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I guessed the people s throats had tired。 I don t know how much longer I sat with my face in my hands。 I know that I reopened my eyes when I heard people around me asking； Mord？ Mord？ Is he dead？
The man in the hole was now a mangled mess of blood and shredded rags。 His head slumped forward； chin on chest。 The Talib in the John Lennon sunglasses was looking down at another man squatting next to the hole； tossing a rock up and down in his
hand。 The squatting man had one end of a stethoscope to his ears and the other pressed on the chest of the man in the hole。 He removed the stethoscope from his ears and shook his head no at the Talib in the sunglasses。 The crowd moaned。
John Lennon walked back to the mound。
When it was all over； when the bloodied corpses had been unceremoniously tossed into the backs of red pickup trucks……separate ones……a few men with shovels hurriedly filled the holes。 One of them made a passing attempt at covering up the large blood stains by kicking dirt over them。 A few minutes later； the teams took the field。 Second half was under way。
Our meeting was arranged for three o clock that afternoon。 The swiftness with which the appointment was set surprised me。 I d expected delays； a round of questioning at least； perhaps a check of our papers。 But I was reminded of how unofficial even official matters still were in Afghanistan： all Farid had to do was tell one of the whip…carrying Talibs that we had personal business to discuss with the man in white。 Farid and he exchanged words。 The guy with the whip then nodded and shouted something in Pashtu to a young man on the field； who ran to the south…end goalposts where the Talib in the sunglasses was chatting with the plump cleric who d given the sermon。 The three spoke。 I saw the guy in the sunglasses look up。 He nodded。 Said something in the messenger s ear。 The young man relayed the message back to us。
It was set； then。 Three o clock。
TWENTY…TWO
Farid eased the Land Cruiser up the driveway of a big house in Wazir Akbar Khan。 He parked in the shadows of willow trees that spilled over the walls of the pound located on Street 15； Sarak…e…Mehmana； Street of the Guests。 He killed the engine and we sat for a minute； listening to the tink…tink of the engine cooling off； neither one of us saying anything。 Farid shifted on his seat and toyed with the keys still hanging from the ignition switch。 I could tell he was readying himself to tell me something。
I guess I ll wait in the car for you； he said finally； his tone a little apologetic。 He wouldn t look at me。 This is your business now。 I……
I patted his arm。 You ve done much more than I ve paid you for。 I don t expect you to go with me。 But I wished I didn t have to go in alone。 Despite what I had learned about Baba； I wished he were standing alongside me now。 Baba would have busted through the front doors and demanded to be taken to the man in charge； piss on the beard of anyone who stood in his way。 But Baba was long dead； buried in the Afghan section of a little cemetery in Hayward。 Just last month； Soraya and I had placed a bouquet of dais