The Sixth Martyr Read online

  Akram’s brow darkened. He could be morose at times, like now, when he didn’t get what he wanted. “We should go,” he repeated.

  Javed had an idea. "Listen, what about a few days away from this place? We could walk to Bande Pitaw, live rough for a few days, and have an adventure."

  The other boy was thoughtful, and he finally nodded. "We could do that, yes. And while we’re there, we’ll discuss our plans about what to do when we get to Kabul."

  "It's a deal."

  Before he could say more, the worshippers began to enter the main room. They walked in barefoot and knelt on the huge rug. One of the few rugs in the town, people could no longer afford such luxuries. The Mullah appeared, Habib Ahmadi. A firebrand cleric, and every Friday people had no illusions about the tone of his speeches. Knew they were about to hear another call to help defend the Islamic revolution against the might of the Coalition soldiers and airplanes. Although quite how they could do that, Javed had no idea. They were farmers and goat herders.

  What do we know about warfare? Besides, if we went up against the combined might of the Northern Alliance, the Afghan National Army, and the American led NATO military, most could expect to die. Who will feed their families then? Does the Mullah ever consider such practicalities?

  The room went silent, and Ahmadi began speaking.

  "We will strike a mighty blow for Allah. A blow that will halt the infidel invasion at a stroke! This is our destiny, to strike a hammer blow for Islam. God willing, we can do this. I have a plan that will assure victory.”

  They stared at him in astonishment. Wondering what kind of hitherto secret weapon he planned to explode like a thunderclap over the invading armies, to scorch them from the land.

  "If there is a monster we want to kill," he continued, "What do we do?"

  Most of them shook their heads. He stared at them for long seconds, and then smiled. It came out as more of a grimace. Mullah Ahmadi wasn’t known for smiling.

  "We cut off the head. Which is exactly what we will do, and to achieve this, no sacrifice will be too great.” They shifted nervously, not liking the direction his words were taking. Sacrifice was a word that sounded ominous.

  “The armies that threaten us are led by evil men; the fat generals who sit in their luxurious, air-conditioned offices and send troops, tanks, and warplanes to kill our people. This will stop. I have a plan to put an end to this insult to Allah. These men, these fat generals, they are the ones who will die. And we will kill them. Us, the people of Chiras.”

  He paused, knowing the effect his words had on them, and he could almost smell their fear. Then he nodded, as if he'd decided they were worthy to hear the rest of his grand plan.

  "We will send six of our young people to carry out this sacred task. Al Qaeda, the organization led by Sheikh Osama bin Laden, may God protect him, has given us the means to do this. Martyrs’ vests, canvas garments packed with explosives. The chosen ones will get close to the target, and detonate the bombs they carry about their person. I have decided to use six martyrs, because of the importance of the target. Six martyrs, six vests loaded with bombs, all detonating at the same time. Not one of these accursed generals will survive. Within days, the invaders will be running back to their own countries, terrified of the might and resolve of the faithful."

  They were stunned. Struggling to understand what it would mean for the town of Chiras. One man held up his hand, daring to interrupt him. "Mullah, what happens to the young people wearing these bomb vests?"

  "Their place in Paradise is assured, for these are the words of the Prophet."

  "You mean our sons will die?"

  "Not die," he snapped, "They will begin their journey to Paradise. Enough, this is my decision. I will give you the names of these martyrs.”

  He read out the names one by one. The third was Akram, and to Javed's surprise, his eyes were alight with enthusiasm. He mumbled, "We will strike a blow for Allah."

  Are you serious? You just received a death sentence.

  His mind was in turmoil. He felt anger for the fate of his best friend. How did anyone know what Allah had in mind? Ahmadi called the fifth name, and they were all boys. The Mullah's voice intoned the name like a bell tolling the end of the world.

  "Javed Amiri, you will be the sixth. Six heroes, and you will all report to me later after the evening meal for your instructions. Until the final day, you will stay in the madrassa next to the mosque. You can spend your remaining time on earth training for your mission, and in solemn prayer for your souls. God willing, your sacrifice will enable this country to return to the rule of Islamic law."

  Akram tried to engage him in conversation as they walked out together. “Javed, this is a sacred duty. We are all honored."

  He stared at his friend and felt sickened by the excitement he saw in his eyes. He didn't feel honored. He felt as if Mullah Ahmadi had a knife hovering over his heart, over all their hearts.

  “Do you feel honored, Akram? What about our plans, to go to Kabul and make our fortune?”

  “Eh? This is the supreme moment in our lives. What is a fortune compared to Paradise?”

  Outside the mosque, Mahmud Pazira, a close associate of Ahmadi, confronted them and blocked their way.

  "You two boys are amongst the martyrs chosen to destroy the infidel generals?"

  Akram nodded eagerly. "Yes, that is correct."

  His smile was a little too lopsided. "May I offer my congratulations?"

  Javed gave him a sharp look. The way he said it, it didn't sound like he was congratulating them. More like he despised them for becoming the unwitting tools of Ahmadi's grand scheme.

  The fall guys.

  “Thank you, Mahmud.”

  His lips formed the semblance of a smile. “You have the admiration of all of us. You are now the anointed of God."

  Again the sneer, and Javed knew the man didn’t believe a word of the bullshit he was feeding him. He made an excuse about needing to attend to his sick mother, and he went home. She'd already heard the news, and she was sitting on the cold, stone floor, weeping. Maryam was trying to comfort her, but more than ever their mean dwelling had become a house of tears. He tried to reassure them.

  "It's not as bad as you think. The Mullah said I will go straight to Paradise."

  "Oh, Javed," she wailed, "Why do you listen to this stupid nonsense? Please, I beg of you. Get away from this place."

  "What about you and Maryam? How would you survive without me?"

  His younger sister gave him a sharp look. "I know how to herd the goats, and you have shown me the safe paths through the minefields. I will be fine, but you must live. If you die, the family name dies. Javed, you are the last surviving male, after they killed our father. You must run, and save yourself. Soon, the Coalition armies will arrive here, and throw out the Taliban and men like Mullah Ahmadi. It will be safe for you to return, but in the meantime, you must go. Hide."

  His mother nodded. "She's right. You must leave at once. Find somewhere to hide for a few weeks."

  He nodded. “Very well, I will go to Bande Pitaw, the national park. I've been meaning to go camping there some time, and this will be my chance. Mother, I must take the rifle."

  "Of course, you must. How else can you defend yourself against bandits, or shoot game to eat? Go as soon as it is dark. Don't worry about us, my son, we will be fine."

  He embraced his mother and spent the remainder of that day preparing for his flight. When darkness fell, and it was time to report to the madrassa, he shouldered the AK-47 that had once belonged to his father, and set out for the trek to Bande.

  It went wrong from the start. A Talib, a friend of Ahmadi, saw him leaving the town and recognized him as a chosen martyr. He gave chase, and although Javed managed to avoid him, he took the wrong path and soon became lost. It was dawn when he picked up the road to Bande, and he was exhausted after wandering through the night lost for so many hours. Still, he was now on the right road, and his spirits soared. He wou
ld reach Bande by the end of the day. Until he rounded a bend, and Akram was standing in the road. Waiting for him.

  His glare was wrathful. A mirror of the Mullah he worshipped. "You fool. You know what you've done?"

  "Akram, I chose life over death."

  "You have chosen to commit blasphemy, and now you have made things even worse. When you didn't arrive at the madrassa, Mullah Ahmadi decreed that your family should provide a replacement. They have selected Maryam to become the sixth martyr."

  "Maryam?" He felt black despair deep in his guts, "They can't do that. She's a girl."

  The other boy snorted. "She's young, and she looks innocent. Who would suspect her? She will be perfect."

  "I’ll go back and free her."

  The smile was a sneering rictus. "You're too late. When they arrived at the house, she was out visiting a friend. Your mother got word to her, and she ran as well."

  Javed felt relief; there was hope. “Good. At least now she will live."

  “Until they find her, and they are searching for her now. There is something else. The Taliban blamed your mother for both of you running away to avoid your sacred duty. They dragged her out of the house and beat her. Javed, I'm sorry, but she died."

  The feeling of relief fled, and he shook his head in horror. "No, I don't believe it."

  "It is true. Come back with me, and try to make amends. You must carry out this holy mission the Mullah has given us."

  "No! It’s madness. Akram, you must come with me and leave this place."

  "And disobey the laws of Islam? Are you mad?"

  "What about our plans to go to Kabul?

  "Why would we wish to go to Kabul, when we are going to Paradise instead? The alternative is to go to hell, not to Kabul."

  When he questioned him further, he got the impression Maryam was heading south, toward Bande. Of course, she knew where he was headed, and she would follow him.

  I must reach Bande Pitaw and find her in the vast, empty space of the national park. Our mother is dead. Together, we’ll go to Kabul, to the big city. There’s nothing left for us in Chiras.

  He told Akram he wasn’t coming back, and the boy spoke to him in hate-filled tones. "In that case, we are enemies. You are the accurse of God, and your soul will be consigned to hell."

  Then he turned on his heel and set off back toward Chiras. Javed went on, his mind sick with the knowledge of what had happened since he fled. His mother dead, Maryam running, and who knew if she would survive. He'd been walking the entire night and half the next day when he reached the outskirts of Bande. Without food, sleep, or rest, he was almost dead with exhaustion, and he instinctively made his way toward the lake in the center of Bande Pitaw. It was the best place he could think of to look for Maryam.

  There was water there and some shade to protect them from the elements, the harsh midday sun, and the intense, bitter cold of the winter nights. At last, during the late afternoon, he saw the gleam of water in front of him, but he was too exhausted to reach it. He hadn’t taken any liquid for almost eighteen hours, and his mind wouldn’t order his tired, desperate, and aching muscles to propel him any further forward. His vision blurred, and he fell on the hard, dusty ground, knowing it was his final act. He was waiting to die, and it would come soon.

  Chapter Two

  At first when he stepped off the plane at Kabul International, he'd somehow thought things might look different, and that he was totally wrong about the shithole he’d recently left. Then he got a cab into the city, and he found he wasn't wrong. It was as bad as ever. Worse. He called Sarah Glass.

  "Hi, it’s me, Joe. I’m in Kabul, does your offer still stand?"

  She sounded warm. "Joe, I told you, you'll always be welcome, and you can stay for as long as you want. You want me to pick you up?"

  “No, that’s nice of you, but I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “A few days? Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be seeing you.”

  He hung up. At that moment, he still couldn't face spending time in the company of people, not even Sarah. He needed a few days to get his thoughts together, and he was still undecided about his next move. He was also undecided about how he'd live the rest of his life, and a single idea was foremost in his mind. Maybe it had been part of an unconscious decision to come to this place. A single word kept repeating itself. Revenge. He didn't want justice, couldn't give a fuck about the law, about justice. The guy had killed his brother, the bearded, white-robed lunatic who went by the name of Osama bin Laden. A Saudi, and he’d made it his business to declare war on the United States. And he’d murdered a certain Chuck Tyler, who was going about his ordinary, lawful business on that fateful day in the North Tower.

  Bin Laden, world-class asshole. There’ll be a long queue waiting to put a bullet in your head, and Joe Tyler is in that queue, working his way toward the front.

  The decision was made. He’d declared war on bin Laden, and on everything he stood for. Although so far, he hadn't got a clue how he’d be able to fight that war. One man against a horde of cultist, murdering lunatics, and what he needed was time to think, to plan, and to prepare. He put food and water in his pack and found a gunshop he remembered from when he was there before. He bought a pistol, an automatic, a reliable and well-used Colt 1911. Tyler tossed his pack on his shoulder and took the ramshackle bus out of Kabul, heading north. He’d recalled a place he wanted to visit from last time he was in the country.

  He alighted from the bus on the road that passed alongside Bande Pitaw, a national park, quiet and remote. Perfect for a short stay to lick his wounds and get his head straightened out. He knew there were shelter, water, and small game he could shoot to eat. Most of all, the solitude he craved. He set his pace in an easy stride and strolled toward the park. In the late afternoon, he came across the first dead body. Back in the country for a few hours, and he was face-to-face with the first victim. Death and Afghanistan, they went together like hamburger and fries, Scotch and soda, blood and corpses.

  Except this person wasn’t dead. He was just a kid, and when he turned the body over, the boy was still breathing. He took out a bottle of water and managed to get some past his lips. After he’d made him drink some of the liquid, he moved him onto his side to make him comfortable. A few minutes later, the boy's eyes opened. He mumbled something in Pashtu.

  Joe shook his head. "I'm sorry, do you speak English?"

  "English, yes. Who are you, Mister?

  “The name’s Joe Tyler. What about you?"

  “Javed Amiri."

  "Javed, okay, nice to meet you. It looks to me like you came here with no food and no water. Nothing to keep you alive apart from that gun." He smiled, glancing at the AK-47, "Can you shoot?"

  The boy’s eyes met his, more wary than hostile. "I can shoot. It was my father's rifle, and I taught myself to use it." He spoke not without a measure of pride.

  Tyler noted the use of the word ‘was.’ The kid’s father was dead, another casualty of the Taliban, most likely.

  "Tell me what you’re doing here. Did you intend to hunt with that rifle?"

  "I'm looking for my sister. Her name is Maryam. Have you seen her, Mr. Tyler?”

  “Your sister? What would she be doing here on her own?”

  He quickly explained what had happened in Chiras. Javed felt he could trust him, and he told the American everything. How they'd chosen him as a martyr. How when he ran, they nominated Maryam to take his place. And then she’d run as well, no doubt looking for him.

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s dead. They killed her after they found out I’d gone.” His eyes filled with tears, “This is all my fault. I should have done what they said and blown myself up. Then they would be safe. My mother would be alive. My sister wouldn’t be lost.”

  He put a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Kid, it’s not your fault. Men who send their children to die are savages. They’re the ones to blame.”


  “He said the sacrifice would be for God, and I have blasphemed.”

  “I doubt God sees it that way. You did the right thing.”

  "But my sister, I have to find her. She is too young to fend for herself. Without food or a weapon, she will surely die."

  He wept bitter tears of despair, and again Joe calmed him. Almost without thinking, he decided. "I'll help you find her, so just relax. She won’t have starved to death, not this soon.”

  Javed looked up. “You will help me? You mean that?”

  He didn't know why he’d made the offer, just that he’d found a vulnerable kid in serious trouble, and his instinct was to help him. "Get some sleep, and we’ll start looking in the morning."

  "Thank you, Mr. Tyler. There’s something else you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They'll come looking for us. For me and for Maryam."

  "They?"

  “They’ll send Taliban fighters, the Mullah’s men. They will not rest until they have us back. Then they will kill us."

  He nodded. After the vicious fighting he’d seen during his service with Alpha Squad, he knew the kid wasn't fooling around. Anyone who disobeyed their depraved, vicious religious mindset ran the risk of death. Most times, there was a single question. How unpleasant they'd make it. And they always tried hard to make it as painful and drawn out as possible. He prepared food and managed to persuade the boy to eat. As night fell, he looked better, and he started to panic. The boy talked about leaving immediately to find her before the Talibs got her.

  Tyler put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Javed, that's not a good idea. Blundering around in the dark will get us nowhere. You need rest and sleep. They won’t be coming, certainly not until daylight, which means we have plenty of time. Get some rest, and we’ll go looking at first light."

  The kid gave in, and soon he fell asleep. Tyler was tired, and he lay down on the hard ground. His dreams were filled with images of burning skyscrapers, people jumping from tall buildings to escape the agonies of death by burning. And over it all, he heard Chuck’s voice.