The Shadow Patrol

Wells ditched the Toyota behind an empty mosque on the edge of town. He washed the blood from his hands and face with a trickle of brown water from a rusty irrigation pipe. At the guesthouse, he changed into a clean gown and grabbed his things and rolled out.

Twenty miles northeast of Muslim Bagh, he pulled over and called Shafer at home. He didn’t like breaking cover so soon after starting the mission, but he needed to tell someone what he’d done, and Shafer was his only choice.

“Hello?” Shafer’s voice was scratchy. It was close to midnight in Virginia. “John?”

“You in the situation room?”

“Naturally.” After years of encouragement from his wife, Shafer had installed a giant flat-screen television and a couple leather couches in his basement. Shafer called it the situation room. He was threatening to add a hot tub. “Trouble already?”

Wells explained. At the end, Shafer sighed. “Four guys.”

“That’s right.”

“You should come with a warning label. You want my advice? Get out of there. Amadullah Thuwani isn’t the guy you went over there to catch. He’s a stepping-stone. Go. We’ll find another way to find the mole.”

“Just leave.”

“Have you thought maybe Amadullah won’t like an outsider messing with his business? He might hand you over to the families of the guys you killed. Trade you to settle their feud.”

“You think so.”

“Probably not. Most likely he’ll give you a big Thuwani high five for getting rid of them. But who knows? And you’re a stranger, not a guest. All that Pashtunwali junk doesn’t apply to you. And you know it’s more than a little elastic anyway.” According to the Pashtunwali code, hosts were responsible for the safety of their visitors. But some tribes took their obligations more seriously than others, as more than one outsider had found out too late.

“I have to see this through.”

“All right. Then when you see the Thuwanis, just play scared. Tell them you got caught and the guys who had you started fighting about what to do with you. Then they started shooting at each other and you took off.”

“Will they believe that?”

“No one else is alive to tell them different. They’re more likely to believe that version than that some random Saudi took care of four locals.” Shafer paused. “You sound like you’re having a hard time with this one, John.”

“I’m all right.”

“Try to remember. You don’t want to do it anymore, you don’t have to. You can always get into alligator wrestling, free-climbing, something safe like that.”

“Sure. Anyway. When I get back, we’re going to sit on that couch and watch football until we fall asleep.”

“Can I rest my head in your lap?”

For the second time in five minutes, Shafer had made Wells smile. “I thought you’d never ask.” He hung up, tossed the AK in a ditch, and turned around, back to Muslim Bagh. About five miles from town, Wells saw a rutted road, blocked by a chain and marked with a small sign that read “East All-Balochistan Mines Company.” He’d taken no notice of it the day before. Chromium and nickel mines studded Balochistan’s hills.

The mosque lay a hundred yards past the turnoff. It was new, with fresh white paint and a fifty-foot minaret. Wells parked beside a minibus. You’re Jalal Haq. You’ve just had the most terrifying experience of your life. But you lived, and now you want to find the men you came here to meet.

The mosque was high-ceilinged and carpeted with new wool rugs. It could hold a couple hundred men, but Wells saw only three, Pashtuns squatting against the back wall. They looked to be in their twenties, though Wells couldn’t be sure. Men aged quickly in these mountains. A silver teapot and a bowl of grapes sat on the carpet before them. Breakfast in Balochistan.

“Salaam aleikum.”

The man nearest Wells popped a half dozen grapes into his mouth and chewed noisily. “Aleikum salaam,” he mumbled. “Please sit.”

Wells sat. “I hardly speak Pashtun. Do any of you know Arabic?”

“Certainly I speak Arabic,” the grape-chewing man said proudly. Up close, he was maybe eighteen.

“I’m seeking a famous tribe that lives in these hills. The Thuwanis.”

“My friend. You’ve come to the right place,” the man said. He tapped his chest. “I am Sangar. My uncle, Amadullah, he leads our tribe. I am the youngest of all his nephews.”

Wells supposed he was due for a break. He gave Sangar his cover story, not mentioning what had happened in the mountains that morning. Sangar was friendly and a bit dim. When Wells finished, Sangar asked him to wait. He waddled out, returning a few minutes later with an older copy of himself. The second man introduced himself as Jaji, another of Amadullah’s nephews. Jaji waved Sangar away and sat across from Wells, his legs crossed, feet tucked away. “So Daood sent you?”

Wells hid his surprise. Daood was a Pakistani name, not Saudi. Was he an ISI agent? “I don’t know any Daood,” he said truthfully.

Jaji frowned. “Then tell me why you’ve come.” Again Wells explained. Jaji listened intently, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “And you chose our tribe,” Jaji said, when he was finished. “Who told you of us?”

“His name was Faisal, the friend of a friend. He said the Thuwanis were great warriors. He told me of a time in Afghanistan, years ago, when you made two Shia run through a field like the dogs they are. It was a special field, he said. The kind that grows explosions and reaps arms and legs.”

Jaji smiled. “I remember that day. They cried and begged, but it did them no good. But tell me something, Jalal. Why come now?”

“I wanted to help my brothers.”

“You could have joined the cause long ago.”

“A year ago, a cousin of mine, my age, really my best friend, was feeling poorly. A bad cough, sweating at night. He went to the doctor, expected that he’d be given some pills, be fine. Instead, he learned he had cancer of the lung. Two months later, we buried him. And then a few weeks later, another cousin, he died in his sleep, lying next to his wife. His heart. You’re too young to understand that these things happen. Even men who don’t die in war can die suddenly.”

“Inshallah. We live and we die as God sees.”

“Yes, we live and we die. But all these years, I’ve thought of joining the jihad and I’ve always found an excuse. I see now I’ve been trying to protect my little life. But it’s vanishing anyway, so why shouldn’t I come? When I meet Allah, I’d like him to know that I tried to fight for him, at least.”

Wells had offered the jihadi version of a midlife crisis. The story seemed to satisfy Jaji. “I’ll tell my uncle you’ve come,” he said.

“Before you do…” Wells explained what had happened that morning, finishing with a false version of his escape. “When we were on the trail, they argued with each other as to what to do with me. Then they shot at each other. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Truly Allah must want me to fulfill this mission, because he was protecting me.”

“And then what happened?”

“Three of the men died. I took a rifle and shot the fourth. Then I ran away.”

“These men, you know their names?”

“One was called Najibullah. Another was this man.” Wells passed over the identity card. Jaji looked it over, and a smile that Wells couldn’t read curled his lips. Wells wondered whether he’d made yet another mistake, whether he would have to kill the men in this mosque and race for Islamabad with half of Balochistan chasing him. Then Jaji grinned. He stood, reached a hand to Wells, pulled him up. Wrapped his arms around Wells and hugged him so close that Wells could smell his oddly perfumed hair.

“Oh, I think my uncle will be glad to see you.”

LATER, WELLS LEARNED that a cousin of Najibullah’s had raped a niece of Amadullah’s two years before. So the Thuwani men said anyway. Najibullah’s clan no doubt had its own version. The cousin denied the rape and