The Good Son (9 page)

“But I thought it was the American withdrawal after the Russian war that enabled the Taliban to take over Afghanistan.”

“Yes, and so what? No American would have given two pins about
how Afghanistan was ruled if bin Laden had not been based there and attacked America, and he would not have attacked America if we hadn’t been up to our armpits in the politics of Muslim nations. It is not our responsibility to decide how others should live, and whenever we try we fall into the most arrant hypocrisy. And lies. The Americans say, ‘Oh, we’re fighting to preserve our way of life; the mujahideen hate our way of life, just like the communists.’ But as bin Laden says, al-Qaeda has no interest in changing the Western way of life; he doesn’t attack Sweden. All he wanted from the 9/11 attack was the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Arabia, and he got that almost immediately. He won; the war is over. Why are we still fighting? Look, I am a Pakistani
and
an American. I love both my countries, but one of my countries, America, is incapable of rational action in the other country. When little boys fight with sticks, the mother must separate them and keep them in separate rooms for a while, and that is what I am suggesting.”

“The Israelis would not be happy with what you suggest, and as we all know the Americans do what the Israelis want.”

“Yes, except when they sell arms to the Saudis,” she said. “I’m tired of hearing about Israel. Israel has the only modern economy in the Middle East, the most powerful army, and over two hundred nuclear weapons. Israel can take care of itself. What keeps that ulcer raw is not only the land hunger of the Israelis, about which we can do nothing, but also the stupidity of the Palestinians, and I would say here that America is fortunate in the Palestinians, because otherwise America would be the stupidest nation in Middle Eastern affairs.”

“You think that wanting freedom and an end to a brutal occupation is stupid?”

“Of course not, but look at how they resist! They could have had their own state and an end to the occupation twenty years ago by using the same methods that were successful against the British, right here where we’re sitting. India defeated the greatest empire in history using Gan -dhian noncooperation and nonviolent resistance. You think that Israel’s nasty little empire cannot be defeated in the same way? But they don’t do that, they love their posturing and their face masks and the rifles waving, and the people are controlled by bandit gangs who are constantly selling one another out to the Mossad. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t tragic.”

The interviewer seemed not to want to pursue this line so he asked her about the conference and they talked about that for a while, and it was here I learned that they intended to meet not in Lahore, where there was at least some security, but in Leepa House in Pakistani Kashmir, which was a long fly ball from the Northwest Frontier Province, otherwise known as Jihad Central.

The rest of the interview was about who she was supporting in the coming elections, but I hardly listened, and as soon as it was over I switched it off and dialed my mother’s number on my cell phone. It was past midnight in Lahore but I didn’t care.

I got a not-available recording and left a message. I was pretty calm, considering that she had just pissed off on international television every bunch of armed maniacs on the planet except the Basques. What was she thinking? Did she
want
to get blown up?

As soon as I had that thought it hit me that maybe she did, maybe that was part of what made her Sonia, what my father called her trapped-fox part. I had that too, if I was honest with myself; I got it from her and from how I was brought up, maybe an adrenaline deficiency, the whole dicing-with-death thing. Or maybe not. I know guys who do sport jumping, motorcycle racing, whatever, but it’s not like that. There has to be an opponent; death has to show himself in human form; you have to beat the angel on its own terms.

These old thoughts were boiling into froth, and under them the thrill of real fear. I kept calling through the evening, the last one at eleven-thirty, and still nothing, even though it was now morning in Lahore. My mother never turns her cell phone off during the hours she’s awake. I left a message demanding an instant call-back. Then I called my Auntie Rukhsana, who keeps hers on even when she’s asleep. Also no answer. I left a similar message. Then I took another pill and had another beer, after which I conked out in my room upstairs. I’d been out a little over three hours, by my watch, before the ache and thirst and the need to go to the can got me up, which was a pretty typical night for me, and when I was up and around I heard the sound of the TV in the living room. I recalled switching it off, which meant that my father was up.

He was sitting on the couch watching Pakistani cable, and he didn’t take his eyes off the set when I came in, which was funny to begin with because my father is a formal guy, always stands up and gives a hug and
a kiss when we happen to meet. I sat next to him on the couch and asked him what he was watching. The screen showed a couple of talking heads, the usual morning anchorperson and a guy with the familiar sleek and sneaky look of a Pakistani pol. He didn’t answer me and I looked at him and saw that tears were streaming down his cheeks and I knew what it was and cursed.

“Something happened to Mother,” I said.

He pointed mutely at the screen: a shot of a mountain road with a burnt-out Land Rover on it and two empty minibuses with their doors hanging open like a dead bird’s wings and Pakistani military swarming around them, looking pretty helpless. There were big patches of what had to be blood on the ground and the glitter of spent brass scattered around.

The announcer was saying that a party of foreigners had been abducted on a road in Pakistani-administered Kashmir; they had no names yet and no knowledge of what had happened to them. Then back to the anchor and the interior ministry official, who dispensed empty assurances and more ignorance.

I said, “They don’t know it’s her group.”

He replied, “But we do. My sister just called and woke me up with the news. It is Sonia’s group without question. Rukhsana recognized the minibuses. She would have been there herself had she not been delayed. She was entirely devastated.” He stared for a moment at the repeating images on the screen. “Apparently they killed the drivers and the guards.”

He threw his arms around me and sobbed and I comforted him as best I could, which to be frank wasn’t all that much. A breakdown like the one he pulled after Baba and my sisters were killed wasn’t what I needed now.

But in a few minutes he recovered himself, went away to the bathroom, and came back, composed again and grave.

I asked, “Babu, did you know she was going to Lahore? She called me and asked me tell you.”

“Of course I knew. Your mother is a wonderful woman, but she derives an infantile pleasure out of sneaking. She kept the whole thing quite dark, as she imagined, but naturally Rukhsana has kept me apprised throughout. As has Nisar. I told him I did not approve of allowing them
to use the house at Leepa, but he ignored me. As he usually does, of course. He very much wanted a meeting with William Craig, and I understand this was part of the arrangement.”

“Who?”

“William Craig, the electronics billionaire. It is astounding, you know? Your mother has no regard for her own safety but surely a man of such acumen might have considered it foolish to ride without adequate security into the most terrorist-infested place on earth.”

“Maybe he wanted the thrill, like those rich guys who like to break records, ballooning around the world and like that.”

“Perhaps,” he said and gave me a funny look. “But his character is not, after all, our most pressing concern at the moment. You seem to be taking this disaster very well. Aren’t you worried about her?”

I shrugged and answered, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m in shock. It doesn’t seem real yet. Maybe it’s just a ransom gang after Craig and they’ll let the others go.”

I kept thinking that, telling myself it was true, and we sat there for hours together, not speaking, one or the other of us going for food or to the john, the other staying put, watching the tube, until the kidnappers delivered their tape and the station played it. There she was with the others, surrounded by masked men with guns. There was a statement by a man in a ski mask. After the routine condemnation of the infidel Pakistani government and their crusader allies, and the routine grievances, the murder of innocent civilians by the military forces thereof, the torture of prisoners by the authorities and the Americans, he declared that the present act was meant to provide hostages against these infamous behaviors. The captives would receive decent treatment, unlike the brothers rotting in American and Pakistani prisons, but should any more innocents be massacred by the infidels, on each day that such an event took place, one hostage would be executed. God is great! All the masked men waved their weapons and shouted this too, and the camera did a slow cruel pan across the strained and exhausted faces of all the hostages.

My father was like ice then, strangely enough; it was me who howled and cried like a baby on my father’s shoulder. And while I was crying, with the tears and snot running down my face, all I could think of was
them taking her out on some hard-baked patch of ground and cutting her head off with a sword. I’d seen it done in Afghanistan more than once. The fuckers who cut people’s heads off now aren’t that good at it; it’s a lost art, one of the many things the Muslims have forgotten how to do, not like the glory days of the caliphate, when they had professionals. It turns out that beheading with a sword is harder than you would think.

My father comforted me awkwardly, like you do a child who’s bumped his nose. We’re not close. I still blame him for the way he behaved during the previous family disaster; forgiveness doesn’t come easy for me. So I pulled away from his hugs, a little abruptly, and we sat there watching the tenth rerun of that fucking tape, me thinking it was the last sight I’d ever have of my mother alive.

After a while he picked up the remote and muted the television. He said, “Will you be all right? I want to make some calls.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Well, family first. Nisar may know something, with his connections in Islamabad. We’ll see if he can find out anything that’s not for public consumption. Rukhsana too. She has sources as well, from her work. And Seyd, although I doubt I’ll get anything from him outside of the official line from ISI, especially if . . . no, I won’t think about that, not yet at any rate.”

I asked him what he didn’t want to think about.

“Well, you know these mujahideen groups up in Swat and Kashmir and so forth all have Inter-Services Intelligence connections. Suppose an ISI-sponsored group carried out this kidnapping?”

“But why wouldn’t that be a good thing? Seyd could help get them out.”

“Oh, Theo, I’m talking about
Seyd
. He’s my little brother and of course I love him, but he is a monstrously ambitious and ruthless man, who has always felt that having a famous apostate for a sister-in-law put a blot in his copybook. I don’t say he would be happy to see Sonia decapitated on television, but he would not weep bitter tears either. No, we will get no help from Seyd. My greatest hope is that he will not actively hinder plans to rescue them, if any.”

“I should go over there,” I said.

“And do what? Wander through the hills calling her name? Don’t be foolish, Theo!”

I gave him a hard look, but he stared right back at me, which was a bit of a surprise. I guess in the lives of fathers and sons there’s a moment when the kid understands his father is not some kind of god but just a guy and then he has to decide whether he likes him or not, and, if not, how he’s going to handle it. That came a little too early, in my case, and while I’ve always treated him with respect, more or less for my mother’s sake, I’ve always considered him something of a pussy, and fairly early on I arranged another father for myself, a man of unimpeachably violent barbarian credentials, every little boy’s dream.

I thought Farid would’ve crumpled under this disaster too, but he hadn’t; he was standing tall. It was me crumpling, and it pissed me off.

“You know, I have some contacts too, in the hills,” I said, snapping.

I couldn’t read the expression on his face. Shame? Sorrow? I’ve never really talked to my father about what I did between the ages of nine and seventeen, up in Afghanistan, but he knew, or could imagine it, and I know he thought it was his fault, my entire fucked-up life. So that was between us, like a big black sack of garbage stinking up the room, and there was a silence and then he looked at his wristwatch and said, “I must call now. Will you be all right?”

I said I would and he left and I turned on the sound again and flipped through the channels. After doing this for a while I learned that the group claiming responsibility was called al-Faran, which some expert commentator explained was a blowback from the Kashmiri jihad, an organization the Pakistanis had set up to give the Indian occupation grief but which had now joined with the general insurgency in the Northwest Frontier Province. The guy said that this bunch was distinguished for their media savvy and had pioneered a small but growing videotape niche market: decapitations of kidnapped Westerners. Wonderful.