Abdul had pulled himself up and had his back against a rock. He was watching me closely. It was time to go. The Americans would have learned already that the helicopter was down and I had no doubt that a rescue mission was already under way. I didn’t want to be anywhere near when it arrived.
Thick black smoke was pouring from the wreckage, sending an unmistakeable column into the clear sky. I tossed the first aid kit to within Abdul’s reach. ‘You’re on your own mate.’ I said, as much to myself as to him, and turned to go.
‘You just going to leave me here to die?’ The voice took me completely by surprise. It was American. I thought the crew were dead. I spun around, pulled the Beretta from its holster. But nothing had changed. There was only Abdul and the burning helicopter. I pointed the pistol at him.
‘What did you say?’ My confusion was palpable. Abdul laughed.
‘You damn English are all the same. Just because I am dressed like a raghead you automatically assume I’m some dumb local and don’t even bother trying to talk to me.’
I was still very much on the back foot, ‘I don’t give a shit who you are. The Americans are coming and I want to be as far away from here as possible when they get here. Nothing personal.’
‘Yes... Of course... The Americans...’ He suddenly looked vulnerable.
I looked at his ankle and shrugged. There wasn’t much I could say.
‘... that’s why I’m going to need your help.’
‘I can’t help you. We’ll both be caught.’ It seemed obvious.
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’
I was getting exasperated. I glanced at my watch, scanned the skies looking for incoming helicopters.
‘They won’t be here for at least an hour.’
‘How could you possible know that?’
‘We’re halfway between Bagram and Puchi Ghar There is no chance they will get here in less than an hour.’
He saw the expression on my face as I scanned the snow-capped peaks that might have been almost anywhere in the world to me. I could have been in Switzerland for all I knew. He answered my unasked question.
‘This is my neighbourhood. I know it as well as you might know the streets of London.’ I didn’t think it worth telling him that I hadn’t been there for twenty years. ‘But we do need to get going.’ He looked down at his leg. The foot was sticking out at an odd angle, bone protruding obscenely from the wound. ‘Would you please help me do something about my leg?’
He had already assumed that I would help him. Without some sort of a guide I wouldn’t last long in the mountains. My only hope would be to wait for ‘rescue.’ Not a pleasant thought.
I broke open the first aid kit from the helicopter. There was enough stuff in there to perform a heart transplant. I jabbed a shot of morphine into Abdul’s good leg and, without waiting for it to take effect, set about pulling his leg straight, splinting it. He flinched once or twice during the process, but didn’t utter a sound, sat there watching me from under hooded eyebrows.
When I had finished, I asked him, ‘Now what?’
‘You’re going to have to carry me.’
That much was obvious. He wasn’t going to be walking anywhere with that leg. ‘Where to?’
He pointed down the valley. For the first time I noticed a road there: narrow and winding impossibly down the mountain, but unmistakeably a road, a way out.
I heaved him onto my shoulder in a firemen’s lift, set off down the mountainside. It was hard going. The snow wasn’t deep, but just deep enough to hide the boulders and screed covering the slope. I was forced to go much slower than I wanted to, compelled to test every step. I was grateful for the time spent in the gym in Prague. Without that conditioning I might not have made it.
Nevertheless my breath was soon rasping in the thin mountain air; my thighs felt like someone was holding a blowtorch to them. But I’d experienced much worse in training, when I didn’t have the U.S. Cavalry breathing down my back. We were near the bottom of the valley, tantalisingly close to the road, when we heard the unmistakeable sound of approaching helicopters; so much for an hour’s grace.
I looked around for cover. There was only one boulder that might shield us. I headed for it. We had just wedged ourselves into the little shelter it provided when I saw a Blackhawk fly over the ridge into the valley. Our wreck was still burning. I couldn’t see flames any more but the column of smoke hung heavily in the still air.
The Blackhawk wasn’t alone. Behind it were two Apaches – gunships – riding shotgun. The Blackhawk circled the crash site twice and then hovered over it. As it did, there was a puff of smoke from the mountainside on the far side of the valley and a vein of smoke flew unerringly towards the hovering Blackhawk. Ambush.
The Blackhawk lurched violently and the missile streaked past, slammed into the mountainside with a roar. The Apaches immediately engaged the shooter, guns chattering. One spat a missile in to the mountain. Echoes from the blast reverberated up and down the valley. Then, barring the slap of helicopter blades, there was silence. We watched from behind the boulder, not daring to move. The Blackhawk returned to the crash site; troops jumped from it into the snow. I didn’t know if they would see our tracks, follow us. There was nothing to do but wait. Abdul groaned. I looked down and saw that he’d faded to white. The bandage around his leg was soaked in blood. ‘We need to move.’ He punched the words out with difficulty, as if some giant hand was squeezing his throat and he had to force the words through.
‘We can’t move now. They’ll see us.’
‘Perhaps, but they will not follow. We are on the Mitharlam, Nuristan road. This is our country. They will not move without reinforcements.’
‘What about the gunships?’ I wasn’t convinced.
‘We are unarmed civilians.’
I didn’t want to move from the safety of the rock, but there wasn’t much point staying there until we froze to death, so I heaved Abdul onto my shoulder and set off down the mountainside towards the road. I could clearly hear the rotor blade beating the mountain air above us, but I ignored them, made as if they weren’t there, stepped carefully down the treacherous slope until we reached the road.
I put Abdul down as gently as I could and straightened my crooked back. The Apaches were still circling the crash site protecting the hovering Blackhawk. I couldn’t see what was going on, but I suspected that they were putting out the fire and recovering the bodies and whatever else they could.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. A vehicle was coming down the road towards us. Because of the steep valley, I couldn’t make out what it was. Now and then I caught a glimpse as it neared, but couldn’t even make out the colour. There was nothing to do but wait. I was too tired to carry Abdul anymore and if I ran I might attract the attention of the Apaches. I waited.
Chapter 55
As the vehicle neared, I knew it wasn’t military. Firstly it was alone and secondly it was clear from the bumping and grinding that the suspension was completely shot. It turned the last corner and I saw that it was an old Peugeot pickup, the kind that has been soldiering on for years in the forgotten corners of the third world.
It ground to a halt next to us. Inside was an ancient Afghan. Next to him his wife, completely hidden underneath a blue chadri. I couldn’t see anything through the mesh that covered her face, just dark mysterious shadows. It might as well have been Osama bin Laden under there. The old man ignored me completely and looked down at Abdul. The two of them chattered for a while. Although I didn’t understand a word, it quickly became apparent that the driver knew who Abdul was. His voice whined with fear and he began casting furtive glances towards the helicopters. Finally Abdul spoke to him sternly and the old man slumped submissively in his seat.
Abdul told me to put him and the back and I lifted him to the bed of the pickup as gently as I could. There was nothing in the back except for goat shit and a few empty hessian bags. They were probably returning from the market. I propped Abdul in
a sitting position with his back against the cab and, as gently as I could, stretched the broken leg out in front of him. Before I had settled myself, the pickup lurched on down the mountain, taking us further from the helicopters with every jolt.
We sat in silence for a while. Abdul stared at his leg, clearly feeling sorry for himself. I wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t as if he could be rushed to the nearest casualty department. I wondered what he would do. As he wasn’t volunteering any information, I asked. ‘What now?’
‘Pardon?’ I could see in his eyes that he had been a very long way away.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Jalalabad.’
It was like pulling teeth. ‘What are you going to do about your leg?’
‘I have friends there.’
‘And me?’
‘We will take care of you.’
I wasn’t reassured. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for talking. The exertion of carrying Abdul down the mountain had kept me warm, but the sitting still on the back of the Peugeot with the wind whistling around my bare legs was becoming decidedly fucking cold. I gathered up the empty sacks and wrapped them around me as best I could. The journey dragged on.
After about an hour the road flattened a bit, followed a gushing river fed by the mountains towering either side of us. It was the worst journey of my life. We were tossed around in the back like rag dolls as the old Peugeot gamely tried to stay on the road around slippery corners and over impossible boulders. Whenever I began to feel sorry for myself, I looked at Abdul’s leg and felt blessed. And at least I was free; sort of. I had fallen from the hands of the CIA to those of the Taliban. I wasn’t sure that in the long run that was going to be a good thing.
I thought of Martina, where she was, if she was safe, what she would think if she knew where I was. My one overwhelming aim was to get back to Prague as quickly as possible and get her back. I had no idea what might happen after that; didn’t even think that far. I just wanted her to be safe.
After an eternity the Peugeot slowed down and I saw that we were on the outskirts of a town. I looked at Abdul and my heart sank. He looked dead. I grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse: nothing. But I found a thready beat at his carotid artery. Still alive, but not for long unless he got help fast. The Peugeot stopped outside a large wooden gate, the entrance to a walled compound, and hooted.
The gate opened; a man came out, approached us. He was dressed in shalwar kameez, the baggy top and trousers that was de rigueur for every self-respecting Talib, wrapped against the cold in a brown blanket, with the obligatory pakol on his head. And he carried an AK47. He approached the driver and was about to speak to him when he saw me. He stopped in his tracks and snapped the AK to his shoulder pointing it at my head. I was all wrapped in sacks and didn’t want to even move to raise my hands for fear of being shot. I just sat there staring at him. There was a moment’s silence then he started jabbering away in Pushtu and half the Taliban army poured through the gates – or so it seemed. That’s when they saw Abdul. A change came over them and for a moment they forgot about me, shouted at the driver, urged him through the gates into the compound.
Once we were safely inside and the gates were closed, rough hands grabbed me, dragged me from the pickup, across the courtyard and through a dark doorway. They flung me into a corner and left me there with a guard. He squatted down in the doorway and pointed his AK at my head, stared unblinking at me. There was a cooking fire in the corner of the room; I huddled next to it. I didn’t mind the gun, as long as nobody took me away from the fire.
The courtyard was full of bustling Taliban. Somewhere in the melee they carefully lifted Abdul from the pickup onto a stretcher, carried him inside to another room facing the courtyard. Not long after, the gates opened again and the Peugeot left. Then another car arrived, a Toyota, and a man with what looked like a doctor’s bag got out and rushed into the house.
It was quiet for a long time after that. They changed my guard after a few hours. The second one squatted in the doorway much like the first, clutching his rifle, stared at me. They didn’t need the gun. I wasn’t going anywhere. But they didn’t know that I suppose. Sometime during the afternoon the Toyota left. Shortly after that another of the Taliban brought a thin mattress and some blankets, tossed them into the room. I gathered them, dragged them to my corner, made up a bed for myself, curled into it and went back to sleep.
Shaking. I was woken by someone shaking me. The room was dark. A single candle flickered yellow in a corner. The fire was out. The shaker put a bowl of stew next to me and left. I could still see the dark shadow of a gunman in the doorway. I pulled myself up, wrapped the blanket around myself, picked up the bowl. The meat looked as if the goat had been blown up with a hand grenade and the remains cooked: goat shrapnel. There were no utensils. I was glad of the darkness as any more light might have revealed the details of my dinner; and I didn’t want to know the details. Aside from the gristle and odd bits of splintered bone, it actually tasted quite good. It was probably the hunger speaking.
Apart from the bones, I ate the lot, licked my fingers and the bowl clean as best I could, put it down next to me and went back to sleep.
When I woke in the morning there was a neat pile of clothes next to my head. There were boots (my size), socks, shalwar kameez, pakol, jacket and even a pair of gloves. They weren’t new, but were clean. What I wanted most was a shower, but there was no soap or towel, so I guessed that was not part of the bargain. I discarded the rags that I was wearing, dressed my smelly body in the new clothes and sat down to wait for the next instalment. I didn’t wait long. I had barely sat down when two Taliban entered the room, hoiked me to my feet, marched me out into the courtyard. I blinked at the harsh sunlight.
The men led me through the gate, out the compound. Outside there was another Toyota pickup with a number of men sitting on the back. None paid me any attention. They were about to bundle me onto the back when one of the men stopped them. He whipped the pakol from my head, removed his turban, tossed it to me, indicated to them to put it on me. Obviously my pakol wasn’t much of a disguise. They wrapped the turban securely around my head and, for good measure, wrapped it around my face too. One of the men pushed a pair of sunglasses on and I was instantly transformed from infidel to Taliban. They lifted me onto the back of the pickup and I wedged myself in amongst the others. The pickup accelerated down the street and my mystery tour continued. Abdul had been the last one to speak to me. Since then nobody had said a word. I had no idea where the truck was going, where I was being taken. I might have been on my way to an Al Qaeda training camp or to the local football field for a public execution.
Of course it had occurred to me to run. I could have escaped during the night. But where to? All I knew was that I was in Afghanistan somewhere. Making a run for it in a hostile country where I did not speak the language, didn’t know where I was going - and stuck out like a paedophile at a school picnic - didn’t seem to be a good plan. On the plus side they had looked after me from the beginning, fed me, clothed me. I had no reason to believe anything but that they were helping me. I just would have liked to know what sort of help I was getting.
We were soon out of town and hurtling down a reasonable tar road. Outside the town the road climbed a plateau, continued down the middle of a wide peak-flanked plain. The mountains were covered in snow; the plain as barren as the Moon, and just about as inhabitable. The traffic thickened.
The vehicles in the opposite direction were mostly heavily laden trucks. There were also petrol tankers, busses, pickups full of people like ours and the occasional private car. A military convoy barrelled past, escorted, carrying everything from Humvees to beige shipping containers. Then the plain ended and we were in the foothills. The two ranges on either side of us began to converge. Our pace slowed. We fell into a column of vehicles, all climbing the road into the mountains, all going at the pace of the slowest. The road narrowed and it was clear that there would be no overtaking until we had
negotiated the pass.
As the road climbed into the thin air the vehicles began to labour and I pulled my jacket tightly about myself. I was glad to be wedged among so many others. Without them I might have frozen.
Then we were at the top and the road plunged down the other side. We continued on at the same tortuous pace. The road required a steady nerve and serviceable brakes. Any mistake would send the offender plunging down the side of the mountain and that would be that. It was only when we reached the bottom of the mountain that I discovered for the first time where we were going. We had passed through a checkpoint where a soldier spoke to the driver for not more than a minute, didn’t even glance at the press of humanity on the back. I’d thought that his uniform looked different, but didn’t think anything more of it until a saw a simple sign on the side of the road. It read ‘Khyber Pass.’ I was in Pakistan.
Chapter 56
The pickup finally stopped at a large bus terminus in Peshawar. Everybody got off. I did the same but was at a bit of a loss as what to do next. Nobody paid me the slightest bit of attention; I was alone in the crowd. I didn’t want to appear conspicuous, so I started walking. Trouble was I had no idea where I was going. The weather in Peshawar was much warmer: too warm for the jacket. I took it off. When I did, I noticed that there was something in one of the inside pockets. I pulled out a wad of banknotes. The money was Pakistani, grubby stuff; but it was money, something it’s difficult to survive without. I counted it. It amounted to just under ten thousand rupees. I suspected that it was somewhat less than a king’s ransom, but was grateful for it. Abdul had fulfilled his responsibilities. I had saved his life and he had probably done the same for me. But I was alone in a foreign country with few resources; I still hadn’t worked out what to do next.
I needed time to think, so I set off to find a place where I could have a shower and get some sleep. I wandered through the narrow backstreets of Peshawar, jostled by shoppers, bumped by men pushing barrows and occasionally nudged by a tuc tuc improbably carving a passage through the multitude. I entered a clothing shop and was immediately accosted by a salesman who was not fooled for one moment by my disguise.
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 27
