Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2) (6 page)

She peeked from behind her grandfather’s jacket, and Mark held perfectly still. Every move she made was graceful. Feminine. This little girl was fast becoming a woman. Before long she would be married off to some young man, no doubt on his way to war like all the others. Mark hoped that young man would not be Taliban, and that he would be kind. Arzad’s sweet granddaughter deserved more.

She inched closer to the gift in Mark’s outstretched hand. Tentatively, she touched it with her index fingertip, but did not take it. “It is for me?”

Mark nodded. “It is only a few pieces of chocolate, but each one is supposed to taste different from the rest. Will you tell me how they taste?” As he placed the box in her hand, she nodded with serious brown eyes.

“Yes. I will tell you the taste of these chocolates,” she promised seriously. “Thank you, Mr. Mark.” Her skirt twirled when she turned back to Harley with another big hug. “But you are still my most favorite American in the whole world.”

“What can I say?” Harley’s face wrinkled with a cheesy grin. “Either you got it, or you don’t.”

Gulnar, Arzad’s wife, welcomed Harley and Mark into her humble home with a shy smile. She was as weathered looking as Arzad, but the same light sparkled in her eyes. As soon as they ducked into the door of her humble home, she spread a huge tablecloth over the rug on the floor. Najela scampered to retrieve a copper basin and pitcher of water, speaking softly to her grandmother.

“My guests. Please.” Arzad motioned Harley and Mark to sit with him on the floor. “We eat now.”

“This is called aftabah wa lagan,” Harley whispered as Najela brought the copper basin to each man. “We will wash our hands before we eat.”

Mark nodded. He appreciated that Harley assumed the role of tour guide. It never hurt to be reminded of the simple ways of Afghani hospitality. Najela knelt quietly at his side, offering a small piece of well-used soap.

“Thank you, Najela.” He washed his hands while she poured water into the basin to rinse.

Ducking with shyness, she handed him a small towel, and turned to repeat the process with Harley and lastly Arzad. When the men had all completed the washing, dinner commenced. Gulnar brought dish after dish of wonderful foods to the middle of the tablecloth—an extraordinarily large bowl of mutton stew, steaming bowls of rice and boiled potatoes. She and Najela brought trays of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, different kinds of cheeses, salads, grapes and a variety of dried fruits, and plenty of naan with sprinkles of poppy and sesame seeds, their traditional flat bread.

“This is the dastarkhan,” Harley explained quietly. “It’s their table setting.” He turned to Arzad’s very happy wife. “This is most excellent, Gulnar. I can tell you’ve been baking and cooking for days. I’m not good enough for so much wonderful food.”

She blushed and smiled as much as Najela, clucking as if her hard work was nothing. Before long, the men were well fed and relaxed. Mark rubbed a hand over his full stomach. The last time he had eaten a traditional Afghani home cooked meal had been during a medical visit to a nearby village when he was still in the Corps. The elders there had invited his squad to share their afternoon meal in thanks for the medical supplies and care. It was a mission of gently given assistance to simple people leery of the armor-clad men with guns. By the end of the visit, they had parted friends. He hoped.

The food was always interesting. Gulnar’s version of stew was filled with mutton and onions, and what looked like turnips instead of potatoes. The sweet and sour taste surprised him, but it was good. He had learned early in life not to be a picky eater. The Corps reinforced that lesson well. The abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables at the table told him Gulnar and Najela had been to the market. He liked the spicy eggplant salad, but mostly, he appreciated the constant attention of Arzad’s wife and granddaughter. His cup of shomleh, a favorite Afghani drink of water, yogurt, and mint, was never allowed to empty. The minute he drank, either Gulnar or Najela refilled it, always with a shy smile as if they were thanking him for drinking. Their humility and constant care touched him.

“Thank you again for picking us up at the airbase, Arzad,” Harley said between mouthfuls of rice and stew. “They give you any trouble?”

“I show them this.” Arzad pulled a base identification card out from his trouser pocket. “No problem.”

Mark smiled. Alex had thought of everything. Because of his military connections, it looked like Arzad was one of the few Afghani nationals allowed on base.

“So tell me,” Mark said. “How is the poppy business?”

Arzad shrugged. “Is same. Some men plant. Some don’t.”

“But it is still an illegal crop.”

“There is much illegal in my country.” Arzad looked up from sopping his naan in the stew. “A man must feed his family.”

“But you do not grow the poppies,” Mark said evenly. “How is it you are so lucky?”

The old Afghani’s eyes sparkled. “I serve Mr. Alex.”

Reaching for another serving of the tomato, cucumber, and onion salad, Harley supplied the story. “Yeah. A couple Taliban sharpshooters were taking potshots at the boss. Arzad, ahem, inadvertently started a rock slide.”

“Oops.” Arzad shrugged, his eyes glittering with mischief.

“You saved Alex?” That surprised Mark.

“Mr. Alex good man,” Arzad said firmly, and Mark had to look twice. There it was again, that loyalty thing his cantankerous boss seemed to inspire wherever he went.

When the meal was done, he started to rise to his feet to help clear dishes. Gulnar pushed him gently back to the floor, clucking her tongue and scolding. Her English was not as good as Arzad’s or Najela’s, but her meaning was clear. He would have persisted, but the stern smile on her face told him plenty. This was her house, her rules. The conversation was over.

She reminded him of another woman who wouldn’t let him help with dishes either. Libby had done the same thing that night at her parent’s home. For the millionth time since he’d left Wisconsin, he wondered if he should call, just to ask how she was doing. Caution hindered every inclination. She hadn’t answered a single e-mail message. Maybe it was too soon and too late at the same time.

After the excellent meal, Harley and Mark hauled their equipment and duffel bags to the rooftop. The house itself was a mud brick structure with a flat roof that served as a gathering place in the cool of the evening. Two rickety chairs and a table with a kerosene lamp stood in the corner. Harley reported in to advise Alex they had arrived while Mark set their gear and bedrolls against the far wall.

Arzad brought another round of chai along with a tray of rote, the sweet bread Gulnar had made especially for her guests. He also brought a bowl of pomegranates along with a small carving knife. By the time Harley and Mark were unpacked, the night was dark and dessert was served.

Still smiling, Arzad waved his arm at the sky full of stars as if he had ordered this celestial display in honor of his friends. “You see?”

“It is awesome, Arzad. We are blessed to be in your home tonight.” Harley bowed slightly to his diminutive host. “Thank you for always accommodating us in such a fine manner.”

Arzad gestured toward the night sky again. “We are like these children. Allah watches over all of us.” His eyes twinkled as if he were teaching a great mystery. The small Afghani turned to Mark. “You are married, yes?”

“No sir. Not yet,” Mark replied evenly, knowing American ways mystified the common Afghani man.

Arzad shook a scolding finger. “Too late to wait. Must marry soon.”

“Maybe someday.” Mark shrugged.

“Family is all there is. Like the stars of Allah, it is everything.” Arzad would not let it go. Again he motioned toward the star-studded sky. “Why not married yet? You have girlfriend? Yes?”

“Sure don’t.”

“But you do have friend who is girl, yes?” Arzad’s brow furrowed with that question.

“Well, yes. Now that you put it like that, I guess I do.”

Arzad looked pleased, as if he had just solved the problem. His old eyes sparkled. “Good. That is how marriage begins. Is she pretty girl?”

Mark smiled again, thoughts of Libby a welcome distraction in the stark countryside. “Very pretty.”

“Ah, good,” Arzad murmured appreciatively, “but beautiful woman not always a good thing. Wise man must not forget to look with his heart. Yes?”

Mark nodded at that astute observation, trying to divert the subject. “Then you must be a very fortunate man, Arzad. You live with two beautiful women. Yes?”

“I am happy man.” Arzad’s eyes lit up, but he could not be distracted. He turned his efforts to Harley. “I think Mr. Harley is not married, no?”

Harley rolled his eyes. “Not yet, old friend. I’m too busy to settle down. Maybe someday.”

Arzad shook his head as he looked back and forth at the two young men. “Ah. You Americans. You think you have all the time. Is not good to wait. There are many young girls in America, yes?”

“Yes, Arzad. There are many young ladies in America,” Harley explained patiently, “but we’ve both been travelling too much to think about marriage yet. It wouldn’t be fair to a woman to marry her and then leave her behind all the time, now would it?”

“Ah.” Arzad scowled, obviously not buying that argument. He leaned toward Harley with his hand half-covering his mouth. “Allah has made women much stronger than us men think. Do not tell Gulnar, but it is true. I am sure. You will see when you have woman. She will surprise you. She will look soft.” He made the shape of a woman’s vertical profile with both hands and a big smile. “But she will be tough like you. Maybe more tough.”

“No doubt.” Harley chuckled. “But when I marry, I’ll want to spend my time with my wife, not a bunch of ugly guys in Afghanistan.”

“Ha.” Arzad chuckled, pointing to Mark and then himself. “He is calling us the ugly guys.”

Mark watched the exchange. Harley still suffered with post-traumatic stress disorder from an injury he had received in Iraq. Once he left the service, he’d resorted to a variety of self-medications, none of which helped with the real problem of too many memories. It was only after he came to work for The TEAM that he finally did time in rehab to get his head out of drugs and his life in order.

More boy than man, he never should have gone to war in the first place, not that any man should. His decision to take on the tough alpha EOD dogs and become a canine handler for the Army actually spoke to his gentler side. The man had a soft streak a mile wide when it came to dogs, children, and older folks. Judging by the tender look on his face now, he cared deeply for this particular friend.

Harley’s answer seemed to appease the elderly Afghani, but the light in his eyes faded. “Many beautiful women and girls in my country need husbands. Men go to fight. Women and babies are left behind. War is not good thing.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Harley said softly. “This new Russian in town is a danger to your country.”

“You are right. In morning you will see he is not good man. He has brought much suffering to my village.”

They sat in silence as the universe revolved overhead. At last Arzad stood to leave. “You will marry soon?” he asked like he needed that problem solved before he retired.

Harley gave him a quick nod. “You don’t have to worry about us. We’ll know when the time is right.”

“It is good thing to marry. And it is good to have many children,” Arzad said quietly. “Is not good to be alone. Man alone is a sad man.”

With those final words, he joined his wife and granddaughter downstairs. Mark listened to his quiet conversation with Gulnar, no doubt lamenting the marital status of his strong male guests who should have been married and blessed with a dozen children by now.

“What is he? The local matchmaker or something?” Mark flopped onto one of the bedrolls.

“Nah,” Harley replied. “Family is important to these people. That’s all. He wants us to be happy like he is.”

“I’m surprised he’s not working the poppy fields like some of the other farmers.”

“He’s seen what happens to the men who’ve gotten caught up in the drug trade.” Harley sank to his bedroll, balancing yet another helping of the chai and rote as he sat down. “And he’s from another generation, kinda like our boss. He’s only doing what he knows how to do.”

“I’m surprised there’s a Russian involved. That’s not good,” Mark said. What a profound understatement. The evidence of Russian interference in this country still littered the hills with unexploded ordnance and charred wreckage. Of course, so did American interference. He hoped the American version had served a higher purpose and maybe did a little more good.

“Russian mobs are everywhere, especially when drugs are involved. You know that.”

“Yes, but Arzad takes too many risks. I know he’s not doing drugs, but he needs to get out of this business. He’s still too close to it.”

“I know. Alex and I have tried to get him to bring his family to America for years.” The sweet bread lay across Harley’s chest as he leaned against the wall and slurped a cup of hot chai. “The man won’t budge.”

“I would if it meant my family’s safety.”

“Me, too, but his whole life is here, and Gulnar won’t leave her mother. He says his family is all he’s got. Poor guy has already lost most of them anyway.”

“Yeah. What’s the story behind Najela? Where are her parents?”

Harley sighed. “Arzad lost three sons fighting the Russians during their occupation, and then the Taliban showed up with their circus. They went from town to town drafting young men at the end of a gun. Arzad’s son resisted.”

“They killed him?”

“And his wife. Dragged them into the town square and put a bullet in their heads to make an example of ‘em. Najela was just a baby. Gulnar found her still asleep at their house.”

“Damn,” Mark said softly. Arzad and his fellow countrymen were the only reason Afghanistan had any hope for the future. Mark had met a few others like Arzad when he had been deployed. They didn’t come much better.

“These folks have had their share of crap. Whole country has.”

“She sure likes you.”

“Yeah,” Harley said. “She’s a cute kid. Alex and I have been here a couple times. Arzad’s a good friend.”

“How does Mr. Stewart reimburse him for all of this? Arzad just fed us a meal fit for a king, plus he’s giving us free room and board for a couple months. What’s Stewart got, a bank account over here or something?” Mark asked.

“I asked him once. He told me it was none of my business.”

Mark dropped the subject. There was no sense discussing their boss, so he lay on his bedroll with his arms crossed behind his head staring at the stars. He’d been especially touched by Arzad’s gentle admonition,
‘Family is everything.’
His thoughts turned to Libby. What was she doing? Was she okay? Had she moved on and found another man in her life? A stab of irritation poked him. He hoped not.