The Guardian
Authors: David Hosp
To my family
One of the most sacred relics in all of Islam is kept in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Carried into battle by the Prophet Mohammed, it is believed by many Muslims to give great power
to whoever possesses it. Ahmad Shah Durrani, the founder of the last great Afghan dynasty, captured it in the eighteenth century, around the time of the unification of what would become modern
Afghanistan.
It has been exhibited in public only three times in modern history. The last time was in 1996, following the withdrawal of the Soviet Union and during a time of civil war, when Mullah Omar, the
leader of the Taliban, held it aloft before a group of
ulema
– religious scholars – and thousands of his supporters. Many believed that display conferred legitimacy, and shortly
thereafter he defeated his primary rival and established the rule of the Taliban. That rule lasted for five years, until the invasion by the United States.
To this day, many believe that only the power of the relic can unite a nation that is still torn apart.
PROLOGUE
2002
Akhtar Hazara crept along the hallways of the mosque at the center of the ancient city of Kandahar. He was thirteen years old, and the weight of the Soviet-era assault
rifle slung across his back cut into the muscles of his narrow shoulders. It was late in the evening and the day’s last prayers had been said. The world was quiet for the moment.
The mosque was modest by the standards of the great halls of Islam in Riyadh and Istanbul and even Kabul. It was a smallish cubed structure, its exterior covered in filthy blue-and-gilt
mosaics. In a city as poor as Kandahar, though, it was considered an oasis of luxury and safety. In the courtyard the goat that kept the grass cropped could be heard braying softly. Outside the
walls, traffic had ebbed along Khuni Serok – the ‘Bloody Road’ – the main thoroughfare that carved through the area.
Akhtar slipped along the passageway until he came to the door. He put his ear to it and listened for a moment, confirming that the room was empty. Once he was certain, he took the key from
his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open.
The anteroom was unfurnished. There was no rug to cover the cold tile floor. The paint on the walls was in need of a fresh coat.
He stepped in and closed the door. There were no windows, and the room went instantly pitch. He inched forward, his hands raised above his head, waving back and forth until one of his
fingertips brushed against the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. Raising himself up on his toes, he switched the light on. The bulb was weak, and it cast a wan yellow light, but it was enough
for him to find the door at the far end of the room. He moved silently to it and took hold of the knob.
He hesitated. Breathless. Shaking.
He turned the knob and pushed the door.
There was barely enough light from the bulb in the anteroom to see within the small inner chamber. The paint was peeling here as well, but at least there was a threadbare rug covering the
floor.
The chest was against the far wall. It was wooden, with ornate carvings and gold inlay, and it rested like a miniature coffin upon a brass base. It seemed to be glowing, though Akhtar
attributed that to the irregular shadows cast by the deficient bulb behind him. The mere sight of the chest took his breath away. He moved slowly toward it, terrified and desperate.
He bent down and examined it closely. There was a latch and a set of hinges on the side. With trembling hands he unhooked the latch and reached to pry it open.
‘What are you doing!’
The irate shout came from behind him. Akhtar spun and faced a heavyset man in his late-thirties with a long beard and a thick turban. His face was contorted in rage.
‘I . . . I . . . I . . .’ Akhtar stammered.
‘You are forbidden to be here!’ the man yelled.
‘I only wanted to see it,’ Akhtar protested.
The man’s frown remained, but his tone softened somewhat. ‘That is not permitted, Akhtar!’ he said. ‘Not for anyone!’
‘I know, Uncle. I just thought . . .’
The man walked over and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I know what you thought,’ he said, relenting. ‘Your time will come, Akhtar. Our family has protected
Mohammed’s treasure for more than two centuries. It is a greater responsibility than you can yet imagine. You must learn to take that seriously. It is one of the most sacred objects in all of
Islam. It is the beating heart of our nation.’
Akhtar stared at the chest for a moment. ‘Are you afraid of it?’
His uncle shook his head. ‘I am afraid
for
it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it has great power. And power can be used for both good and evil.’ He took his hand from Akhtar’s shoulder and looked down upon him.
‘Is that why my father was shot?’
‘It is. Men will kill for it. Nations will go to war over it. It is said that he who controls it controls Afghanistan. That is why we must protect it.’
‘How do we protect it? We are so few.’
His uncle smiled at Akhtar. ‘With Allah’s assistance,’ he said. He reached out and tugged at the rifle. ‘And old Russian guns.’ The two of them gazed at the
chest for another moment. Akhtar’s uncle said, ‘Come. It is time to check on the rest of the mosque and make sure it is secure for the evening.’
They left, closing the doors and turning out the lights behind them. Inside the inner chamber, a glow remained. Outside, on the Bloody Road that bordered the mosque and beyond, the war for
control of Afghanistan raged on.
2012
Hassan Mustafa’s heart raced as he walked out into the cool autumn air of the Virginia evening. It was after eight o’clock, and darkness had enveloped the
neighborhood where the largest mosque in America looked out over houses and schools and lives. The façade was smooth, polished limestone, unbroken by windows or architectural flourish. The
sides of the building receded into an unadorned dome that rolled to an apex seven stories above the street. The building squatted in the middle of the traditional mid-sized American town like a
giant riddle.
Mustafa checked over his shoulder as he hurried along Sycamore Street, where upper-middle class condominiums were marshaled in stentorian defense of the American dream. Warm light fell on the
sidewalk from inside the apartments, broken only by the occasional harsh flicker from a television set – the great American opiate.
He crossed the street, looking back behind him again. A light rain had been falling on DC’s greater metropolitan area throughout the day, but it had let up for the moment. The uneven
bricks that lined the sidewalk were slick and puddled. His feet slipped several times, slowing his pace, and he cursed quietly under his breath. He was tempted to break into a run, but it would
only draw attention, and he knew that would be unwise. Besides, the coffee shop was only another block and a half away. Once he walked through the door he would be safe. He was so close he could
almost breathe normally again. He put his head down and pressed on.
It was hard for him to believe that he felt this frightened again. Growing up in Afghanistan, he couldn’t remember a time when the world around him was not on fire and collapsing. His
nation had been at war for his entire life, and his childhood had been filled with dangers more profound than most people could comprehend. He’d thought he was immune to fear. He’d been
wrong.
The coffee shop was in sight. Through the window he could see the man waiting for him. He had jet-black hair and an angular face. He was less than twenty yards away. It was almost over.
The figure emerged from the alley in front of him before Mustafa knew what was happening. He was a huge man, broad-shouldered and dressed in a loose waterproof garment with the hood pulled over
his head. He moved onto the sidewalk so abruptly that Mustafa almost collided with him. He stopped and looked the man in the face. Mustafa recognized him instantly from the sharp features beneath
his shaved head, and a new wave of terror washed over him.
‘Sirus,’ Mustafa croaked. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I thought you were going home.’ The man tilted his head slightly, the way a predator might just before eviscerating its prey.
‘I am,’ Mustafa said.
‘Your apartment is in the other direction.’
‘I am stopping off to get a cup of coffee,’ Mustafa said. He nodded toward the coffee shop. The man inside was looking directly at them.
‘It must be very good coffee,’ the man in the raincoat said, ‘for you to come this far out of your way.’
Mustafa gave a weak smile and a shrug, but said nothing. There was nothing to say.
The man moved so quickly, Mustafa never saw the gun. It came up from his side, his arm swinging with the speed and precision of a cobra strike, the muzzle pressing into Mustafa’s chest
between the third and fourth rib and sinking deep. The man pulled the trigger, letting Mustafa’s body deaden the sound, and Mustafa gasped as he sank to his knees.
‘You see, Mustafa?’ the man said. ‘The same fate comes to all those who betray us.’ The man was gone as quickly as he had appeared.
The world tilted as Mustafa fell to his side. He could see the man from the coffee shop rushing toward him. He was shouting into a small cell phone, calling for help.
The man with the dark hair reached him and rolled Mustafa over onto his back. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he said, as he ripped open Mustafa’s shirt to examine the wound.
Mustafa could hear the doubt in his reassurances. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he repeated. ‘Can you talk?’
Mustafa tried to get some words out, but found it difficult. His lips moved, but he had breath only for a whisper.
‘Who did this?’
‘They will have it,’ Mustafa lipped. ‘They will have it soon.’
‘What?’ the man asked. ‘What do they want?’
Mustafa’s strength was almost gone. His vision was narrowing, the streetlights going dark around him.
Oh God
, he thought, realizing that it was over.
I’m sorry
. He
could feel the tears running down his face.
I’m so sorry
.
