Assignment - Afghan Dragon

by Edward S. Aarons

“Sad,” said George.

  They had no trouble at the frontier checkpoint of Islam Qala, although they had to turn out of the van and stand by while armed customs men turned the van inside out in a search for contraband and drugs. The van was clean. The guards seemed disappointed. They tried to object to the two guns they found—a Remington .30-30 hunting rifle belonging to bald George, and Durell’s .38. They wanted a bribe, since the carrying of weapons for “sport” was on the approved list. Durell spoke to them in Dari and gave them several thousand Afghani notes from his dwindling hoard, and the objections changed to smiles and they were waved on, with warnings against road robbers.

  “You were too generous,” Lucy said. “That was enough to keep us in chow all week. How come you have so much bread?”

  “It’s what is left of my severance pay when I quit my job,” Durell said.

  “Yes? What kind of job?”

  “I’m finished with it,” Durell said. “It was slowly killing me.”

  It was past midnight, and except for an occasional truck, there was no other traffic on the highway. It was over a hundred kilometers to Herat, where they had to turn south on the only passable road, round the wildly mountainous Hazarat. Northward in the night were the dim outlines of the Firoz-Koh foothills—mountains that stretched in a long, cruel barrier across the waist of the country until they lifted into the incredible peaks of the Hindu Kush, far to the east.

  Plainly, the subculture in which these youths moved was an extremely private one. They were friendly enough, but Durell could not find a chink in their armor. They were definitely American, not camouflaged Soviet agents. When he was finally satisfied about it, from listening to their murmuring conversation, he let Anya persuade him to rest on one of the sleeping bags, and he fell almost instantly asleep.

  Just before he slipped off, he felt Anya’s hand slide into his and grip his fingers.

  She was shaking his shoulder urgently.

  “Sam, wake up. Are you awake?”

  “Yes, I’m awake.”

  The Chevy van was stopped. Howard and George and Lucy were sitting on the front bench seat, talking in low voices. There was a hubbub of sound up ahead.

  “Sam, the Ferrari just went past us.”

  “Zhirnov?”

  “Going like a bat out of hell, as you would say.”

  “You’re sure it was Zhirnov?”

  “Yes, I had a look at him. He seems to be alone.”

  “Why have we stopped?”

  “There’s been a bus accident. It hit a camel. We’re just beyond Zindajan, about twenty miles from Herat.”

  He sat up. Lucy turned her homely face on her long neck and pushed back her long hair. Her smile was gentle. “You must have been tired, Mr. Durell.”

  “Sam,” he said. “Call me Sam.”

  “All right, Mr. Durell. Sam. Want some coffee?”

  He got out of the back of the van and stood on the paved all-weather road outside of Herat. The eastern sky was pale with a new dawn. Northward, the Paropamisus mountains loomed against the dimming stars. To the right was a long valley, where the Hari River flowed between watered fields and clumps of feathery trees. The river looked like steel in the pale light. There was grunting and shouting up ahead as some men tried to remove a dead camel from the highway. The bus that had struck the animal was a Qaderi Lines vehicle. A truck had stopped behind the van now, and its engine growled irregularly as the driver revved the throttle with an impatient foot. The air felt crisp, a refreshing change from the humid heat they had left earlier. His head still ached, but the intensity of the throbbing had lessened. He felt better.

  The camel was as obstinate dead as it had been when alive. Its weight resisted the efforts of the people from the bus to remove it from the road. He walked back and spoke to Howard, who sat behind the driver’s wheel.

  “Why don’t we just go around the bus?”

  “Man, we’re not in a hurry.”

  “Howie, I’m anxious to get on with it. Did you see a Ferrari go by us, while I slept?”

  “Five minutes ago. A beauty. Doing ninety.”

  “I’d like to catch up with that man. It’s a personal thing. Can’t we get going?”

  “You’ve got to forget your stateside tempo out here, Mr. Durell. Relax with it, man. You’re not running around Madison Avenue now. Anyway, we figure on spending a couple of days in Herat. Lucy’s a history major, and the city’s supposed to have interesting architecture, the Friday mosque, lots of culture. We’ll be there soon.”

  Durell decided not to argue. The camel was finally off the road. The argument was still going on between the bus driver and the owner of the strayed beast. Durell went to the back of the van and spoke to Anya.

  “You’re quite sure it was Zhirnov?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he spot you?”

  “I think not.”

  “Why would he come back here into Afghanistan?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to find Professor Berghetti.” “Why Berghetti?”

  “I don’t know,” Anya said.

  Ten minutes later they were moving again. They went through a toll gate and a small village with the distinctive windmills that marked the Herat region. The fields looked rich and productive. The air remained sharp and clear as the sun came up in their eyes. Howard made one more stop, at a local chaikana where they picked up tea and used the facilities. By nine o’clock they were in Herat, after crossing the Pul-i-Malan, the 10th century bridge over the Haii River. Lucy was the guide for the group. She put on a pair of huge round sunglasses that somehow added to her gooselike look and told them about Gazar-gah, the little religious village built around the ruins of the Queen’s Tomb with its six surviving minarets, and about the mystic poet Khaja Ansari. Durell forced himself to be patient. His business was often a hurry-up-and-wait proposition.

  Howard found a small hotel in the Old City on the Shari-i-Nau, north of the city wall. Herat had a placid air, even in the Covered Bazaar and the tree-lined boulevard going toward the plush Governor’s Palace in the New Town. Their rooms were simple, neat and clean. Taxis and pedestrians made a quiet hum of sound in the narrow streets. Lucy bought cheese and yoghurt and nuts, fresh bread with a crisp crust, and dried fruit. They ate in her room. The tall, thin girl added a few drops of Clorox from a large bottle to make the water potable.

  “Did you know*” Lucy said, “that this place was settled over 2500 years ago by a Persian people called the Haivara? They were running from the Assyrians. Fantastic. Alexander rebuilt the ruins, but everybody wanted a piece of the Khorassan—it’s rich and fertile, you see. Scythians, Khushans, Hephtalite Huns—you name them. Then the Arabs came in 663, the Saminids, the Ghazni dynasties, the kings of Ghor and Khwarezm. Sounds like fairy tales, right? And of course, Genghis Khan in 1221, he killed 12,000 people here. We really have to give this place a good look, at the stuff left by the Timurids after Tamerlane came along. The Citadel, of course. The Covered Wells, the craft shops near the Friday mosque. We could learn something about their handicrafts, maybe use it when we go home.” Lucy was obviously the energizer of the trio. She poked her round glasses up on her long nose. “Did you see some of the women here in the chaudris? Like big black bats, hurrying along. It’s all fantastic. We’ll have to spend a couple of days here.”

  “I’ll pass,” Durell said.

  They looked at him over their breakfast. Lucy said, “Still with the Madison Avenue syndrome, Mr. Durell? Time—”

  “Time means everything. I’ll see you later.”

  Anya said, “I’ll go with you, Sam.”

  “Of course.” At the hotel room door, Durell turned and asked, “How do you people know that Professor Berghetti is out of the slammer and back to work at his Seistan dig again?”

  Lucy’s smile reflected tolerance of an older generation. “Oh,” she said; “word just gets around.”

  15

  He had no luck.

  At the Ariana Airlines office he learned th
at no planes flew to Chakhansur in the Seistan for two days. The office windows faced a tree-shaded plaza with pistachio trees growing on tidy lawns. The Ariana clerk seemed surprised that anyone would want to fly to Chakhansur. He offered a flight to Kandahar in the southeast, but a map assured Durell that the distance to the lakes was too great. He tried the Bakhtar Afghan Airlines with even worse results. The place was closed. Anya clung to his hand as he searched out the bus offices. A bus went from Herat to Chakhansur via Farah, but arrival was not promised in less than three days.' Durell thought of Zhirnov racing south in the Ferrari, and gave it up. He was about to turn away, when the bus clerk said,

  “Sir? My brother.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother Mazar. Mazar Khumri. A taxi service. Ordinarily, he works out of the Tourist Office across from the Tomb of Abulqazam, but he can be found at this hour of the morning next to the jeweler who makes lapiz-lazuli items—very beautiful—in the bazaar. Mazar Khumri, that is his name. He will be very reasonable. An excellent guide, too. We were both born in Khash. It is very bad country down there, sir. The desert and the Dasht-i-Margo are full of thieves and murderers. And the mountain roads require a practiced driver. I recommend Mazar. He will take good care of you, sir.”

  They took a ghazni, one of the decorated horse carriages along the Shar-i-Nau, around the looming mass of the 15th-century Citadel, glowering against the clean blue sky, and around the Friday Mosque, with its blaze of tiled walls and minarets, designed in flowers and vines and complex geometric designs. Passing through the narrow walled streets with willow trees and children playing in the shade, they came to the Char-Suq, with its open workrooms of weavers and cabinetmakers. On the next street to the east were the jewelers.

  Once again, luck was against them.

  “Mazar?” the man said. “He has gone to Kabul. Just this morning, with a party of Swedish tourists.”

  “You are quite sure?”

  “My uncle Muzzaffa might help you. You can find him at the petrol station just behind Jami’s Tomb, on the Meshed Road. It is not hard to find. Tell him Ibrahim sent you, sir. Very reliable. Better than Mazar, I assure you.”

  Durell gave up.

  He had two phone calls to make, after a stop at the Pashtany Bank to change his Iranian currency. He counted his receipts with care. Later, he found a public phone at the Herat Hotel, a modern place with a new swimming pool. His luck changed. The operator managed to get a connection to Meshed across the border within fifteen minutes. Anya waited near the booth, watching the tourists in the lobby. She looked pale and uncertain, as if she did not know her future or even her immediate destination. She had committed herself against Zhirnov, and it meant self-exile and perhaps assassination in the days to come, wherever she fled. Just now, she clung to him for safety while deciding where her loyalties lay. He did not envy her.

  Finally the telephone was picked up in Nuri Qam's villa in Meshed.

  “Sob bekheyr,” a man said in Farsi. “Good morning.” “I’d like to speak to Mr. Qam, please.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Qam is in Tehran.”

  “I mean Mr. Nuri Qam.”

  “Not here, sir. Who is calling?”

  “Is he in the hospital?”

  There was a pause. The voice changed. “I am Mr. Qam’s personal secretary. Why should he be in a hospital, sir? Who are you?”

  “My call is urgent,” Durell said. He gave his name. “If Mr. Qam is available, I must speak with him.”

  There was a much longer pause this time. Then, “Kheyli khoub. Very well. Please wait.”

  Again it seemed like a long time. Durell watched Anya in the hotel lobby. She stood with her arms crossed against her breast, in a defensive posture. Her eyes looked frightened, although the lobby seemed normal. She turned and looked at Durell in the booth and he smiled and lifted a hand to reassure her. She moved closer to him. He didn’t mind if she overheard his conversation.

  Finally the telephone clicked.

  “Nuri?”

  “Ah, Sam, Sam. I am in great pain.”

  “But alive,” Durell said.

  “Allah was kind. Where are you?”

  “Herat.”

  “You have the—the item? You should be beyond Herat by now.”

  Durell said, “I don’t have the dragon any more.” He told Nuri Qam what had happened in succinct detail, not pausing while the man groaned and interjected angry exclamations. “No use crying about it now, Nuri.”

  “You say he has the dragon and the Ferrari?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you can catch up to him on the way south.”

  “I intend to try. Why should he go south, Nuri?”

  “How would I know his mind, Sam? I gave the dragon into your custody, and you promptly lost it. I warn you of repercussions to your government if you do not recover it promptly. After all these days of anxiety, I trusted you completely. You have failed me, Sam. I am disappointed. Your arrival here was a disaster. The attack on the villa was completely organized. I have lost three servants, killed in the raid, and my brother’s daughter. They were ruthless, with no compassion. I myself am most fortunate to be still alive, thanks to Allah. The wound is painful, but not serious.”

  “Nuri, I accept responsibility for the dragon.”

  “You think you can recover it? You have a lead? Ah, you are clever. Yes, yes. You revive my hopes. I have been desolate. Such a thing of beauty. It belongs to my nation, Sam. You will get it and take it on to Kabul? I can give you instructions about the archives and the museum—”

  “Later,” Durell said. “I’ll be in touch. Now, what about Berghetti?”

  Nuri’s voice changed slightly. “What about him?”

  “He still seems to be in the picture. There seems to be evidence that he’s not in jail, as you said.”

  “Nonsense. He must be. When you recover the dragon, you must call me, then go to Qali-i-Kang and I will arrange for Berghetti to be released into your custody. Further instructions will follow.”

  “All right. Take care, Nuri.”

  “I will, I will.”

  Durell got a second call through to Sarah Fingal’s apartment in Meshed. For four rings, the phone was not picked up, and he was afraid she could not be reached. Then he heard her quiet, subdued voice.

  “Oh, Sam, are you all right?”

  “Not really, Sarah. I need more help.”

  “I really don’t want any more to do with this. I’ve been in touch with General Wellington. The man is a beast. This affair killed Homer, and he doesn’t seem to care a bit.” She paused. “What do you want from me now?”

  “Check back with McFee in Washington. I want all the latest in Nuri Qam’s dossier. If K Section doesn’t have it, NSA’s computer at Fort Meade will, I’m sure.”

  “Just what are you looking for?”

  “Nuri Qam’s brother has allegedly been in Tehran. Name is E. Dochi Chagha Qam. He’s an art collector. You might also get the latest rundown on Nuri’s background, his travels in recent years, political associates, his problems in Kabul.”

  “Is something wrong about Nuri?”

  “Something is wrong with everybody in this thing, Sarah. Will you do this for me?”

  “I will,” she said reluctantly. “For Homer’s sake. How will I get in touch with you?”

  “I’ll call you from Qali-i-Kang.”

  “That’s a godforsaken place.”

  “That’s where the dragon was found,” Durell said.

  His luck continued to improve. He took Anya back to the hotel and found the young trio, Howard and George and Lucy, desolate. They were the usual run of American student wanderers; their lines of survival still ran back to the bank accounts of their establishment parents.

  Lucy had lost their money.

  The little hotel room was thick with their gloom. Lucy was weeping, doing a mea culpa bit, and the tears had not improved her few attractions. Her long nose was red, her hair disheveled. She sat cross-legged on t
he floor by the window, while George, with his pigtail awry, berated her. She looked as if the world had dissolved under her feet.

  “I don’t know what happened!” she protested, and hiccupped. '‘One minute I had the purse, the next it was gone! I don’t even know when it disappeared or was taken.”

  George pulled at his pigtail nervously. “You bitch, I can’t ask for more money from back home, right now.”

  “I know,” Lucy said ruefully.

  Durell spoke from the doorway. “So you’ll have to skip sightseeing here in Herat, okay?”

  Lucy looked tearful. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll pay you—the three of you—a thousand dollars to take Annie and me south—as fast as you can drive.” “Jesus, a capitalist,” George sneered.

  Durell said, “The local fuzz doesn’t take kindly to young Americans who are broke and ready to panhandle. This place is the Ritz compared to the local jail. They’ll probably slap a drug smuggling charge on you, too, unless you come up with a heavy bribe of bread, which you can’t do.”

  Lucy hiccupped again. “I wanted to see Herat—” “Another time,” Durell said. “We’ll get gas and an extra jerry can and be on our way. Right now,”

  Lucy climbed awkwardly to her feet. Her shoulders were slumped. George looked greedy. Howard was amused.

  “All right, Mr. Durell,” Lucy said mournfully.

  16

  It was two hundred miles from Herat to Chakhansur near the border, beyond Farah; the latter half of the way was on a dubious secondary road. The distance was deceptive. There were river fords along the Harut River, mountain passes toward Sadzawar, where the eastern peaks lifted to 12,000 feet. More mountain passes at Farah, and then the Khash Desert, through which the Khash River flowed to lose itself in the salt marshes and the Helmand lakes. The Afghanis were building dams along the Helmand and Khash-Rud, to the annoyance of the Iranians in the Seistan ostan across the border. The best bus schedule, as Durell had discovered, was a journey of about three days by road. And at the end of it was the Dasht-i-Margo, another desert of burning bare rock and sand, before they could reach Qali-i-Kang near the junction of the Helmand and Khash Rivers.