Page 87 of Over the Edge

Zagari and one of the regional dialects spoken in this area of Pakistan were similar enough that a couple of the men understood her and translated her respectful greeting. Predictably, the translator demanded to know why on earth an American woman was here at the other end of the world from her home.

Anna quickly explained that she wrote for a major magazine and had a photographer with her, and that she was hoping to cover the aftermath of the war in this region.

She waved at Trevor to join her, and he climbed out, went around back, and pulled out an impressive looking camera.

While Trevor commenced snapping pictures of the men and moved on to snapping the children who ran over to get in on the action, Anna asked a bunch of general questions about the village—how long it had been here, what crops the locals raised, how they supported themselves, and what they ate over the long, cold winters.

She gradually moved on to more sensitive topics—if they involved themselves in politics, what they thought of local government officials, and whether or not they were able to vote in national elections out here in this remote region.

When the translator, a white-haired fellow with a long beard, commented on the hardship their country’s turmoil had caused them, Anna leaped into the opening to ask, “How long since war came to this place?”

The old man spit in the dirt. “Last summer. Haddad.”

“Did he come here and recruit your young men?”

“Bah. Haddad and his kind don’t recruit. They talk big tales of wealth and power and lure the young ones away.”

She said casually, “I heard there was a fight between his men and some soldiers last year. That was at the other end of this valley, yes?”

“That coward sat here and sent his men to die while he laughed and laughed,” one of the other men said bitterly.

“Where did he go from here?”

The elder answered, “He went east. Probably fled to Zagistan to hide like the rat he is.”

She shook her head in sympathy, but inside, her belly jumped with excitement. She and Trevor had possibly picked up Haddad’s trail!

“Would it be possible for me to speak to some of the women?” she asked politely.

The elder waved his hand toward the huts and the women in the doorways. “Be my guest.”

While Trevor kept talking to the men in a combination of his bad Zagari and one local man’s bad English, she strolled over to the women and went through the introductions again.

The women invited her in for tea, and she sat down with them to chat. It didn’t talk long for the women to relax and talk freely with her about when Haddad came to town. They were even more angry than the men about how he’d lured young men away to fight and die.

With this group, Anna managed to maneuver the conversation around to asking, “When Haddad left this area, did he have any prisoners with him?”

“Yes. A white man. Hurt. But Haddad’s men kept beating him.”

Anna tried to convey only polite interest, but rage exploded in her chest. Oh God, Kenny. Whether he was alive or dead, she would see his suffering and maltreatment avenged.

“Did any of you hear where Haddad was going when he left here?”

“One of his wives was very afraid because he was going to Zagistan, and her people have made war with Zagistani war lords in the past.”

Anna tsked in sympathy. “Where in Zagistan…so I can avoid going there?”

“Oh, don’t worry. He went way north. Into Bashan province.”

“All the way up by Tajikistan?” she blurted, surprised.

“Haddad huddles next to the Tajiks because the Americans want no trouble up that way,” one of the older women said scornfully. “He hides in the shadow of the Russians.”

“Do you think he’s still up that way?” Anna asked.

One of the women replied, “For sure. My son went with him. Sent me a letter from Tarazan. He would send word to me if he was coming back this way.”

Anna shook her head. “I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of all this conflict.”

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