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remember?
As MurGhoo s eyes adjusted, he beheld a strange creature.
Then he remembered.
Chapter 4
Kabuldung, Republic of Kakastan
September 25, 2007
Atonement
Thousands of miles away and over seventy years later, the mountainous former Soviet Republic of
Kakastan had declared itself an Islamic republic. Since the rule of the Imam had been established, a steady
stream of favor seekers and the accused were brought before the seat of authority for judgment. From the
shadow of a doorway in the Holy City of Kabuldung, a short, dark-skinned man approached the Palace. His
fit and youthful appearance belied his age of fifty-one by at least a decade. He was met and escorted to the
Throne Room.
The Kakastani s freshly shaved head was in honor of his coming audience with the Imam. Ali Ben
Kafard s wiry, but muscular, frame displayed his hand-tailored clothes well. He was sullen and smileless
beneath his great black mustache and was easily, though not obviously, offended.
His destructive temper had been his bane as a youth, but now he knew how to channel its deadly
force and prided himself on how well he could control it. Smarter than most people thought, he had a
ruthless cunning that gave him an edge.
The Imam was now the most powerful man in Kakastan. He had ruled by fiat since engineering the
overthrow of the hapless poltroons who had inherited the government after independence from the Soviet
Union. He had risen to power on the strength of the fanatical following and his charismatic appeal to the
masses.
Ayatollah Ali Sayed K Zooti founded the Sons of Osman, a paramilitary unit, to ruthlessly enforce his
rule.
Vigilant loyal clerics, in every corner of the country, were relentless in seeking out those who
disobeyed Islamic Law. The slightest infraction could place a citizen in front of a Holy Court, which
resembled nothing so much as a Star Chamber or an Inquisition. Thousands found themselves before an
Osman firing squad, while the lesser offenders received a flogging or had a hand, nose, or foot severed.
It was from this court that Ali Ben Kafard sought forgiveness. He d served among the KGB s
special-forces while the Soviet Union held Kakastan in subjugation and repressed Islam. He was well
aware of the fact that he might never leave the presence of the Imam alive.
As he was ushered into the private chamber by a brace of guards, Kafard marveled at the frail
appearance of the man who held the entire country in the grip of terror. The Imam was working at a desk
signing decrees, and gestured for Kafard to be seated on a low stool in front him.
Kafard sat patiently and waited while the Imam intentionally ignored him. It was a common tactic to
leave the subject of an interrogation guessing as to what was next. Having played this game before with
more professional adversaries, Kafard amused himself by considering the crumbling grandeur of the once
opulent palace.
It had been built by Suleiman the Magnificent as a provincial capital, but had been used by the Soviets
as a dacha for the nomenklatura. He d seen it a thousand times before, which even in a building reserved
for the party elite, the funds for maintenance had been obviously misappropriated.
Despite its wretched condition, hints of the building s past glory shone through the neglect of ages.
The surface of the high dome was adorned with the geometric precision of arabesque mosaic, the pattern
of which was broken only by ceiling fans installed by vulgar Soviet bureaucrats. The pure alabaster pillars
that held it aloft were pockmarked by gunfire during the coup, and the once lustrous marble floors were
now dull from wear and blemished with bloodstains.
After waving the guards out of the room, the Imam rose and walked around the desk to Kafard. The
old holy man was stoop-shouldered and his unkempt pure white beard came nearly to his knees as he
glared in silence. Despite his malign countenance, it seemed the elder s frail neck could barely support
the weight of his plain linen turban.
Kafard did not know if the Imam was shaking from rage or feebleness, but he thought he could smell
the hate and vitriol which filled this man. The Imam jabbed his finger into Kafard s shoulder as he began
talking, and it took all of the former KGB agent s self control to refrain from snapping that scrawny neck.
 Ali Ben Kafard& you are a traitor to your people. You have consorted with and even joined the
enemy in the rape and subjugation of your country. You have been a member of the KGB and have
become as deceitful and cunning as a Russian.
 All that is true Imam, but I was coerced into service. I was selling falafels in red square by Lenin s
tomb when these men came and seized me. Before I knew it, I was in a cell in the Lubyanka.
 I would not have left that jail alive had I not helped them to alleviate the KGB s need for agents who
were fluent in Turkic, the tongue of my father, and Arabic, the Holy language that I studied in Holy
school. So it was that I became a Soviet agent. I know I have transgressed, but I am willing to atone.
Please Your Holiness, allow me some way to redeem myself.
 Perhaps&  The Imam quit poking Kafard with his finger.  What did you have in mind?
 Your Holiness, I will do anything. My fervent wish is to return to my native village and pass my
remaining years in gentle atonement for my sins against Allah.
The voice of the Holy Man rose in righteous indignation.  Atonement, yes& but gentle, no. If you
are a true believer, then I have a way you can prove it.
 I have an urgent and dangerous mission, and the will of Allah has brought you to me. You are the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]