The Mountain Shadow

by Gregory David Roberts

  He lifted his sweater to show me the handgun, stuffed into the belt of his trousers. It was a Browning HP, standard issue to Indian Army officers. The penalties for trading in them were severe, which was why the officers who sold them to us charged a premium.

  I liked Mehmu, and wished that he could come with me to Sri Lanka. He was a fit, knowledgeable thirty-year-old, fluent in six languages, and had a confident eye. I didn’t like Mehmu’s gun.

  ‘What’s with the cannon?’

  ‘It’s a bit . . . conspicuous, I’ll give you that,’ he replied, looking around as he handed me the weapon and a magazine.

  ‘Conspicuous? This thing is a zebra in a line-up.’

  I checked the gun, and flipped the safety on.

  ‘If you’re gonna get caught with a gun in this war,’ he said, ‘it’s gotta be this one. Any other gun, they’ll go to work on you for a long time, before they drop you from a helicopter into the sea, right about here, actually.’

  ‘But this gun?’

  ‘This gun gives you a chance. The Indian Army has the island nailed down, but there’s so many freelancers everywhere now. Americans, Israelis, South Africans, and all of them are working with the Research and Analysis Wing. If the Indian Army catches you with this gun, you can try to pass yourself off as a RAW agent. It’s a long shot, but you wouldn’t be the first that got away with it. It’s the Wild East out there.’

  ‘So, I carry a big gun, and when they see it, because it’s so big, I talk them into believing I’m working for them, and then actually start working for them, if they let me live?’

  ‘It happens,’ he shrugged. ‘A lot, actually.’

  ‘Gimme a little gun, Mehmu. I don’t wanna kill wildebeest. I just wanna make enough noise to give me time to run away. If they catch me, I’ll ditch the gun and deny it. I’d rather do that than start working for them.’

  ‘But a little gun,’ he mused. ‘I always say, if you have to shoot someone in the eye to kill him, your gun’s too small.’

  I looked at him for a while.

  ‘A small gun?’ He sniffed. ‘It’s right in the eye, man, or it’s like gravel rash, with a little gun.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I do say. It happens. A lot, actually.’

  ‘You got a little gun, or not?’

  ‘I do,’ he mused. ‘If you’d be prepared to exchange?’

  ‘Show me.’

  He took a small box of cartridges and a .22-calibre automatic from his jacket pockets. It was the kind of weapon designed to fit snugly next to lipstick, perfume and a credit card in a purse: a girl’s gun.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  We swapped guns. I checked the weapon and put it in my jacket pocket.

  ‘I’d wrap that lot in plastic,’ he said, tucking the Browning into his trousers again. ‘And lock it up with surgical tape.’

  ‘In case I end up in the water?’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘A lot, actually. What is this, your first smuggling run or what?’

  I’d smuggled passports and gold to nine countries, but always by plane, and always on Czechoslovakian Airways. The communist airline was the only one in Bombay that accepted payment for tickets in rupees, and checked for weapons, but nothing else. Whatever else you had on you in transit flights, from gold bars to bundles of money, was your problem. And because nobody but Czechoslovakians actually went all the way to communist Czechoslovakia on Czechoslovakian Airways, it wasn’t their problem either.

  ‘I fly. Back and forth, in seventy-two hours. I don’t do ships.’

  ‘You don’t like ships?’

  ‘I don’t like power, on land or sea.’

  ‘Power?’

  ‘Power. Absolute power. The law of the sea.’

  ‘You mean the captain?’

  ‘Any captain. I think the Bounty was the last free ship.’

  Voices whispered hoarsely near the piles of cargo secured to the deck. People began to stand. We saw figures moving back and forth between clusters of shadows.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘They’re passing out cyanide capsules, to those who want them.’

  ‘People do that?’

  ‘A lot, actually.’

  ‘You know, Mehmu, the whole morale thing. You’re shit at it.’

  ‘You want a suicide capsule, while they’re still handing them out?’

  ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘You want one, or not?’

  ‘I’m more your kicking and screaming all the way type, but thanks all the same.’

  The commotion on the deck increased. The ship’s first officer strode to the port side with several members of the Filipino crew. They uncovered bundles of rope-and-plank ladders, and began to roll them over the side.

  ‘Better get below, and get your stuff,’ Mehmu said. ‘I’ll wait for you at the ladders.’

  I worked my way around the comparatively empty starboard side of the vessel to my crewman’s berth.

  Wrapping the small automatic and the box of ammunition in plastic bags, I sealed them with tape and shoved them into my backpack. I pulled off my jacket and sweater, put on the heavy vest I’d hidden, and dressed again.

  The vest contained twenty kilos of gold and twenty-eight blank passports. With an effort, I zipped up my jacket, and paced up and down in the cabin to adjust my step to the extra weight.

  There was an open journal on the bed. I’d been trying to write a new short story. I was challenging myself with a difficult subject. It was about happy, loving people in a happy, loving place, doing happy, loving things. It wasn’t going well.

  I scooped the journal, the pen and everything else on the bed into the backpack, and turned to leave. I reached out to turn off the light and caught sight of my face in a mirror, set into the door panel.

  The reckless truth of travel into countries and cultures far from your own is that sometimes, you’re just rolling with the dice. Fate, the tour guide, can lead any traveller, at any moment of the journey, into a labyrinth of learning and love, or the long tunnel of a dangerous adventure. And every traveller knows those moments in the mirror: the last, long look at yourself before Okay, let’s do this.

  I switched off the light, and made my way back on deck.

  Lines of people were assembled at the ladders. The first officer gave the whispered command, and the smuggled people began to disembark.

  I shuffled forward, last in line. A crewman was handing out life-preserver vests, and helping people to fit them.

  Mehmu was standing beside him.

  ‘Take mine, as well,’ he said, when the crewman fitted me with a vest.

  Our eyes met. He knew that if I ended up in the sea, one vest might not hold me afloat, with twenty kilos of gold on my body.

  The crewman handed me a second vest, and then gave me a small metal object, and urged me forward.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, when Mehmu and I paused, away from the crowded rail.

  ‘It’s a clicker,’ he said.

  It was a child’s toy, made from two pieces of tin that made a click-clack sound, when it was pressed. I pressed it.

  Click-clack.

  ‘If you’re in the water,’ Mehmu said, ‘stay where you are. Keep together with the others in the water.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘A boat will come back to the ship,’ he continued, ‘and the ship will circle you from a klick or so away, until we get the all clear.’

  ‘A klick or so away?’

  ‘When you see or hear anything, use the clicker to let them know where you are. Most people keep it in their teeth, like this, so they don’t lose it.’

  He reached out, took the clicker, and held the edge of it in his teeth. My clicker was shaped like a pink drago
nfly. He was looking at me with a pink dragonfly in his mouth, and he was sending me into the sea.

  ‘It’s from a movie,’ he said, handing back the clicker. ‘The Longest War, I think it’s called.’

  ‘The Longest Day.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. Have you seen it?’

  ‘Yeah. Have you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I think you should take a peek. Thanks for everything, Mehmu. It was nice sailing with you, even if I don’t like sailing.’

  ‘Me, too. If you run into a chunky girl, thirty years old, about five-five high, wearing a sky-blue hijab, don’t show her the little gun.’

  ‘You stole it off a girl?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘An enemy, or a friend?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Hell, yeah.’

  ‘It was a bit of both. She’s my wife.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you love her?’

  ‘I’m mad about her.’

  ‘And . . . if I show her the gun . . . she might –’

  ‘Shoot you,’ he said. ‘It happens. A lot, actually. She shot me once. She’s a fighter, my wife.’

  ‘Okay, let me get this straight. Chunky, thirty, five-five, blue hijab. Right?’

  ‘Right. That’s her name, in fact. Her comrade name.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blue Hijab. That’s her name.’

  ‘Her name is Blue Hijab?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘O . . . kay. Thanks for the heads-up.’

  ‘No sweat,’ he smiled. ‘I warn everyone about her. She’s so dangerous, I love her to death.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘And remember, there’s only one rule on the way to shore. Anyone tries to take your place on the boat, push him overboard.’

  ‘It happens?’

  ‘A lot, actually.’

  ‘You!’ the first officer grunted, jabbing a finger at me.

  I walked to the rail, swung over, and started descending the rope-and-wood ladder.

  It was much more difficult than I’d thought. The ladder swirled and swung out over the sea, forcing me to hug ropes and bits of wood like family. Then the ladder slammed back into the unyielding steel of the hull, scraping skin from unprepared fingers.

  I came to the last few steps of the ladder. The three boats seemed tiny: pilot fish, hovering against the shark-hide of the freighter.

  They were fishing boats, flat and open, like oversized versions of the lifeboats on the deck of the ship, but with a motor. We were still in open sea. The boat I was dropping into was already crowded. It didn’t look safe. I took the last steps, and the smell of fish, oiled into the ribs of the ship, reassured me.

  Fishermen, I thought. Fishermen know the sea.

  Friendly hands guided me aft, stepping over feet and small bundles. Friendly hands guided others forward. The crew was distributing the weight.

  I counted twenty-three people. The crew of the freighter waved all clear, and drew up the ladders. Our tillerman shoved us away from the ship, and moved into open sea under power.

  The motor was quiet, muffled by a soundproofed cabinet.

  Click-clack.

  A boat nearby in the darkness signalled to us. Click-clack. We all turned to see it. Click-clack, somebody signalled back. Click-clack.

  ‘You know what the difference is, between war and peace?’ the man sitting next to me whispered, a smile in his voice.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ll tell me,’ I whispered back.

  ‘In peace time, you sacrifice twenty to save one. In war time, you sacrifice one to save twenty.’

  ‘Nice try,’ I smiled.

  ‘You don’t agree?’

  ‘We don’t sacrifice for numbers. We sacrifice for love, and land.’

  ‘The numbers in this war, are high enough to make a difference.’

  ‘You were talking about war and peace.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘War has the blood on the outside. Peace has the blood on the inside, where it belongs. That’s pretty much the difference, so far as I’ve seen. War knocks the buildings down, and peace builds them up again.’

  He laughed quietly, his lips closed.

  ‘I’m your contact,’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘I came with the boat. I’m here to make sure you get where you’re going.’

  He was a little younger than I was, short and lean, with a cheeky grin that must’ve won him lips, and cost him slaps.

  ‘Glad to know you. How long before we make shore?’

  ‘Not long.’

  He handed me a plastic jug and started bailing out the water that lapped into the boat with occasional waves. I joined in. People all along the shallow boat were bailing out. The tillerman laughed softly.

  Click-clack.

  The sea, that restless sleeper, rolled shoulders of current beneath us. Water splashed into the boat, soaking us in salt. Click-clack.

  When the boats reached the shore we jumped out into waist-deep water and struggled for the beach. The boats began to pull away.

  We ran for the trees. At the tree line, I looked back at the sea. Some of the slower men and women were still running, scuffing sand as they kicked and ruffled across the beach: a thing of fun, a foot race, maybe, on a sunny day, but a thing of fear that night.

  There was no sign of the ship: no light but the stars.

  My contact waved to me from another stand of trees. I joined him, and we moved deeper into the jungle. After a while he paused, listening.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I whispered, when we were sure no-one was following us.

  ‘No names here, man,’ he said. ‘The less you know, the better. Truth’s a sweet thing, unless someone’s cutting it out of you, and then it’s a very bitter thing. Ready to move?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘There’s a truck heading south on the main road. It’ll wait for us, but it won’t wait long. The boats were a little off course. We’ve got a lot of country to pass, and not much time.’

  We headed into the surrounding bushes, and in a few minutes we were moving through a swathe of jungle that ran parallel to the coast. Every now and then we glimpsed dark waves through a tree break, but after a while the sea was too far away to hear, and even the scent faded in the stronger fragrances of jungle damp.

  My contact led us again and again into a smothering mass of leaves as big as elephants’ ears, to emerge on a narrow path that was invisible until he plunged us into it.

  He wasn’t navigating by the stars: we couldn’t see them. His mental map of the jungle was so precise that he never hesitated in his rapid walk.

  I lost him, twice. Each time I froze, listening for his step. Each time I heard nothing until he tapped me on the shoulder, and we headed off through the jungle again.

  With my backpack and the smuggling vest, I was carrying thirty-five kilos. But the weight wasn’t the problem. To stop the vest from shifting, and accidentally dislodging the tablets, I’d strapped it tightly to my chest and waist. Every breath was a struggle.

  We pushed through a verge of leaves and bushes onto a main road.

  ‘Gotta save time,’ my companion said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ll risk a side road, for a while. Much faster. If you see any light at all, hit the trees and hide. I’ll draw it off. You stay put. You got that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I puffed.

  ‘You want me to carry the vest, for a while?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Let me at least take the backpack,’ he whispered.

  I slipped the backpack off my shoulder gratefully, and he strapped it on.

  ‘Okay, let’s jog.’

  We ran along the rou
gh side road in a silence so complete that the occasional animal or bird cry was shocking. Every breath strained against the constricting vest.

  In truth, a Nigerian gunrunner once said to me, the smuggler only really smuggles himself. All the other stuff that he carries, it’s just an excuse, you know? By the time we reached the pickup point, my excuse was threatening to stop my heart.

  ‘We’re here,’ my contact said.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ I puffed. ‘You guys ever heard of motorcycles?’

  ‘Sorry, man,’ my contact smiled, handing me my backpack. ‘But I think we’re in time.’

  ‘You think?’ I gasped, resting my arms on my knees.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Get it handy. Now.’

  I unwrapped my pistol, as he checked and reloaded his ten-shot automatic. He glanced around and saw the small .22-calibre purse pistol.

  ‘If you run into a chunky woman, wearing a sky-blue hijab –’

  ‘I know. Don’t show her the gun.’

  ‘Fuck, man,’ he grinned. ‘You like living dangerously.’

  ‘Something tells me that this Blue Hijab leaves a lasting impression.’

  ‘She’s fine. A great comrade,’ he laughed. ‘Just don’t show her the gun.’

  He glanced at his watch again, and stared into the darkness that ate the road where starlight failed.

  ‘If this goes south, so do you,’ he said, glancing at his watch again. ‘Head due south. This road goes to Trincomalee. Stay in the jungle, as much as you can. If you make it, report at the Castlereagh hotel. You’re booked in for two weeks. You’ll be contacted there.’

  ‘This is where you get off?’

  ‘Yeah. You won’t see me again.’

  He began muttering indistinctly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A diamond, for a pearl,’ he said.

  I waited.

  ‘We shouldn’t be here, us Tamils. We left a diamond, Mother India, for a pearl. And no matter what we do, no matter how many of us die, it’ll never be worth it, because we gave up a diamond, for a pearl.’

  ‘Why do you still fight?’

  ‘You don’t know much about us Tamils, do you? Wait! Did you hear that?’