by Adam Hamdy
He assumed they were heading for Kamdesh, but as they neared the ruined, deserted town, Vosuruk led them on to a narrow dirt track that turned east. Freed from the treacherous mountainside, the grieving father pushed his horse ever faster, until they were galloping.
Black night turned aubergine as the first hint of dawn brightened the sky ahead of them. After another half an hour riding at pace, Vosuruk slowed to a trot, and Wallace could sense his caution as they approached the tarmacked main road that ran between Kamdesh and the rest of the country. Vosuruk checked the potholed highway in both directions before they crossed it. They continued on a dirt track that wound down the mountainside and led to a small cluster of houses set in the forest a few hundred feet below.
When they reached the outskirts of the hamlet, Vosuruk dismounted and tied his horse to a tree.
“Wait,” he instructed Wallace, who pulled his mount to a halt.
Vosuruk disappeared into a dark, crooked alleyway that ran between two of the wooden houses, and Wallace suddenly became aware of how exposed he was. He dismounted and led his horse beneath the cover of the surrounding trees, moving slowly so as not to topple the oblivious Ghulan. Wallace stood in the shadows for what seemed like an age, listening to the sounds of the forest: the birds chirping, the gentle breeze, the creak of branches, and the crackle of small creatures scurrying over dry twigs.
He tensed when he heard movement, but was relieved to see Vosuruk emerge from the alleyway with two men.
“This my cousin, Anto,” Vosuruk said, gesturing at a spry, gray-haired old man with a crinkled face. “And this his son, Bodur,” he added, pointing at a younger version of Anto. “Bodur has truck,” Vosuruk added. “Bring him,” he instructed, pointing at Ghulan.
Wallace untied the thongs and the colonel groaned as he and Bodur pulled him down. They dragged him by the arms, following Vosuruk and Anto into the alleyway.
“Anto says army has gone,” Vosuruk whispered. “No commander, they don’t want be here. They know they will die in mountains, so they go home.” He spat, reinforcing his disdain.
The alleyway opened on to a small courtyard at the center of the cluster of houses. An old Toyota pick-up was parked next to a cart, and Vosuruk headed straight for it. Wallace followed Bodur’s lead and helped him hoist Ghulan on to the flatbed where he lay among the scattered wood chippings, oil-soaked straw, and cut lengths of twine. Vosuruk leaned into the cab and produced a pair of woolen trousers, a brown budzun cloak, and a Chitrali hat.
“Put these on,” he said, handing the clothes to Wallace. “If this dog tells the truth, they may look for you at checkpoints,” he added.
As he changed, Wallace glanced over to see Bodur crouching in the flatbed, stripping the colonel out of his uniform and replacing it with traditional Kom clothing.
“If people ask, he is sick man we take to hospital in Kabul,” Vosuruk told Wallace.
Minutes later, Vosuruk and Bodur embraced Anto, who muttered words of caution and farewell. Wallace followed them into the cab of the Toyota, sitting alone on the rear row of seats, while Vosuruk and Bodur occupied the front of the double cab. Vosuruk leaned into the footwell and then passed Wallace a long gray scarf.
“For your face,” he said. “In case we are stopped.”
Bodur started the engine and the truck rolled out of the courtyard and joined the steep, narrow highway that snaked down the mountain.
By the time they reached the valley floor, the landscape had changed dramatically, shifting from thick forest to parched earth which had been divided into terraced fields, some irrigated, some left fallow and bone dry. Those with water were green with a lush crop, but the uncultivated terraces were a dusty brown. The road wound around the Earth’s creases, taking the Toyota through a wild, uninhabited landscape that was only blighted by a couple of abandoned industrial sites. An hour later, they were forced to stop at a police checkpoint, but after a cursory glance inside, the duty officer, a man jaded by boredom and heat, waved them on. A few miles past the checkpoint the road ran alongside a high-wire fence, beyond which lay a vast military base. If Bodur or Vosuruk were nervous neither man showed it, and their young driver kept to a steady forty-five miles per hour.
They drove southwest for three hours, until they reached another checkpoint just outside Kuz Kunar, a town that lay on the edge of Laghman Province. The police officers were slightly more vigilant and asked about Ghulan, before accepting Vosuruk’s cover story that the man had injured himself in the mountains and required specialist medical care that only Kabul could provide. Waved on once more, they resumed their steady progress, passing through Kuz Kunar, until they reached the edge of the harsh desert that separated the last of the cultivated land from Kabul. Bodur turned right to join the Kabul-Jalalabad Highway, heading west. Even at 10 a.m., with the windows wide open, the dry desert heat was stifling, and as he sweated under his woolen cloak Wallace longed for the truck’s broken air conditioning to heal itself. They passed a parcel of green fields near a vast dam, but then drove on to mile after unrelenting mile of arid, mountainous desert. Even the river, which ran alongside the road for parts of the journey, seemed lifeless, and, stewed by the heat, slowly congealed around outcrops of dry rock.
After another hour, Vosuruk produced an old cell phone from the cluttered glove compartment and turned it on. A few minutes later, the device chimed with the notification of a signal, and Vosuruk muttered something to Bodur and indicated a turning about half a mile ahead; a dusty track that wound between the foothills of a dry mountain. Bodur took the trail and drove up, until they could no longer be seen from the quiet highway.
Vosuruk clambered out of the cab and Wallace hurriedly followed, fearful of what the veteran had planned. Ghulan was a mess. Blood and dirt caked his face and hair. Only the palms of his hands and the tops of his feet weren’t covered in the gloopy mixture, but they had been sunburned instead, and his flesh looked painfully raw. Bodur slapped Ghulan until he woke, groaning and wincing with every move.
“Tell him to call the man,” Vosuruk said to Wallace, handing him the cell phone.
Ghulan squinted up at Wallace as he approached, his narrow eyes almost lost beneath the crusted blood.
“How were you going to get the other half of your money?” Wallace asked.
Ghulan looked at the phone and then reached out a feeble hand.
“Don’t try anything,” Wallace cautioned as he passed the soldier the cell. “They’ll kill you,” he added, indicating Vosuruk and Bodur.
Ghulan nodded almost imperceptibly as he dialed a number. After a moment’s pause, he surprised Wallace by talking in English. “It’s Ghulan,” he said. “The operation was a success. Yes. Yes, I have him. Tell the American to bring my money to Ka Faroushi. Tonight.”
Bodur held up six fingers.
“Six o’clock,” Ghulan relayed, before hanging up.
“The broker’s English?” Wallace asked as the colonel handed back the phone.
“American,” Ghulan replied. “Was CIA, now he’s a businessman.”
There was little doubt in Wallace’s mind that Ash had been right; someone else had been working with Pendulum. He returned the cell phone to Vosuruk, who stood behind him, brooding. Bodur smacked Ghulan across the head before dragging him out of the flatbed and forcing him into one of the rear passenger seats. Bodur reached into the flatbed and poked around beneath some straw until he found an old rag and a half-empty bottle of water. He wet the rag and passed it through the window to Ghulan, with a barked instruction to clean his face.
Bodur climbed into the driver’s seat and, once Vosuruk and Wallace had joined him in the cab, pulled a U-turn and drove back down the track to rejoin the highway.
Sunlight baked the hard mountains and as the miles rolled on, Wallace thought about Connie, about the other night when she’d come to him and they’d lain together on the beach, hand in hand. As he recalled the blissful moment, Wallace realized that Ash and Bailey were right: he’d come to
Afghanistan in search of a way to escape the pain, to be free of his guilt. As the truck moved slowly toward the horizon, Wallace came to a decision. Vosuruk was taking him to a man who wanted him dead. Before Vosuruk exacted his revenge, Wallace would give his would-be killer exactly what he wanted.
“Not long, Connie,” Wallace muttered. “I’m ready.”
18
They reached the outskirts of Kabul a little after four, and the streets were alive with the chaos of people, animals, and vehicles. Motorcycles laden with two or three passengers, boxes of goods, or in one instance, an entire family, weaved between cars, minibuses, and trucks, throwing clouds of dust into the faces of men on donkeys, who were often led by their wives, carrying laundry or shopping on their heads. The low buildings were a mix of old and new, but nearly all were made of cheap, functional concrete with simple block designs that could be thrown up quickly. Despite more than forty years of near-constant war and unimaginable hardship endured by its people, Kabul somehow managed to continue to function as a capital city.
Ghulan had cleaned his face with the bloody rag that now lay in the footwell, and robbed of caked blood, the true extent of his swollen injuries became apparent. As they drove further into Kabul, the colonel slept, his head lolling as they rolled through the residential neighborhood of Hoth Khel, past a heavily fortified military base. Wallace knew Kabul well, having spent two months there during his previous assignment in the country. Ka Faroushi was the famous Bird Market, located in the heart of the city in the shadow of the Pul-e Khishti Mosque. Afghan homes and places of business might be simple and functional, but their places of worship commanded attention, and the large, blue-domed mosque with its single minaret could be seen from a dozen blocks away, towering above the surrounding buildings.
The thick smell of the city filled the cab as the Toyota crossed the Kabul River and drove south on the Nadir Pashtun Road. Almost an hour after reaching the suburbs, they joined the long queue of vehicles trying to circle the bottleneck roundabout that connected Nadir Pashtun with Maiwand Road. Horns sang in a constant chorus, joined by the optimistic cries of hawkers, the frustrated yells of impatient drivers, and the general clamor of people, children, and animals. Wallace took in the sights, smells, and sounds of the city with a sense of detachment. He might still exist in it, but this was no longer his world and he willed the truck toward the Bird Market.
The dashboard clock read 5:13 when Bodur reversed into a space opposite the Olympia Business Center, a four-story oblong building with mirrored windows that reflected the red rays of the dying sun. A lone tree, its crooked branches showing their first buds, stood at the far end of the building, an isolated reminder of the natural world in the heart of the paved city.
“We wait,” Vosuruk said, turning to look at Wallace.
The veteran’s gaze shifted to the unconscious colonel, and he stared at the man as though he was trying to kill him with hate. Eventually, he turned around and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
While they waited for time to catch up with their desires, Wallace watched the city ebb and flow around them, its chaotic rhythm doing little to subdue his impatience. The man they were going to meet had made an assassin of an army colonel, and, if Ghulan was to be believed, was clearly prepared to go to extreme lengths to see him dead. Wallace planned to embrace his fate like an old friend.
At 5:50, Vosuruk nodded at Bodur and the two men stepped out of the pick-up. Bodur opened the rear passenger door on his side and allowed Ghulan to topple out of the vehicle on to the hard tarmac. The colonel moaned as he hit the deck and came round as Bodur hoisted him to his feet.
“Come,” Vosuruk said to Wallace, opening the nearside rear door. “Cover your face.”
“It’s OK,” Wallace replied, ignoring the suggestion. He registered Vosuruk’s disapproving look, but the old magistrate said nothing.
Wallace climbed out of the Toyota and followed Vosuruk, weaving through the heavy traffic to cross the street. Neither Vosuruk nor his cousin seemed concerned by the thought that Ghulan would break free and try to run for help, and when they reached the other side of the street, Wallace saw why. As he stepped on to the high curb, Bodur’s cloak gaped to reveal a pistol pressed tightly against the dazed colonel’s ribs.
Before they’d even reached the market, Wallace could hear the squawks and caws of hundreds of birds, intermingled with the cries and catcalls of the hawkers, and the undulating back-and-forth of traders and buyers haggling. As they pressed through the crowd, he scanned the passing faces, searching for a glint of recognition that would identify his killer, but no one registered him. He was just a pale Nuristani mountain man lost in the big city.
“Halta,” he heard Ghulan say, recognizing the word for “there.”
The colonel pointed toward a café on the corner of the market, opposite the northeastern corner of the Olympia Business Center. The alleyway that separated it from the rear of the concrete office block was jammed with people, and Wallace was pushed and jostled as they forced their way toward the crowded coffee house.
Three men vacated a table as they approached, and Bodur pushed the battered man into one of the empty chairs. He whispered something in Ghulan’s ear and showed him the barrel of his pistol before backing away, his face full of menace, then entered the café and took a table by the window.
Vosuruk grabbed Wallace’s arm. “Inside,” he said, pushing Wallace on.
Wallace took a seat at Bodur’s table, and Vosuruk leaned against the wall of the café near the entrance, within a few strides of Ghulan. He watched the colonel intently.
Wallace looked around, scrutinizing the faces of the patrons, the last people he’d see. All men, they huddled in small groups of two or three and were engaged in animated conversations. Waiters scurried between the tables serving tiny cups of thick black liquid potent enough to jolt a dying man to life. Wallace sensed Bodur stiffen and followed his gaze to see a tanned man approach. He was taller than the surrounding crowd, maybe six-two, and had straight, neatly cropped brown hair. Light slacks and a short-sleeved shirt completed the list of characteristics that marked him out as a Westerner, and Wallace watched as he took the chair next to Ghulan.
A waiter obscured the view for a moment, until Bodur sent him away with an order for two coffees. When he retreated, Wallace saw Ghulan and the stranger locked in an intense exchange. He had no doubt this was the broker who’d arranged the assassination.
Wallace didn’t even hear the first gunshot. A man behind him screamed and Wallace turned to see that the screamer’s companion had been hit in the chest, a fast-growing crimson stain spreading across his tunic. He did register the second shot, a high-pressured hiss, followed by a crack as the bullet snapped through the window before striking Bodur in the temple, killing him instantly.
The crowded alleyway became a tempest of screams and confusion as terrified people tried to flee. Bodur fell out of his chair. Wallace’s head went light and the world became distant, his body alien as though it belonged to someone else. He found himself rising, staring out of the window toward the rooftop at the end of the alleyway, where a muzzle flashed as another volley of shots was unleashed. The café window shattered, but Wallace didn’t flinch and waited for the shooter to find his mark.
Patrons cried as they were hit, and those that were able to move fled toward the back of the café. Wallace felt heavy hands upon him and turned to see Vosuruk propelling him across the room. He wanted to resist, to explain that he’d made a choice, but the veteran gave him no chance, and pushed him behind the protective cover of the wall beside the entrance.
Outside, the alleyway was a sea of racing bodies, and between the waves, Wallace saw Ghulan and the tall man wrestling. He was startled when the tall man’s head suddenly jerked back, propelled by the impact of a bullet that tore through the top of his skull. Ghulan stood up, the tall man’s smoking pistol in his hand. He noticed Wallace and Vosuruk and started to raise the gun in their direction, but he neve
r completed the maneuver. Vosuruk drew a pistol and shot him in the neck. The second bullet hit him just above the ear, and he fell, dead.
“The roof,” Vosuruk said, indicating the eastern end of the alleyway.
Wallace peered through the doorway and saw something that jolted him out of his daze. Lying prone at the edge of the flat roof at the end of the alley, peering down the scope of a high-powered rifle, was a figure clad in the unmistakable mask and black body armor of Pendulum. Wallace reeled at the impossibility of the situation.
Vosuruk yanked him back a split second before bullets cracked the plaster where his head had been.
“It can’t be,” Wallace told Vosuruk in disbelief. “He’s dead.”
19
Vosuruk did not pretend to understand the confused westerner, and looked at the crowd racing past the shattered window.
“Come,” he said, stepping into the alleyway.
Hard reality dispelled the last vestiges of disbelief. Wallace had proof positive that Ash had been right; Pendulum hadn’t been working alone. The man shooting from the roof might have had a hand in what happened to Connie. Pressed by guilt over his role in her death, Wallace ran outside and followed Vosuruk across the crowded alleyway.
Pendulum rained fire, and bodies fell around them as the shooter tried to single out Wallace. Vosuruk pushed on, and Wallace traveled in his wake, following the veteran’s lead by ducking and weaving through the crowd to avoid giving the sniper an easy target. As they neared the middle of the alleyway, Vosuruk produced a Kalashnikov from beneath the folds of his cloak and unleashed a fearsome volley at the rooftop. Through the exploding brickwork and clouds of dust, Wallace saw the unmistakable shudder of someone who’d been hit, and Pendulum rolled away from the edge of the roof, dragging his rifle with him.
Vosuruk forced himself against the tide of fleeing people. Wallace didn’t hesitate: he had to know who was under the mask. He followed the veteran through the crowd, toward the building, a ramshackle office block. They got swept into a stream of people flowing into the building’s back door, but unlike the rest of the crowd, which was turning left into the lobby and using the front entrance as an escape route, the veteran lurched right and led Wallace up the tiled fire stairs, toward the roof.
