Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

exception.”

“Why?”

“Because you are the order of business.”

Three women in burqas entered and served tea. When everyone had a cup before them, the women left pots of tea on a low table and withdrew from the room.

Robyn looked around the room. Ghazan was there, seated across from Najibullah. The other men ranged from thirty to fifty in age. All were bearded and dressed in Pashtun clothing. They laid their chest rigs on the floor next to them, and rested their AK47s against the walls.

“The first phase of the operation is complete.” Najibullah addressed the room in Pashto. “Adim Fazili, speak of Shahzad’s movements.”

A young man in his early thirties straightened. “He knows we have the girl. As you are aware, he shadowed you through the attack on the American patrol. A small band of his men followed as you travelled north.”

“And now?”

“They have sent three men back to report your movements.”

“Well done, Adim.” Najibullah continued, “What of his main force?”

A third man, with salt in his beard, waved his arm. “They remain in the tribal lands. Al Qaeda is paying him well to protect their training camps. Every day they grow stronger.”

“Does he spare no forces to protect his caravans?”

“No more than usual,” the gray-bearded man said. “The drugs move north, the explosives move south. Unimpeded.”

Najibullah looked displeased. “What of ours, Baryal?”

“American helicopters attacked Dagar’s caravan yesterday. He was forced to scatter. Small groups will make their way south independently.”

“Losses?”

“A quarter. It could have been worse. Dagar did well, lord.”

Najibullah stroked his beard. “Very well, we shall progress to Phase Two. This is Sergeant Trainor. We are going to ransom her. Where are the nearest Americans?”

“There are Americans at Nangalam,” Adim Fazili said. “They are at the Afghan National Army post.”

Nangalam, in Kunar, is a village on the bank of the Pech. It is the southern terminus of the Kagur and Arwal river complex that extends all the way to Badakhshan. The US Army had tried to turn it over to the ANA, but the Afghans couldn’t hold it. A year later, the Americans returned to occupy the base.

“One of you shall make an overture,” Najibullah announced. “Right now, they do not know whether the woman is alive or dead. They need to be advised she is alive. We have her, and will return her for compensation. Who will go?”

“I will go,” Adim Fazili announced.

“No, I!” roared Ghazan.

“I will go,” Baryal shouted.

Najibullah laughed. He turned to Robyn and switched to English. “Each one of these men,” he told her, “wants to take news of your capture to the Americans at Nangalam. It is a dangerous journey. They may be attacked by Shahzad’s Taliban, by Americans, or by the Afghan National Army.”

“Why would Taliban attack Taliban?”

Najibullah laughed. Turned to the room and spread his arms. “She calls us Taliban.”

The room broke out in laughter and hoots of derision.

“I don’t understand,” Robyn said.

“We are not Taliban,” Najibullah told her proudly. “We are Mujahedeen. Shahzad is Taliban. Schooled in the Wahabi madras of Lahore. You Americans must learn the difference.”

He was right, Robyn thought. All Taliban were Mujahedeen, but not all Mujahedeen were Taliban.

Najibullah turned back to his officers. “How shall we prove to the Americans that we have this woman?”

“Cut off a finger and send it to them,” Baryal called out.

The group roared. Robyn flinched.

“We shall cut something off,” Najibullah muttered. He clapped his hands.

Robyn fought down the bile that rose in her stomach. She was going to fight. By God, she was not going to let these savages cut pieces off her.

A woman in a burqa entered. With deference, she approached.

Robyn shrank back. “Don’t you dare.”

“Cut her fingernails,” Najibullah snapped.

The woman produced a small ceramic bowl and plastic bag from the folds of her burqa. Knelt on the floor in front of Robyn.

“Give her your hands,” Najibullah commanded.

Heart pounding, Robyn held her right hand out. The woman produced a large nail clipper and trimmed Robyn’s fingernails. When she had done both hands, she shuffled the clippings from the bowl into the plastic bag and sealed it.

Najibullah took the bag from the woman and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“Your DNA is in the US Army registry, is it not?”

Robyn was impressed by Najibullah’s sophistication. Had the idea come from a Westerner, she would not have remarked it. Coming from this savage, the idea of providing DNA evidence of her captivity seemed worthy of awe.

“This—” Najibullah shook the bag “—will prove we have the woman. The Americans’ science will tell them it belongs to her.”

“They will not know she is alive,” Ghazan objected.

“Let them wonder,” Najibullah laughed. “Not knowing will make the Americans twice as desperate to find out.”

Robyn knew it was true. The army would recover the bodies, find hers missing. The media would be full of the news. An American woman missing in action. Heaven and earth would be moved to find her.

“Adim.” Najibullah held out the plastic bag. “Take twelve men and bring this to the Americans at Nangalam.”

The young man got to his feet and took the nail clippings from Najibullah. “What compensation should we ask, lord?”

Najibullah laughed. He turned to Robyn. “What will America pay to get you back? A million dollars? An independent Nuristan? Perhaps the President’s head on a golden plate.”

“Nothing.” Robyn’s voice was firm.

“Nothing.” Najibullah squinted at her. “Do they value your life so little?”

“We do not bargain with bandits. The United States will take me back.”

“We shall see.” Najibullah turned back to Adim Fazili. “Ask nothing,” he snapped in Pashto. “Let the Americans tell us what they think she is worth.”

“You couldn’t hide your knowledge of Pashto forever,” I say.

“No, but Zarek was proud of his English.” Robyn’s expression softens with the memory. “He learned it at the French lycée in Kabul when he was a boy. He speaks seven languages.”

“Seven.”

“Yes. Pashto, Dari, Farsi, Arabic, English, French and Russian.”

I struggle to make out Robyn’s expression in the dark. “Dari?”

“Yes, it’s a dialect of Farsi. Eighty percent of Afghans speak Dari or