that to climb. And no clever words will make that any easier.”
“Let’s check out the area. Make sure we have a way to get clear if needed. Too late if we find ourselves boxed in.”
“Yes. I will