“Not this trip, Iz. Too dangerous. Maybe next time. But come with me, ride to my uncle’s place, then you can go back from there.”
Izzy was content with this, and they had a pleasant, easy ride to the edge of Jalalabad, and up the trail that ultimately led to that treacherous mountain pass, the Path of Allah.
After Yousseff sent Izzy home, he had stopped at the home of his uncle, and told him of the trip. He had asked if there was any opium there, and learned that his uncle had about ten kilos, and was planning to make the trip himself in a week or two. Yousseff volunteered to take it; he had already become familiar with the many smuggling paths and uncharted horse trails through the Hindu Kush and the Sefid Koh. His uncle had seen for himself the sureness of the boy’s steps in traversing the perilous higher passes with him in earlier years. He had seen the bright spark of intelligence in Yousseff’s eyes, and had nodded approvingly as the boy became acquainted with the Pashtun smuggling ways. Yousseff never needed to be told anything more than once; a trait almost unheard of in young boys.
“Yes,” he had said. “Take these ten kilos. Bring me the money in American dollars when you return.”
Yousseff asked if he could use a third horse, and his uncle gave him the pick of his mounts. The boy had been gone for hours before it occurred to his uncle that this seemed a strange request, given Yousseff’s meager 30 kilos of opium, which could be packed onto one horse. There was certainly no need for three.
The Path of Allah was aptly named, earning its moniker because it had sent so many of the faithful to Paradise before their time. The Path had its origin on a trail a short distance from where, more than three decades later, Zak would be found out. From there the trail switched back and forth along increasingly steep terrain, until it reached a point more than 8,000 feet above the Kabul Gorge. At that point the trail leveled out and traversed rolling slopes, until it reached a precipice that plunged nearly 3,000 feet, straight down. Here the Path of Allah became a narrow trail that was in some places only three feet wide, and never grew to be more than five or six feet in width. This cliff was the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, but no army had ever enforced it, and no monarch or government exercised sovereignty here.
Storms could come on unexpectedly at this elevation, and even in the hot summer months a foot or two of snow could fall within a few hours. Ice was common, and the Path was often wet and slippery. Even experienced horses sometimes needed to be blindfolded or blinkered, and it was still possible that they would panic, rear up, and lose their footing, plummeting to their deaths more than half a mile below. Each year saw several horses and men fall to their deaths along the dangerous and precipitous route. For a boy to travel it alone, with three horses, was an act of madness. But then so was challenging Marak to a duel at the Four Cedars.
For almost a mile, the treacherous Path rose and fell, until it reached the ancient fortress of Inzar Ghar. Built on a foundation that was more than 1,000 years old, this fortress served as a storage area for opium, an armory, and, courtesy of a number of sub-levels beneath it, a dungeon. In order to enter Pakistan via the Path of Allah, one had to pass through the gates of Inzar Ghar. From there it was another day’s journey, down much gentler terrain, to Peshawar.
The weather had been with Yousseff on the journey. His trip, with three horses in tow, had been uneventful. In nearly record time, he found himself in the bustling and historic city of Peshawar, Pakistan. Here the young Yousseff elected to depart somewhat from the usual script. He sold the ten kilos for his uncle to their usual dealer in the Peshawar market, for $2.50 per kilo. Twenty-five dollars. With that money he went down the crowded streets with his three horses, bumping into the horse-drawn carts, rickshaws, bicycles, and motorcycles, following the Cantonment along Railway Road, and entering the Khyber Bazaar. Here, moving along a series of crooked back roads and alleys, he reached a business that to the untrained eye appeared to sell carpets. The initiated knew that this particular shop sold much more. He had learned much from his many visits to the Peshawar marketplace with his father and uncle. Too much, his mother had told him. Specifically, he had learned the art of reducing opium to its essentials, cooking it, transforming it, converting it to a morphine base, and ultimately refining it to pure heroin. He knew exactly what was required: calcium hydroxide, liquid ether, ammonium chloride, acetic anhydride, and a few other sundries. These were the things he purchased at the “carpet” shop.
He loaded the chemicals onto his second and third horses, and went a short distance into the mountains of the Sefid Koh. He had made a friend there, Ba’al Baki, who was also about 13 years of age. On their many trips through this area, he, his father, and his uncle had often stopped at the small homestead owned by Ba’al’s parents. They were loquacious people, friendly and giving. The travelers would often eat dinner there and pay the Baki family a few rupees for their trouble. This always became a friendly argument, since melmastia, the Pashtun code of hospitality, required people to accommodate all travelers, without any expectation of reward. The casual acquaintance had soon grown into a firm friendship between the two families, and Yousseff was happy to make his way back to the homestead.
It was a hot summer afternoon when he arrived. He left his three horses tethered a short distance away, and went ahead to meet Ba’al. He told the other boy about his plan in hushed and hurried tones, and invited him along. He would cut Ba’al in, of course. Ba’al begged his parents for permission to accompany Yousseff to Peshawar for a few days, and they agreed. Because of their experience with his father and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Baki had a great amount of trust in Yousseff. They had few concerns about Ba’al spending time with him.
The two friends had gone to an abandoned home about ten miles from the homestead, and had given themselves three days to attempt to convert the remaining opium to heroin. Together, they placed an empty 55-gallon oil drum on bricks about a foot above the ground and built a fire under the drum. They added 30 gallons of water to the drum and brought it to a boil. After a leisurely cup of afternoon tea, they added the 20 kilograms of raw opium that Yousseff had not sold at the marketplace.
Over the course of the next 24 hours, Yousseff and Ba’al went through more than 30 steps, including filtering, adding chemicals like ammonium chloride and sodium carbonate to the mixture, then purifying and purifying again to produce heroin. It was a very complex process, which Yousseff had learned only through watching the elders and listening to their stories.
After they were done, Yousseff had taken their product of 15 kilos of heroin and gone directly to the docks, where the Kabul River carved its way through Peshawar. He knew precisely where to go, having listened to the many conversations between his father and uncle, not to mention the endless banter of the Peshawar marketplace. Without much ado, he sold the heroin to a riverboat captain for $1,500, which made his profit more than $1,400. He paid Ba’al $50, and bid his friend goodbye. But not before he had loaded all three horses with the rest of the precursor chemicals.
He returned home via the Path of Allah. It was the first of many trips. In later years, every Afghani and Pakistani patrolling the Pass would be in Yousseff’s pay, helping him with his smuggling operations. In the early days, though, he took the Path of Allah many times on his own, with an ever-increasing number of horses and employees. On some trips he would lose a horse or two, but no man ever fell to his death while in Yousseff’s charge. Over the years he had committed to memory every twist and turn, every boulder and shrub of the precipitous pass. The talk amongst his workers was that Yousseff could navigate the pass as blindfolded as his horses. In due course, Yousseff even acquired the fortress of Inzar Ghar, although he disliked the dark, foreboding structure.