costly and pointless. Their extremist founders had come from the Afghans who defeated the Russians, but their days in power lasted only five years, from 1996 to 2001. During that time they accomplished little beyond having the rest of the world regard them as savages. Their downfall was inevitable, sped along by backing terror groups, mistreating their own citizens, and being unable to form a popular government.
Muhammed Waleed was determined not to make similar mistakes in Pakistan, and his support was growing almost by the day. The Muslim clerics were siding with him because of his pious religious beliefs. Al-Qaeda, far from being an ally, fell into line; Pakistan offered them benign shelter at a time when they would otherwise have no home. The warlords gave him support because he was one of them, and easily the smartest and most powerful. Young people were drawn to his magnetic speeches and sermons about how tomorrow would belong to them. The media was cultivated to present him as an exciting new face in pragmatic Islamic politics, and the Bright Path as the party of the future. Power brokers knew the dire results of openly opposing him, such as having one’s family slaughtered, and were taking a neutral position. The president of Pakistan had become almost a prisoner in his own office, and his government was weak.
The overall result was that Waleed’s Bright Path had seeped out of the traditional mountain redoubts of the tribal warlords and Taliban hideouts and was extending its control the way a rude and uninvited guest might take over a man’s home.
As much as he would like to believe that the Pakistani military was a tired machine with a skipping heart, Waleed knew that it was stronger and better equipped than ever. It was ready to defend the government, up to the unknown point at which one of the generals or colonels changed his mind and staged a coup of his own.
The vaunted secret police known as the ISI was waiting to see how it all turned out, for they would work with whoever held power.
Even for a man like Waleed, a warrior with a vision, it was difficult to imagine the power he might soon wield. A combined force of the Taliban, the Pakistani military, and the secret police, allied with al-Qaeda and other terrorism organizations, everyone fired with the zeal of Muslim fundamentalism, would present an incredible front. It would not be merely a new regional regime. A truly united Pakistan and its arsenal of Islamic bombs would be a nuclear superpower.
Waleed forced himself back to reality. It was not done yet, and many matters called for his personal attention, for the Taliban was still developing the chain of command and even a routine bureaucracy that would allow him to delegate authority. The American prisoners had fallen into his hands like apples from a tree, a gift from Allah, praise be unto his name. There must be a purpose, one that he just did not yet fully understand, although an idea was forming.
He was satisfied that he had gotten the best of the deal with Mustafa Kahn, the impudent warlord who had not immediately grasped Waleed’s wish that he surrender the prisoners without incident. So there was a bit of revenge to be had, a message to warlords less powerful than Waleed. He sighed with exasperation, for he was juggling a lot of balls and could not afford to drop a single one. He did not need this problem.
“TAKE ME TO THEM,” Waleed said, walking from his living quarters. A pair of guards led him a quarter mile down a dusty street and into a dirt yard bordered by a mud fence. Six men were kneeling on the ground in a row, facing to the east, toward Mecca and Medina. A guard holding an AK-47 stood at each end of the row. Waleed walked down the line and patted each man’s head, giving them a fatherly touch and muttering words of comfort.
His voice was gentle and rhythmic. Waleed had long ago learned to speak just above a whisper so people had to strain to hear his words. “Which two of you slew the American soldier in Afghanistan?” he asked.
“I did, Leader,” said one in the middle, and the man kneeling next to him echoed the answer. “And I, Leader.”
“Please, stand,” Waleed said, and the guards helped the men to their feet. “Free them.” The blindfolds and wrist restraints were removed. “You did well and followed your instructions perfectly. Your obedience shines as an example to other fighters. Thank you.” He rested a hand on their shoulders, each in turn, then motioned for them to leave.
“Now, which of you is the brave Fariq, whose uncle is my friend, Mustafa Kahn of Gilgot?”
“I am Fariq, my Leader.” The man on the left end raised his head, proud that Waleed knew his family.
Muhammed Waleed tapped Fariq and a man on the other end. “Take those two and put them against the wall.” The guards jerked the men upright and forced them out of line, then shoved them to the wall until their faces were ground against hard rocks embedded in the tall fence. Waleed took the AK-47 from one of the guards and racked the bolt to be certain it was loaded. The safety was off; the firing selector was on automatic.
“All four of you disobeyed your instructions. Nobody told you to bring back prisoners.” Waleed’s voice began to rise from the normal quietness, and the change was frightening. “You should have killed them on the spot. Instead, you dragged them back to our home ground, caused the destruction of one of our villages, and have left me to clean up your mess. I will not tolerate such disobedience.”
He pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger, holding down firmly on the stock to keep the aim true. Fariq and the man beside him pitched forward, their bodies flopping into the thirsty dirt that soaked up the blood as Waleed kept pounding them, ripping through an entire magazine of bullets. He gave the automatic rifle back to its owner, walked to the final two fighters at the wall, and personally removed their blindfolds. “You men were misled by that incompetent Fariq, and Allah has granted you a second chance at life. This time you will do better. I will have a new task for you that will earn you the right to honorably rejoin the Bright Path. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Leader.”
“Yes, Leader.”
Waleed patted each on the shoulder again and said, “Good boys.” He went back to his office. Fariq was buried that night in barren ground far away.
WESTERN PAKISTAN
“WHERE ARE WE, JAVON? Where they taking us? What are they going to do to us now?” Jake Henderson was bewildered.
“Be still, Jake. Still and quiet.” Sergeant Anthony was trying to figure out those same questions.
Henderson was too nervous to listen. So much had happened during the past twenty-four hours that his nerves were stretched tight and his pulse raced. One minute they were getting ready to flay him alive, then there was the big explosion, then they were beaten some more, then they were out of the village, driven away in a comfortable SUV under minimal guard. “Why did they untie us? How come those Talibans that grabbed us are gone? Who are these new guys?”
“Jake, if I could answer any of those questions for you, I would. All I know for certain is that we are both still alive and unharmed.”
“I was harmed. Bitch cut off my tattoo.” Jake’s fingers touched the clean bandage around his bicep. The arm was still sore, and the vision of the sharp knives played over and over in his mind like a sports highlight reel.
Javon decided to ignore him. The boy would talk until his tongue fell out if he thought anybody would listen. Maybe some silence would chill him a bit. Anthony assessed the moment. No doubt things had changed dramatically for the two of them, but why? He rubbed his wrists. Loose handcuffs bound their hands in front of them, and all other restraints had been removed. They were in the back of a cargo truck, having changed vehicles twice during the night, and were now on a paved road with the sounds of other traffic. A single guard wearing local clothing sat opposite them with a rifle across his knees. He was an old guy with a belly and a big mustache and smoked a cigarette, hardly looking at the Americans after having given them some water and some spicy meat wrapped in what looked like tortillas. No use trying to jump him and escape, for there was nowhere to go. The threatening demeanor of their captors had entirely changed.
“Javon?”
“What is it, Jake?”
“We gonna be all right?”
“Dunno. We’re better off now than we were yesterday. Can’t tell you about tomorrow.” Anthony motioned to
