Free One Child by Jeff Buick Page A

the host while they ate. When they were finished, Ahmad's wife returned and cleared the dishes. More chai was served and the men settled back into their cushions.
    Kadir was amazed at the money the family in Peshawar would pay Halima. The amount was incredible. If she was paid one hundred Afghanis a day, Halima would earn the equivalent of fifteen US dollars a week. A fortune for a twelve year old.
    Almost as if he read Kadir's mind, Tabraiz said, "My clients are quite generous. They feel that by offering their servant girl a decent wage that she can save, it will give her a chance to own a small house after ten years. I trust that seven hundred Afghanis a week is suitable."
    "That would be fine," he said, trying desperately to keep his voice even.
    "Did Ahmad Khan mention what sort of fee might be paid to you, her father?" Tabraiz asked.
    Kadir phrased his answer carefully. The importance of the moment could not be underestimated. "My friend did mention a figure, but he also said that it would be negotiable."
    "It could be, to a certain point. But only to a point, Kadir Khan."
    Kadir's lips were quivering. The use of his name in the last sentence was a warning not to push any further. He was standing perilously close to the edge of a steep cliff and one wrong step could push him over and kill the chance of Halima having a decent life. He swallowed and lowered his gaze to the elephant-foot carpet adorning Ahmad's floor. The colorful medallions mocked the grayness that enveloped his heart. He was failing his daughter.
    "What figure do you have in mind?" Tabraiz asked, a gentler tone in his voice.
    "In Afghanis or American dollars?" Kadir asked, not looking up.
    "Whichever you prefer."
    He forced his eyes up from the carpet. "One thousand five hundred American dollars."
    Tabraiz nodded slowly and rubbed his hand across his clean-shaven chin. "That figure is possible, if Halima is a hard worker." He paused for a moment, then added, "Do you have a picture of your daughter?"
    Relief surged through his body as Kadir nodded his head. The negotiations were ongoing. He hadn't derailed things with his impertinence. "Yes," he said, digging under his robes. He pulled out the dog-eared photo and handed it to the Pakistani.
    "I'd like to meet Halima," Tabraiz said. His eyes were focused on the photo, staring intently, unmoving. "Is that possible?"
    "Yes. When and where?" Kadir asked.
    "I'm in Kandahar for two more days," Tabraiz said. "Today is Saturday. Maybe we could meet here again on Monday. That would be August the 9 th . Does that work for you, Ahmad Khan?"
    Ahmad bowed his head slightly. "It is good."
    "Kadir?"
    The dates confused Kadir, but he understood Monday. Not tomorrow, but the next day. He nodded. "That is fine."
    "Same time?" Tabraiz asked.
    "Yes, the same time. On Monday."
    "Can I keep this picture until we meet again on Monday?" he asked.
    "Of course," Kadir said. Any apprehension that he might not get the photo back was beaten down by the opportunity that lay in front of him. Refusing to allow Tabraiz to keep the picture would be an accusation of mistrust.
    Tabraiz stood up, as did Ahmad and Kadir. Without letting his eyes glance down, Tabraiz asked, "What happened to your hand?"
    Kadir was taken aback by the question. He had kept his hand covered during the meeting. Somehow, the Pakistani must have caught a glimpse of it, perhaps when they were eating.
    "I was accused of stealing and my hand was smashed."
    "By whom?" Tabraiz asked.
    "The Taliban."
    Tabraiz eyed him carefully. "Were you stealing?"
    Kadir shrugged. "I didn't think so. But he did and what he thought was what mattered."
    Tabraiz looked down at Kadir's destroyed hand, now visible. "You must hate them," he said.
    Kadir closed his eyes. Visions of his wife bleeding to death in the street flashed through his mind. The acrid smell of gunpowder stung his nose and the dust burned through his eyelids. He felt her blood, thick on his hands, and her last breath, a