The Shadow Patrol

refused to pay compensation. The two sides had feuded ever since. Four men had died so far around Muslim Bagh. Family values, Pashtun-style. The Thuwanis were so overjoyed to hear Wells had been responsible for the deaths of four of their enemies that he probably could have told them who he really was and still been treated as an honored guest.

Jaji took Wells to a big concrete house on the high plateau east of the main road. A feast awaited him there, raisins and grapes and pomegranates, rice and flatbreads flavored with garlic, heaping platters of lamb and chicken. Black ghosts in burqas brought out pitchers of sweet mango juice and tart lemonade and thick yogurt shakes. The tang of roasted meat filled the room, and Wells realized he was famished. He hadn’t eaten that day. His hunger unsettled him—kill and eat and eat and kill—but he followed his appetite and ate until he was sated. As the honored guest, he sat beside Amadullah, a big, boisterous man, the center of the room, with the deepest voice and the loudest laugh. He chewed the green tobacco that the Pashtuns favored, spitting into a cup that shone with the buttery sheen of pure gold. On his wrist he wore a thick gold Rolex. The killing of Najibullah had put him in high spirits. But Wells could imagine his mood darkening instantly if anyone challenged him. The alpha male in a tribe like this could never afford to show weakness.

Afterward, the chief dismissed his nephews and brothers and sat with Wells. “I hope you enjoyed our lunch,” he said. “Of course, we’re poor peasants who have nothing like the wealth you Saudis have at home—”

“There’s no need for modesty. I couldn’t have eaten another bite. I’d always heard of the famous hospitality of the Pashtuns. Now I’ve seen it myself. When you come to the kingdom for your Hajj, my family will host you. We’ll do our best to match your feast.”

“The men who took you this morning weren’t so polite. Allah smiled on you, to survive those thieves.”

“He saw the rightness of my mission.”

“So now do you want to be one of us? Live in these mountains?”

“I’m not a warrior like you. I can do more good raising money for you.” From his pocket, Wells offered the bundle of hundred-dollar bills Naiz had given him in Islamabad. “It’s only ten thousand dollars, but if I can show everyone at home that the money is going to jihad, I should have no problem getting more.”

Amadullah played cool. “I understand,” he said gravely. “Please come with me.” He led Wells through the compound to a windowless room. A laptop sat on a desk.

“MacBook Pro,” Amadullah said. “Top of the line.” He rubbed his fingers over the laptop’s shiny brushed aluminum case as if he were stroking a prized Persian. “Let me tell you, we always need money. For trucks, rifles, explosives, to give to the families of the martyrs.” And MacBooks, Wells thought.

Amadullah opened the laptop and clicked through a photo-and-video gallery of an IED attack, start to finish. A Chinese 120-millimeter mortar shell was turned into a bomb, taken over the border in the back of a minibus, and buried on a dirt road that crawled along the edge of a steep hillside. A blurry video of an explosion and a smoking Humvee followed.

“My nephews did this. Three years ago.” Amadullah clicked forward to an image of eight young men pointing AKs at the camera. Another photo showed the same men smiling at American soldiers on patrol. “You see. They have no idea. We cross the border as we like, we live in the hills or in the villages with our cousins. When the moment is right, we strike. When it’s to our advantage, not theirs.”

“Will you send me these photos? It’ll help me raise money.”

“Of course, Jalal. I’ll have my nephew give you one of those little things—”

“A flash drive—”

“Right. But anyway, you see how it is. We learn more about the Americans every year, while they know nothing about us.”

“Still, it must be hard to know how they think. Have you ever captured one?” Wells was fishing now, hoping to get Amadullah to talk about the drug trafficking ring, though he wasn’t sure Amadullah would.

“No, but—” Amadullah broke off. He flipped to another photo, lower resolution than the others. Taken from a cell phone camera, Wells thought. It showed three American soldiers standing in front of a high mud-brick wall. Unfortunately, the soldiers were too distant and the photo quality too low for Wells to see details of their faces. But he could tell that one looked Hispanic while the other two were white.

“You see these men?” Amadullah said. “We corrupt them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We sell them drugs. Heroin.” Amadullah flipped forward to a photo of a bag of grayish powder being weighed.

“My brother. You’re a genius.” So Amadullah was presenting his drug trafficking as a plan to corrupt American soldiers in the service of jihad. “So — if you don’t mind my asking — how does it work?” Wells decided to take a blind shot. “Is Daood involved?”

Amadullah snapped the MacBook shut. The good cheer on his face disappeared. At this moment, he reminded Wells of Vinny Duto, only bigger and browner and much more dangerous. And Wells knew he had his answer. Daood, whoever he was, connected the Thuwanis with the mole in Kabul.

“Who told you about Daood?”

Again Wells found himself playing the frightened Saudi. “No one. I mean, Jaji. But he didn’t tell me anything. When I met him, he asked if Daood had sent me. So I thought—”

“Thought what?”

“Allah forgive me, when you showed me these pictures, I wondered if Jaji thought these drugs were the reason I’d come here. I’m so very stupid. I’m sorry.”

“No. Jaji should never have mentioned the name. Daood is no one for you to worry about.”

“I won’t then.”

As quickly as that, Amadullah’s anger passed. He smiled and went back to playing the gracious host. He took Wells to an outbuilding to see his arsenal, AKs and RPGs and even a rusted-out Stinger.

After the weapons tour, Amadullah didn’t seem to know what to do with Wells. He obviously wanted to prove his jihadi credentials to keep the money flowing. But Wells could see that the Thuwanis weren’t exactly on the front lines this fighting season. Wells suspected that Amadullah was making so much money from the drug ring that he didn’t want to take chances.

They had another feast that night. Amadullah’s men regaled Wells with stories of attacks on American and Afghan units. Wells felt a little like a visiting dignitary, a member of Congress who had come to a forward base to be told how well the war was going. He promised that on his next trip to Muslim Bagh, he would go on a mission.

“Yes, come with us. Watch us kill kaffirs,” Jaji said. “Slit their throats and make them wish they’d never come to our country.”

“God willing,” Wells said. He wondered whether he could steal the laptop and decided not to take the risk. He had gotten Daood’s name and the photos. He would have to hope that would be enough.

The next morning he left. He carried a flash drive with photos and video of the attack, a Gmail address for Amadullah, and a mobile number for Jaji.

“You don’t have a phone, Amadullah?”

Amadullah circled a finger over his head as if to say, They’re listening. “To reach me, call Jaji. Or just come back to the mosque.”

“Very good.”

They said good-bye and hugged. Then Wells walked out with Jaji, headed for the mosque and his 4Runner. The last twenty-four hours had been among the strangest of his life. He had killed four men — and then been treated as an honored guest. He couldn’t help feeling that he’d gotten off easy.

SEVEN HOURS LATER, at Dera Ismail Khan, he stopped at a gas station and called Shafer. “Daood,” Shafer said, when Wells finished. “First name is all you got. How about an age? Physical description? Nationality?”

“None of the above.”

“Because that’s a little bit vague.”

“Why don’t you come out here and try doing your own detective work?”

“You’re sure he was connected to those soldiers, the dealing?”

“I can tell you Amadullah was seriously unhappy that I made the link.”

“Okay. I’ll start looking. So what’s next? Are you heading back to the Ariana? See if anyone will admit