Page 63 of The Fourth Option
“No. Stay here with Zahra.”
“I am a rug salesman. We have a reputation for a reason,” he said. “This close to Pakistan they might speak Urdu. How’s your Urdu?”
“Shit.”
Naji turned to smile at his daughter. “I’ll be right back, dear child,” he said, switching to Pashto. He kissed his hand and leaned back to place it against her forehead.
“Okay,” Walker consented. “You have your papers?”
“Yes.”
Walker stepped out slowly, hands raised with the white pillowcase filled with cash in one. These were fighters, not opportunists like the last checkpoint. Walker’s gift was therefore a few thousand dollars more. Naji followed, his steps cautious. He was ready to translate, to warm them up just like he had learned to do with customers in his shop. He forced a smile.
The leader of the group was a squat, thick-waisted man with a cheek distorted by an old wound. He hopped off the tailgate and stepped forward, muttering something in guttural Urdu.
“Border tax,” Naji translated, voice tight, nodding and smiling.
Border.That was good news.
“Does he want to see your exit papers?”
Naji said something else in Urdu, his tone almost playful, his smile broad.
The thick man barked something back, indistinguishable to the American.
“No, he just wants to know how much money we have.”
“Tell him I can show him.”
Naji spoke again and the leader stepped forward holding out his hand.
“Give him the money,” Naji said.
Walker very deliberately reached into the pillowcase and handed over the cash, keeping his eyes low, his posture respectful.
Naji and the leader exchanged a few clipped words in Urdu as the man ran his fingers through the bills. Naji’s smile never wavered.
The man said something else, short and clipped.
“He said we can go,” Naji said.
The man jerked his head in a reluctant nod.
“Back away slowly,” Walker said.
Naji pressed his palms together in a slight bow, then began stepping back toward the vehicles.
When they were twenty yards from the truck, eyes still on the gatekeepers, high-pitched static pierced the air.
The radio on the leader’s hip crackled to life, barking something urgent in a dialect Walker didn’t recognize. The leader’s face changed. His eyes sharpened, his mouth tightened, the wound near his nose twisted. Naji froze.
“They know who I am. They’re looking for me,” he whispered, voice hollow.
“What are they saying?”
The voice on the radio was shrill and tense.
“The radio! They are going to kill us!”
