Death Comes in the Morning

  Chapter 49

  Whatever the outcome of the Afghan summit the night before, it apparently still was not yet time for them to approach me. We ate our breakfast, filled our pockets with crackers for lunch, and trudged out to the fields for another day of labor.

  The morning dragged on like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Focus on the work, avoid pissing off the guards, think about escape. Yesterday I had gazed upward toward the perimeter, thinking about my glorious escape over the fence. To get up to the ridge, I would have to weave upward, using cover to reduce my visibility to the guards below and to the guards walking the fence line above.

  From my current position, it was maybe 100 yards up to the fence. A diagonal line upward would increase the total distance traveled but make the climb less difficult. Yet the best cover, a few bushes and rock outcroppings, appeared to be a more vertical route. Either way, it would be a very tough climb. In my weakened condition and with shackles, I suspected covering the total distance would require several minutes. That was a long time with guards around. That amount of time would require a diversion.

  OK, so how do I plan for a diversion? I probably couldn’t. It would have to be spur of the moment. Perhaps when a plane went overhead, there would be an opportunity to slip away. Whenever a small plane flew over, the guards went on alert to ensure no one ran out from under the camouflage nets in that direction. That left the opposite direction open. Or perhaps when a guard was busy abusing one of the Afghans. I had noticed that the focus of all the guards shifted to the assault. That left a brief window of time. Not a lot of time, but maybe enough. Then when a guard realized I was gone, I might already be over the fence.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching from behind. While I had been contemplating an escape plan, I must have slowed my pace of work. A guard was going to kick me for sure. I turned back to my work and stiffened my body for the blow that was sure to come.

  But there was no kick. No rifle butt. No punch to the ribs.

  “Escape.”

  Did I hear correctly? Or was it just wishful thinking echoing in my head? A heavily accented voice had said that one word. Turning my head only slightly to the right, I glanced sideways. It was the Afghan who had covered for me yesterday, who had taken blows to protect me from the guard, and who had stared at me last night in the hut after their summit. He had come up from behind me and was now working in the row of poppies next to me.

  He said, “You escape.” He seemed to have more to say but had difficulty finding how to say it. He finally came out with, “Sun,” and swept his arm in a short arc from horizontal until his fingers were pointing overhead. It was such a quick motion that I couldn’t be certain that it had anything to do with his words. He gave me that stare again. It was penetrating, serious, urgent. I hoped with all my being that I had interpreted his intentions correctly. I nodded once.

  “See,” he said, pointing with his fingers at his eyes, continuing to stare at me intently. Then he tossed a small metal object next to me and drifted away into another row of poppies as a guard wandered our way. I slowly covered the object with a hand, scooping it up out of the dirt. I knew without looking what it was. I could tell by the shape and size and feel.

  Could this be happening? The Afghans want me to escape? They wanted me to escape when the sun is overhead, at noon when we take a water break. That’s when the guards also take a break to eat meals they had brought out into the fields with them. No time was ideal for escaping from here, but that seemed as good as I could imagine under the circumstances.

  I didn’t know how the escape would unfold. But he had given me a critical tool. He had given me a key. It looked like it was fashioned from a length of wire. It had been painstakingly folded, twisted, bent, and ground down, perhaps on a stone, to the required shape. It would have taken days, maybe weeks to do it. This key would unlock the leg shackles and let me run free.

  When had they done this? It could have been before I even arrived here. Why hadn’t they used it already for themselves? I would have used it immediately, with no real plan in mind, and probably gotten myself shot running away. They had patiently waited for the right time. I became part of their plan.

  Could I trust them? I decided there was no other option. The Afghan had seen me gazing at the fence. He knew that a plan had been running through my head. He knew I was the one to help them. So the Afghans had entrusted to me something they had worked hard to produce: a key. They might have given it to me because I was not like them. One of them had already escaped this year. Correction. I knew of one. There may have been more. Regardless, that man had succeeded in getting out of the valley, but had failed to bring help for his comrades. Being a Caucasian, I was more likely to get help in Montana than a non-English-speaking Afghan. An Afghan would more likely be shot on sight.

  The Afghans gave the key to me because I was their best hope. I would not let them down, though the enormity of this responsibility weighed on me. Not only was I risking my own life, but likely the survival of all of them. I could feel my heartbeat going faster and the blood pounding in my temples. It was the beginning of an adrenaline rush, something that I would desperately need for the climb up the slope and over the fence.

  Yet surely they must have more of a plan than escape at noon. How would I know when was the right moment? He had pointed at his eyes, so presumably he was going to give me some kind of signal when the time was right. I had to watch him closely when the work break came around.