The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (34 page)

Western Punjab Province Late November 2003

B
itterness…

A warm rush…

She was impetuous, this mistress, standing on her tiptoes, licking his neck, her diaphanous skirt crumpled between them, her crotch rubbing hard against his firm penis, making him want to fuck her, fuck her just as much as she wanted to bathe in his blood.

She was back inside him again, the heroin swarming deep in his brain. Morgan craved her visits—and the pain would go away.

Pain…

He had hurt for so long, but then, for a while, nothing would hurt. The pain would be hidden far, far away. He knew it would come back. It always came back—but right now it was gone. Sweat seasoned his tears with salt, and he was again drifting on a warm, sybaritic sea, ready to ejaculate…

Then he slept.

A fly landed on his leg.

Swoosh….

The sound swept from behind as a small sprig chased after the insect, shooing it away. A slight wisp of cool air followed. As the puff passed, Morgan shivered then writhed, the mat’s coarse fibers pricking his wounds.

He vomited, stunned by the tiny hot pokers of agony.

The blessed unconsciousness was gone.

Nadia, where are you?

His swollen eyelids cracked open. A brigade of ants paraded past his nose, carrying dried spit for their monarch. He tried to focus on a crocheted topi that bobbed and rocked. Beneath the knitted skull cap was the face of a boy, maybe seven.

Swoosh…

The tiny bough never touched his skin, but the waft brought the tang of ripe goat shit. He tried to vomit again, but nothing came up.

Dying awake! That’s how he felt. A cold steel knife edge was again slicing its precise line through his skin, while operating-room lights cooked the guts spilling out of his belly.

No anesthesia.

Swoosh…

Nadia was late.

The bangles clinked as her henna-tattooed hand shooed the ants. Suddenly he smelled bitter vinegar, then the horniest woman on Earth was fucking him again and again, their bodies shuddering, then exploding each time they came.

Bliss…

His heart raced. Through his pinpoint pupils, Morgan watched the eunuch return the vial of powder to her purse. She sat down, crossed her legs and cradled Morgan’s head in her lap. As sweet tea poured in his mouth, he heard the dissonant muezzin’s call to prayer—the last of the day. The loudspeakers were far away. Chewing rice and bean stew with lamb meat, he tried to think. Through the haze he began to remember, the first time he was able to recall anything.

The driver…He was so fucking hopped up on neswar…

The Toyota had screeched to a halt when Nadia waved it down at the park. When they got in, the wiry driver with hot eyes squeezed the black gum of tobacco, hashish, and heroin between his teeth and pressed his foot hard on the pedal. Slobbering ceaselessly and never once touching the brake, he accelerated toward every obstacle in front. Morgan sat quietly, awaiting the tragedy to reach its final act, while Nadia said nothing as the ends of her hajib flapped in the wind’s slipstream through the shot-out rear window.

Morgan saw the mountains looming beyond the forest of burkas that walked with children in tow. In linked succession, men with fixed gazes alongside the road monitored every unknown car, wary of imprudent outsiders who dared to tread into their world.

From the few words Morgan heard Nadia say on the phone, he knew a five-star resort was not his destination. When he saw a small store, he requested the driver stop, ostensibly so he could buy them some food and tea.

What he really hoped to find were antibiotics.

The column-shift jalopy skated diagonally for a dozen feet, stalling in a cloud of gravel dust and oily exhaust. The driver killed the motor and, with baleful-looking sewage leaking from both corners of his mouth, vaulted out and leapt to open Morgan’s door. No sooner had Morgan gotten out but he saw the man light his next of a seemingly endless chain of cigarettes, while taking a leak on the rear tire.

Morgan placed meat, cheese, and bottled tea in front of the shopkeeper and peered over the man’s head to a shelf with a row of glass jars. Morgan looked at the labels.

“Ten of those,” he said, pointing to the antibiotic ciprofloxacin, hoping the logo meant it was real and not rat poison.

The man counted out the tablets and poured them into a paper cup. He presented his open hand for payment.

Morgan gave the shopkeeper the revolver and bullets. It was best to get rid of them. Wherever he was being taken, the more naked he was when he arrived, the more likely he’d live to see the next day. There was the added consolation that if his new handlers decided to use him for target practice, at least it wouldn’t be with his gun.

The shopkeeper nodded his approval, placed the piece in his lap, and reached farther beneath the green checkered table cloth. Grasping Morgan’s wrist, he pressed an egg-sized chunk of black Pakistani hashish in his palm and closed Morgan’s fingers. With a knowing smile, he pointed at Morgan’s groin, then pumped his hand up and down briefly over the table.

“Enjoy, with or without your wives,” he laughed.

When he returned to the car, Morgan gave the ball of dope to the driver, who pinched off a wad and wedged it behind what few back teeth he had, for safe keeping.

The solitary road race began again.

The next day Nadia bathed him. After watching her stoke an oil drum fireplace with a chip of dung, she motioned for Morgan to stand.

He sat up and studied his crusting leg scars through the dim light of the kerosene lantern then looked at his arms. He flexed his muscles. None of the long bones were broken. A deep breath without splinting pain told him his lungs and ribs were okay.

He stood, keeping his bare feet on the rug.

Unsteady at first, his balance soon returned. His limb and core strength was diminished, but his reflexes and proprioception remained intact.

His body worked, but would take effort to rebuild it.

Nadia washed him from forehead to feet with a sponge, repeatedly soaking it in warm lemon water while Morgan looked around the small room.

He saw the bucket he used for urine and stool, which Nadia dutifully emptied every time she came. He assessed the simple plywood walls, supporting a flat-beamed ceiling. The irregular-shaped opening where the stove pipe stuck out was sealed with mud. The poorly hung door was locked from the outside. The only window had an inner smoke film and bars on the outside.

He shivered.

The air was cooler, so he had to be at a higher altitude, perhaps in the foothills of mountains. He squinted through the window and thought he saw snowy peaks.

West of Chakwal?

The sun’s low angle made it impossible to tell. He’d have to wait until morning.

How long have I been in this shed?

He looked at his legs wounds. The inflammation and swelling were almost gone.

Nadia’s face was healing. The faded henna tattoo covering her hand told him Ramadan was over.

Two weeks?

He looked at his legs again. New pink tissue surrounded red.

These injuries are more like three or four weeks old…

The bath continued.

Morgan remembered the Toyota sliding to a stop and four armed men walking toward them on a gravel path. While opening her car door, Nadia had greeted them like old friends. When their conversation melded with sinister laughs, he presumed his body would soon be in danger and crammed a handful of the antibiotics into his mouth.

An AK-47 barrel had bored into his ear. When he got out of the car they put a sack over his head before dragging him over small stones to some trees. Bound spread eagle between the low branches—they took turns with a braided rope slapping his back while they asked questions, hunting for lies or a forgotten verse. They examined his foreskin to see if he was circumcised—searching for any excuse to slit his throat.

They had asked about
Cay-hay—
baptizing his wounds with gasoline for sleeping with a slut.

With each lash he screamed but never yielded.

Morgan looked down at Nadia gently toweling him dry. He didn’t know how his limp body had gotten into the shack except that the Pashtun creed always protected a friend. Maybe she had dragged him herself…

Morgan watched her dab a finger in a pot of honey to seal each scar with the ancient bandage. When she saw his face, she smiled. He smiled back, masking his deeper thoughts.

She’s the only one alive who heard me say Cay’s name while I slept on the train.

His gut muscles tensed. The high from the heroin was fading again.

Nadia continued painting his wounds.

When she finished, she looked at him with a satisfied smile.

“Leave it…please,” he said weakly.

Nadia pressed the vial in his clammy palm and grinned as Morgan fondled it between his fingers.

She had addicted him, perhaps a consequence of a good intention—perhaps not.

Morgan gave an appreciative stroke down Nadia’s long hair all the while contemplating wringing her neck.

His stomach wrenched and he tightened his throat, hiding his misery behind a persistent smile implying gratitude for her kindness, but Morgan was thanking her for a very different reason.

The intent of the beatings was submission, not to kill him. He had passed their bona fides and would become a terrorist-in-training.