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Chapter 2
Three months later
Laila turned off the single lamp illuminating her living area, throwing the small, two room house into darkness. This was the time she generally went to bed, so she hoped any watchers assumed she’d be sleeping in a few minutes.
Tugging on the dark tunic and baggy dark pants she’d laid out earlier, she bundled her red hair into one of the black scarves she usually wore loosely over her head. Tonight, she tied it around her head expertly, hiding her distinctive hair color. Then she waited.
Thirty minutes later, hoping any watchers had left, she slipped out the back door and into the narrow lane between two rows of houses. The scents of dinner -- barley and naan, rice and lamb seasoned with coriander, garlic, mint and lemon, drifted from the houses she passed, along with the wood smoke from the small stoves.
Beneath her arm, Laila carried one book from her stash in the Pashto language. In case she was stopped, she’d say she’d promised it to a student.
Laila had memorized the map she’d been given, then burned it in her stove. The young woman who’d told her about the meeting made her swear she’d commit the map to memory, then destroy it.
The house was on the outskirts of the village, and Laila made her way silently toward it. She stopped before she reached the end of the alley, listening intently for any sounds.
Something brushed against her ankle, and she bit back a cry. A gray tabby cat twined against her legs, and Laila bent to pet it. The cat sniffed her hand for a moment, then made a final pass against her ankle and trotted off.
Finally only one house stood ahead of her. A small distance from the last house in the row, it stood out, clearly stating its status as the village’s most important house.
Larger than the other houses in this part of the village, its second story loomed over the other houses. A high wall surrounded it, and the front gate was painted bright blue. The color of prosperity. Of good luck. This house, according to the young woman who’d whispered details after class, was where the meeting would be.
Laila found a dense, thick wormwood bush across from the house and slid behind it, drawing her knees to her chest. She could see through the lacy leaves, but in the darkness, she was confident no one would see her.
Over the next half-hour, she counted twenty-four men and teen-aged boys enter the house. No women, but she hadn’t expected any. Women weren’t invited to late-night meetings.
Finally, a car pulled up to the gate and a passenger slid out into the swirling dust churned up by the car tires. Average height. Average weight. He wore traditional Afghan clothing -- a tunic, pants and a turban in a dark color.
But something about the man struck her as... off. He walked with the confidence of someone with power, but his gait was different from the farmers in Al Kamen. Instead of the rolling stride of men who worked bent over all day, this man stood completely erect. Moved more quickly than the men of Al Kamen.
As he walked toward the house, someone to his right spoke, and he turned his head. Opened his mouth to respond, and his teeth flashed white in the light.
Also unusual for the village. Oral hygiene was not high on the list of priorities in the Hindu Kush.
He was dressed like an Afghani. His clothes, turban, boots were all exactly the same as the way the men in Al Kamen dressed. The farmers’ clothing might be more worn, but she was already certain this stranger wasn’t a farmer.
So who or what was he?
She scrutinized him carefully, memorizing every detail. She lifted her phone and took several pictures, even though she knew they’d be useless. There wasn’t enough light to get a good likeness. But maybe Mel had magic tools to enhance them.
After the late arrival entered the house, two more men exited the car and stood in front of the gate. Guards? Perhaps. They had the build for it -- muscled and thick. Wide and intimidating.
Waiting to leave, Laila sat patiently behind the wormwood. She’d be spotted if she left. The guards stomped their feet occasionally, sending clouds of dust into the air. It drifted toward her, tickling her nose, and she suppressed a sneeze.
Voices murmured from the house, but one man was speaking too softly to be overheard. She’d bet every single afghani she had that the speaker was the guy who’d arrived last.
Finally, after an hour, the late arrival emerged from the house and climbed into the car. The two guards got into the back seat, and the car drove away, a rooster tail of dust trailing behind it.
Laila crept closer to the wall around the house, pressing her back into the stone, and tuned out the calling birds. The chirping insects. The scuffle of rodents too close, scavenging for garbage.
She listened intently, closing her eyes in thanks when one man began speaking loudly. Angrily. As if he intended to drown out all the other voices. She breathed slowly through her nose, concentrating on the words.
She clenched her teeth as she realized what he was saying. The man who’d just driven away was trying to recruit soldiers for the Taliban. He’d said their strength was growing, and they were gearing up for a big operation. He’d urged the men and teens to join them now. To get on the winning side.
Her boss Mel needed to hear about this. Immediately.
When she heard the signs of the meeting winding down -- goodbyes and good wishes, she slipped into the alley and hurried toward her house. It was late, and most of the houses were dark. Quiet. She needed to get back to her own house before the meeting broke up and the men headed toward their own homes.
As she re-traced her path along the narrow alley, Laila heard the scuffle of footsteps behind her, and she pressed her body against the wall. Pulled the end of her scarf over her face, leaving only a tiny space to see. Unless someone was looking closely, she’d blend into the wall.
