Page 297 - Leadership in the Indian Army

"What's taking him so long?" Mariam said.

Rasheed spat, and kicked dirt on the spit.
An hour later, they were inside, Mariam and Rasheed, following the

doorman. Their heels clicked on the tiled floor as they were led across

the pleasantly cool lobby. Mariam saw two men sitting on leather chairs,

rifles and a coffee table between them, sipping black tea and eating from
a plate of syrup-coated jelabi, rings sprinkled with powdered sugar. She

thought of Aziza, who loved jelabi, and tore her gaze away.

The doorman led them outside to a balcony. From his pocket, he
produced a small black cordless phone and a scrap of paper with a

number scribbled on it. He told Rasheed it was his supervisor's satellite

phone.

"I got you five minutes," he said. "No more."
"Tashakor," Rasheed said. "I won't forget this."

The doorman nodded and walked away. Rasheed dialed. He gave
Mariam the phone.

As Mariam listened to the scratchy ringing, her mind wandered. It

wandered to the last time she'd seen Jalil, thirteen years earlier, back in

the spring of 1987. He'd stood on the street outside her house, leaning on
a cane, beside the blue Benz with the Herat license plates and the white

stripe bisecting the roof, the hood, and trunk. He'd stood there for hours,

waiting for her, now and then calling her name, just as she had once
called his name outside his house. Mariam had parted the curtain once,

just a bit, and caught a glimpse of him. Only a glimpse, but long enough