One Child (6 page)

Chapter

9

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Venturing into the streets of Kandahar was an adventure, even for the men who wore the traditional long
pirhan tonban
and carried a gun concealed beneath the flowing robes. For an eleven-year-old girl, with her little sisters in tow, it was insanity.

Halima peered out the tiny window that overlooked the city from their deteriorating room on the top floor of the abandoned apartment building. An endless mass of squat mud houses, few higher than two stories, stretched out toward the desert mountains that framed the distant horizon. A handful of kites fluttered above the labyrinth of twisting alleys, adding color to the bland, brown palette. Today she had to leave the security of their house and visit the market to buy fruit and vegetables. Her father had entrusted her with two US dollars, most of his pay from the previous day, with the understanding that she would barter with the merchants and bring home enough food to last for at least a week. Her hands shook as she tucked the money inside her loose shirt. So much money. Her father had worked so hard for it.

"Aaqila, Danah," she called. "It's time to go. Are you ready?"

Her younger sisters were dressed and anxious to get out of the house. To them, the streets and the market were an outing. Something to anticipate and treasure. At seven and five years old, they were too young to truly understand the danger. It was everywhere. The dusty streets were breeding grounds for insurgents and Taliban, and soldiers from the International Security Assistance Force were never far away, their automatic rifles tucked against their chests as they watched the foot traffic suspiciously. Bombed-out buildings lined the roads - piles of mud bricks that were houses at some time before the war. Unexploded shells lay under the rubble, a constant threat to children who foraged through the ruins searching for hidden trinkets. Landmines were always a problem, but more in the countryside and villages outside Kandahar than in the city itself. Still, one had to be cautious.

"Let's go," Halima said. She adjusted her headscarf and straightened Danah's as well. She tucked two ratty canvas bags under her arm. If it was a successful trip, they would be full on the return home.

They navigated the staircase with care. There was a stone wall on one side and a steep drop to the courtyard below on the other. Errant pieces of broken bricks made their footing treacherous. Halima had offered to clean the stairs, but her father had told her that if she did, scavengers would suspect someone was living in the building and climb up to see if there was anything of value on the upper floors. She understood all too well. In the last place they had lived, men with guns had kicked in the door and taken their food. The leader of the gang pushed his pistol against the side of her father's head. The way he held the gun - the look in his eyes - Halima knew he wanted to pull the trigger. But he didn't. The memory of her father after the men had left, hugging her and her sisters and crying, would never leave.

Aaqila and Danah reached the courtyard and Danah scampered across the uneven bricks. She hesitated at the arched entrance to the courtyard. Halima grasped her sister's hand and they walked into the empty street together. A steady wind blew down the narrow street, whipping the sand and grit from the road and stinging their eyes. They turned away from the wind and headed toward the market, ten blocks to the north.

Their house, south of the Old City in the Shakpur Darwaza Chowk-e area, was one of many that had been destroyed by the fighting between the Taliban and the foreign soldiers. The battles had been so intense that the Afghans moved out, leaving their homes and eking out meager existences in safer neighborhoods. Or leaving Kandahar altogether. Large tracts of the city were rendered uninhabitable for most people. Unless you were one of the unfortunates who had nothing, then a roof over your head in a damaged building was better than a tent in the desert. That's what her father said, and he knew best.

As they approached the corner, a rickety jeep filled with armed men cruised by the crossroad. All heads turned and they stared at the three young girls for a few seconds, then they were gone, leaving a putrid trail of diesel exhaust in their wake. Halima reached down and pulled Danah's scarf over her mouth. Inquisitive brown eyes stared back at her.

She knelt down. "It's not good for you to breathe the smoke," she said quietly. She smoothed the child's windswept hair. "I'll buy you a candy today if you're good."

Danah hugged Halima's arm, then held her hand as they continued down the road to the market. Traffic picked up as they moved north, into the city. Boys on bicycles, bearded men on whiny mopeds and women clad in traditional blue burqas shared the road, dodging smoke-belching vehicles. A foot patrol of ISAF soldiers with red maple leafs on their shoulders passed the girls. One of them smiled and offered candy. Halima thanked the man in Pashto, took three pieces and divvied them up among her sisters.

"They're nice to give us candy," Aaqila said when the patrol had passed.

"That's because you smile and make them feel welcome." Halima clutched Danah's hand a little tighter.

She hated the guns. Not the men who carried them, but the guns themselves. It seemed that everyone in Kandahar was armed. The soldiers. The Taliban. The Afghans who tended the shops and farmed the land just outside the city. Rifles slung across their shoulders. Pistols strapped to their thighs. Bullets draped over their chests. She had never known a day in her life without seeing a weapon. They were as much a part of Afghanistan as the mountains or the desert.

One of her father's friends, a shoemaker in the Old City, had traveled to America to visit his daughter. She sat quietly next to her father as the man told stories of his adventure on the other side of the world. His description of the buildings, the cars, the clothes all fascinated her. The women were so elegant, the men so handsome. She worked up the nerve to ask him a question - whether there were guns in America.

"The police carry guns," he said, stroking her head gently. "But they never use them. They never even take them from their holsters."

She wished Afghanistan was like America.

The streets were crowded now, thick with noisy vehicles and people pushing past each other. They reached the madness of the market and Halima gripped her sisters' hands tightly. Tea boys ran through the narrow alleys and open squares, delivering fresh pots of steaming jasmine and mint to the vendors working in their stalls. Women in ankle-length burqas emerged from side streets, bought their daily vegetables from one of the many merchants, then blended back into the web of alleyways. The heavy odor of mutton hung in the air as orders of spicy
karai
were spooned onto freshly baked naan bread. In the rear of the stalls, out of the scorching midday sun, turbaned men smoked
sheesha
pipes and sipped on
chai
.

Halima scrutinized the produce carefully. Her father would expect her to buy onions and rice for
pulao
, and almonds, carrots and raisons to flavor the mixture. Bread was a staple and despite the intense heat, there were many tandoor ovens fired and churning out naan. Getting fresh bread for the family would not be a problem. She walked past at least twenty merchants, watching how they dealt with the other customers. Whether they were polite or belligerent, and if they smiled or scowled when they handed across the vegetables and took the money. She didn't want to deal with a difficult man. She stopped at the corner of two narrow lanes to give Aaqila and Danah a rest. A merchant wearing a pale blue turban and a colorful shalwar kameez was doing a brisk business. For good reason. His fruit and vegetables were the choicest she had seen since they entered the market. Halima approached the stall and stood in front of the bright red tomatoes. The seller looked at her with indifference - until she asked about his prices.

"They are the best in the market," he said. "If you have money."

"I have money." Halima pointed to the onions. "How many can I get for ten Afghanis?"

"Six," the man replied after thinking for a moment.

"Six is not enough."

The merchant eyed her more closely. He scratched the side of his head and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "How many do you think you should get?"

"Ten," Halima said without hesitation. "And I get to pick which ones."

"You'll take the biggest," he said.

"Of course I will. My sisters and I are very hungry and we need to eat."

The man smiled. "I will lose money if I let you pick the ten biggest."

Halima shook her head. "Not if I buy carrots, raisons and rice as well. You could make some money on that."

He raised a thick eyebrow. His pale blue turban moved with the motion. "And I get to choose how many carrots to give you."

Halima shook her head. "No, I get to choose."

"Then I'll probably lose money on them, too."

"If you're concerned about losing money, then I'll talk to another seller. I need to find someone who has good prices on all his vegetables."

"Why is that?"

"I have US dollars, and I want to buy all my food from one stall."

The man gave her a closer look. "You have dollars? Where did you get them?"

"From my father. He is paid in US dollars."

"How many do you have?" the man asked. The tone in his voice had changed. It was much more serious. The young girl with two sisters in tow was a paying customer.

"More than one," Halima answered.

His eyes softened a touch and he said, "Where is your mother, little girl?"

"Dead."

His head turned slowly on his thick neck, his gaze locked on his youngest customer of the day. "That is a common problem." He leaned forward over the tomatoes. "How many dollars do you have to spend at my stall? If you tell me, I can put together a selection of fruit and vegetables for you. More than you would get if you went to a different merchant."

Halima hesitated. "I need some money for naan."

He nodded. "That's a good point. I will allow for that. Make sure you have some change to take with you to the baker."

"I have two dollars."

"All right," he said. "Let's see what you can buy for two dollars."

Ten minutes of wrangling netted Halima two big bags of food. They were so heavy she could barely lift them. The merchant sent his son, about the same age as Halima, to buy her bread. When he returned, the merchant wrapped it in paper and handed it to Danah.

"What's your name, girl?" he asked as she turned to head home.

"Halima."

"Patience," the vendor said, then added when she looked confused. "That's what your name means. Patience."

She smiled at him, then turned and pushed into the throng of people in the narrow street. The bags were heavy and the weight hurt her shoulders. She couldn't hold Aaqila's hand, and had to keep reminding her youngest sister to grip one of the bags tightly. It would only take a moment to lose her in the congestion. Ten minutes of pushing through the crowd brought them to the edge of the market. They retraced their steps home, Halima growing increasingly worried that someone might try to take their food as the streets grew less busy. A couple of men in their twenties riding a motorcycle slowed down as they passed, then hit the gas and were gone. Halima breathed easier as they turned the corner onto their street.

Above her was the burnt-out shell of mud and brick that kept the rain and sand off them. Some days she hated it - and thought of it as a prison. It kept her from playing with her friends and going to school. Other days, like today, it was a beautiful sight. She climbed the stairs, knowing that her father would be pleased with her. It was a wonderful feeling. The best in the world.

Chapter

10

Soho, New York City

Nicki
knew she had to eat. She was sick, and for a CF'er not eating was pretty much a death sentence. She pushed the plate back and collapsed into the chair.

It was impossible. She couldn't do it.

Nicki
rose and walked to the living room on unsteady legs, then sank into the overstuffed chair that looked out over the street three floors below. She stared at the window of Crocs, the shoe store on the corner of Spring and Wooster, and squinted to see if they'd put any new models in the display case. It was hard to tell and she gave up after a couple of minutes. She glanced at her watch. Eleven o'clock on Saturday morning.
Carson
would be home from the gym soon. And angry at her if she hadn't done her exercises. She corrected that thought. Not angry - disappointed. He was her biggest cheerleader and she could read his emotions when she strayed from the routine leading up to her surgery.
Nicki
hated letting him down, but the regimen was so extreme.

The thought of having her lungs removed and another person's inserted into her ribcage scared her. To hell with that - it terrified her. Of all the transplant surgeries, lungs were the toughest. But without the surgery, she was on her last legs. Dead within six months. There really wasn't much of a choice.

The lung transplant would grind the disease to a halt. For a while. Since it was genetic, the new lungs would never succumb to the disease. She could live for a number of years, breathing like a normal person, until some complication from the CF finally killed her. But the transplant was a double-edge sword. Following the surgery, she'd be on immunosuppressant drugs forever. Trading one disease for another. The post-transplant crap every CF'er suffered. And they were the lucky ones. She couldn't imagine where she'd be without the transplant.

Getting on the list was tough. Symbiatic, her health care provider, had been honest with her all the way through the process. There were only so many spots. Only so many lungs became available and you had to be one of the sickest to be slotted in. But there was a caveat to that. You had to be sick, yet still stand a good chance of surviving the transplant. She had fallen into that narrow category and been awarded another chance at life. There wasn't a day went by that she didn't give thanks for her good fortune.

Preparing for the transplant was tough. Four hours a day of cardio and weights, which couldn't be considered exhaustive exercises. At least, they wouldn't be exhaustive to most people. To her, they were like running a marathon then pumping a ridiculous amount of iron. Simply thinking about her exercises was tiring her and she reached for her oxygen. She tucked the plastic tubes in her nostrils and pulled the strap tight around the back of her head. She turned on the oxygen flow and almost immediately felt the uplifting effect of the increased O
2
to her body. Relying on oxygen bothered her, as did how she looked with tubes sticking out of her nose, but it was a necessary evil.

The door opened and
Carson
stepped in. He grinned and headed straight over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You look like you've been exercising," he said, sitting beside her on the arm of the chair.

"I tried," she said. She left the oxygen tubes in, despite desperately wanting to pull them out and look nice for him. "I didn't get through the whole thing."

He stroked her hair. "You need to stay strong. We could get the call any day now."

"I'm trying,
Carson
. It's so hard."

"I know," he said. He slid off the arm and squished his butt onto the chair beside her. She pushed into the faded leather, giving him a bit more room. "You're doing great."

"And how are you doing at work?" she asked. "Mr. High Frequency Trading guy."

"Fantastic," he replied. "Had a meeting yesterday morning. It went really well. The whole team is behind me." He paused, then added, "At least, I think they are."

"Why would you wonder? They either are or they aren't." She brushed an errant hair from his forehead. "You know all these people. You've worked with them almost every day for two years."

"I had to push Alicia Crane a bit and she pushed back."

"Alicia's brilliant,"
Nicki
said. "Every time I see her I'm so impressed. I love talking to her. She seems to know a little bit about a lot of things. Makes for great conversations."

"She's smart, all right,"
Carson
said. "Too smart sometimes."

Nicki
pushed back in the chair and gave him one of her looks. "What's going on, you?"

"Nothing. I asked her to streamline the algorithm a bit."

"What's wrong with your algorithm?"
Nicki
asked. "You designed it, along with Alicia and Chui."

"We're being gamed. Probably by Goldman Sachs. We need to speed it up by a millisecond or two. I asked her to take a couple of iterations out until we find a better fix."

Nicki
stared at him. "How many times have you told me that stripping down the algo threatens its integrity?"

He shrugged. "We're still running the data through five iterations to predict the market direction. It's fine."

"Is it?" she asked.

"Sure," he said.

"
Carson
, high frequency trading is dangerous. You need to be careful with what you're doing. The last thing the market needs is another meltdown.

"Dangerous is a little harsh, don't you think?"

"No, I don't. The Immediate or Cancel orders you and Goldman and all the other players use are driving the market." She wagged a finger at him. "You're not supposed to be a market-maker. The stocks should find their value based on tangible assets, not the market liquidity you guys inject into the system."

"High frequency trading represents almost 80% of the daily trades on the US markets,"
Carson
countered. "Of course we're market makers. We should be. We drive the market and deliver liquidity."

"Based on what?"
Nicki
said. "Your computers issue sell orders for small lots until the buyers stop biting, then you cancel and sit back. That's not liquidity, that's driving stocks to their absolute max, maybe beyond. You do that every day with thousands of stocks and the market is overvalued. And the next thing you know...," she looped her hand down in a long arc, "...we have another crash. Remember 1987?"

"You're being a pessimist."

"I'm being a realist. The games you guys play are scary. When they backfire, people get hurt. They lose their life's savings."

"Why are you attacking me?" he asked. "I'm only doing my job."

"Don't use that excuse," she said quietly. "It doesn't fly. If you know what you're doing has the potential to cause harm, then you should back off. Economics shouldn't trump ethics."

His eyes were serious - sad, almost. "But it does,
Nicki
. You know that."

They sat in silence for a minute, then
Nicki
touched his arm and said, "I'm not attacking you,
Carson
. But privilege doesn't come without responsibility."

He managed a smile. "I should never have linked up with another MIT grad. Too smart."

She punched his shoulder. "That's a horrible thing to say. Shame on you."

"Fact is, you
are
smart," he countered. "It's tough to get away with things. I always get caught."

She grasped his hand and clutched it as tightly as she could. "I don't need to tell you what's right and wrong,
Carson
. You already know."

He hugged her and they embraced for a full minute. Her body shook with every shallow breath. She was right and he knew it. Stripping down the algorithm was like outfitting a downhill ski racer with faulty equipment. Speed was dangerous, whether it was on the side of any icy mountain or in the CPU of a supercomputer designed to trade on the world's stock exchanges. But if a downhill racer crashed, he only injured himself. If the computer made a grievous error, millions could be hurt.

For a moment, he considered calling Alicia and telling her to back off.

He didn't.