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The Afghan Rug

By Bruce L. Cook (USA)

Chapter 5

The Afghan Rug
By Bruce L. Cook

Chapter 5

It was the day after the thievery of the Bukhara rug. Dr. Nasir paced the sitting room in his compound, sadly aware that his workers had found no trace of it. His local agents had successfully traced the rugs to a Lahore shipment, but had failed to identify the exact vehicle or driver.

That evening the meat vendor came on his motorcycle in the dim of the night and delivered a white package of pork. Upon payment, the thin little fellow pressed a wrinkled receipt into Dr. Nasir’s hands. On the paper was the license number for the motorcycle seen by Carver and a note indicting that a Bukhara rug had been stolen by the driver.

This news was priceless. Early the next morning Nasir dispatched two men, ostensibly house servants, to locate the motorcycle and its driver. He entrusted them with many afghani in currency to use in purchasing the carpet, bribe or otherwise.

Later he was resting on the veranda, fully expecting news of the secret rug with markings, but nothing happened. Eventually he called for his supper, barely tasting the meal, and crossed to his bedroom and slept. Next morning the rooster’s crowing came with no disturbance and he was left to prepare himself for the day. Worse still, a headache had started during the night. He had many problems to worry about.
The police had warned him he was expected to depart the country and the deadline was imminent. He had so much to accomplish, and he had no idea how much he was now under surveillance.

Thank God the investigation had never implicated Abdullah’s son. It seemed that he and a local anti-government group were the only ones aware of the carpet. If Ugba or his son Habib knew that Nasir was working with the young man, Abdullah would be killed immediately, and his family publicly humiliated and destroyed.

He accepted a dark cup of coffee and gazed out the circular window that faced the main drive. Suddenly a small red motorcycle putted into view, spun around, and parked in front of his temporary residence. The driver held a rolled-up rug under his arms. Dr. Nasir breathed in relief.

The doorbell rang and Nasir listened as his gentle servant answered the door.  Soon the elderly servant brought the rug to Dr. Nasir. “The visitor says you have purchased this,” he said, holding the rug out for inspection.

Dr. Nasir grasped the rug and turned it over, fully expecting a Bukhara design with variations. But this rug was totally different and a moment’s examination revealed that there was no message on the back.

“Ask him, were there other rugs?” Nasir commented.

Soon the servant returned. He said, “Yes, many rugs. But he could only carry one. The rest have been sold. He has apologized. He insists that you have purchased it. Shall I return it to him?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Nasir, mystified. “Let him take it away.”
 
He turned to his side table and pulled out the paper the meat vendor had provided. He could still investigate the license for the white sedan, which Dr. Dunhill had provided yesterday.  Calling a government number, he asked a confidant to search the database. Sadly, it matched an address for a powerful local party official. So he abandoned that line of inquiry and formulated a plan to rescue the carpet himself.

He considered abandoning the effort, for he’d been advised that the anthropologist had memorized the map. But he lacked confidence in that solution. Thus, he called his contact at the local export company and warned him to watch for the Bukhara rug, offering a handsome price of 400,000 afghans in case it were delivered to him by tomorrow.

Faheem was invited to Ugba’s family compound. Ugba’s son Habib led the conversation.

“So, this Dr. Nasir you were meeting at the hospital,” said Habib. “You were going to ask him for training, is that right?”

Faheem remained silent as he looked from Habib to his father. He found himself wondering what they might know about the rug, and whether he would be in trouble for lying, in addition to any other punishment they might cause to himself and his family.

“Yes,” he said, thinking correctly that less information was safer.

“You would like to be a – what was it – a specialist in renal nephrology? What is that?”

“My father,” Faheem began, studying Mr. Ugba, whose eyebrows were raised in chill curiosity. “He helps people who have kidney problems.”
 “So, you would do that also?”

“Well, that’s what Dr. Nasir taught him.

“So, why would you need to do that too?

“Well, I would like to earn more money.”

“I thought your family makes rugs.”

“Yes,” Faheem nodded. “We do. But the money is too little to support them.”

“So you sought money,” said Habib, glancing at his father victoriously.

“Yes,” said Faheem.

“You went to the hospital to find him?”

“Yes, I hoped to meet him. He was my only chance?”

At this Mr. Ugba chuckled with a tobacco voice sound, deep in his throat. “As he was for you father, many years ago!” he guffawed.

Encouraged by the apparent token of humor and acceptance, Faheem turned to the man and nodded respectfully. “Certainly,” he said. “Dr. Nasir was responsible for my father’s success.”

“No longer!” Ugba spat out, his entire demeanor becoming deadly serious. “He cannot be trusted.”

“Yes sir,” said Faheem, looking down.

Mr. Ugba remained silent, “Oh. You may surely meet with him,” He waved his hand dismissively and, almost on cue, Habib stood to leave.  Ugba continued in a low voice, “Habib will explain on the way.”

Next morning Faheem waited at the entrance to his own compound and watched as Habib approached, leading a donkey and carrying a small satchel. Faheem had packed a larger bag which contained a few small rugs to show the family’s products to the buyer in Lahore. He greeted the younger man with a handshake and they proceeded to a shelter where Faheem could rent a donkey for the trip to Lahore.

“So your father never showed you the way to Lahore and Fazal Din Main Market?” Habib asked in a friendly voice. They were leading the donkeys away from the village.

“It’s true,” said Faheem. “I had no brothers, so I needed to remain in the village.”

Habib laughed. “My father has arranged for this, and I now will show you the way.”

“Yes,” Faheem agreed. “I could never begin trading in Lahore by myself.”

“Of course,” said Habib, mounting his donkey and leading the way down the valley. He directed his animal past a cart with leather products stopped in a copse of trees. He waved at Ibrahim, the owner, who had left the village just an hour before. Ibrahim was rising from a kneeling position and moving back to the cart, which would reach Lahore about an hour later.

Faheem studied a sign to Lahore marking a fork in the road ahead and made it a point to remember the direction in case the sign were missing or shrouded from sight the next time he travelled to the southern city.

Habib turned back to Faheem. “It’s true. Nobody would give a fair price.” He continued, patting his donkey on the neck. “Actually, the rug sellers wouldn’t even talk with you without a proper introduction.

“It’s true,” said Faheem, acknowledging the truth of the matter.

“So we will meet the man everyone calls “Qabil,” Habib explained. “He is the person your father always met.”

“Have you met him?”

“A few times, when he has come to the village. But here he is in the marketplace and is a very important party leader.”

“I understand.”

“Above all, don’t insult him in any way.”

“Of course.”

“He can help you greatly.”

“As he has done already.”

“It’s true”

“And Faheem,” Habib said, stopping his donkey and looking ahead in a gaze. “He, well we. We are asking you for some help.”

“Well,” said Faheem, unsure. “You have certainly helped me.”

“Yes,” Habib almost chuckled.” And now it is your turn to help us!

“Of course,” said Faheem, nodding and looking ahead to the valley below.

“Make way!” shouted Habib as they made their way through the central rows of the market. Dismounting from his animal, Faheem kept touching his hand to his bag as if he were nervous.

Merchants and customers alike pulled to the side without looking at the intruders, for the presence of donkeys with cargo was just another feature of this noisy market. They continued to examine articles of jewelry and leather as they waited to have the full path to themselves again. Like water in the wake of a speeding boat, everyone moved together again as if nothing had happened after the donkeys had passed.

A tall, uniformed guard stood nonchalantly down the aisle. He was studying everyone who entered his area. Noticing Habib and Faheem, he nodded and silently moved behind them.

Suddenly a young lad shot out from a gap in the walls just behind Faheem and grabbed for his bag. He was known among youth of the area for removing money or jewelry without the knowledge of the owners, who would only notice their missing valuables next time they made a purchase or rested for the night.
Coincidentally, Faheem’s nervous hand motion caught the hot flesh of the youth and gripped fast so Faheem could pull the boy to his side. He pressed the hand until fingers rolled painfully over fingers and the youth yelped in pain. Habib looked back and laughed, proud to see that Faheem had caught the child in the act.
Faheem pulled the boy’s arm roughly in the armpit, released the hand, and pushed him away, shouting “Go!” He looked around the market area and enjoyed the admiring glances of merchants and customers alike, all of whom despised the vagabond youth.

Beckoning Faheem, Habib turned into a shadowy gap in the clay walls and Faheem shifted his gaze around to store a memory of the entrance for future days when he would bring carpets here without Habib. Then he joined Habib at the rail where they tied their animals, nodding to a servant, and creeping into a tent-like shelter immediately beyond. There was a short wait for the servant who would walk and clean the animals.     

Inside, Habib led Faheem to a separate, poorly lighted area where they found Qabil, beaming in satisfaction. “Faheem, my champion!” he exclaimed. “So you have overcome Tarif, the tiniest thief of Fazal Din. Congratulations! We all commend you for your swift reactions!”

Faheem fairly blushed, looking down, and then noticed the uniformed guard standing the doorway. Unflinching, he met Qabil’s deep blue eyes. He felt welcome here, but the presence of the guard made him aware that he was not actually free.

“Come, sit,” Qabil directed, relaxing into his wooden chair and calling for cakes and bitter coffee. The young men followed his directions, sitting in two of the canvas chairs which flanked the wall to his left.

“I am pleased to meet you, Faheem,” Qabil began. “Frequently I have urged your father to bring you here.”

“Thank you,” said Faheem, with Habib nodding yes at his side.

“So now your friend Habib has brought you. Recognizing your need to sell your family’s rugs. He is so correct. I can help with that.”

Faheem fumbled in his bag and removed the rugs from his home. Immediately Qabil’s servant came to him, lifted the rugs, and crossed to an area in the main market area.

“At the same time,” Qabil continued. “Your handicraft work will contribute to our humble political purposes, here in Lahore and also in your village.

Qabil sat back silently, then, and awaited his servant’s return. Occasionally the sound of slurping came from the cups. Habib mentioned, in a quiet voice, that he had passed Ibrahim on the road, and his leather products would arrive soon.

“Yes, Ibrahim,” Qabil mused. “One of our best suppliers.”

Silence reigned again, now punctuated by sounds of a stringed instrument outside the shelter and an occasional argument from the sellers and buyers outside. Qabil pulled an inlaid Mother of Pearl box from a small cabinet and retracted a bundle of papers. “I will add your account to my records of your father,” he said, almost under his breath.

On his return, the servant handed a large envelope to Qabil, who entered numbers into the ledger and deposited a bundle of rupees into the box. Then, withdrawing afghani currency, he handed a smaller packet of bills to the servant who transferred them to Faheem. “Thank you,” Faheem murmured.

“Now go,” said Qabil, waving at the entrance. “They expect you at the Red Crescent. There will be a visitor.”

Just outside the room at Red Crescent Habib and Faheem sat beside each other in their white robes, watching the sun set in the distance. “Your family has done well,” said Habib, “thanks to your father’s skills.”

“Yes,” said Faheem. “And he, as well as your father, has brought me the greatest peace in Hana, my wife.”

“Certainly,” said Habib. “She is so beautiful that even I am very jealous.”

“I was fortunate to marry her,” Faheem said.

Both men fell into a silence as each one reviewed memories of the Nikah. “It is true,” said Habib. “And you need to protect them now, for our leaders may fall into disfavor. Or, God forbid, you or your father may offend them, and if the offense is very serious your family may risk humiliation and death.” He thought for a moment, considering hi\s own role in the village, and then said, “They would suffer destruction and, perhaps, rape.”

“I will be careful,” said Faheem. He stood and entered the room, kneeling in prayer before he stretched himself on the mat with a yawn. Habib soon followed, praying and going to his own mat where lay on his back, unable to stop thinking.

Finally, just before Faheem’s breathing became regular with sleep, Habib continued their earlier conversation. “Faheem,” he said.

Faheem grunted.

“Hana is beautiful, it’s true.  I often wish that my father had claimed her for me.”

Faheem remained silent.

“If something should happen to your family, you know…”

Faheem lurched to his elbows.

“I… Someone… Someone should rescue Hana.”

Faheem fell back to the mat without comment, tossing on the rough surface, unable to sleep for the rest of the night.

For his part, Habib laughed harshly and lapsed into restful slumber.

With the breaking of sunlight in the morning they woke to the sound of a motorbike scurrying into the courtyard. A dignified and uniformed Pakistani stepped down and ordered his driver to wait.

“Our visitor?” Faheem inquired.

“Perhaps. I do not know.”

The man stepped briskly to the room and called for Faheem, who rose and found himself at attention in front of the military fellow.

“Come,” the visitor directed.

“Taking his bag, Faheem wandered off behind the soldier, ignoring Habib, who remained in the room until later.

The soldier turned back to Habib after Faheem had left and said in a sharp voice, “One week. Tell his people. One week.”

“Where…” Habib started.

But the man was gone, and soon mounted the conveyance behind Faheem, causing it to sink to its maximum load, and the motorbike lumbered down the street, weaving ahead of densely packed automobiles and trucks.

“Rokna!” the soldier cried, and the motorbike slid to a halt. Both of them descended to face an open field surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Today must have been a Pakistan Army field day, for local soldiers were beckoning everyone in to sight to enter. Colorful cardboard display stands lined the grassy field under large open tents.

The soldier moved on through visitors and displays while Faheem admired training mockups with American aircraft parts strapped to heavy plywood sheets. Their purpose must be to show off the nation’s military prowess.

The soldier reached a large table under a tent in back where a deeply tanned military Junior Commissioned Officer was sipping tea. He looked up and immediately recognized the soldier. “So?” he asked. “This is Faheem?”

“Yes sir!” The soldier directed Faheem to stand before the man.

“Do you like our display?” the JCO asked Faheem.

“Oh, yes,” murmured Faheem.

“Some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And you are welcome,” continued the officer, beckoning for tea. “You shall be our guest here this week, for training.”

Faheem raised his eyebrows but held his silence.

“Not here, of course. But we have a safe house in Lahore, with special training.” He lapsed into silence, awaiting Faheem’s response.

“Sir, I am not from Pakistan. Not in the army!”

“Of course!” the officer laughed, reaching for the tea that had been delivered and pointing Faheem to a small wooden chair. “We are military here, but we are too few to do all the work.”

Faheem gingerly seated himself, studying the tea. The officer slid the cup to him along with a brass sugar container. Faheem extracted a small spoon and tasted the brew. Then he poured the sugar.

“Very good!” exclaimed the officer. “I am impressed!”

Faheem looked up and caught his eyes quizzically.

“You have sampled before you placed the sweets. Thus, I can see that you are careful and wise.”

Faheem was astounded at this compliment. He tasted the tea and poured more sugar and settled back in his chair.

“Dr. Nasir,” said the officer, his tone serious now. He pushed the doctor’s business card across the table to Faheem, who almost choked in surprise to hear the doctor’s name.

“You know him?” asked the offer, staring at Faheem and studying his reactions.

“Yes,” said Faheem. “He trained my father.”

“And you went to him last week to request help for training, right?”

“That is correct.”

“He has gone to Karachi, did you know?”

“Sorry, sir. I only sought his help. He was not there.”

“Well, he has gone there. He knows of you, or at least your father. And he will answer questions if you meet him.”

“I see,” said Faheem noncommittally.

“He may be a spy. We cannot be sure. So you will ask him.”

“Sir,” Faheem said, trying to remain respectful. “So I will ask, ‘Are you a spy’?”

The officer roared. “Oh, that’s so good, Faheem. Very good.” He wiped his mouth with a white cloth. Then his eyes were sharp again. “You will meet him and tell him you are spying for the Americans, like him.

“Oh Allah, blessed be his name!”

“You will carry our surveillance equipment, so we can know his reaction.”

“Are you certain he is a spy?”

“He has acted strangely, and we think so. Ask him if you can be of help in Afghanistan. Surely he will have further work there, for he was forced out yesterday at midnight, with no time to make any contacts. When he directs you to make contacts for him – one – we can make those contacts and give misleading information and – two – we can determine what he is up to.”

“This is an Army project?” Faheem asked innocently.

The officer laughed again. “Oh, you are clever, my friend. No, this is a project from Mr. Qabil – remember him?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

“Now, the training. You are to take training for the week.

“My family…”

“We have told Habib to warn them.”

A picture of Habib talking with Hana involuntarily flashed into Faheem’s mind. “Just to teach me about the equipment?”

“No, there is much to learn, for you are to become an agent for us. Agents are able to move without being noticed, and the process is complex. You will learn, and you will go home next week.

It sounded feasible, although Faheem had no interest in becoming an agent. It seemed there was no choice.

The officer rose and indicated to Faheem that he should follow the military man again. As Faheem left the shelter he called after him, “Enjoy Karachi!”

Later that week the same military man led Faheem to the airport and deposited him in a Shaheen Airlines flight. Faheem was glad when the man left him. He descended from the terminal and climbed the stairs to the aircraft, proceeding to his window seat near the front of the aircraft. It was his first airplane flight.
He waited for the flight to fill and found himself watching a steward help the stewardess prepare coffee and tea in a small enclosure near the front.  Then, turning to examine the door to the cockpit, he noticed a short western woman with blonde hair. She proceeded to the steward, pressed a bundle of currency into his hand, and crossed directly to the seat beside Faheem.

Faheem locked his eyes on the window and studied the drama of take-off. Next the steward presented cups of tea to Faheem and the lady, who turned to him and said, “Karachi?”

“Why, yes,” Faheem said, surprised that she would ask.

She handed a business card to Faheem. Shocked, glanced at the card. He gasped. It was the same card for Dr. Nasir, and nit contained Dr. Nasir’s Hilton Hotel address written in pencil. “Will you see him?” she asked in a quiet, confidential voice, almost as if she were a lover.

Faheem studied the card, deciding whether she were part of Qabil’s organization. Finally he said, “I could see him, if needed.”

“When?”

“Well, tomorrow I suppose.”

“Yes, see him!” she directed. Faheem noticed her full lips as she sipped her tea “I will meet you afterwards. Would you like that? This is very, very important.
“But why?” Faheem asked, gesturing.

“You must tell him exactly, whatever was written on that rug.” She placed her hand on Faheem’s arm. “He would pay you well for that.”

His arm tingling, Faheem’s throat constricted. Qabil’s group wanted to know about the doctor. But they seemed unaware of the carpet. At the same time, this lady and the doctor knew about the carpet. They knew that he could describe the secret message and they wanted his help. But he could not help them or he would bring grave danger to his family. And Hana…

She blond woman squeezed Faheem’s arm as the airplane descended into Karachi International Airport.