The Guardian (26 page)

Saunders grabbed her and pulled her away. ‘No!’ he pleaded.

‘I have to!’

‘Where are you going to take him? The police will be here soon. They will take care of his body.’ He pulled harder at her.

She knew her brother was dead, but her heart wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge it. ‘No! I have to save him!’ She struggled harder against Saunders’s grip.

It was remarkable how strong Saunders was, given his size. His arm held her around the neck and under the armpit, and would not give at all. If anything, he tightened his grip, immobilizing her.
‘He’s dead!’ he yelled. ‘And we will be, too, if we don’t get out of here!’

As he said the words, the gunfire came from the door to the room where Fasil and his men still were, strafing the ground around them. ‘We have to go! Now!’ Saunders said. With that,
he stood and lifted her off the ground as though she were a child. He started running toward the stairs. Looking back, Cianna could see Fasil and his bodyguard giving chase. Sirus was nowhere to be
seen.

‘Charlie!’ she called. But she had given up the fight to get back to his body. She let herself be carried.

Saunders hit the stairs at a full sprint, and a moment later they reached the front door and slipped outside. Saunders paused there, setting Cianna down and scanning the parking lot for danger.
He took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. ‘Are you okay? Are you with me, or do I need to carry you?’

‘I’m okay,’ she said vacantly. ‘I can make it on my own.’

He continued to look at her, and she could tell that he was skeptical. Finally he nodded. ‘We need to make a run for the car,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first and get your door
open. You follow right behind me, got it?’

She nodded.

She watched as Saunders tucked himself into a sprinter’s posture, took a deep breath, and ran into the parking lot.

The gunshots rang out as soon as Saunders got out from under the portico. They were coming from the side of the building, and Cianna realized that Sirus had slipped out the glass doors in the
basement and taken up a position from where he could easily pick them off. Saunders dove to the ground and slid behind a tree, which provided little cover. Cianna could hear the footsteps inside
the building as the others approached the door. She looked down at the spent revolver in her hand, and realized that there was little she could do. Looking around desperately, she put her back to
the exterior wall, just outside the door hinges, to give her some chance to surprise the first through the door. If she could wrestle his gun away quickly, she and Saunders might stand a chance. It
was a long shot, but it was all she had.

As she readied herself for close combat, she saw a beige sedan tear into the parking lot, wheels screeching. It pulled to a stop in between Cianna and Saunders, and the passenger side door
opened. Sitting behind the wheel was the young man who had opened fire through the glass doors earlier. He motioned to her. ‘Please!’ he called. ‘Come with me, now!’

As he called, gunshots plunked the side of the car. The young man put his arm out his window, and returned fire toward Sirus at the side of the building. ‘Please!’ the young man said
again, this time to both Cianna and Saunders. ‘There is no time!’

Cianna looked over at Saunders. He hesitated for only a moment, and then scrabbled over to the rear door and climbed in. Cianna was moving next, sprinting from the building just as the door
opened and Fasil emerged.

The young man threw the engine into gear before Cianna reached the door. She could hear the shots firing off behind her, but she didn’t look back. Her legs were pumping hard, and once she
drew within a few feet of the car, she launched herself at the open door.

The momentum of the moving car had already begun to swing the door closed. Her head and shoulders made it through the opening, but the door slammed against her hip, and her feet dragged along
the pavement. Her hands slipped from the seat, and for a moment, she thought she was going to fall out. As she grasped for something to hold onto, though, a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.
She looked up and saw the young man at the wheel pulling her toward him as he steered the car wildly toward the street. After a moment, her fingers found the seatbelt, and she was able to pull
herself the rest of the way into the car.

She slammed the door behind her as the car fishtailed into the street and sped away. The gunshots behind them faded quickly into the distance, and for a moment all Cianna could hear was her own
breathing as she gasped for air.

She looked over at the young man in the driver’s seat, and he looked back at her. He gave a shy smile and a slight nod. ‘I am Akhtar,’ he said. ‘I am pleased to meet
you.’

Lawrence Ainsworth was in a meeting with Mark Humallah, the chief liaison officer to the Kabul station. They were in one of the large steel-paneled conference rooms on the
third floor. The table in front of them was illuminated with an interactive map of Afghanistan and the surrounding countries. With a touch of his finger, Ainsworth was able to zoom in on particular
cities or villages. The map was a compilation of satellite images that could be focused in on to reveal detail down to the larger grains of sand. There were intelligence reports spread out in front
of them, and the two men were deep in strategic discussions regarding an upcoming operation.

There was no knock; the door swung open with just enough force to slam off the wall. Bill Toney stormed into the room, his face red, his lips quivering in anger. ‘Ainsworth!’ he
yelled.

Lawrence Ainsworth didn’t look up. He continued his discussion with Humallah as though Toney wasn’t there.

Toney walked over and put his fists down on the table, and the map of Afghanistan sucked itself up into a dot in the center of the table and disappeared. ‘You had to do it, didn’t
you?’

‘I’m in a meeting, Bill,’ Ainsworth said calmly. ‘We can talk later.’

‘We’ll talk now!’ Toney bellowed.

Ainsworth looked at Humallah with the embarrassment a host might show if a badly trained dog urinated on his guest’s leg at a cocktail party. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. Can we take a
break for a few minutes? Apparently Bill has something he feels is pressing that he needs to discuss with me.’

‘That’s Colonel Toney,’ the NSA Director snapped.

‘Retired,’ Ainsworth said.

‘I’m still entitled to the rank.’

Ainsworth rolled his eyes again. ‘Mark? A few minutes?’

Mark Humallah nodded and left the room without a word.

‘Now, Bill,’ Ainsworth said once they were alone. ‘What is it that seems to have disturbed you?’

‘You know goddamned well. I gave you a direct order that you were not to get involved in the Charles Phelan matter in Boston. You couldn’t resist, though, could you? You had to keep
your finger in it.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Toney’s face reddened even further. ‘Then I suppose it’s just a coincidence that I’m getting reports that Jack Saunders is in Boston, and that he has been accompanying
Phelan’s sister around the city?’

‘Saunders is on vacation,’ Ainsworth said. ‘What he does on vacation is his business.’

‘I told you to stay out of this!’ Toney hollered.

Ainsworth leaned back and folded his hand across his lap. ‘You know, Bill, you’re not technically my superior. I don’t know that you have the authority to give me
orders.’

Toney smirked. ‘You really want to play it that way, Lawrence?’ He walked around the table so that he was behind Ainsworth. ‘I am more than happy to turn this into an official
inter-Agency complaint.’ He leaned in so that he was speaking quietly into Ainsworth’s ear. ‘Who do you think will come out on top in that event?’

‘I don’t know, Bill,’ Ainsworth said. ‘You’ve certainly kissed more asses in the administration, so I guess I’d give you the better odds.’

The smirk disappeared from Toney’s face. ‘I’m serious, Lawrence. No more interference.’

‘Of course, Bill,’ Ainsworth said, relenting. ‘Like I said, Saunders is on vacation. I just have one question. You told me the other day that there was nothing to this Phelan
issue.’

‘I did,’ Toney agreed.

‘So who do you have in the field who is giving you these reports?’

Toney’s face was stone. He walked to the door. ‘Tell Saunders to get out of this,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s a civilian in Boston. He will get
hurt if he stays out there, and it will not be on my head.’

‘My name is Akhtar Hazara.’

The young man was sitting on the edge of the bed in a motel on Dorchester Street in South Boston. It was the kind of place where few questions would be asked, and memories would be short.
Saunders was sitting on a battered faux-wooden desk chair. Cianna sat on the sofa facing him, her eyes vacant, staring through the floor as though she could see into the depths of hell.

‘My father was Mohmar Hazara,’ he continued. Seeing Saunders’s reaction, he said, ‘You remember him, yes?’

Saunders nodded. ‘I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. And I remember when he was killed.’

‘I was with him,’ Akhtar said. ‘I was thirteen, and it was right after the Taliban fled. The Americans had not yet reached Kandahar, but we knew they were coming. Everyone knew
it, and everyone was wondering what would happen. Many assumed that it would be the start of a new way of life for my country; that it would be the dawning of a new golden age for Afghanistan and
its people, when we would be able to control our own destiny. There were those who welcomed the fall of the Taliban, and the possibility of a genuine democracy. My father was one such
man.’

Saunders nodded, remembering. ‘I was one of the first into the country,’ he said. ‘Even before the invasion, twelve of us were sent in to begin the process of separating the
good guys from the bad. Your father was on my list of good guys. I’m sorry I never had the chance to meet him.’

‘Thank you,’ Akhtar said. ‘My father always said that his individual life was meaningless, though. What was important to him was that everything was done for the good of the
country. If his death had sparked a movement toward all that he had hoped for, he would have been happy to die a martyr.’

‘But that isn’t what happened,’ Saunders said.

‘No,’ Akhtar agreed. ‘Instead, my country sank deeper into tribal squabbles that still set the tone for what is happening there today. Local chieftains and tribal leaders sell
their loyalties to the highest bidder for whatever they can get, and those loyalties last only as long as whatever advantage has been gained. Until someone emerges who can unite the country, it
will remain so. That is why I am here. That is why I need your help.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Saunders said.

‘For four centuries, my family has guarded the Sacred Cloak of Mohammed from within the center mosque in Kandahar. It is one of the three most sacred relics in all of Islam, and it has
great power. Three weeks ago it was stolen. I need your help in finding it.’

‘That’s why my brother was killed?’ Cianna demanded, her voice so loud that it startled Saunders. From the look on his face it appeared that Akhtar had forgotten that she was
in the room. She hadn’t said a word since the three of them arrived at the motel. Now her eyes were wide and burning furiously, and she stood, leaning over, putting her face right up to the
young man’s, spitting her words out with contempt and outrage. ‘For some shitty piece of cloth—!’

‘It is far more than cloth!’ Akhtar protested, clearly offended. ‘It is the Heart of Afghanistan. The prophet Mohammed himself wore the Cloak into battle. It was brought to the
sacred mosque in Kandahar by Ahmad Shah Durrani, the first king of Afghanistan, four hundred years ago. Since that time, my family has guarded it with our lives!’

‘And my brother paid for it with his! Why? For what purpose?’ Cianna waved her arms in the air as she screamed at Akhtar.

Saunders reached a hand out and put it on her shoulder to calm her. ‘It’s not his fault,’ he said. ‘He didn’t kill your brother.’ She looked at him, and for a
moment he thought she might punch him for taking the young man’s side. After a brief pause, though, she reluctantly sat back down. ‘Akhtar is right, it isn’t just a piece of
cloth,’ Saunders said in an even voice. ‘For a Christian, it would be the equivalent of the robe that Christ wore at the last supper.’

‘Christians don’t kill for relics,’ Cianna pointed out.

‘No?’ Akhtar replied. ‘I must have misread the tales of the Crusades, then.’

‘This isn’t the fucking Middle Ages!’ Cianna screamed back. ‘This is the twenty-first century, and my brother is lying dead in a boathouse with one hand! So don’t
talk to me about the injustices of five centuries ago, okay?’

‘This isn’t about what happened five centuries ago,’ Saunders said to Cianna. ‘This is about right now. This is about who will succeed in taking power in
Afghanistan.’

‘What the hell does some cloak have to do with that?’ Cianna demanded.

‘The Sacred Cloak has everything to do with that,’ Akhtar said. ‘It is said that the Cloak will only sit on the shoulders of those chosen by Mohammed himself to lead my nation.
He who can show that he holds the Cloak without tragedy befalling him will be able to unite all of the tribes of Afghanistan.’

Cianna shook her head in disbelief and looked at Saunders. ‘Are you listening to this superstitious crap?’

‘It’s not just superstition,’ Saunders said quietly.

‘You really believe this?’

‘It doesn’t matter whether I believe it.’ Saunders walked to the window and looked out toward the highway onramp. ‘Many of the people of Afghanistan believe
it.’

‘It is not just that they believe it,’ Akhtar said. ‘It has been proved in the past. The Cloak has only been seen in public three times in the past four centuries. In 1760,
Ahmad Shah, the founder of Afghanistan, displayed the Cloak around his shoulders as he announced jihad against his rival Pashtun and Marathan tribal leaders. He swiftly defeated his enemies and
created the first united nation of Afghanistan, which his family ruled for generations. In the 1930s, a deadly outbreak of cholera threatened to lay waste to the city of Kandahar. The Cloak was
taken out and held aloft from the roof of the mosque over the city. The disease disappeared within a week.’