Green on Blue (27 page)

It is time, don’t you think? Mr. Jack asked Atal.

He nodded and handed me the keys to his HiLux.

Good luck, said Mr. Jack. We’ll see you shortly.

–

Unlike the last trip, I drove the north road with my high beams on. These two fans of light made the blackness everywhere else complete. I navigated the switchbacks, made aware of a climb or a descent only by whether or not I was pressed into my seat or pressed forward into the steering wheel. Through the darkness, I traveled ten feet at a time and alone.

As I held the road’s course, my mind shifted to Mr. Jack and his money. In my pocket I held the promise of a future. In my back I had the Makarov and the promise of badal
.
The cost of killing Gazan would be Atal’s life, and I couldn’t kill Atal without also killing Mr. Jack. I thought of Mumtaz and the silent peace we’d enjoyed since I’d returned. What if I abandoned Commander Sabir and worked for Mr. Jack? I could eventually go back to Ali a wealthy man. Would wealth and the
possibility of a new life be badal enough for my castrated brother, and for me? Why should I kill Gazan when all it would give me was a future as Commander Sabir’s slave? A year’s pay. A pistol.

I opened the door and flung the Makarov into the night. End over end, it tumbled down the mountainside. If the chance for badal
came again, maybe I’d take it. If the chance to earn money for a new life came, maybe I’d take that. But nothing was clear to me now, and I didn’t want to act under the old certainties.

My HiLux suddenly jarred nose first into some hollow ground. The mine’s crater. I looked off to my left, to the drop down the mountainside, and to where Qiam’s body sat pinned beneath his truck, but I saw nothing except for the darkness that consumed everything. I shifted into a low gear, heaving myself up the crater’s far side. Its sharp edges had become weather beaten and smooth. Soon my HiLux gained enough tread to crest its lip. As it did, my headlights fell back against the road and washed over a dark figure—Gazan.

His slight body stood still and perfectly straight as though he were one of the pines that flanked the mountainside. He wore a black shalwar kameez, a black turban, and when you added to this his thick black beard, which started just beneath his eyes, he seemed swallowed by the night. He stared directly into my high beams and approached the passenger door with a confidence that unsettled me. He carried no rifle. He sat next to me in the cab and shut the door behind him. He began to knife his hand between the seat cushions, searching for something.

Where is my seat belt? he asked.

I don’t think we have one, I replied.

Only a fool would travel these mountains without a seat belt. He opened the door as if refusing to come. Then, taking another look at me, he asked: I’ve met you before, haven’t I? The one time in the forest, yes?

Yes, I said, one time in the forest.

Drive carefully, he demanded.

I nodded back. He shut his door and we set out toward Gomal.

One time in the forest, I thought
.
To figure so insignificantly was a small humiliation. If I ever took badal against him, it would be meaningless unless in that final moment he shared a complete understanding of how he’d impacted me. But maybe I didn’t need to kill him, maybe if he just knew, that would be enough and then I could take Mr. Jack’s money and start again.

As I drove, I spoke: The first time we met was in the forest, but you knew of my brother before then.

Is that right? asked Gazan. Who is your brother?

Ali Iqtbal, I said, spitting out the name in a clenched hot voice that surprised even me. He is the reason I’m here with you.

What happened? asked Gazan. Did the Americans or Special Lashkar kill him? His tone was flat and uninterested. His eyes were focused more intently on the ground in front of us than on the conversation between us.

No, he’s not dead. The war crippled him, or more specifically you did.

As I told him this, I felt as though I’d arrived at some destination, and I also fixed my stare at the headlights in front of us.

You must have a great anger toward me, said Gazan.

I said nothing.

And you want me to bring the peace? he asked.

I thought for a moment before I replied: Can you?

Gazan didn’t answer this question but offered another: How was your brother crippled?

At the Ashura festival bombing, I said, nearly a year ago.

He rolled his eyes back, remembering, and nodded.

That was a difficult time, he said, and his words held no apology, as though my loss had been caused by some event of God outside his
control, and perhaps it had been. Have you met Atal’s American? he asked.

I nodded.

And are you for him? he replied.

It depends. If he can bring the peace, I’m for him.

Yes, the peace. We’re all tired. And if I did the same?

And the words I spoke next surprised me: Then I could be for you.

What makes you think this American wants peace?

He spends money for it, I said. One can start again if there is enough money.

Gazan clutched at his beard, stroking it up to the knuckles, kneading at whatever wisdom lay inside. Perhaps, he said, but what you speak of is charity. Money is given for work. I don’t know how to do the work Atal and the American ask.

But I thought you were for the peace? I replied.

Peace isn’t built by soldiers, he said. It is built by others after the soldiers are gone. Men such as Sabir and me don’t know how to bring peace and don’t want to.

So you’ll leave?

If I can, he answered. The only way this ends is if I leave and if all those who wish to fight leave. Peace will not come through us.

We continued to climb and descend the switchbacks, seeing no farther than the short reach of our headlights.

–

In the valley the driving became flat and predictable. Had it been day, Gomal would have sat low and dusty on the plain. I strained to see into the distance as we went, so too did Gazan. Both of us awaited the moment when Atal and Mr. Jack would appear.

Soon we turned an easy bend in the road and Mr. Jack’s black HiLux
came into view. Inside it, Atal’s head rested against his arms, which hugged the steering wheel. He looked asleep. Mr. Jack stood in the HiLux’s bed with his American rifle slung against his chest and night-vision goggles pressed to his eyes. He scanned the north road with his back to us, searching in the wrong direction. Once we were on him, he turned with a start and waved in the air. He was excited and seemed almost surprised that his plan had come together so well.

We drove up next to them and stopped. Mr. Jack flung open Gazan’s door and took his hand, shaking it vigorously, in the American fashion.

Commander, welcome, he said.

Gazan reeled away, even as Mr. Jack grasped his hand. All he could say was: You speak Pashto.

I speak good Pashto, replied Mr. Jack.

Atal opened my door.

Sit in the back, he told me, behind Gazan. He handed me a Kalashnikov and said: For security.

The four of us climbed inside Atal’s HiLux, leaving Mr. Jack’s truck on the shoulder of the gravel road. Gently, I pressed the muzzle of my rifle against the back of Gazan’s seat, resting my finger on the trigger. My role in the meeting needed little explanation.

Mr. Jack squeezed into the back next to me, our shoulders touching. Awkwardly, he propped his rifle between his legs, muzzle down, to show Gazan that he posed no threat. Atal shifted into gear and set out on the road. Mr. Jack eagerly leaned forward over the parking brake, beginning his negotiation with Gazan: When Atal told me about this meeting, I said I needed to come.

Atal, he is honorable man, said Gazan. He strained over his shoulder toward the backseat. Nods of appreciation passed between the three of them. Gazan continued slowly, speaking Pashto to Mr. Jack like he was a child: Atal wants peace for his village. Atal resists Sabir and me the same
and wants to end war. This is why I first approach him. He wants to end war. I want to leave war. Americans are most powerful. You can give me way to leave. That is why I talk to you.

Gazan emphasized the word
leave
, and Mr. Jack nodded back, assuring him that he understood. Even though Gazan spoke to him like a child, Mr. Jack didn’t seem to notice. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Atal interrupted with words of his own: Gazan has wanted to leave this war for some time. He is tired, but Sabir keeps him fighting for his own purposes. Sabir wants to build an outpost in our village. He says it’s for our protection, but the construction contracts will fill his pockets. To justify the outpost, Sabir secretly supplies Gazan and keeps him on the attack, mortaring our village and mining our roads. Gazan, all respect to him, can do nothing against this. He must feed his fighters and make a living. Sabir can control him because he has money from you and the other Americans, but if Gazan makes peace with you, he can start a new life and my village can be left alone.

Gazan looked to Mr. Jack, searching for his reaction to Atal’s words.

I admire a man who wants peace for his village, said Mr. Jack, and he grabbed the side of Atal’s seat and patted him on the shoulder. He continued: And when I learned that you approached Atal, this did not surprise me. All respect him. But peace can only occur when all wish for it. Otherwise it is a false peace. Now is not that time. The war is bigger than one village and one group of militants. It still must be fought.

A confused silence fell through the truck. Atal continued to drive and as he did he spoke bitterly into the night: Some wars only feed themselves. They cannot be won, only starved.

Every war can be won, replied Mr. Jack, but not every war is fought well. Commander Gazan, I have much respect for you and understand that you want to be finished with war. But your position is of great value to us.

I am done with fighting, said Gazan.

You will not have to fight, answered Mr. Jack. You will only have to provide information to me about other Taliban and Haqqani militants. You will be well cared for.

By whom? asked Gazan.

By us, said Mr. Jack. You and your men will have better food, better weapons, and better pay. The supplies should still go through Sabir, but it is all by us. Of course, you will be compensated separately for the information you provide, and when you decide to leave, you’ll have money to do so.

Atal accelerated his HiLux faster and faster down the road. We turned a corner and I had to grab Gazan’s headrest to stay upright. My other hand still grasped the rifle. Its muzzle pressed into the back of Gazan’s seat.

This offers no peace for Gomal! Atal pleaded. If Sabir builds his outpost, all there will be is war.

Yes, for a time, said Mr. Jack. But with Gazan’s information and militants flocking to attack a target like the outpost, we’ll control much of the fighting.

Atal’s eyes were wide and desperate. He drove even faster now, but barely watched the road. He spoke to Gazan: You came to me seeking peace. You can’t be for this.

This is a way out for me, said Gazan. I am for this.

His response dropped from his mouth like a cold weight.

The restraint I’d felt toward Gazan left me. If the war was for him, he was for the war. If peace was for him, he was for peace. There could be nothing larger in him, and I felt the fool for hoping there could be, in him, in any of us. What moments before had seemed unclear was now obvious. There was no cause in this war, at least none larger than oneself. And what I did next was natural, and yes, easy.

The shot tore hotly through the back of Gazan’s seat and covered the windshield in a red blossom. White stuffing feathered on the sticky glass.

Atal slammed on the brakes, blinded by the smear. The truck skidded to a stop.

Mr. Jack fumbled with his rifle, its barrel stuck between his legs. He was clumsy as he struggled to lift it. The more he struggled, the more clumsy he appeared. I snapped the muzzle of my rifle up to his face and in that moment before I shot again, I looked into his eyes. The blue had all but left them. They were dry, the pupils hollowed and black, taking the last of the world in. The bullet went all the way through, shattering the window behind his head.

Atal clutched with panic at nothing. He had nothing. I paused for a breath. His death wasn’t for me. It pained me, not because I cared for him, but because of Fareeda, Mumtaz, and the village. Who would care for their interests now? But this was the price Commander Sabir required for Gazan. I didn’t know how he’d react to Mr. Jack. That had not been discussed. Across Atal’s face, confusion formed in lines. My journey up to this moment—my brother, joining the Special Lashkar, Tawas’s death—this was all invisible to him, but that invisible distance made my final action possible.

And when he slumped forward and found his place against Gazan, it looked as if they’d finally embraced.

D
eath brings with it great stillness to those who are close by. I sat in the truck with the three of them for some time. Moments before, I hadn’t even been certain I’d take badal
against Gazan. Now that it was finished, I hoped the stillness would reveal what I should do next.

I sat very quietly.

I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and sent Commander Sabir a message: IT IS DONE, RETURNING. The
IT
I referred to was Atal. Commander Sabir didn’t care about the other two. I’d killed Gazan for my badal. As for Mr. Jack, another American would surely replace him, causing little interruption in Commander Sabir’s plans. No one would know this killing had been a green on blue.

But as I thought about it, I felt uncertain it was. I no longer wore a uniform. Still, I’d been a member of the Special Lashkar, something the Americans made. I then recalled how Commander Sabir kept Gazan in business, and how the Americans kept Commander Sabir in business. And as I thought of all the ways one could be killed in this war, and of all those who could do it, I couldn’t think of a single way to die which wasn’t a green on blue. The Americans had a hand in creating all of it.