“Truly,” Durrani said. “You have taken a great risk. In some ways, so have I. Some in my circle advised that we take you captive. And I considered it.”
That admission did not surprise Gold, but it still frightened her. She thought for a moment, chose her words carefully. “But you opted for a different approach?”
“I did, for many reasons. For one, I did not wish to make my eldest wife a target for you Americans. For another, I must say I admire your courage, though you serve an infidel government. But most importantly, you wish to protect Afghanistan’s young ones. So do I.”
Gold wanted to move on to matters of hard intelligence and then get out. But she knew she had to avoid even a hint of impatience or rudeness.
“You honor me with your words, sir,” she said.
Durrani adjusted the blanket he wore across his shoulders. Perhaps the woolen patou warmed his joints and made old injuries less uncomfortable. The seams across his forehead deepened as he considered his next point.
“As my associate has told you,” Durrani said, “we bear you no goodwill. Do not make more of this meeting than it is. But this Black Crescent has gone too far. Jihad is for grown men.”
“We agree that young ones should be protected,” Gold said.
“Sergeant Major,” Durrani said, “do you know my ancestry?”
Gold did not. Durrani was not an unusual name. That tribal tree had many branches.
“I know your name has a long history.”
“It is that history to which I refer. I am a direct descendant of Ahmad Shah Durrani.”
Gold knew that name. Many considered him the founder of Afghanistan as a nation. After the murder of the Persian emperor Nadir Shah in 1747, Durrani united tribal leaders and brought together the lands that became Afghanistan. He ruled for nearly thirty years and was laid to rest in an ornate tomb in Kandahar.
“That is a proud heritage,” Gold said.
“Indeed. My ancestor was the father of this country. Now I must think as a father.”
“When leaders consider the next generation, that is when they become statesmen,” Gold said.
All right, she thought, maybe it’s a bit much to call a former Taliban leader a statesman. But better to butter him up than antagonize him.
“And you wish to know what I can tell you of Black Crescent,” Durrani said.
Now’s the time to be simple and direct, Gold thought.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“I presume you know its leader, Bakht Sahar, from his videos. He goes by a ridiculous nom de guerre.”
“Chaaku,” Gold said.
“That is correct. He is an upstart who has begun working at cross-purposes to us. Villagers who lose their children will turn to anyone for help, even you Americans. And they may not see the distinction between Black Crescent and Taliban.”
“So you feel Chaaku is giving you a bad name?”
“Exactly. You should understand something, American. Sooner or later you will leave our country. When you do, we will return to power. Your departure may happen in five years or fifty. But if the actions of Black Crescent drive the people into your arms, you will stay longer.”
Gold could see the logic. This guy was brilliant in a twisted way. He thought far enough ahead to do something no other Talib could get away with. It amounted to his own innovation in military doctrine: counter-counterinsurgency.
And to achieve a short-term goal, however necessary, Gold was cooperating with someone fighting the longer-term goals of the United States. Well, war was messy in so many ways. She had studied the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, who wrote of “the immoral elements of all historical success.” Maybe this was what he meant.
“So we both seek the defeat of Black Crescent,” Gold said.
“Yes. It is not so strange. With the mujahideen, I accepted aid from Americans to defeat what I then considered a worse enemy. That aid did not make us brothers and sisters.”
Again Gold paused to consider her next phrase. What Durrani just said was probably the best opening she’d ever get. “If we knew where to strike,” she said, “we could achieve this short-term mutual goal.”
“Black Crescent does not telephone me with their plans. What do you know of them?”
Gold told him about the kidnapping of Aamir’s son, Aamir’s attempt to commandeer the helicopter and deliver Parson to terrorists.
“I heard of that incident. In all honesty, I wish the plan had succeeded. One less senior officer for the Americans would have been a blow for Allah.”
Gold bristled at that remark, but she kept her feelings to herself. This was the enemy. Of course he wished the abduction attempt had succeeded.
“But what of Lieutenant Aamir’s son?” she asked.
“Yes, that troubles me, as I have told you.”
“Aamir tried to fly to a location along the Kuh-e Qara Batur mountain spur. Do you know of any stronghold there Black Crescent may be using?”
Durrani stroked his beard, seemed to consider the question. Gold wondered if he was searching his memory or just deciding whether to tell the truth. Then the expression on the old mujahideen commander seemed to soften.
“There is a fort, actually more of a ruin, near the southeast end of Kuh-e Qara Batur,” Durrani said. “Beneath the fort is a small set of caves. In the 1980s, the soldiers of God dug out the caves farther, strengthened them with masonry. We worked long and hard in that place. We even brought in a generator and wired for electricity. There, doctors treated our glorious wounded, commanders held councils of war. The ruins obscure the cave mouth, which is why the Russians never found it. It would be difficult to spot if you did not know exactly where to look.”
“So Black Crescent tried to make Aamir bring an American officer straight to their headquarters,” Gold said.
“Possibly,” Durrani answered. “That location would serve handsomely. But it would have been very sloppy tactics to bring an aircraft directly there, under any circumstances.”
“Certainly,” Gold said. She hoped a brief acknowledgment might prod Durrani to keep talking.
“Such mistakes are born of inexperience and arrogance. This Chaaku is cursed with both.”
Gold waited to see if the mullah would say more. He sat silently for nearly a full minute. Eventually he said, “You must look for ruins that lie on a wide outcropping beneath a higher knoll. I know nothing else of tactical value to you.”
“I thank you for this, sir.”
“I believe I have told you what you need. Do not expect another meeting. Do not contact my wife again.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Then leave me.”
The older man who had escorted Gold rose to his feet and went to the door. Gold stood, nodded to the mullah, and stepped through the door held open by her escort.
Outside, the two guards glared at her, said nothing. The younger man who had driven the Land Rover sat in the driver’s seat. Gold remembered the blindfold in her pocket. She took it out and handed it to the older man. He directed her to sit in the vehicle, and then he tied on the blindfold. The man pulled a little harder, tied a little rougher than the woman had, though Gold supposed he thought he was being careful.
She felt the door slam, the rush of air. A minute later, the Land Rover started and began to roll. They drove the route back to the village in silence. The day was warmer now, midafternoon, and Gold felt the temperature rising in the vehicle. No air conditioner, apparently. Maybe this would be the last warm day before fall deepened and led to the brutal Afghan winter. She lost track of time, but it seemed the better part of an hour passed as the vehicle bounced along.
She startled when a hand grabbed the blindfold. The Land Rover skidded to a stop. Someone yanked her head forward, tore the blindfold from her eyes.