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embassy and ask for Ettore Sequi, whose long experience as a diplomat I have had occasion to appreciate over the years. He’s not in, but I leave my cell number and a message to say I’m in Afghanistan. I am not nervous about our plans. On the contrary, I feel calm, for Ajmal seems serene, untroubled, sure of what he has done and will do.
    I spend this morning, like every morning, reading. It distracts and relaxes me, carrying me away to far-off lands. I read continually: books on Afghanistan, on Central Asia. I’ve brought with me all the works of Ahmed Rashid, the Pakistani journalist who introduced me to the world of the Qur’anic students. I reread what he wrote about the Taliban during their offensive.
The Great Game
by Peter Hopkirk—the story of the perennial struggle between England and Russia for control of a country that offered them nothing. Philip Roth’s most recent literary effort. And my old and worn edition of
The Plague
, which accompanies me like a lucky charm on every trip I make. Albert Camus is the only writer capable of conveying the real atmosphere of the places he describes, even down to their smells.
    The front desk calls: Ajmal has arrived. He’s waiting in the lobby of the Serena. From the window I see and smell nothing but city traffic. Everything is covered in dust that rises from streets stripped of their asphalt, covered in dirt that will turn to mud with the first rains, lined with drainage ditches carrying waste from the houses.
    Sewer stench filters into my room and forces me to spray deodorant all over, even on the air conditioner outlet.
    The Serena is a sumptuous hotel in the Oriental style with large rooms that are almost always being used for conventions, meetings of various kinds, and summits between the Afghan army, ISAF forces, and NATO. There are two restaurants: the classic bistro, with meals arranged circularly inside warmed aluminum containers, suitable for quick snacks and the big brunches held every Friday, the day of rest in Muslim countries; and a Japanese restaurant that even manages to put sushi—a rarity in a landlocked country hemmed in by mountains—on its menu a couple of times a week. The hotel is a kind of bunker. The cement barricades serve to remind everyone of this fact, especially the dappled crowds hanging about beyond them, or circulating in the central bazaar: merchants, artisans, beggars, mutilated and crippled victims of the anti-personnel mines.
    Ajmal and I order tea in a small private room in the back of the hotel. We discuss the details of our journey southwards, into the Taliban stronghold. He says everything is ready, the interview has been arranged.
    That evening I reach him on his cell phone at the new home he shares with his young wife and ask him for more information: the name of the commander we’ll be interviewing and the faction to which he belongs. Ajmal’s answers are vague. It isn’t clear if he wants to protect his sources or needs time to nail down the final details. I trust him, exactly as I have trusted him in the five years that we’ve known one another, during which our work together has always gone off without a hitch, without any blunders or setbacks.
    We meet again the following day and go to purchase our tickets. Then, we make a quick visit to the Italian military base, Camp Invicta, thirty kilometers south of Kabul. Finally, we go to the market to get my
shalwar kameez
, a traditional outfit comprised of loose trousers under a long tunic open along the sides.
    I don’t sport this dress to camouflage myself, but out of respect for local customs. When one is a guest in another’s house it is considered polite to wear a
shalwar
. Ajmal himself has requested I do so. I choose an electric blue cap called a
pakol
that matches my
patu
, a long shawl one wears either over the shoulder or wound around one’s head like a turban.
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    On Saturday, March 3, we get up early. The