Several miles out of Spin Boldak, heading back to the east in the direction of Pakistan, the truck pulled off the highway and changed directions to the north. The rocky trail cut through the ridgeline and eventually led to a ravine that was wider and farther than the others. Near the end of the ravine, a truck trail cut up through the mountains heading east, farther into Pakistan. After several miles, curving through the pass, they came upon a cave that was cut out of the limestone. It was more of an overhang than a true cave, but it served its purpose.
Umarov pulled the boy out of the truck by his hair.
“Wait a moment!” A man came out of the cave. It was Yousef.
Umarov nodded to his leader.
“Go and get the cameraman,” Yousef barked to one of their younger soldiers.
“I have it, brother.” A small, thin boy, still a teenager but with the face of a man, came from within the cave with a video camera in a clear plastic bag.
Yousef took the camera from the bag, blew away any remaining dust, and set it up on a tripod.
“All right, I am getting ready to film. So pull up your scarves.”
Each of the men pulled their scarves up, wrapping them around so as to only let their eyes be seen through a small slit.
“Pull that worthless piece of dog into the light.” Yousef pointed to some gas lamps that stood well within the cave.
The teenager sobbed, but his cries were muffled by the layers of tape wrapped around his face. Umarov and the others dragged him to a rock no larger than a coffee table. And there they began to beat him mercilessly while the camera taped.
Finally, after they had beaten the boy to a near pulp, Yousef held up his hand.
“How much is left on the camera?”
“Ten minutes at the most,” said the teenaged soldier.
“Umarov, show them what Nidal taught you.”
“Is there enough light?” Umarov knew that this could only be done once.
“Yes, pull the light closer. Pull it near the hole.” Just beyond the boy, a shallow grave had been dug into the soft floor of the cave. The hole wasn’t any deeper than the waistline of a man standing in it.
“First, I want to say something.”
Umarov had to hand it to Yousef. He was bold. Abaidullah would see this tape and swear to pursue his son’s killer to the ends of the earth. But Yousef knew that. And he knew that the killing would galvanize the men of the Taliban behind him. The sons of the men in the pile beside the road would pledge themselves to Yousef ’s cause, speaking Yousef ’s name with reverence. And they would die to defend him. It was the first of many steps on his part to consolidate his power, solidify his following. The tribes of Afghanistan would be either behind Yousef or the Americans. Those behind the Americans would die.
Yousef spoke to the camera. “To the men of Abaidullah, I say: He could not protect his son. Why do you believe he can protect you? Or your children? Do not take up arms against us.”
Yousef spoke the words coolly, without passion. Again, Umarov admired his style.
“Okay.” He pointed to the hole.
Umarov was off camera, but before he came into view he pulled his scarf up over his face. His pakol was pulled down, and his black scarf was pulled up tightly so that only his eyes were visible. It didn’t matter. Even now, everyone had heard of the Chechen. He was much bigger than the others. He stood out.
Umarov pulled the boy into the full view of the camera and cut the tape off his mouth and eyes. Again, he pulled the boy up by his hair, still whimpering and sobbing, so that the camera could focus in on the face. Bloodied and swollen as his face was, no one would doubt that this was the son of Abaidullah. Umarov dragged the kid into the hole and then pulled a piece of plastic pipe out of his rear pocket. He would do this just like he saw Nidal do it to the man that Nidal called a traitor. With his boot on the boy’s chest, he pushed the tube into the boy’s mouth. The camera picked up the sound of the gurgling.
“Begin.”
Umarov stepped out of the hole as the soldiers buried the boy alive. Shortly, only the tube stuck up from the pile of dirt.
“Abaidullah, you son of a dog,” Yousef cursed on the camera as he began to pour water, in small amounts, down the pipe. “Come here.” Yousef signaled to the cameraman to come closer. The camera panned in closer to the hole, focusing on it as Yousef poured water down the pipe. He didn’t put much, only enough that in desperation the boy would swallow the water and dirt as quickly as he could. Gasping in the black hole, with the dirt crushing down on his chest, trying to breathe through the hole while the swallows of water stopped.
“Abaidullah, this is your fate as well.” Yousef let his voice grow more intense. The glow in his eyes made him seem possessed. He pulled out a small pistol and fired down the pipe. He kept firing the pistol into the tube. He pulled the trigger until, finally, the weapon only clicked.
The camera light went black.
Umarov smiled. Abaidullah would remember the face of Yousef until the last breath passed. So would many others. In fact, with the release of the video, the entire world would know what Yousef al-Qadi looked like.
CHAPTER 24
The Verrazano Bridge would be the worst of it. Thousands of runners, pushing and shoving, like salmon making their way upstream. Later, as they moved through Brooklyn, the runners would spread out, making one continuous stream that would last for hours.
Despite the crush, Clark felt the adrenaline as she moved outside, crossing the bridge. On the far outside lane she could glimpse north, seeing the boats on the East River. The weather was meant for marathoners. A chill had descended on the northeast that caused her teeth to chatter just before the gun went off. She knew that her body would warm up fast as the sun began to burn off the chill, but she would be miles into the race before heat became a problem.
Clark felt a breeze cutting up the East River. Helicopters covering the New York Marathon zoomed over the bridge. She felt energized; happy, even. Happier than she had felt since Parker had left.
Boston had no effect. The runners were a sea of red, white, and blue. There seemed to be more energy than a nuclear reactor’s core. They were not to be deterred.
It surprised Clark that she had the energy even to let her mind wander. Parker would have wanted her to concentrate on the race, not him.
God, he has really trained me for this. She was holding a solid pace, already starting to pass other runners. Clark could feel lightness in her stride.
She passed the ten-mile mark.
I need to keep the liquids. William had reminded her that early on the energy would feel limitless. The adrenaline would be pumping. This was her first marathon and the lack of humidity in the north would energize her even more.
Clark cut over to the water station at mile twelve and forced herself to slow and grab a cup. Again, at the end of the tables, she grabbed a Gatorade and a Power Gel. She drank as much of the liquid as she could force down.
I feel so alive! She laughed at herself. I sound like a commercial. The others in the courthouse had made fun of her for weeks now. The general consensus was that she’d collapse after mile ten. She laughed at that thought as the fifteen-mile marker passed by.
I’m over halfway. A little thirsty, but nothing bad. Clark was even maintaining the same pace. She looked at her watch. 7:45-minute miles. That can’t be right, 7:45? She was ahead of her targets. And this was mile sixteen.
Clark realized that two of the runners had kept the same pace with her now as they neared the eighteenth mile. They were slightly ahead of her when she came across the Verrazano. It looked like a father and son, a gray-haired man with a runner’s body but legs white as a newborn child. He obviously had trained in the far north, where the cold rarely let one run without his sweatpants. The son, in his early twenties, inherited more from his mother than his father. He almost appeared to be Cajun, with a dark complexion. At first they chatted as they ran, but as they crossed the Queensboro Bridge, they became increasingly quiet.