Tomb of the Third Eye (revised)

Darkness had descended on Kabul. The nocturnal undercurrents of the night begun. The mercenary patrol won’t let up until morning. The instructions from the Warlord were clear ‘find the tahilwidar and kill him!’

After a fourteen hour walk through the mountains, the man was exhausted. He was limping, his eyes spindly red, the base of his rubber sandals worn through, his toes swollen and bleeding. He was barely able to go on but for his people, they must get free of the invaders, they must at any cost survive.

The frightened figure darted in between the shadows of rubble. The streets, ancient and narrow were lined with dilapidated two storey wooden framed buildings that bore the scars of civil war. Inside the buildings, glassy orbs peer motionless through the bullet riddled walls. The man understood the inevitable, confirmed by his heavy breathing, the outline of shadows were drawing closer, the predator was too powerful, he would never leave the city alive.

The man was a tahilwidar, roughly translated it means key-holder who comes from the mountains descendants it is said, of a chosen class born for a higher purpose. He was Allah’s vassal and it was his divine responsibility to protect Afghanistan, and all that encompasses Islam.

The man adjusted his battered down leather jacket and pulled it firmly across his shoulders. He fixed his turban upright pushed off balance by the still scorching desert winds then wiped the ancient grit from his eyes. Secured to his back was a faded green rucksack that contained an item of immensurate value.

The man drew from his pocket a small gold key, eyed it closely and clutched it tightly. He was bonded. The man with the key had pledged his family house and his land to have this honour. Tears welled up in his eyes knowing this key would help his countrymen's survival. But unbeknownst to the man this key was more than a direct route to his people’s liberty. It was the key that would unlock the subterranean door that would unlock the name of the mysterious assassin who possessed a taste for antiquities, vengeance and a chance to settle old scores.

The key-holder’s name was Ahmadi, and the year was 2003. He was sixty years old, his features were Asian, narrow eyes, flat nose and broad cheeks. He was an Hazara, a lower caste and a trusted tahilwidar, the only one left alive.

The Americans had invaded their country two years earlier in a call to arms against the Islamic terrorist Osama Bin Laden. Ahmadi would always remember this time because of the bloodshed inflicted onto the undeserved not only by the invaders but also from his own people against his own people, and while the rest of the world relaxed in the comfort of middle class complacency, Afghanistan was laid to waste by madmen and forgotten.

Ahmadi’s troubles started one week ago when he and his brother Hamid stumbled upon a cave in Mes Aynak, 30 kilometres south of Kabul. The hidden valley that zigzagged past rocky hills was an al-Qaeda training ground. They had been hired as assistants by the visiting French geologist who had been taking mineral samples of the chalky green stains believed to come from oxidising copper buried under the dusty earth. Both brothers, clad in leather jackets, mud splashed white cotton shirt and pants, and black thick soled leather boots looked more like cowboys from a spaghetti western than respected archaeologists working for Kabul Museum. They had finished for the day and were both exhausted, they were looking forward to returning home but wished to avoid the main road. It had become extremely hazardous since the Holy Warrior or Taliban opium smugglers on the payroll of the local warlord routinely used the road as a direct route to the Pakistani border. They decided instead to go over the mountain by way of a mule trail abandoned by local shepherds after the smooth bitumen road was built by the Russians.

As the brothers advanced along the trail, exhaustion melted away with the onset of evening. Dusk fell across the valley shedding its first light, resembling layers of diaphanous scarves rising above the clouds. As they proceeded deeper into the mountain the rocky mule trail became a tedious pursuit. The trail was so bad it took them over an hour to go three kilometres. Thick overgrowth made it difficult for steady footing and they stumbled repeatedly over ruts in the road forcing them off balance. Hunger gnawed in the pit of their stomachs making the task even more difficult. Eventually, Ahmadi reached for his rucksack and gestured to his brother to stop. Hamid waited patiently as Ahmadi retrieved a small bag of nuts, poured some into the palm of his hand and threw them back in his mouth. He closed the bag of nuts, dropped the remainder in the rucksack then threw the rucksack on the ground. Next he proceeded to rub his sore feet while all the time remaining alert, keeping his falcon eyes open to catch any signs of danger......when suddenly he saw it. A little white mouse came scampering out of a small crack revealing a massive stone sheathed in a thick tangle of vines that hung over a hollow opening. Ahmadi placed his feet steadily on the ground and fixed his eyes ahead. Hamid tapped him on the shoulder, beckoning him to keep moving but Ahmadi’s curiosity became aroused.

‘Look!’ Ahamdi said quietly.

Ignoring his brother’s appeal to leave, Ahmadi approached the hollow opening. Gingerly, Hamid followed reminding Ahmadi it could be dangerous. A week earlier people in their village had spotted Taliban fighters on the mountain. Ahmadi pushed the vines aside to discover the entrance to a cave. Startled birds shrieked and flew out from the dark hollow opening. Looking from the threshold of the cave’s dark entrance, Hamid, the younger of the two, spoke to his brother, ‘You first.’

Cautiously, Ahmadi entered the cave. Thick veils of cobwebs stretched across the opening, Ahmadi pushed them aside. Hamid inched his way inside staying closely behind his brother. The brother’s choked on the thick stale air, the only sounds were dripping water and scurrying rodents. They advanced deeper into the cave, passing a Buddhist shrine sheathed in layers of moss. Moving slowly and carefully they made their way up an inclined passage. The further they walked, the more narrow and darker the passage became, the space narrowing to less than an arms length across. When they could no longer walk they began manoeuvring themselves on their hands and knees, spitting the dirt from their mouths until they reached an outer wall about 120 centimetres deep and 150 centimetres deep. The wall was dry, cobwebs laced the sides and the top. Ahmadi brushed the filmy obstruction aside.

‘What is it?’ asked Hamid anxiously.

‘I think I see something.’

Ahmadi took out a small box of safety matches from his pocket. He struck one and stared at the north centre line, revolving slowly clockwise, holding the lighted match against the cracks in the blocks on the lower half of the wall. Ahmadi took a rucksack shovel from his belt, unfolded the stem and began removing the earth. Hamid joined his brother, clawing at the dirt with his bare hands.

Three minutes later, Ahmadi began dislodging what looked like a stone box buried deep in the ground at the base of the wall. He tugged at it, pulling the object out of the dirt and gave it to Hamid. Hamid reached into the rucksack and retrieved a flashlight, his eyes intent on Ahmadi’s manipulations. Hamid pierced the beam of light onto the object.

‘Extraordinary,’ said Hamid fingering the small but heavy magnificent blue box. It's size the length of a man’s hand.

Hamid tried to ply it open with his hands but could not budge it. The lid was locked, the keyhole was empty. The brothers recognised the deep blue stone, made of the rare semi precious mineral lapis lazuli collected from the mountains of Badakshan and more intense than any colour they had ever seen. Without a key or proper equipment, this mineral could take hours to open. It was watertight, airtight, and crushproof. Even a starbit drill could not penetrate the mineral.

The brothers looked back and forth at one another. Wondering if they had made an archaeological discovery and thought it wise to keep it a secret, afraid that looters would arrive and dig for spoils to sell on the European black market. Ahmadi halted and turned his head, slowly facing Hamid. ‘We can’t see, we will have to come back tomorrow.’

The next day the brothers returned armed with a torch and the green rucksack. They crawled through the narrow passageway until reaching the outer wall, relieved to find the lapis box was still there. Ahmadi opened his rucksack and placed the box inside. The brothers then set about removing the outer wall.

It took several hours and after removing the outer wall their eyes widened as their efforts were rewarded and their real objective became apparent. The brothers were breathless.The earlier discovery now seemed to hold little interest for both men as their eyes trained on what lay beyond the wall. From the narrow opening they could see a chamber, a large domed room with a floor covered in mosaic tiles with an intricate design that looked to come from another era. They were now so deep into the cave that the air grew heavier making it more difficult to breath. Hamid began gasping, struggling for breath. He panicked and began moving his arms wildly above his head. Ahmadi turned round abruptly, slapped his brother’s face and spoke in firm hushed tones.

‘Be quiet or Khalili’s spies will hear us.’

Reluctantly, Hamid nodded. Satisfied, Ahmadi continued surveying the room from the narrow passageway. On their hands and knees, the brothers crawled through the narrow opening. Once inside Ahmadi rested his rucksack against the wall and panned his torch revealing hallways and rooms decorated with frescoes filled with gold statues of standing and reclining Buddhas, some as high as 400 centimetres. While Hamid clung to the darkest shadows of the chamber’s dirt walls, Ahmadi squatted down on the mosaic floor and held his torch above his head. ‘Buddhist markings.’

Hamid’s heart pounded against his chest. Ahmadi and his brother feared for their lives. They knew they had to act quickly. ‘May Allah protect us brother. It is the lost Temple of Mes Aynak. Quickly, we have got to leave. Did you tell anyone where we were going?’

Hamid shook his head afraid to speak. Ahmadi swept up the rucksack then shoved the torch in Hamid’s hand and lit the passageway in front. The brothers began moving quickly towards the entrance. Ahmadi lingered momentarily and once again made a quick study of the lapis box, concerned academically as conspiratorially. The archaeologist’s curiosity was rooted in a lifetime of research. He raised the box towards the spill of light from the torch and caught sight of tiny outlines of Persian swirls engraved on the lid. The loose vertical line written in ancient Arabic read third eye.

Suddenly there was a loud whoosh, Hamid looked back over his shoulder. ‘Hurry, I sense danger,’ he then shoved the box back inside the rucksack.

Ahamdi kept his eyes steady on Hamid and his grip on the rucksack while thinking to himself. It’s not the archeological discovery that we have to fear. It didn’t give him any pleasure to have made the discovery. He turned round and eyed the passageway one last time. A sudden chill went through him, he shuddered. We should have stayed at home.

They exited the passageway and made it safely outside the cave running furiously back down the mountain. They arrived at the marketplace and mingled incognito amongst the swelling crowds, skirting their way through the narrow yellow dust lanes of the old bazaar. Above the din, merchants yelled hawking their wares in monotonic diatribes but neither brother looked up as they navigated around rickshaws, beggars, robed men and a flock of muddy goats. They stopped when they arrived at a clearing at the edge of the old bazaar.

The brothers drew breath and sat down in the shade of an apple orchard. Suddenly the sound of hooves broke out from a northerly direction, a cloud of dust rose upwards. Ahmadi jumped up from underneath the apple tree. He was right to fear for his life, the brothers knew that secrecy in Afghanistan is a dangerous pursuit. Word of the discovery had spread, it came faster than they had expected. Heading towards them was the greater monument to sudden death, Khalili’s soldiers. Hamid turned to his brother and spoke quickly. His voice on the edge of panic.

‘Ahmadi you are a ring holder, the tomb belongs to all of Afghanistan, don’t let the Warlord keep it for himself, you know what to do! Kabul Museum is our only chance to preserve our culture and our people.’

A frisson of apprehension went through Ahmadi. He knew his responsibilities and his loyalties were in that split half second torn. Ahmadi shook his head and slipped the thick gold ring that bonded him to his homeland from his finger that bore the mythical emblem of a Nightingale and gave it to his brother as a talisman. Sadly, Hamid accepted the parting gift and placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder looking steadily into his eyes. ‘Brother, I give you my word. I will not tell them where you are going. May Allah protect you.’

Moving with lightning speed, Ahmadi clutched tightly at the rucksack and sprinted towards the edge of the apple orchard that opened up onto a clearing. He did not look back, instead he did what any helpless human being would be forced to do, run faster!

Five minutes later a frightening spectacle appeared. Six men, wild and unwashed arrived inside the orchard mounted on horseback. They were dressed in long robes, their heads wound in turbans, they looked to come from another century. Kalishnovkov rifles straddled their backs. They circled Hamid then stopped. It was Afghanistan’s Command Kabul, the feared Afghani Gestapo who meted out swift and lethal punishment to anyone who opposed them. One of the soldiers jumped down from his horse continuing his hold on the reigns. Hamid recognised him. It was Captain Khalili, a loathsome man with narrow glinting eyes and cheeks pitted with pox. Khalili grabbed the trembling Hamid who offered no resistance. Captain Khalili dropped the reigns then withdrew a curved dagger from his hip. He pressed it hard against Hamid’s cheek piercing the flesh and as he did his thin lips parted as he watched a trickle of blood ooze forth. He leaned closely to Hamid’s ear and lowered his voice.

‘Don’t waste your courage Hazara your fate is in my hands. Tell me where the lapis box is and the village will live.’

Hamid knew better than to challenge the demand of the Pashtun soldier because he was a luckless Hazara, an infidel, the underclass who did not look the way Afghans should look, or worship the way Muslims should worship. Wincing with revulsion, Hamid answered the soldier scornfully. ‘Allah will be kind to you, we gave all the gold to the beggars.’ Hamid laughed in Khalili’s face.

’The Captain replied with equal scorn. ‘Gold!’ Is that the limit of your vision? Khalili the great Pashtun warrior writes himself into the Samanid legend. You stupid Hazara. You are welcome to the gold what I want is a source of unspeakable power.′

‘Are you not forgetting, a tahilwidar has Allah’s protection. Allah will curse you to hell if you harm him!’

Khalili’s face contorted with an expression of loathing.

Suddenly there was the roar of an engine and the feared Captain released his grip on Hamid and lowered his dagger. A black land cruiser with tinted windows drove up. The car door swung open. Hamid froze in terror as a strange man alighted from the car. A man with eyes that were the colour of gold ingots. His face was perfectly aligned, save for one unusual feature, he wore a silver nose. He was dressed in a flowing white shirt, blue and green pantaloons with a thick red waist sash that accentuated his tall slender body. On his feet he wore knee high black leather boots with a raised wooden heel. He resembled a Siberian Cossack dressed for battle. He was chewing naswar, the opium laced tobacco which he spat out noisily. He stepped casually toward Hamid. His eyes shifted to Captain Khalili. Khalili bowed to the Warlord.

In a clipped Russian accent the frightening spectacle said, ‘you cannot afford to have me as your enemy Hazara. Tell me where your brother is and I will only pluck out your eyes.’

When he spoke Hamid observed he made Khalili tremble. Hamid knew of the man. He had heard about the Warlord with the golden eyes, he was an old Russian soldier, a casualty of war and the only one who could control the bastard battalion Command Kabul. The unsanctioned and unstoppable collection of killers and misfits recruited by the West for specialist assignments. The man was the leader of the organisation tall, slender, evil incarnate cloaked in western respectability. They called him the Silver Phantom and the powerful Command Kabul was the bridge to reviving a Government appointed by the West. The stranger was an old warrior whose power did not come from the vanities of mere theft they were meaningless obstacles that obscured his true objective. By biding his time, the Warlord knew the objective would be irresistible to his clients, and through the allegiance of his soldiers he could demand the spoils. He was an educated elite who had what western governments wanted most. He sought to conquer what Alexander could not, the eastern known world.

Hamid did not raise his voice in anger, he did not have to, his tone was enough. ‘Then everyday I cannot see, I shall will upon you a thousand curses, and a thousand more for each member of my village you harm!’

The Silver Phantom held his right hand out. Captain Khalili read the order and proffered his dagger. Hamid screamed in agony. On horseback Command Kabul rampaged through the village laughing like children, locking the people in their houses and setting fire to them. They mowed down everything in their wake and stole what they could not destroy. It took less than ten minutes for the village to be burnt to the ground.

Hamid collapsed under the apple tree and curled up in a foetal position as if in a trance, on the edge of insanity. Another scene from Afghanistan’s hell. He could not shed tears from the blank hollows of empty eye sockets, instead he closed his ears to the deafening screams of the innocent and the mirrors of his life was shattered into a thousand pieces of glass. There was nothing else to do but scream.