57 #2
those nights their sleep was interrupted, the children delighted at the cheap candy placed into their outstretched hands and
tried to get as many pieces as they could. They understood that, like food and electricity and money, there simply wasn’t
enough childhood to go around.
“How close is the nearest hospital?” Marjan asked a middle-aged woman wearing a black dress with a faint floral pattern.
“It’s not close at all,” she replied.
“How far, then?”
She frowned, calculating in her head.
“Maybe two hours away,” she said.
“By car?” Marjan asked.
The woman nodded.
“Have you ever been to the hospital?” she continued. The woman sighed heavily.
“I’ve not. But my husband took our son when he broke his arm.”
“Brave boy to be in a small car so long and in pain. What type of car does your husband have?”
“He doesn’t have a car. He had to borrow a jeep from his brother. Her husband,” the woman said, nodding in the direction of
the younger mother Marjan had been speaking with earlier.
Marjan nodded. She went down the line and asked a few more questions of the other women and girls. Do any of the men here travel often? Have you seen any strangers in town?
As she spoke to the women, she noticed that the baby in the young mother’s arms was coughing. The sound was too familiar to
ignore. She walked back to the woman.
“Maybe some steam will help clear her little chest,” she suggested. “If you see she’s breathing hard, you may need some medications
for her.”
“What do you know?” the woman snapped. “You’re not a doctor. And you don’t know anything about a sick child.”
“Yes, I do,” Marjan replied. “My daughter had the same cough when she was little.”
“You have a daughter?” the woman asked, as if she might have heard wrong. Marjan nodded, though she wished she could take
back what she’d just said. She wasn’t supposed to reveal anything personal.
She and the other platoon members were accustomed to being met with surprise. When they descended upon homes in rural areas,
into communities that knew little of what was happening in Kabul and cared even less, they were usually the first women anyone
had ever seen in uniform, with weapons.
“Do they really allow you to do this?” the teenage girl who had spoken up about her grandmother called out. Her mother clucked
her tongue to hush her.
“Who do you mean?” Marjan asked.
The girl chewed her lip, hesitant to say anything more.
“If you mean the government, yes. Many women serve in the army. And on police forces as well. And if you mean our families,
yes.” That last part was a lie, but it was true for other FTPs. Marjan saw no harm in throwing wildflower seeds into the wind.
The girl took in this revelation. Meanwhile, Marjan turned her attention back to the woman whose husband had a jeep.
“By any chance, is your husband’s car white?”
“No,” she answered, almost eagerly. “It’s black.”
“Ah, okay. Is his name Abdullah?”
“No, his name is Rahmat,” she said.
Marjan nodded. In the morning briefing, they had been told the target was a man named Rahmat.
Marjan wasn’t privy to intelligence sources, but from what she had been told, surveillance had spotted this man traveling to and from hot spots where suspected insurgents had been gathering in a black jeep.
They needed only to identify who was married to this young woman now and they would have their suspect.
“And do you know a man named Abdul Khaliq?” Marjan asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Recognition flashed on the face of the older woman. Her lips tightened.
“Maybe a name close to that?” Marjan pressed. “His life may be in danger. We hear he’s angered some very unsavory people.”
“They’ve got him,” Jenna announced. Marjan could picture the scene playing out just out of view. Rahmat was likely standing
with Special Forces soldiers on either side of him, zip ties around his wrists.
“We’re going to search the home now,” Soraya announced. “You will all remain here while we go through.”
Marjan and Soraya approached the open doorway with their rifles in their hands. Marjan nodded, and Soraya entered first, sweeping
left and right. They entered the empty family room, then moved further in, clearing one small room at a time. Marjan took
in the blankets and pillows, the brick-colored rugs with intricate patterns and fringe ends, the ceramic vase with long dried
stems sitting atop a round wooden side table with chipped edges. The kitchen was a small space with an open cabinet. On the
shelves were stainless steel bowls, a plastic colander, a jar of knives with their blades pointing down, two frying pans,
and a large pot. A five-gallon yellow jug of cooking oil sat in the corner like a sentinel.
Marjan moved into the hall. There was one more room toward the rear.
“I’m behind you,” Soraya said.
Marjan had been trained to expect the unexpected. She had, thus far, never had to pull the trigger her finger rested on, but
she knew she could find herself in a situation where that was necessary at any moment. In training, they’d practiced moving
through mazes meant to simulate the walls of a home, turning corners and taking aim at the hearts of cardboard targets.
So when Marjan stepped into that room and saw a cloaked figure crouched in the corner, she did not falter. She trained her weapon directly on this person who clung to the shadows.
“Hands up!” Marjan shouted. “Hands up now!”
Two hands went into the air, shaky and weak. The figure lifted her head, and the round beam from Soraya’s flashlight fell
on a pale face, exaggerating the dark shadows under eyes that Marjan would recognize even if a thousand years had passed.
Shahla.