How cozy.
“How did they find out you speak Pashto?” I ask.
“By accident.”
20
Robyn’s Plan
Kagur-Ghar
Tuesday, 2000
The wind howls outside the ruins. It must be terrible for Lopez and Ballard. We should be trying to sleep, but I cannot tear myself away from Robyn’s story. Something was never right about this mission, but I can’t put my finger on it. The secret may be in this girl’s story. The secret may save our lives.
“The Mujahedeen were using you to barter,” I tell Robyn. “That made escape more important.”
“Zarek had something special in mind. I had to try.”
There is no mistaking the determination in Robyn’s tone. She continues her story.
Adim Fazili went to select his patrol, and prepare for the trip to Nangalam. Najibullah took Robyn back to the living space. As they left the hujra, Robyn smelled the aroma of chicken cooking on a grill. Wajia and two other women were preparing a meal outside the front door.
“Ghazan is my right hand,” Najibullah said. “Baryal is my left. Their houses are on either side of mine, and those are their wives. They are preparing supper for all of us. We dine in an hour.”
Robyn felt a sudden urge to join the women. “Let me help them.”
Najibullah laughed. “There will be ample time for that. You will help Wajia with her work and much more. Now, let us take this opportunity to speak.”
He led her into the living room. The shadow of the mountain was creeping across the house. Najibullah lit a pair of lanterns and set them on tables, one at either end of the room. He reclined on cushions by the wall.
“Take off your chador,” he instructed Robyn. “Let me see you.”
Robyn took off the chador, folded it, and set it on a table. She turned to Najibullah, found herself shy. She shook her hair out and presented herself to the warlord. She knew her hair would shine golden in the light of the lanterns. She was not a beautiful girl, but she knew she was pretty enough, in a tomboyish way. The firaq and shalwar were too feminine for her. She did not know how to stand to show herself to advantage.
“Sit,” Najibullah said. “There are things of which we must speak.”
He reached over and grabbed a cushion from the floor. Tossed it to her, motioned to a spot in front of him. Obediently, she set the cushion on the floor and sat cross-legged, facing her captor.
“We are Mujahedeen,” Najibullah said. His manner was pedantic. “We are engaged in a great jihad. Russians, Americans, all unbelievers must depart our land. We are good Muslims, but we do not subscribe to the strict rules of the Wahabi. Do you know what the word ‘Taliban’ means?”
Robyn knew, but shook her head.
“It means ‘student.’ The leaders of the Taliban were trained in madras in Pakistan. They seek to impose the strictest form of Islam on our country. If you walked outside like that, with your hair unbound, the Taliban would have you flogged to death.”
“I’ve seen too much of that,” Robyn said.
“Not by my men. We know that for Afghanistan to prosper, we must move beyond these strict laws. We will not forsake the teachings of the prophet. But the Quran can be interpreted in a number of ways, as can your Holy Bible.”
“Women are stoned to death.”
“And men beheaded. When the punishment fits the crime. This country is going through a terrible internal conflict. America has blundered into it, as foreigners always do. This village has been one of my operating bases for the last three years. It was Shahzad’s before that. How do you think the village imam survives?”
“He’s caught between you, isn’t he?”
“Of course. These villagers have not survived three thousand years of war without becoming masters of deceit. All must accommodate the ways of soldiers who pass.”
Robyn shook her head. “You make it sound like you have all the answers.”
“No, Sergeant Trainor. I do not. But at least I understand the questions.”
“What is the question?”
“Afghanistan is in a theocratic civil war.”
Robyn stared, and Najibullah laughed. “You see? You have never heard the matter described in such terms. It is true. We are in a civil war between Wahabism and a more enlightened Islam. Only one side can win.”
“Your side.”
“I do not intend to lose.” Najibullah straightened. “Now. Go help Wajia. I will retreat to my room for afternoon prayer.”
Supper was a cozy affair. Wajia brought in Najibullah’s share of the meal. Ghazan’s and Baryal’s wives each took their husbands’ food to their houses. Bowls of vegetables, rice, and cubes of grilled chicken were set on the floor. The meal was far more palatable than the stir-fry of goat and vegetables served at Arwal.
“Why did she join the army?” Wajia asked Najibullah.
Najibullah translated the question for Robyn.
“I couldn’t find a job,” Robyn answered. “I figured the army would teach me things.”
“Your army allows women to serve with soldiers.”
Robyn shrugged. “We know villagers in Afghanistan are sensitive about men questioning women in their homes. Women soldiers like myself are brought along to make things easier.”
“I know of this,” Najibullah said.
“Not many of us remain.”
“Yet you continued to serve in such a capacity.” Najibullah stroked his beard.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I do not wish to return home.”
Najibullah clucked. “Home is all any of us has. Without family and tradition, we are nothing.”
Robyn swallowed. “Where else can I be of use?”
After the meal, Robyn and Wajia took the dishes and cooking pots to the river to wash. They carried buckets of fresh water back to the house for drinking and cleaning. She began to appreciate why the most senior men and village elders occupied homes at the base of the mountain. Gravity. One didn’t need to climb the steep flights of steps.
Najibullah slept in one of the back rooms. Wajia and Robyn shared the other.
That first night, Robyn began planning her escape.
Wajia had shown her how the back door opened to an alley between the mountain and the back wall of the
