The following day Ghulam Durani set out on the bus for Jalalabad at 07.00. He felt wealthy. His son Ahmed had provided him with seventy-eight dollars to settle his account with Mr. Stoner. He also had a few more dollars to pay for food and accommodation during his stay in the city.
The bus should have taken an hour to reach its destination. After all, it was little more than forty kilometers. After numerous breakdowns, they rolled into the creaking, bullet-scarred bus station in the early afternoon. He was tired and hungry, but before he looked for food, he rushed to Stoner's office, which was only a few hundred meters away. The American had a bloodstained bandage on his right hand, and he looked exhausted.
"Mr. Stoner, I've come to pay what I owe you. I have the money."
There was no smile, there never was. "It's appreciated, Sir. I haven't got the final figure; the supplier still hasn't let me know. Can you come back tomorrow?"
"I would prefer to conclude this matter now."
Stoner nodded. "Yeah, I'm sorry, but I've only just returned to town and I'm beat. Make it tomorrow morning."
"If it is necessary. You don't think the amount will be more than we discussed. Seventy-eight dollars was the figure."
Stoner put his hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Durani, that's not an issue, nossir. I think it may be less than I quoted, that's why I want you to wait. I wouldn't cheat you."
Durani nodded. "I know you for an honest man, Mr. Stoner. I will return first thing in the morning. Afterward, I must get back to my farm in Mehtar Lam."
"Of course. The tractor is running well? The carburetor solved your problem?"
He beamed. "It did that and more. The Fordson is running better than ever."
"Good. I'll see you in the morning."
Durani nodded his thanks. "I will be here early. Thank you, Mr. Stoner."
"Thank you, Mr. Durani."
They shook hands, and Ghulam left the office. He walked through the teeming streets, looking for a place to stay overnight. He started to hunt for a cheap boarding house. A policeman pointed the way to an establishment he said would be suitable, although it probably belonged to his brother. Still, he had to sleep somewhere.
He turned a corner, and to his dismay recognized the man approaching him. He looked angry, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. Even from a distance, he knew there'd be trouble. He carried his ancient Kalashnikov under his arm, as did many men on the streets of the city. Although he didn't believe he'd need to show it to chase this man off again. Once was enough, when he'd refused him permission to marry his daughter. Hopefully, he'd have learned his lesson, although as the man drew nearer, he began to have misgivings. Khan's eyes were glazed and dull, the pupils dilated, the mark of a dope head. He gripped the butt of the rifle tighter.