Rules of Betrayal

47

The drive to Kabul took twelve hours over tortuous roads. Haq rested in a safe house overnight. In the morning he rose and made his prayers, then prepared for the journey. A folder had been left for him. He studied its contents: maps of the target, timetables, schedules, and travel documents, including a British passport bearing a photo taken ten years before, when he was still a young man.

In the courtyard, he took a sponge bath and gingerly bathed his burns. Finished, he soaked his hands in a basin of warm water, allowing his fingernails to soften. Each represented a lesson learned on his life journey, and he clipped them with care.

Helplessness, from the younger brother who had died at three of an unknown illness.

Tragedy, from his mother, who had died a year afterward giving birth to the son who would have replaced him.

Surrender, from the boy who had died with her.

Honor, from his oldest sister, raped by the Russian invaders when she was pure; knowing herself to be dirty and unworthy of marriage, she had thrown herself into the river rather than disgrace her clan.

Grace, from his wife, the mother of his six children.

Wisdom, from his father, who had shown him how to lead men.

Humility, from the Prophet, peace be unto him.

Self-respect, from his clan, the noble Haqs, who had resisted invasion for a thousand years.

And finally, hope, from his young only son, whom he loved with a heart as wide as the Afghan sky, and who he prayed would fight for another thousand years.

He did not clip the last nail, for this represented courage, and courage was a lesson he would learn only at the very end.

Afterward, he sat in a chair while a young girl cut his hair.

“Short,” he said. “But leave enough to comb.”

The girl worked quickly, and in fifteen minutes her task was complete.

He shaved his beard and mustache himself, and this took longer. He had difficulty managing a comb. He had never before established a part in his hair. Inside his room, he dressed in the clothing left for him: a dark suit with a white shirt and a necktie. The leather shoes were constricting and painful.

Finished, Haq viewed himself in a mirror. It was then that he saw what he had forgotten. Dampening a cloth, he scrubbed the kohl from beneath his eyes. He stared at the reflection in the mirror, and a Westerner stared back.

Worse, an American.

He wanted to vomit.

He placed a call to Ariana Afghan Airlines. “I’d like to make a reservation on a flight this morning,” he said.

“May I ask your destination?”

“Islamabad.”

“Will it be round-trip?”

“No,” said Sultan Haq. “One way only.”