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Abdullah from Kandahar. Understood?”
    I understood this was a plan that was not going to work. I wanted to ask him if he thought this plan up himself or if the real geniuses at headquarters pissed on it, too. First, if I could makeAbdullah as a Marine then everyone in Torkham would be whistling the Marine Corps hymn whenever he appeared. Second, it would take months and many runs on the caravan to establish trust. The best way would be to wave a lot of cash around and get some entrepreneurial fellow to steal a few weapons on his own and hope that caught of the attention of the organization that ran the pilfering.
    “I understand,” I said. “It will take me a few weeks to grow my beard enough. I can use that time to improve my language skills.”
    “You start in two days.”
    “No beard, no me, Captain. I’m not going on a suicide run. Court-martial me if you want.” Not every Afghan wears a beard, but every American doesn’t. If having one gained me five minutes of doubt in someone’s mind, I wanted one.
    He squinted his eyes at me and stood up and paced around with his chest puffed out. “You will pay for that outburst, Lieutenant. This operation has been in the planning for months.”
    “Use the time to dirty yourself up, Captain, maybe have a couple of teeth pulled. I’ll go along, starting in three weeks.” He was not happy to be challenged, but he agreed.
    I traveled to headquarters in Kabul to get the details about Karachi and the caravan. Major Carl Jenkins looked like a schoolteacher: glasses, a mustache, the first hint of a comb-over. He met Ballard and me outside NATO headquarters and ushered us past the gates and the guards. Ballard was wearing his shalwar kameez and swept through as if he thought he were Lawrence of Arabia returning to Cairo. I thought he looked like a foolish adult dressing up for a Halloween party at the country club.
    Major Jenkins gave me seed money: one hundred crisp newone-hundred-dollar bills. I told him I needed twenty more. Ballard was always ready: “Why?”
    “Because a villager from the south would not have American money in this condition. I’m going to have to go into the market-place and change it and I’m going to have to lose a little bit on each transaction.”
    “Not a problem,” Jenkins said. He seemed to have some experience at this. We talked about communication. There was not going to be any. The meeting seemed about to end. We all stood up. Jenkins came around his desk, and Ballard moved toward the door. I stood still.
    “Once the caravan crosses the border into Afghanistan, Americans are in charge. Are we looking for American soldiers?” Ballard stared at me for an answer. This was the moment to run away, go AWOL, disappear. I knew just the right cave for it, but it was in Arizona, and I doubted I could make it there before being caught. Too late it occurred to me that if my Afghan act was good, I had a better chance of getting there in that disguise. “Then it could be anyone. It could be Major Jenkins.”
    “It’s not me.”
    “Or his commanding officer.”
    “That’s enough, Lieutenant.”
    “Stop it. Both of you.” That stunned us. Neither of us had thought Jenkins had enough starch to give orders. “It’s not my commanding officer. He never leaves the office. At least no one has ever seen him outside it. As the captain says, this is the mission. These are your orders.”
    “You will meet me when you cross the border and vouch for me to the right people.”
    Hi, Nawaz, I’d like you to meet my old friend Abdullah of Arkansas. He’s the one over there wearing the American flag.
    “We’re going to find these guys and bust them. I promise,” said Ballard, now that it was his turn to talk to himself. Major Jenkins studied his shoes. Maybe he wanted to see if they were laced right.

8.
    T he marina at Hite’s Landing on Lake Powell opened just after dawn. The sun splashed against the cliffs across the lake and bounced onto the water.