CHAPTER : 1 The Smile That Never Faded
Kabul, Afghanistan March 2015
The jet's landing gear shrieked in protest as its wheels bit into Kabul's cracked tarmac. Each rotation gouged fleeting scars into the battered runway, the scent of burning rubber mingling with the acrid tang of aviation fuel. A shallow dawn breeze stirred the desert dust into a ghostly veil that draped itself over the city's fractured skyline – ragged concrete spires and half-collapsed minarets silhouetted against the pale morning light. Sand, sweat, and the residue of a thousand battles hung in the air, a grim perfume that reached Deputy Secretary Arvind Pratap Singh's nostrils as he waited in the narrow aisle, knuckles white around the polished leather handle of his briefcase.
A flight attendant emerged, fatigue shadowing her eyes like storm clouds. "First time in Kabul, sir?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper amid the turbine's dying roar.
"Third," he said, smoothing his tie despite the desert warmth seeping through the cabin walls. "Though it's been nearly two years."
She offered a tight nod. "Be careful, the situation… has evolved."
He managed a small smile. Change was the only constant here.
With a soft hiss the cabin lost its tenuous pressure, and a blade of dawn stabbed through the doorway. For a heartbeat, Arvind stood framed in that gash of light, squinting at the knot of soldiers darting across the runway like ants at a fallen feast. His pulse fluttered not from the heat or altitude, but from a quieter tremor of hope and terror.
She was somewhere in this city of dust and danger.
Stepping onto the hot metal stairway, his polished shoes tapped a measured rhythm. The briefcase felt impossibly heavy – and yet, as though buoyed by something deeper, surprisingly light in his grasp. His thoughts drifted from the speech he would deliver, from the trade talks scheduled for tomorrow, to her – two years of stolen midnight calls, whispers in neutral corridors, laughter fragile as spun glass. Inside that case, beneath stacks of policy papers, lay a velvet box holding every possibility that thrilled and terrified him. What if distance had changed everything? The question tripped him on the stairs, heart stalling as the heat rippled off the tarmac.
The terminal's sliding doors parted with a wheeze, casting a wave of heat and grit over the concrete parking. Javed, the embassy driver, leaned from the open window of a black SUV. The engine growled like a caged animal. His carefully groomed moustache curved in a reserved greeting; crow's feet crinkled at the corners of eyes that had witnessed more than any man should. "Welcome to Afghanistan, sir," he called over the rumble of a departing military transport. "Long flight?"
"Too long," Arvind murmured, easing onto the warm leather seat. He laid his briefcase beside him, fingertips lingering on the worn handle. "Updates on security?"
Javed's gaze sharpened in the rearview mirror. "Usual tensions, sir. Nothing specific to your visit. Though there are whispers of militant activity in the eastern provinces – unconfirmed."
Arvind inclined his head. "And the New Delhi delegation?"
"Arrived last night," Javed replied with a knowing lift of his brow. "They're at the Serena. Your meeting's at four."
Four hours. Four hours until he'd see her across a polished table, the air between them charged with unspoken promises. He watched Kabul slide by: sandbagged checkpoints bristling with rifles, satellite dishes perched like mechanical flowers straining for signal, street vendors hawking flatbread and spiced tea from carts mounted on cracked wheels. Children wove through soldiers and blast walls, their laughter a brave defiance against steel and suspicion.
"Traffic's worse than usual?" he asked as a convoy of armored government vehicles crawled ahead.
"Interior Ministry officials moving," Javed said, drumming his fingers on the wheel. "Ten-minute delay, at most."
"Not a problem." Diplomats masked impatience with civility. But every fiber of him pulled toward her thought.
Tinted windows filtered the sun into a soft amber glow. Arvind reclined, closing his eyes briefly against the heat. He thought of her smile – bright, mischievous – the way she'd unravel his certainties with a single question. His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He fished it out: a new message.
Heard you landed. The city feels different knowing you're here. Dinner still on?
Three drafts of a reply danced before he tapped out: Wouldn't miss it for anything.
The three dots flickered, then her response materialized: I've missed you, Arvind. More than I should admit.
A warmth eased the tension from his shoulders. Perhaps the miles had changed little after all. He loosened his tie, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd held. Four hours to dinner. Four hours to promise himself to her. His mind replayed their last call: her laughter trembling in the night, the soft challenge in her voice – "Don't make promises you can't keep, Deputy Secretary." And his reply, half-dare, half-pledge: "I never do."
Then came the blast.
A thunderclap erupted behind the convoy, metal screaming, glass blossoming into glittering shards. Heat seared through the SUV's floor; the world fractured into a kaleidoscope of fire and noise. Arvind's body lifted, spun, and slammed back down as though tossed by a colossal wave. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine, drowning thought, drowning pain. A coppery trickle seeped down his temple – blood, maybe tears.
"Sir! Move!" Javed's voice pitched through the haze; distant, urgent. But Arvind was pinned by shock, eyes locked on the shattered screen of his phone: her last message glowing amid the wreckage. His smile froze on his lips, stubborn and unextinguished.
Outside, charcoal-black smoke clawed skyward. Figures scattered like wounded birds. Soldiers thundered from an armored personnel carrier; rifles raised. Radio crackled: "…confirmed detonation…multiple casualties…immediate MEDEVAC…"
Not far away, a voice, cold with triumph: "This is a message from the warriors of Mullah Ahab. Some of the enemies of Ahab have been eliminated today."
Arvind understood even as the edges of his vision darkened: he had not been the target, only collateral in a war he'd come to bridge. His final thought slipped free of politics and protocol: she would be waiting at that table, checking her watch, wondering why he was late. The velvet box would lie unopened, dreams locked inside.
A last fragment drifted through his fading consciousness: "Foreign envoy down. Repeat: Foreign envoy down."
And then the darkness took him, gentle and absolute, while Kabul burned around the broken convoy.
A Shattered PeaceMinistry of Foreign Affairs, Kabul – The Next Morning
The room reeked of fresh plaster and distilled despair. Enormous ceilings yawned overhead, swallowing even attempted whispers; a cracked chandelier trembled above the polished mahogany table, its crystals rattling like distant gunfire. Beyond the windows, helicopter blades shredded the morning air into a constant, brutal reminder of how fragile peace remained.
Under the banner Security Brief, delegations from India, the U.S., the U.K., Pakistan and several other countries, sat stiffly, faces carved by grief and iron resolve. Armed guards hovered at the walls, eyes darting, fingers itching against the butt of their weapons. Yesterday's attack had pulverized any illusion that Kabul was safe.
Counsellor Richard Collins of the U.K. cleared his throat, riffling through unread papers. "Let's begin. Time is precious," he said, voice low – but every man at the table knew unspoken: any one of us could be next.
The Afghan Foreign Minister, Hamid Nazari, bowed his head. Deep lines scored his face – each a testament to – too many funerals. "A moment of silence for Deputy Secretary Singh and the four Afghan officials we lost yesterday."
Heads dropped; a heavy hush swallowed the room. A few closed their eyes; others stared, haunted, at polished wood. In their midst, a Third Secretary, a twenty-something analyst from India, sat apart – rigid shoulders coiled like springs. Her eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, fixated on a faded corner of the wall. Guilt and grief clung to her like thick smoke.
The U.S. Ambassador leaned toward his aide. "Who's the girl?" he murmured, nodding at Third Secretary.
"Junior analyst," came the whisper. "Ten months in Kabul."
Across the table, Isabella Laurent – officially the U.S. Embassy Cultural Attaché but whose crisp efficiency hinted at more than cultural work – studied the young Indian with cold fascination. She noted her controlled breaths, the nearly imperceptible tremor in her fingers, the thin silver chain vanishing into her blouse.
The silence stretched until General Fareed Ahmadi, Afghanistan's National Security Adviser, spoke. His voice was steel: "Yesterday's attack was a last gasp from terrorists loyal to the mercenary Mullah Ahab. We've arrested three suspects linked to cells in the eastern provinces." He waved to a security officer, who slid CLASSIFIED files across the table. "We'll reinforce protection around all missions immediately. This does not signal a collapse of stability."
His assurances hit like sandpaper. Everyone exchanged strained glances – Kabul's "stability" was a veneer at best.
The Indian Ambassador, stern and gray-haired, leaned forward. "With respect, General, this marks the third high-level attack in months. Deputy Secretary Singh came to discuss our likely investments in Kabul." He jabbed a finger at the papers. "He was my friend. I demand honesty, not platitudes."
Ahmadi's jaw clenched. "I share your grief. But we cannot bend to terror."
A single word escaped the Third Secretary before she could hold it back: "Peace?"
All eyes snapped to her. The Indian Ambassador's brow furrowed. "Ms. observations only."
She inhaled sharply, tamped down her voice. "Apologies, Ambassador."
Isabella rose, coffee cup in hand, and drifted towards the Third Secretary. Without meeting her eyes, she muttered, "This brew tastes like engine oil. Military supply."
The Third Secretary's head snapped up. "I don't drink coffee."
The CIA woman tilted her head, stirring sugar. "You knew Singh." No question – statement.
The third Secretary's fingers ghosted over her chain. Voice brittle and a hesitation: "He was my... my colleague."
"Colleague." Isabella's tone was neutral but her eyes sharpened. "My condolences."
At the table, voices resumed – protocols, intel sharing, sterile abstractions.
Isabella leaned closer, voice barely above a hiss. "Clean hit. Professional. Not amateurs." She had surveyed the security cameras. "Singh was collateral."
The Third Secretary's shoulders coiled. "Collateral?" Her whisper cut like ice.
Isabella shrugged, reaching past her for a napkin. "In wars like this, we're all pawns moved by unseen hands."
The Third Secretary's fingers clutched the chain at her throat. "That's supposed to help?"
"No," Isabella admitted. "Truth rarely does." She glanced past her at Ahmadi detailing fresh security measures. Isabella continued, "They'll stage an investigation, pin blame on scapegoats, file it away. Unless someone presses harder."
"Presses?" the young Indian echoed softly.
"The U.S. watches from space. Signals, satellites." Isabella drained her cup, grimacing. "Capitals issue statements, but truth requires a longer reach. If you want real answers – beyond diplomatic lies – I can help. Justice requires pressure."
The Third Secretary's weighed the offer, eyes flicking for hidden traps. "Why help me?"
"Justice – or aligned interests."
Isabella's smile held no warmth.
Their fragile alliance crackled when the Indian Ambassador's voice rang out: "Ms. bring me the security portfolio."
She rose, steeling herself. "Yes, sir." Papers in hand, she slipped away without so much as a glance at Isabella.
The meeting ground on for two more hours. Protocols piled upon protocols, diplomatic phrases forming a fortress around stark reality.
When at last they were dismissed, the young Indian lingered at the window. The Afghan flag whipped wildly in the dry wind, vibrant against a merciless sky. Below, life dared to continue – shops opening, children scuttling to school, normalcy stubbornly persistent.
Isabella joined her, placing a business card on the sill. "American embassy reception tomorrow. You should come."
The young Indian didn't touch the card. "I'm not cleared."
"As my guest, you will be." Isabella nodded at the departing Indian team. "Think on it. Answers hide in unexpected places."
She slipped away, and The Third Secretary stared long at the card, then beyond at Kabul's restless sprawl. Her reflection shimmered in the glass – eyes rimmed with sorrow, hardened now by something sharper: resolve, or perhaps rage restrained.
Her fingers found the silver ring at her throat. She pressed it to her lips, then let it slip back under her blouse. Silence answered her.
Footsteps. The door opened. The Indian Ambassador appeared, face softer than before. "Ms. our car is waiting."
"Coming, sir." She turned away, leaving Isabella's card untouched on the sill.
For now.
The Red DawnBaluchistan, Pakistan – September 07, 2019
The train, Jaffar Express, crawled through the desolate desert – a relentless steel serpent slicing through the suffocating silence, its rhythmic clatter a hypnotic lullaby that drew passengers into a vulnerable, dreamless stupor.
In Compartment 6B, the first light of dawn pierced through stained glass, casting jagged rainbows on the faded upholstery. Maryam, twenty-eight, a schoolteacher with a resilient strength masked by her gentle voice, cradled her daughter Beenish tightly against her.
The child's tiny fingers clung to a ragged stuffed rabbit – one eye missing, worn thin by love and time. A sudden sway broke Beenish's sleep. "Mama, I'm hungry," she murmured, eyes fluttering open, heavy with sleep.
Maryam's smile was bittersweet, the lines on her face etching deeper like rivers of unyielding hardship and unbroken hope. She reached into her bag, retrieving a small juice box. "Here, sweetheart. Little sips. I'll find you something warm at the next stop."
Beenish's eyes sparkled with a child's innocence, momentarily untouched by the world's harshness. "I want chicken biryani!" she giggled, her laughter a fragile shield against the encroaching coldness of the world.
Beyond the window, the desert stretched endlessly, painted in fierce blood and gold by the ascending sun. Beenish pressed her hands to the glass, eyes wide with wonder. "Mama… is the sun bleeding?"
Maryam gazed outside, her heart torn by the beauty and brutality intertwined in the landscape. The sun's rays seemed to ignite the sands, casting long shadows that danced like specters of forgotten battles. The train's rhythmic clatter was a stark contrast to the stillness of the desert, a reminder of the fragile line between life and death.
The compartment was filled with the soft hum of conversations, the occasional laughter, and the rustle of newspapers. Maryam glanced around, taking in the faces of fellow passengers – each carrying their own stories, their own burdens. An elderly man with a weathered face and a turban sat across from her, his eyes closed in silent prayer. A young couple whispered to each other, their hands intertwined, oblivious to the world outside.
Then – the explosion.
A savage, merciless roar obliterated the silence. Steel screamed in agony and shattered. Flesh was hurled like lifeless dolls through the void. The train buckled and twisted, its compartments crumpling like paper under the force of the blast. The air was filled with the deafening sound of metal tearing apart, the screams of passengers, and the acrid smell of burning.
Maryam's instincts surged, overpowering pain and terror – she threw herself over Beenish, a desperate shield of maternal love. Her body absorbed the shock, her arms wrapping around her daughter in a final, futile embrace. The force of the explosion lifted them from their seats, slamming them against the compartment walls. Maryam's vision blurred, her ears ringing with the high-pitched whine of destruction.
But the fire was pitiless. The blast, all-consuming. Flames licked at the remnants of the compartment, devouring everything in their path. The heat was unbearable, searing through flesh and bone. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning metal and flesh, mingling with the scent of spilled juice and the faint aroma of the desert.
When the dust and silence settled, Compartment 6B ceased to exist. Only twisted steel, a broken one-eyed stuffed rabbit, now burnt, and the faint scent of something once pure lingered. The remnants of the juice box lay spilled in the sand, its sweet liquid bleeding into the earth like the last vestiges of innocence.
Maryam's body lay crumpled, her arms still wrapped around Beenish. The child's tiny voice – lost forever. Her laughter, once a beacon of hope, was silenced by the cruel hand of fate. The compartment was a scene of devastation – bodies strewn across the floor, the walls scorched and blackened, the windows shattered.
Outside, the desert remained indifferent to the carnage. The sun continued its ascent, casting long shadows over the wreckage. The silence was broken only by the distant cries of survivors, the wail of sirens, and the roar of approaching helicopters. The world had changed in an instant, the fragile peace shattered by the violence of the blast.
Some deaths alter policy.
Others transform people.
This one – will change everything.