Renegade (2013) (22 page)

YAQUB SAT ON A MAT
in his father’s room while Faisal brought Jonathan Sebastian to him. During Yaqub’s conversation with his father, Sebastian had been fed and kept isolated.

The reporter looked grave and frightened, but he strove to maintain his composure. A man didn’t negotiate from a position of weakness, and Sebastian had obviously learned that during his career. The fact that Yaqub had gone to some trouble to bring him into the mountains made him feel somewhat more confident. Yaqub saw that confidence in the man and quelled the impulse to quash it. For the moment, he needed the reporter. Tired and wan, Sebastian stood at the foot of the bed and gazed down at Sabah.

“Hello, Sabah. It has been a long time.”

“Yes. From one war to the next.” Sabah gestured with his hand. “Please, sit. The present accommodations are not much different from the last time we met.”

Sebastian smiled at that. “I remember. First time I’d ever eaten goat. I remember it being warmer, though.”

“We were younger men in those days.”

Yaqub sat quietly by and watched his father. The old man acted stronger than he was. Evidently Sabah viewed the interview with the American journalist as a battle and summoned his strength.

Awkwardly, with some pain, Sebastian sat on a rug. Even with the padding, Yaqub knew the other man could feel the cold stone floor. Sebastian made himself as comfortable as he could, sitting with crossed legs, his elbows resting on his knees. He wore the suit coat, but his tie had been shoved into a pocket. Yaqub had made certain the man hung on to it.

“You have met my son.” Sabah lay swaddled against the wall behind him. His clothing had been arranged to cover his missing limbs.

“I have. He was much younger the first time. I didn’t recognize him until he mentioned his name. Then I saw you in him.” Sebastian nodded and smiled a little like he was talking with an old friend, not to someone who held his life in his hands. “You must be proud of him.”

“I am proud of all the warriors who are around me. The men you see in these mountains? They are those who fought the Russians to a standstill in the 1980s. They are the warriors who taxed the Soviets to death, taking down helicopters with single-shot rifles and picking off tank crews when they became mired in the canyons and against the mountains.”

The pride Sabah spoke with touched Yaqub’s heart as it always had. He’d heard the stories around the campfires, and the tales had mingled with the cries of the wounded and those who lay dying.

“They were called
dukhi
in those days.”

“They still are. The Russians I’ve talked to who were involved in that war still whisper about the ‘ghosts’ they faced in the mountains. None of them ever saw you or your men. At least, they didn’t live to speak of it.”

“Those battles were hard, fierce, and they wore away those of us who were weak, till only the bravest and hardest to kill survived. We became an elite few, Mr. Sebastian.” Sabah smiled. “And we stand
ready to rise once more from these mountains, those warriors that yet live and their sons and grandsons after them. We are the
mujahideen
. We are those who first gave example to the Taliban and al Qaeda in their holy wars. We are the first iron God pulled forth from his holy forge.”

“I know who you are, Sabah. I covered those stories too.”

Sabah nodded. “Back in those days, you were an ally. You brought attention to our cause, and you brought patronage from the West to our fight against Soviet occupation. In those days, our battles seemed to be your battles.”

“We had a common enemy.”

A small smile pulled at Sabah’s wrecked face. “The battle still rolls on here in Afghanistan. We have not changed sides. But now we find ourselves battling those who once aided us.”

“That’s not true. The United States came here to destroy bin Laden and his people. Not you.”

“I am lacking an arm and a leg because of American military efforts.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment; then he said what was on his mind. “You allied yourself with people who are our enemies. There was no other choice.”

Not “America’s enemies.” He’d said “our enemies.” Sebastian had taken sides in the interview. Yaqub quietly respected the man for having the spine to do that.

“In that war against the Soviets, we fought to be free. Then, after they had gone, the West continued to be an influence in our country.”

“We were trying to help.”

“The United States was quietly undermining our country. Every day, our children looked to Western ways, wished for lives like those of American children.” Sabah shook his head. “Such a thing would have taken them far from God. That could not be tolerated. A line
had to be drawn. We found ourselves fighting to preserve our faith, and we could not fight on the same economic battlefield as the West. You tempt our young with a different lifestyle. The only choice we had was to charge a blood price for your efforts in the hopes that you would leave us be. Even then, even with your soldiers dying by the hundreds over here, you insist on spreading your lies and treachery.”

“We wanted peace. We still do.”

“You say peace. I say you want subjugation. Idolatry to wealth, to living a life without honor or responsibility, without an understanding of God.”

Sebastian remained silent for a moment. “Yet you sent your son to school in France. You deliberately exposed him to Western ways.”

“Yaqub is strong in his faith. I knew that he could be among Western ways and return to us whole and more knowledgeable about our new enemies. What he and other young men have learned has been invaluable to us.”

“Has it?” Sebastian’s face hardened. “I saw him killing defenseless people only yesterday—”

“The death of an innocent has a stronger impact than the death of a warrior.”

“—and he has been trading with the Russians. Selling opium he’s been getting from raiding other Muslims.”

The fact that Sebastian knew these things surprised Yaqub, but it explained what the CIA team had been doing in Pakistan. He had known from the beginning that his operations wouldn’t go long unnoticed.

A brief flicker of irritation showed on Sabah’s face; then it was gone. “He has conducted business with men who had weapons he needed. They are Eastern Europeans. Criminals.”

That caught Sebastian’s attention, telling Yaqub that the American media didn’t know everything. “What weapons did Yaqub need?”

“We are not here to discuss that.” Sabah waved the question away. “As for the opium, it is here in our country. The spoils of war. It is merely another resource open to a warrior following
fard al-’ayn
, his holy duty. When we have united Afghanistan again under God, then we will purge the drugs from our lands.”

“Those drugs are used to fuel the war against the West.”

Yaqub’s hand slid down to the hilt of his
pesh-kabz
, and he almost drew the blade from its sheath. He would not have killed Sebastian, but he would have hurt the man. His father’s hand was there atop his own before he knew it.

“The Americans chose to allow the warlords to continue harvesting the cursed fruit of the poppies in order to gain their cooperation. They left that weed in place to buy the loyalties of those who have no honor, and it is a certain sign that your people and the warlords act upon the devil’s wishes. Do not seek to throw stones over that. When it comes to the opium, your country’s hands are not clean.”

Sebastian looked at the old man. “Why was I spared when so many were killed? Why bring me here?”

Sabah took his hand from Yaqub’s and relaxed against the stone wall behind him. The old man spoke gently, as if to a child. “You are a storyteller. You are here to tell a story.” He smiled. “Some of the greatest stories the world has ever known have come from these lands. You are here to tell another.”

“What story?”

“You will spread the message of the rise of the new blood that will wash over Afghanistan, of the warrior who will reignite the holy war and raise it to new levels, of the master who will unite the true believers who follow Muhammad’s blessed teachings, and the one who will drive the infidels from our borders. Yaqub will carry that tide, and all before him will be changed. Those who embrace faith and the word of God will be reborn and join him in his holy battle. Those who
stand against him will be broken and washed away.” Sabah closed his eye for a moment while the other wept infection from beneath the black patch. His pulse beat rapidly at the hollow of his throat.

Yaqub knew his father’s frail strength was fading. He pushed himself to his feet and gestured to Sebastian. “Father, if you will allow me.”

Sabah nodded. “Go, Mr. Sebastian, and do your job well. Listen well to my son’s words. God watches over him.”

Yaqub gestured to the reporter. “Come. I will show you what you are here to do.”

With some trepidation, Sebastian rolled over to his hands and knees, then awkwardly got to his feet. Whatever pain he thought he was feeling today from the donkey ride, it would be worse tomorrow, and the cold would only make it more difficult.

Yaqub bade his father good-bye and was not certain if the old man even heard him. He led the way out of the home, pausing at the door only long enough to pull on a heavy, hooded coat. Sebastian pulled on one as well.

When he stepped outside, Yaqub was surprised to learn that it had snowed. A few more inches of fluffy whiteness had filled the valley. Snow mounded up on the newly constructed walls, but the men and boys had already walked muddy trails through it as they continued their work to build the defenses.

Tramping through the snow, feeling the biting chill against his nose and cheeks, Yaqub walked toward the home where the three CIA agents were being held. The wind whistled down over the mountains and sent gusts of snow dancing like dervishes.

Two guards fell in behind Sebastian, making themselves noticeable as they followed. There was nowhere for the reporter to go. He could not make it down the mountain without dying, and Yaqub was certain Sebastian knew that.

At the other home, Yaqub swept aside the heavy tarp and stepped inside. Warmth greeted him, pushing into his face with a doughy consistency and the sharp odor of burning wood.

The home was small compared to the one where his father dwelled. Four armed men sat on rugs in front of the fireplace. Candles flickered amid pools of melted wax in niches carved out of the cave walls.

Two of the men got up with weapons in hand and walked to the wooden door that opened into another cave behind this one. The heavy door had been specially cut to occupy the space. It was held in place by crossbars anchored in the stone wall.

On either end of the door, two of the men removed the rope restraints to lift the door up and out of the way. The other two covered the space with their AK-47s.

Yaqub paused at the doorway to pick up a candle lying in a pile on a narrow shelf of stone. He lit the candle from one of those nearby, then ducked under the door and entered.

The strong scents of unwashed bodies and fear and blood filled the small cave. Yaqub could reach up and easily touch the roof. The candle flame danced briefly, but it remained true and lit up the cave.

On the other side of the space, the three CIA agents sat shivering under thin blankets. They were gaunt and hollow-eyed. All of them had grown weaker since their capture. Their hair and beards were uncombed and unshaven, infested with lice that had caused sores on their faces and necks. Bloody rags wrapped the hand of one of them.

Sebastian saw the men and froze.

One of the men spoke in a phlegmy voice. “You’re an American.”

The reporter said nothing till Yaqub nudged him; then he nodded and took a step forward. “I am.”

“Did you come to help?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to do that.”

The man cursed foully, summoning up the last fragments of his
courage. Yaqub would break that soon enough, and he looked forward to it.

“Are they going to get us out of here?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“They can’t just leave us here. Did they make a deal?”

“No deal has been struck.” Yaqub used the candle he carried to light four others inside the cave. The ambient yellow glow bathed the interior and left a skein of shadows traced across the walls and roof.

“You can’t keep holding us like this.”

Yaqub removed the hooded coat. “You are wrong. I can do anything I wish to. You’re only alive now because I wish you to remain so. You will not get to live long.”

The man’s face crumpled. “What do you mean?”

Reaching to his waist, Yaqub drew the
pesh-kabz
in a fluid motion. The razor edge whispered along the leather sheath, but the sound was loud in the small cave.

Flinching fearfully, the CIA agent drew back.

“You will do as I tell you to do.” Yaqub held the flat of the blade against his thigh. “As long as you do, you will live.” He gestured to one of the men who had followed them into the cave.

The warrior produced a small camera and turned it on. Light sprayed over the huddled CIA agents.

One of the men summoned a brief bit of daring and spoke rapidly, leaning toward the camera. “We’re somewhere in the mountains. Can’t be far from the Durand Line. We didn’t travel long. We’re being held by Zalmai Yaqub.”

The other warrior in the cave crossed the distance to the prisoners and kicked the man. The American agent had just enough time to get his manacled hands up to protect his face. The force knocked him over backward into his comrades and he groaned.

“Silence, dog! You will speak only when you are told you may.”

The American agent came up snarling viciously, but he kept his manacled hands in front of his face. The warrior drove his rifle butt into the man’s hands and knocked him to the floor again. This time he lay there, panting and spitting blood.

“That is enough, Kadeem.” Yaqub spoke in a quiet, authoritative voice. “I would suffer him to live for now. He has a use.”

Kadeem stepped back.

“Do you have the paper?”

Kadeem reached into his clothing and took out a rolled copy of the
Surghar Daily
from a pocket. He unrolled the newspaper and handed it over.