Caravans by James A. Michener Page B

job; he had always been a diplomat and found subtle pleasure in reminding us of the gap that existed between him and us. He was an expert in masking his opinions, but we suspectedthat he deplored the naval attaché as a political hack, held Richardson in contempt as a kind of F.B.I, precinct cop, and regretted me as an unavoidable error in a department that had been forced to recruit untested men to fill new posts. He suffered Kabul in silence, waiting for the day when he would be transferred to a real embassy, say Buenos Aires or Vienna. London and Paris would come later. In the meantime his strategy in Kabul was to speak as little as possible.
    Nur Muhammad and I completed the group, and it was to me that Captain Verbruggen spoke first: “Shah Khan’s office delivered the papers, so you’re free to head for Kandahar.”
    “I’ll go down tomorrow,” I said.
    “Good. What do you expect to find?”
    “Yesterday Shah Khan suggested three different things that could have happened. First theory. She killed herself.”
    “Is that likely?” Verbruggen asked.
    “It’s possible. She must have been shocked by the life she was required to lead in Afghanistan. I know I was shocked yesterday by some of the things Moheb Khan said.”
    “He’s the one in the Foreign Office?” Verbruggen asked.
    “Yes. Moheb told me something that isn’t in our reports. Nazrullah married an Afghan wife before he left for America and had a baby with her.”
    “We knew that,” Richardson said complacently, tapping the file with his pipe.
    I was irritated that he had kept information from me. “Did you also know,” I asked, “that after Nazrullah and Ellen Jaspar were married, his Afghanwife lived with them and she had a second baby? This could well have caused Miss Jaspar to kill herself. Remember, three years ago the Allison girl did.”
    The Americans in the room winced at the memory of that dismal affair, and Richardson asked, “Wouldn’t we have heard about a suicide?”
    “I asked about the lack of information, and what do you suppose Moheb answered? She was only a woman, and when Nazrullah gets back to Kabul he’ll tell us all we need to know.”
    “What were the other guesses?” Verbruggen asked.
    I thought: Look at Nexler wincing. A career diplomat would say, “What are the other hypotheses?” I prefer Verbruggen’s way.
    “Second theory,” I said. “She’s been locked up by her husband and we won’t see her for some years. Remember that this occurred with that English girl Sanderson and that Dutch girl …”
    “Vonderdonk,” Richardson filled in promptly.
    “Do you take such a hypothesis seriously?” Verbruggen asked as Nexler raised his eyebrows.
    “I certainly do. It’s happened before.”
    Richardson sucked his pipe, then observed cautiously, “Evidence I’ve collected supports the belief that Nazrullah loved his American wife, did all he could to make her happy. I find no parallel with the Sanderson and Vonderdonk girls. Their husbands hated them and kept them locked up eight or nine years to prove it. I reject this theory completely.”
    “We’re rejecting nothing,” Verbruggen said firmly. “This is Afghanistan and no one of us herecan project himself inside the Afghan mind. How do you know what Nazrullah might do?”
    Richardson nodded amiably, dragged on his pipe, then asked, “Let’s concede that he’s keeping her locked up. Where? A city like Kandahar? An outpost like Qala Bist?” We looked at one another.
    “Excuse me, sir,” Nur Muhammad interrupted. “I’ve reviewed all recent cases of such personal imprisonment. Without exception the jail turned out to be the home of the husband’s mother. If you surround a ferangi wife with half a dozen women in chaderi they not only can keep her hidden, they enjoy doing it.”
    Captain Verbruggen looked at Nur Muhammad as if to say: Whatever we pay you, son, it’s worth it. Aloud he asked, “Have we checked the mother’s