Midnight Sun (3 page)

He
kicked
the
ball
over
the
heads
of
the
boys,
sending
them
on
a
chase
as
it
bounced
into
a
goat
pen.
A
few
of
them
followed
behind
Kharzai
like
a
gaggle
of
goslings
as
he
jogged
toward
the
house.
The
man
at
the
door
snarled
at
the
boys,
stopping
them
short
in
fear.

"Go
play,"
Kharzai
said
with
a
swoosh
of
his
hand
as
he
entered
the
house.
They
ran
off.
He
glanced
over
to
Leila
as
she
walked
into
one
of
the
other
houses.
A
jolt
of
nerves
wriggled
through
his
belly
as
the
door
closed
behind
him.
He
mused
how
funny
it
was
that
al
Gwahari's
daughter
could
make
him
feel
so
giddy,
especially
in
light
of
the
fact
that
he
was
going
to
kill
the
man
within
the
week.
Then
a
different
thought
hit
him:
He
was
going
to
kill
his
fiancée’s
father.

What
if
she
doesn't
like
me
after?

But
then
he
remembered
that
although
she
could
never
say
it
aloud
to
anyone
but
Kharzai,
whom
she,
like
the
others,
only
knew
as
Seirim
Al
Gul,
she
hated
her
father
and
everything
he
stood
for.
He
was
a
companion
of
men
like
Osama
bin
Ladin
and
Iman
al
Zawahiri,
mass
murderers
who
controlled
the
population
with
terror.
On
the
day
he
proposed
to
her,
Leila
confided
to
Kharzai
that
she
hated
the
jihad.
She
hated
the
war
and
the
fighting
and
the
killing
and
wanted
to
run
away
from
everything.
She
wanted
to
move
to
Australia
or
the
United
States
and
make
a
new
life
where
she
could
be
free
from
the
fear
that
always
surrounded
her
home.

When
he
asked
how
she
could
trust
him
with
such
words
when
he
was
a
fighter
like
her
father's
men,
she
told
him
that
he
was
different.
He
was
not
just
another
crazy
jihadist.
Something
set
him
apart,
but
she
could
not
put
her
finger
on
it.
They
would
marry,
then
disappear
and
live
happily
ever
after.

Kharzai
entered
the
house
and
was
led
to
the
room
where
al
Gwahari
sat
on
a
carpet,
his
war
chiefs
in
a
circle
around
a
small
table.

"Al
Gul."
H
is
voice
came
in
a
gravelly
rumble.
"My
son-in-law,
please
sit.
Join
us
for
tea."

Kharzai
sat
on
the
floor
across
from
the
older
man.
Al
Gwahari
did
not
look
the
part
of
a
terrorist
warlord.
He
lacked
the
evil
sneer
of
bin
Ladin
and
the
dull-eyed
mask
of
al
Zawahiri.
His
grandfatherly
appearance
had
worked
in
his
favor
to
acquire
alliances,
but
those
who
crossed
him
soon
learned
that
it
was
a
ruse.
The
kind-looking
old
man
had
no
qualms
in
ordering,
and
overseeing,
the
wholesale
massacre
of
villages
that
refused
his
demands.
He
had
personally
executed
two
ISI
agents
and
Kharzai
’
s
CIA
contact—luckily, the
latter
died
without
revealing
Kharzai's
duplicity.
Al
Gwahari
still
trusted
him,
as
far
as
he
knew.