Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [76]
Yousef had spent a week in Karachi before moving north, then a restless month in Rawalpindi, which was much larger than Peshawar, more nervous every minute thanks to the heavier and more aggressive military presence there. Here in Peshawar he’d obtained his new identity papers, then finally made contact, only to be told to wait.
Outside, Yousef dipped his hand into the water trough and scrubbed his face vigorously. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he glanced up at a brilliant blue sky. This close to the Tora Bora mountains, you could all but feel the sky pressing down. The air was still pleasant, but had a cold bite that had not been there when he’d first arrived.
It was late October. Winter would soon be coming, and with it the snow that would lock the mountain passes in their white vise. He had to move soon or he’d be forced to turn back.
Yousef’s stay in Peshawar had not been totally unpleasant, not at all. The city had been conquered and occupied over the millennia by Moguls, Persians, Hindus, and Arabs, to name but a few. Each had left behind a bit of its culture and tradition. The people were of such diverse lineage they considered themselves to be a separate tribe from the rest of Pakistan. With the various cultures had come a certain laxity toward the teachings of the Prophet, though. Bars operated freely, and a local brewery produced a quality beer. Brothels were discreetly located but commonplace, though the quality of the women was not to his standards.
Since the Russian war in Afghanistan the city had been all but overrun with Afghan refugees, with the United Nations and nongovernmental organizations running the camps and providing services. Many of the Afghans had returned home, but thousands had stayed on, their homes long since destroyed. The Taliban who still waged war against the American-backed government in Kabul recruited among them, and Yousef had seen small bands of young, bearded men making their way quietly toward the nearby mountains almost weekly.
Yousef had taken to saying his prayers as the Prophet had decreed and spent most of each day in one of three traditional tea shops. There, amid the samovars and colorful china teapots, with the hookahs making the air thick with the heavy smoke of tobacco and occasionally hashish, he passed his time in thought, observation, or reading. He had come to believe that he had been reborn as a Muslim in this place and was more committed to jihad than ever.
Every ten days he changed rooms so as not to attract attention, but slowly his tea shops dwindled to just these three, which he rotated daily. He was surprised at the vitality of life here in Peshawar. Technically they were all Muslim, but the difference in culture from his native land was striking. The streets had a vitality that was lacking in Saudi Arabia. For that he blamed oil. The resultant wealth drained the people of their natural course, causing them to turn away from the practices of their fathers.
Yousef noticed one of the young, lean men with suspicious eyes enter, move quietly through the crowded, smoky room, then take a lone chair in the back corner. He’d seen his type before. Fresh down from the mountains, they delivered a message, ordered supplies, or led recruits to a mountain camp. Such men had something of the predator. The vigorous life in the mountains and the strict diet left them slender and hard.
At midafternoon Yousef found himself waiting, as he did every afternoon at this time. Within a few moments he heard the call of the muezzin from atop the nearby minaret. “Hayya la-s-saleah. Hayya la-s-saleah,” the voice sang to all who would hear: Hasten to prayer. Yousef set down his cup of tea,