next to my father while he read Hardy Boys books to

me. Frank and Joe Hardy, teenaged detectives, could

solve any mystery, though finding one Mullah Moham-

med Zahed was beyond the scope of even their keen eyes

and deductive lines of reasoning.

Suddenly, I shivered as I thought of Dad lying in the

coffin he had built for himself in our woodworking shop

behind the house. He’d been so proud of that box, and

the rest of us had thought it so creepy and morbid of

him, but then again, it was fitting for him to design and

build his “last vehicle,” since he’d spent most of his life

in the auto plant.

CO MB AT O P S

117

After calming myself, I stood and thanked the ser-

geant who’d helped me, then left the center.

I was numb. The reality of it all wouldn’t hit me till

later.

Warris and Bronco were still waiting for me at my quar-

ters. I apologized to Warris and asked him to wait inside

my billet while I spoke to Bronco.

“Mind if I listen in?” asked the young captain.

Here we go, I thought. “Yeah, I do.” I pursed my lips

and looked fire at “the kid.”

“Hey, Captain Warris,” called Ramirez from the

doorway. “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to the rest

of the guys.”

Warris took a deep breath and scratched the peach

fuzz on his chin. “All right . . .”

I waited until he was out of earshot, then took a step

forward. “See this? Get used to this. This is me in your

face.”

Bronco frowned. “I didn’t figure you for a cowboy.”

“I’m not.”

“And I figured you’ve been here before.”

“I have.”

“Then maybe you have an idea of what you’re dealing

with here . . . or maybe you don’t. Like I said, just lock

up your dogs, and you and I will be just fine.”

“Okay.”

I stepped back from him, took a deep breath.

118 GH OS T RE CON

His eyes narrowed, deep lines spanning his face. “Just

like that?”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m a Texas boy. You?”

“Ohio. So you’re the cowboy.”

“And you’re the farmer. I think what you need to do

is listen to the CO here. He’s got it together. He under-

stands the delicate balance of power.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not my mission.”

Bronco checked his watch. “You got a minute. I’ve

got some friends I want you to meet . . .”

“Who are they?”

“Men who will provide, shall we say, enlightenment.”

“Oh, I’ve got that up to here.”

“Trust me, Joe. This will be worth your time.”

I thought about it. “I’m not coming alone.”

He looked wounded. “You don’t trust me. It’s not like

I work for the CIA or anything. Look, we’re just going

into the village. You’ll be fine. My car’s right over there.”

“This is important to you?”

“Very.”

“You think it’ll get me out of your face?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Maybe I was feeling suicidal, but I told Ramirez to enter-

tain Captain Warris until I returned. I drove off with

Bronco to a part of the village I hadn’t visited before,

where the brick houses were more circular and clustered

in a labyrinth to form curving alleys that opened into

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119

courtyards full of fruit trees and grapevines. In the dis-

tance lay great fields of wheat, sorghum, and poppy, and

off to my right was a mine-sweeping team along with

their dogs working the field where Kundi said it was

okay to drill the well. At least Harruck hadn’t been a

total fool about that. And for all intents and purposes,

he could have those minesweepers check the area where

Kundi had refused to drill . . . but he wouldn’t . . .

Bronco parked along a more narrow section of the

road, then led me onward into the dust-laden shadows of

the warren.

Several old men with long beards were trailed by chil-

dren holding a donkey by its reins. The animal was car-

rying huge stacks of grass to feed cattle penned up in the

south. Farther down the street, I spotted one of Har-

ruck’s patrols questioning a young boy of ten or twelve

wearing a dirty robe. The soldiers looked like high-tech

aliens against the ancient terrain.

We reached a narrow wooden door built into a wall

adjoining two homes and were met by a young man who

immediately recognized Bronco and let us in. He spoke

rapidly in Pashto to the boy, who ran ahead of us.

The courtyard we entered had more grapevines and

several fountains along a mosaic tile floor; it was, per-

haps, the most ornately decorated section of the village

I’d encountered. To our left lay a long walkway that ter-

minated in a side door through which the boy ran. We

started slowly after him, and I detected a sweet, smoky

smell emanating from ahead.

I was dressed like a regular soldier and still packing my

120 GH OS T RE CON

sidearm. I reached for the weapon as we started through

the door, and Bronco gave me a look: You won’t need that.

“Force of habit,” I lied.

Light filtered in from a windowless hole in the wall as

we came into a wide living area of crimson-colored rugs,

matching draperies, and shelving built into the walls to

hold dozens of pieces of pottery, along with silver trays

and decanters. Dust and smoke filtered through that

single light beam, and my gaze lowered to the three

men sitting cross-legged, one of whom was taking a long

pull on a water pipe balanced between them. The men

were brown prunes and rail-thin. Their teacups were

empty. Slowly, one by one, they raised their heads, nod-

ded, and greeted Bronco, who sat opposite them and

motioned that I do likewise. He introduced me to the

man seated in the middle, Hamid, his beard entirely

white, his nose very broad. I could barely see his eyes

behind narrow slits.

He spoke in Pashto, his voice low and burred by age.

“Bronco tells me they sent you here to capture Zahed.”

I glowered at Bronco. “No.”

“Don’t lie to them,” he snapped.

“Yes,” said Hamid. “The rope of a lie is short—and

you will hang yourself with it.”

“Who are you?” I asked him in Pashto.

“I was once the leader of this village until my son

took over.”

I nodded slowly. “Kundi is your son, and your son

negotiates with the Taliban.”

“Of course. I fought with Zahed’s father many years

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121

ago. We are both Mujahadeen. The guns we used were

given to us by you Americans.”

“Zahed’s men attack the village, attack our base, and

rape children.”

“There is no excuse for that.”

“Then the people here should join us.”

“We already have.”

“No, I need your son to cut off all ties with the Tal-

iban. There’s a rumor that the workers building the

school and police station have to give their money to

Zahed.”

“I’m sure that is true, but Zahed is a good man.”