Free The Honey Thief by Najaf Mazari, Robert Hillman Page A

a career in teaching, or medicine, or law. He is thinking of guns; of where he can acquire one; of how he can conceal it on the day of the graduation ceremony. He is thinking in a very practical way of the right part of the King to aim for. The face? No, the face is not a big enough target, and he has heard of people shot in the face who survived, although without a nose or a chin. The heart would be a better target. No one can survive a bullet through the heart. Or will the King be wearing all of his medals and decorations? Can a bullet pass through the medals, which would probably cover the whole left side of his tunic? Abdul Khaliq has to consider this problem and others over the few days remaining until 8 November.
    Acquiring a handgun is not such a big problem. Guns are everywhere in Kabul. Many ordinary Afghans, then and today, are more expert in the use of firearms than soldiers in well-equipped armies. Making good use of a weapon of any sort has a long tradition in a warrior state like Afghanistan. Every Afghan, of every ethnic group, can name a dozen great warriors who honoured their people in battle. It is not the great victories of these heroes that are honoured, but their bravery. A victory might be a matter of luck, or of careful planning, or of superior numbers. But bravery has nothing to do with luck and planning and everything to do with the iron in a man’s soul. It is iron that Afghans honour.
    Abdul Khaliq has a friend who has a friend who knows a man with a gun, a pistol. Abdul Khaliq asks his friend to speak to the friend who knows the man with the pistol. When he is asked why he needs a pistol, he says, ‘A thief may come to the house.’ The friend does not believe that Abdul Khaliq needs a pistol to defend the home of his family from thieves, but he says, ‘So be it,’ and within a few days, he provides the pistol and a number of bullets. Abdul Khaliq hides the gun and bullets from his family, but when he finds the chance, he unwraps the pistol from the oiled cloth in which he keeps it and holds it in his hand, feeling its weight, studying its mechanism. He already knows how he will conceal the pistol when he joins the assembly of students who will meet the King. He will sew a pocket on the inside of the right-hand sleeve of his coat and the pistol will sit in this pocket securely. He is left-handed, so when the King is close, greeting the student next to him, Abdul Khaliq will retrieve the pistol from his right sleeve with his left hand and be ready to fire in an instant.
    He hasn’t thought of his reasons for assassinating Mohammad Nadir Shah for more than a week now. He doesn’t dwell day and night on the suffering of the Hazara. He doesn’t even think, ‘This is a blow for freedom.’ His plan is now his destiny and all feelings of hatred and enmity have vanished. There is only the deed. He will shoot the King. The pocket has been sewn into his coat. He has rehearsed the moment at which he retrieves the pistol from his right sleeve with his left hand a hundred times. He has checked the pistol’s mechanism again and again. He has tested his aim. He has told himself over and over, ‘Aim for the heart.’ He is already dead. All that remains of Abdul Khaliq the student, the son, the brother is the power to aim a pistol and pull the trigger. He is already dead, but he is content. His dreamy smile is not a disguise hiding fear and anxiety. His dreamy smile hides nothing at all. It is almost as if the deed would be enacted all by itself even if he fell asleep before the King’s visit and did not wake up until the day after. In his sleep, he would find his way to the assembly. In his sleep he would take the pistol from his right sleeve with his left hand and fire at the King’s heart. The deed will be done, asleep or awake. Nothing can stop it.
    On the day of the assembly, Abdul Khaliq in his coat with the secret pocket is waiting in line to be greeted by Mohammad Nadir Shah. Everything is as