Opium Season (1 of 5 free samples)
COPYRIGHT
Opium Season by Joel Hafvenstein. Copyright 2007 by Joel Hafvenstein.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.
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OPIUM SEASON
A Year on the Afghan Frontier
Joel Hafvenstein
PRELUDE
THE END
LASHKARGAH, HELMAND--MAY 19, 2005
"We're getting out, mate." Charles's composure was belied by the taut lines in his face and the two Afghan guards flanking him, their rifles unslung and ready. "Get your things. If what we're hearing from Zabul is true, we've been sitting here like bloody ducks for too long already."
We had never been safe in this massive government of Afghanistan building on the banks of the Helmand River. Our project offices were on the top floor, with no reliable escape route if attackers breached the main door. We couldn't control the flow of visitors to the government offices in the building, and we didn't have enough guards to patrol the long fence. Our windows faced the forest on the far side of the river, where any would-be sniper could hide, strike, and make a clean getaway. Those had been acceptable risks before our project was targeted for murder.
If true, the rumors from Zabul province confirmed that someone was trying to kill us, but we didn't yet know who: the struggling remnants of the Taliban, opium smugglers who found our work an inconvenience, or local militia commanders with some unknown grudge. We didn't know if they planned more attacks, or if they could strike us in the city of Lashkargah itself. So we were running. There was a small U.S. military outpost on the edge of town, next to the graveyard. By the afternoon our office and staff houses would be empty of everyone but guards, and our Western staff would be inside a bunker.
I hadn't grasped yet that this was the end, that our six months of hard work could be undone so quickly and brutally. I did fleetingly think, If we can't even protect ourselves here anymore, at the center, how on earth can we protect our workers way out in upper Helmand? It was a logistical question, not a rhetorical one. I still believed there had to be a way to keep the project going. My thoughts were distracted, drawn sidelong to one eclipsing fear: If the rumors were true, another good friend was dead.
As I numbly packed essential files into a box, my mobile phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.
"Joel speaking."
"Is this Mr. Joel Hafvenstein of the Alternative Income Project?" The voice on the other end of the line was crisp, professional.
"May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Noor Khan of the Associated Press. I am calling from--"
I cut him off as quickly and politely as I could. "Mr. Noor Khan, I'm very sorry to tell you that I can't answer any questions about the attacks. Please let me refer you to our chief of party, Ms. Carol Yee. Her number is--"
"No, sir. I am not calling with questions." The journalist was calm but insistent. Even before he continued, I felt my throat constrict. "I am calling because your business card is the only identifying mark on the six murdered men we have here in Qalat Hospital. Two of them had it in their pockets. Everything else was taken."
For a moment my mind struggled to form words. "Six men, you said."
"Yes, sir."
"Six, including the . . ." I didn't know how to articulate the unlikely hope that somehow one of them had escaped.
"Seven bodies, but one of them was already dead, in a shroud and casket. They were attacked on the road. Before dawn, the police believe."
I had not believed the rumors, I realized. It had not seemed possible that after one friend's murder, another should follow so quickly and unsparingly. "I . . . Mr. Noor Khan, do the police know who did this?" Now I physically felt the belief settle into me--a sick, heavy compression in my chest.
"They have not said. Perhaps bandits, or Taliban. I thought you should know. After yesterday." He paused. "It is quite hot here, sir. Something must be done."
"Thank you, Mr. Noor Khan." Though shattered, I understood the urgency. "We'll notify their families and try to send someone to Qalat to identify and collect the bodies as soon as possible."
"Thank you, sir."
I hung up. Charles and Farid had paused in their work as I talked, and now I met their eyes. They handled security for our project. For months they had been striving to get the resources we needed to keep this very thing from happening. They had worked endlessly to discipline and equip our guards, to get us radios, to make sure our far-flung payroll trips and engineering inspections went out with plenty of police and little advance warning. Now the gunmen had gotten through--not once, but twice. I could see the bitterness in their eyes.
I told them what they already knew.
