Cait had been researching the southern silk route which still existed in part as the Karakoram Highway, a paved road connecting Pakistan and China. Using a technique known as desert road archeology, she had followed old traffic routes looking for commercial settlements around caravan stops that were often rich archaeological troves. One route in particular piqued her interest. On an old map she acquired, this route branched off from the main road for no apparent reason, eventually coming to a dead end near a lake. She suspected that the area around the lake may have been the site of commercial activity.
Returning to Kabul, she showed some Afghan colleagues her findings and said she wanted to see the site firsthand. They told her the territory was dangerous, controlled by warlords who made their living in the drug trade.
The lake was under the control of a warlord named Amir Khan. Cait expressed interest in learning more about Amir. A friend at the American embassy arranged a meeting with a cultural attaché, a title Cait knew was often a cover for CIA personnel. Frank Brady was a trim man in his fifties who had a thoughtful professorial manner that suggested he was probably an analyst rather than a field agent.
“Amir was on the American payroll during the war against the Soviets,” he said. “Got wounded in action. He suffered some nerve damage and almost didn’t walk again. He was brought to the United States and treated at Walter Reed hospital. Spent months in therapy. While he was recuperating, he studied at Georgetown University. From what I hear of the efficient way he runs things as a warlord, he must have majored in business administration.”
Without hesitating, Cait said, “Can you get a message from me to the Amir?”
“What sort of message?” Brady said warily.
“Tell him that a Georgetown history professor is interested in doing research in his neighborhood and see what he says.”
Brady chuckled. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“It never hurts to ask.”
“I’ll see if I can make a connection. Where are you staying?”
“At the Serena Hotel. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
That night Cait got a call from Brady. “You Georgetown alum must be pretty tight, Dr. Everson. The Amir would be pleased to have you as his guest.”
Cait was stunned. The alumni ploy had been a gamble.
“I’d be pleased to accept his invitation,” she said. “Any idea how I get there?”
“Be at the airport at seven tomorrow morning.”
Cait thanked Brady, and as an afterthought, asked if he had any advice on how to deal with a warlord.
“Keep your blinders on and you’ll be fine,” Brady said.
Cait packed a bag with her field clothes and equipment. She spent a restless night and was awake when the sun came up over the mountains. It was only a twenty-minute taxi ride to Khawaja Rawash airport and she arrived well ahead of time.
What followed was like something out of a spy movie. She was met by a man who said he was the Amir’s assistant in Kabul, led to a private two-engine plane, and ushered on without a word. After a two-hour flight, the plane angled down for its descent. On the approach, Cait glimpsed the figure-eight lake she had seen in the satellite photos. Minutes later, they bumped down onto a crude unpaved landing strip near a large metal hangar.
After the door was unlatched, Cait climbed down the gang way, blinking her eyes in the bright sunlight. An antique touring car was parked at the edge of the runway. Leaning against a front fender of the convertible was a tall man dressed in a traditional Afghan outfit. He waved and then walked over with the aid of a cane, and extended his hand.
“Welcome, Dr. Everson. I am Amir Khan.”
His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke in American English with a trace of an Afghan accent. He had a raffish handlebar mustache that looked bleach-white against his dark skin. He wore a flat mushroom-shaped cap over gray hair.
He opened the door on the passenger side for her, and then got behind the wheel. The car passed acres of agricultural fields and a number of large sheds. Cait heeded Brady’s advice and kept her blinders on. Eventually, the car arrived at a walled cluster of buff-colored, flat-roofed buildings, passed through an unmanned gatehouse, and made its way along an unpaved street toward the largest building in the village.
The stone-and-mud house was surrounded by well-landscaped greenery. Amir pulled the car up in front of the high arched wooden door. A man appeared seemingly from nowhere and carried Cait’s bag to the doorstep.
An attractive woman in her thirties opened the door. Her head was covered with an orchard silk scarf and she wore a traditional black smock. A little girl with huge brown eyes hung on her dress.
“This is my daughter Nagia and one of my granddaughters, little Yasmeen,” Amir said.
Nagia bowed slightly and picked up the bag. “Please follow me,” she said in English.
She led Cait along a wide marbled hallway to a room furnished with an art deco bed and a dresser that could have come from Paris. French doors looked out on a garden area. Nagia said that her father would be waiting in the garden. Cait bathed her face in cooling rose water and checked to make sure her hair wasn’t a mess.
In the center of the garden was a small gazebo that shaded a carved wooden table and chairs. Cait sat in a chair and waited a minute or so before Amir appeared, trailing an elderly female servant who carried a tray with a pitcher and two glasses and a plate of pastry. The sheik had changed from his traditional outfit into tan slacks and a white shirt. The servant filled the glasses and went back into the house. They both took a sip of the amber liquid.
“Iced jasmine tea. Hope you like it.”
Cait let the cooling liquid roll down her throat.
“It’s delicious,” she said. She glanced around the garden.
“You seem ill at ease, Dr. Everson. Is there anything wrong?”
“Not at all.” She smiled. “It’s just not what I imagined. Actually, I didn’t know what to expect—”
“Of a warlord?” he said, completing her sentence. “The term is a misnomer. Most of us are not at war. Nor are we lords. In the U.S. you would call us agri-businessmen.”
They both smiled. The inside joke broke the ice, and soon they were talking about their Georgetown link. That led to a discussion of Cait’s work, which in turn brought up the purpose of her visit.
“I’m looking for evidence of settlements along an ancient road that branched off from the Silk Road only to end suddenly at the lake I saw flying in,” she said.
“It was called The Valley of the Dead before it filled with water, supposedly released from heavy bombing during the second Anglo-Afghan war,” Amir said. “Local lore has it that my ancestors would lure caravans into the valley to be trapped and looted of their riches. I don’t mean to discourage you, but your trip here may have been for nothing. There’s no trace of the old road.”
Cait sensed that her host had satisfied his curiosity and was about to blow her off. She was pondering her next move when fate intervened. Yasmeen had crept up behind her grandfather. She had a mischievous expression on her face as she reached around him, snatched a small cake and stuffed it into her mouth. The dry cake caught in her throat, and the look of sweet-tooth bliss in her eyes turned to one of tearful terror as her round face began to turn purple.
Amir saw what was happening. He grabbed the little girl, lifted her in the air, and gave her body a shake. Cait sprang to her feet.
“No!” she shouted.