Against All Enemies

only limited success. Moore had studied the region well, and there were just too many opportunities for government troops to be bribed by the Taliban-backed drug lords, and Khodai, if he had lived, was going to name names.

Rana told the guards at the checkpoint that they were going to see Nek Wazir, who chaired the North Waziristan Shura, or executive council, and was known to speak out strongly against the Taliban chiefs in the area. The guard returned to his associate and checked a clipboard, then came back and asked for their IDs. Moore, of course, had expertly falsified documents that described him as a gun maker from Darra Adam Khel, a small town devoted entirely to the manufacture of ordnance. Travel to Darra by foreigners was forbidden, but merchants from the town routinely moved throughout the tribal regions making deliveries. The guard was quickly satisfied with Moore’s papers, but after their car was searched, he held up a hand. “Why no delivery?”

Moore grinned. “I’m not here on business.”

The guard shrugged, and they were waved through the checkpoint.

“How do you know Wazir?” asked Moore.

“My grandfather fought against the Soviets with him. They both came here. I’ve known him all my life.”

“They were mujahideen.”

“Yes, the great freedom fighters.”

“Excellent.”

“I told you when you hired me that I have very good contacts.” Rana winked.

“This is a long drive, and I told you my bosses are only giving me two days.”

“If anyone knows who those men are, it’s Wazir. He is the most well-connected man in this region. He has hundreds of spotters, even some in Islamabad. His network is amazing.”

“But he lives in this dump.”

“Not all year. But yes, this ‘dump,’ as you call it, provides ample cover and limited scrutiny from the government.”

The dirt road turned lazily to the right, and they climbed up into some foothills to arrive at a pair of modest- sized brick homes with several tents standing behind them. A pair of satellite dishes were mounted on the roof of the larger structure, and generators hummed from beneath the tents. Farther back were pens for goats and cows, and to the left, in the valley below, lay hectares of tilled fields where local farmers grew wheat, barley, and a Persian clover called shaftal.

Two guards appeared on the roof, bringing their AK-47s to bear. Nice. Wazir had built himself a protected headquarters here in the hills, thought Moore.

They were met at the front door by an old man whose beard fell in great white waves across his chest. He wore light brown robes and a white turban with matching vest, and he clutched a water bottle in his right hand. There wasn’t much remaining of his left hand, the fingers gone, deep, ragged scars stitching across the back of his hand and up his arm, toward the sleeve. Moore checked again and realized that part of the old man’s left ear was missing. He’d been caught in an explosion, all right, probably mortar fire. He was lucky to be alive.

The introductions were brief. Moore’s cover name was Khattak, a Pashtun tribal name, and with his darker hair and complexion (both inherited from his mother’s Italian/Spanish ancestry), he could almost pass for a Pakistani. Almost.

Wazir chuckled when he heard the name. “That is not you, of course,” he said in accented English. “You’re an American, and that is okay. It gives me a chance to practice my English.”

“That’s not necessary,” Moore told him in Pashto.

“Let me have my fun.”

Moore pursed his lips and nodded, then broke into a smile. You had to respect the old man. His weathered blue eyes had most certainly gazed on the deeper levels of hell. Wazir led them inside.

The noontime Muslim prayer, Dhuhr, had just finished, Moore knew, and Wazir would no doubt be serving some tea. They shifted into the cool shadows of a wide living area with colorful cushions arranged around an intricately detailed Persian rug. Three places had been set. The cushions, known as toshaks, and the thin mat in the center, a dastarkhan, were all part of the “ceremony” that was daily tea. Something was cooking in one of the back rooms, and the sweet aroma of onions and something else wafted throughout the room.

A young boy appeared from a back hall and was introduced as Wazir’s great-grandson. He was seven or eight and carried a special bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan. They carefully washed their hands. Then the boy returned with the tea, and Moore took a long sip on his, sighing over the flavor, which always reminded him of pistachios.

“How was the drive?” asked Wazir.

“Without incident,” Moore answered.

“Very good. You have the photographs?”

Moore reached into the small pack he’d had slung over his shoulder and withdrew his tablet computer. He thumbed it on and handed it to Wazir.

The old man deftly thumbed through the intelligence photos, as though he’d used such a device before. And Moore asked him about that.

“Let me show you something,” he said, then called to the boy, who helped him to his feet.

He led them down the hall and into a back room, an office, that left Moore’s mouth hanging open. Wazir had banks of computers, two wide-screen televisions, and at least a half-dozen laptops all running at the same time. His electronic command post resembled the bridge of a starship. News websites and television programs flashed, along with screens showing bulletin boards and social-networking sites. The man was plugged in, all right.

And there, on a nearby table, were several tablet computers just like Moore’s.

“As you can see,” Wazir said, waving his good hand across the room, “I like my toys.”

Moore shook his head in surprise. “I’ve been here for, I don’t know, two, three years? Why haven’t I heard of you until now?”

“That was my choice.”

“Then why now?”

The old man’s smile evaporated. “Come on, let’s finish our tea. Then lunch. Then we’ll talk.”

After they returned to the living area and took their seats, the boy brought in an onion-based quorma, or stew, along with chutneys, pickles, and naan — an unleavened bread baked in a clay oven. The food was delicious, and Moore felt stuffed by the time they were finished.

Wazir pierced the silence with a question: “What is the most difficult thing you’ve ever done in your life?”

Moore glanced at Rana, whose body language said, This matters.

With a resigned sigh, Moore faced Wazir and asked, “Is this important?”

“No.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Because I’m an old man, and I’m going to die soon, and I believe that brotherhoods are formed in life’s sacrifices. I’m a collector of nightmares, if you will. It’s the recounting, in the cool of the day, that allows courage and truth to flourish. So, in the name of brotherhood …what is the most difficult thing you have ever done in your life?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever faced this question before.”

“Are you afraid to tell me?”

“I’m not afraid, I’m just …”

“You don’t want to look at it. You’ve hidden it away.”

Moore gasped, and he was unsure if he could maintain his gaze on Wazir. “We’ve all done many difficult things.”

“I need the most difficult. Do you want me to go first?”

Moore nodded.

“I yearned to make my father proud. I wanted to be a good son.”

“And how was that difficult?”

Wazir raised his stump. “I got hurt early in the war, and with that the paternal glow of pride, each time I entered the room, was quenched from my father’s gaze. His son was a cripple now, no longer a warrior. It was never the same with him after that. And there was nothing harder for me to do than make him proud.”