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West.
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    Monday, March 5. The big day. The day of the interview. Today we leave for Lashkar Gah, sixty kilometers away. The road is in perfect condition, like those I traveled on in and around Kandahar. This particular is not lost on me: here, in the deep south, an area overrun by Taliban, the national government is on top of things, providing infrastructure to the cities and the districts. There is not a single piece of paper or plastic on the ground, everything is clean, tidy, the complete opposite of the chaos that reigns over Kabul. Ajmal tells me that it’s all thanks to the new governor, whose predecessor was killed by a car bomb while leaving his office.
    We rise early. The hotel is buzzing with activity; everyone, it seems, is already awake. I watch the other guests as we eat breakfast wondering whether or not they know who we are. I’m always afraid that Afghan intelligence is following us. I feel like I’m caught in a vise: I have to hide from the official authorities and protect myself in my meeting with their enemies, the Taliban. Both are skilled and thorough, and I find myself treading a thin, constantly shifting line between the two.
    There’s no time to go to the bathroom or to smoke a cigarette. Sayed is in his Corolla with the doors open and the motor running. We’re leaving. Now. While I’m paying the bill for our hotel, Hamid, the waiter, makes a subtle sign of farewell. Our eyes meet. He smiles. In the car, I cover my head with my turban, trying to wind it around myself like the Afghans do but without success. I look foolish, awkward. It takes several attempts before I get it right. Ajmal and Sayed watch me in the rearview mirror. They smile, amused by my outfit. But they actually appreciate my efforts, and they know that the men we are going to meet will appreciate them, too. Sayed is more talkative today. I attempt to get an idea of the timing of the interview and where it will be held. He has no idea. We’ll see when we get there. The meeting will probably take place in a house; out in the open it would be too dangerous.
    We are racing along a road full of buses, mule-drawn carts, new cars, and downright wrecks. We’re stopped four times at roadblocks by the Afghan police. They peer hastily into the cabin to ascertain who we are. I don’t move a muscle. The turban around my head hangs down to my shoulders. Only my eyes are visible. At the fourth and final roadblock we are told to wait. The police officer looks at me and says something in Pashto. Ajmal and Sayed reply, telling him that I’m a foreigner. That’s all they say. Before letting us pass, the officer asks if we can take two other police officers with us. I don’t know what Sayed says by way of an answer, but he refuses and I imagine he says we’re in a hurry and that we’re not heading in the same direction as our two would-be passengers.
    Fifty kilometers further on, we turn left on a large sealed road. Our driver accelerates. He glances in the rearview mirror and tells me in a few words of English that last night there was an attack here: a Taliban unit took over a police checkpoint. “It happens all the time,” Ajmal adds. “The police circulate during the day. When night falls they pack up and retreat to the city.” The situation is unstable, says the interpreter. Ten of the thirteen districts in this province are in the hands of the Taliban. The famous “spring offensive” will begin here and the games are already underway. The jihadists intend to conquer the remaining three districts and they rarely pull punches. They attack, they shoot, and they kill. Around here, they prefer open conflict. No suicide bombers. Those kinds of actions are meant for the middle of the country and the north, to spread panic, to lay siege to the central government, to terrorize it. The driver pushes his Corolla up to maximum speed, saying that the road is dangerous, we could be