Ashes and Light
Page 26
But the Panjshir was on the other side of the wall of mountains before them.
She kept the roan even with the gelding, her gaze locked on Michael. She’d seen what the infection did to him before. If anything, relapse could come more quickly, even though he rode like a man possessed. He might seek to stop a war, but his body could not stop the war within. The infection would win unless he got medical care.
The earth trembled under them, sending a tumble of rock free from the cliff just behind them. Large rocks crashed onto the road, spooking the horses. Michael reined in and kept Khadija’s mount behind him. He scanned the rock fall.
“Maybe Allah’s looking out for us. It’ll slow the vehicles some.”
Khadija fought to quiet her horse. If only that stopped Hashemi. But this was Hashemi they were talking about.
Their path lifted into the mountains, the river falling away in a steep gorge on the left side of the road, the mountain wall on the right preventing any attempt at disappearing into the hills. They either had to beat the Jeeps up the mountains or stand and fight. The single rifle over Michael’s shoulder gave little hope of the success of fighting.
As if reading her thoughts, Michael urged the horses faster. The gelding’s limp was more pronounced, but he showed the animal no mercy. They carried on, snaking up the road as the wind cut through her chador and jalabiyya. How cold Michael must be. She urged her horse closer to his.
“Michael. Take this. I have the coat.”
She unwound the petu from her shoulders and the wind caught it, almost tore it away from her.
“Don’t be a fool. At least one of us has to stay healthy.”
He spurred the gelding on, leaving her to fight with the loose shawl.
The whine of engines brought her head around. Far down the gorge a single, cream-colored Jeep swung into view. It slowed on a curve, then sped up as if they’d seen her. She kicked the roan’s sides, keeping its head tightly reined, and cantered after Michael.
“They’re here!”
She urged her horse as fast as she dared on the shifting gravel. Even this pace was a risk. They leaned low over the animals’ necks, as the horses lunged up the steep slope out of the gorge. The horses’ breath heaved at the effort in the thinning air. A few drops of rain slapped their faces and then increased until the sky was filled with the grey wall of deluge.
“Shit,” Michael swore. The crest of the incline gave onto a boulder-littered plateau that lifted up in great steps towards the pass.
“What is it?” She brought the roan alongside.
“It’s colder above. There’ll be snow. We can only hope it slows the Jeep.”
The dirt track they followed ran with water. It splashed up the horses’ legs, soaked into Michael’s trousers and Khadija’s jalabiyya. The rain soaked through the petu and chador, pasting the clothes against their bodies. Wind gusts slammed into the horses, staggering them sideways.
The sound of engines drove them on. The two horses pounded up the slope. How far was the pass? How far could the horses go at this speed? The roan was soaked with more than rain. White foam formed on its neck, on its breast, and flew back from its mouth to dapple her chador.
Khadija looked back. How far? How far?
The horses cleared the first rise of the great steps to the pass. But even making the pass didn’t mean safety—Hashemi’s men could still pursue into the valley beyond.
The first flakes of snow stung her face, but ahead the mountain’s terrain was lost in white. They plowed into it, the snow losing its moisture in the cold, leaving thick, dry flakes falling and rising in clouds at the horses’ pounding hoofs.
The whine of the engine rang louder, but muffled. Michael suddenly veered the gelding off the road. The animal stumbled, almost fell, throwing Michael against its neck. The animal scrambled to its feet. The roan pounded after, but the animals’ strides weren’t fast enough. Never fast enough.
Not to compete with a Jeep.
They were going to be caught. Michael would be killed.
And she as well—as a traitor to Islam—a traitor to Hashemi at least. Fear sobbed in her throat. Her death would not be easy. She recalled Hashemi’s men’s laughter.
The snow swirled, filling the sky with blinding white so she wondered how the horse, how Michael could see where they went. The sky overhead was the color of Michael’s rifle barrel. The roan’s hoofs slipped on the rock. The animal scrambled to keep its feet.
But it did. It did, but the Jeep engine seemed to roar behind her, even through the muffling snow. The world reduced to the engine sound, her heartbeat and the horse’s tearing breath.
Then suddenly Michael was beside her, grabbed her horse’s reins and hauled the animal to a stop, tore her down from the saddle into the leeward side of a huge boulder. Heat radiated from him in the meager shelter. The rifle was already loose in his arms. He raised his chin towards the road.
“They can’t see us here. The snow’s our shield.”
“Michael, you’re not well.”
Over the wind she heard the whine of the engine build as if it was almost on top of them—then recede upslope. He ignored her concern.
“They’ll patrol the road.”
The wind whipped his words away. The snow melted where it touched him. His face was flushed, running with more than the snow that crusted his turban. He looked back up slope through the gusting wall of snow.
“I figure we let the horses rest a few minutes. Then we carry on up slope away from the road. We have to stay where the snow is thickest.”
“Can we make the pass this way?”
He shook his head.
“Before the final pass the road returns to the river edge. There’s a cliff across the slope so we can’t get up this way. We have to return to the road there. Hashemi will know it. He’ll guard it.”
He reeked of the hot-iron scent of fever. She saw the shivers he ignored.
“Michael, we have to get you warm—to shelter.”
She put her arms around his broad chest, trying to share her body heat. His breath was in her hair, her face. His hand briefly touched her head, but then he set her away.
“We need to draw Hashemi from the road. On the far side of the pass there are old cave networks Massoud used to keep ready in case the Taliban was able to break through into the Panjshir. He used to keep men there, but I don’t know what’s happened since he died. If we can get there, Marshal Fahim, his replacement, might help us. We might rest a bit and then get down to the valley tomorrow. Fahim might be able to get a message through on my behalf.”
His fever rode so bright in his eyes.
“How—how do you know we can get through?”
He looked back towards the road and the sound of the Jeep. The loss of his gaze was like a chill.
“Because there’s no choice,” he said as he handed her the roan’s reins and mounted.
Chapter 45
The snow placed a grey veil across the dark figure that rode behind Michael. He had to get them through. If nothing else, he had to get her through. He owed Mohammed that much—the life of his daughter, when Michael had been unable to save the son.
He’d set that thought aside when he realized her betrayal, but the news of the date, her careful decoding of what her message meant—that and the way she touched him—had destroyed his resolve. It had changed things.
Like sending him on a mad dash through the mountains in a snow storm. He grinned to himself.
Like making him face the probability he was wrong about Khadija. Like making him admit what he felt for her. But there was no time to do anything about it, and there would only be hurt for her if she found out. Better if she didn’t know his feelings. It would make what was to come easier.
He sighed and pain stabbed into him, stealing his strength away. It was worse than before, each breath difficult in the thin, icy air. Truth be told, there was little chance he would live through this journey. Strange that he regretted it.
&n
bsp; The afternoon wore on as they traversed the slope, picking their way upward through the screen of snow, listening for the sound of the Jeep on the road. It seemed to stay even with them, but that was probably just the strange atmospherics that came with the weather. In any event, Hashemi’s vehicle and his men were close—too close—and they barred the pass.
The sky turned darker grey as the day advanced and the wind grew colder. Rock cracked in the cold, sounding like rifle shots. Out of the snow rose the slick cliff he had known they would face. The stone groaned above them in the unseasonable cold and a trickle of gravel fell around them. It was dangerous here now and more dangerous still when a quake came.
The horses had done well to get here still in daylight. The gelding was limping badly, but still carried on. The roan had cut its right front fetlock on a hidden outcrop of stone. Its blood left bright drops in the snow.
He dismounted and was careful not to let Khadija see how he needed the horse to steady himself. He motioned Khadija off her horse and handed the gelding’s reins to her. He took charge of the roan.
The question in her eyes demanded an answer.
“There’s no way we can both make it through. You’re going to have to carry the message.” Confusion, then horror bloomed in her eyes.
“I’m not leaving you.”
He smiled, wanted to take her in his arms, but time beat at him. Time and knowledge like the sense of an impending quake.
“Use that sharp brain of yours, Khadija. We’ve got to deliver that message. You know they outgun us. You know they want me. Hell, if they catch me, they might just forget about you.”
The Jeep engine seemed to purr close enough Hashemi’s men could be standing right beside them. His voice would carry through the snow as well. He pulled Khadija closer and told her his plan. She shook her head stubbornly.
“No. I’m not leaving you.”
He saw the argument brewing in her eyes and pulled her into him, stroked her head a moment, then stopped himself.
“Over the pass it’s only sixty miles or so down the Panjshir and then another forty to Kaabul. In the valley, you have to tell Fahim what’s going on. Tell him you have to get a message to Simon Booker at the U.S. embassy. He’ll know of Simon if he doesn’t know him directly. Tell him the plotters are Uigher and Hui, but they’re being supplied by Hashemi’s fundamentalist group in Afghanistan. Tell him the date and tell him the evidence—probably the body of a U.S. agent—will point to a U.S. plot. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some attack on U.S. soil as well. They’re hoping for a war or at least serious conflict. It’ll pull resources away from the hotbed of the Middle East. It’ll allow the fundamentalists to take control. That’s what they want—fundamentalist Islamic states.” He looked down at her. “Have you got that?”
She just looked at him as he set her away. He repeated his question and held her shoulders so hard he knew he hurt her. Finally she nodded, but her eyes were huge, injured pools.
Damnation, he didn’t want to leave her, but this was only way to get the message out.
He mounted the roan and leaned down to her. “I’d take the gelding, but the roan’s more likely to want to head back to Skazar. Downhill I’ll release him to distract the men. In this storm they might think it’s me trying to escape. You mount the gelding, but wait here. When you hear shots, follow the cliff face to the road. When you reach it, head up the pass and don’t look back. Just go.”
Not waiting for a reply, he turned the roan out into the snow. The wind had picked up, changing the snow from heavy flakes to prickly ice driving almost horizontal. It cut at him, at the horse. The animal snorted and laid its ears back, but its desire to go home kept it going. He was counting on it.
He guided it closer to the road. Closer still, and through the wind heard voices muttering epithets against the weather.
Reining in, he dismounted, pulling his rifle from his shoulder. Then he tied the horse’s reins so the animal couldn’t lower its head to eat.
The flat grey light made it difficult to see, the falling snow even more so. He stepped closer to the voices, pulling the horse after him. Let Khadija be mounted. Let her be ready. Let her obey him in this.
The roan’s hoof came down on a rock that split in the cold. The crack ran through the air and Michael froze. Ahead the voices grew louder, calling to each other.
He couldn’t ask for a more opportune time. He released the roan with a slap on the animal’s rump. The horse crow-hopped and then leapt forward, trotting down slope towards Skazar. Its hoof beats sounded muffled in the snow, but they carried well enough.
Michael dropped to his belly and peered into the snow.
A shout. Someone ran after the horse.
Through the swirl of ice particles something moved. A man. Two. The snow and the sweat that ran into his eyes, made the figures fade in and out of existence. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel, but his shaking made the barrel waver. It couldn’t be helped. There.
He squeezed the trigger and the ancient weapon bucked against his shoulder, the scent of gunpowder rich in his nose. A scream and one of the men fell. The other figure disappeared in the snow.
Damnation. He should have taken two quick shots, but his hands were too unsteady.
He scrambled to his feet and began to run upslope. There were shouts through the snow; he approached the road and saw a huddle of men through the white. He sent a bullet into their midst, heard another cry and shouting, then resumed his run.
The whine of the Jeep neared as it left its station near the pass. It was Khadija’s opportunity.
If he could only disable the Jeep.
He went to one knee and peered into the snow. Finally he saw the darker bulk and caught the stench of exhaust on the wind. An eddy of air separated the snow briefly and he knew he might be seen, but the chance of the shot was too important. He tucked the Enfield into his shoulder and sighted on the Jeep’s engine, pulled the trigger as the snow closed around the vehicle again.
Another shot rang and a bullet parted the air too close to his head. He plunged back through the snow, hearing the pursuit.
Men plowed after him. He ran farther across the slope, then paused to take aim through the gathering gloom. Now it didn’t matter if he shot someone—except it made him feel a damn sight better. He spotted a moving shadow and pulled the trigger. A shout and the shadow fell.
Shouts all around him. If he wanted to be caught, just stay where he was.
Move man, just move! But even the adrenaline could barely shift his fatigued body. He stumbled to his feet. At least he could make them pay; at least he could lead them a merry chase and give Khadija time. Hell. Maybe he’d even make it past them and find his way to Khadija.
Wouldn’t that be a laugh? Hell, it would be paradise. He would take her in his arms. He would tell her how he felt—apologize for hurting her—for so much.
He headed for the shadow he’d brought down, weaving through the snow to avoid voices. The man he’d shot groaned in the snow. Blood bloomed red around him from a huge hole in his chest. The Enfield was a cruel weapon. Michael grabbed the fallen man’s rifle and then turned up hill. Khadija should be well into the narrow gorge by now. He could hold this end for her, allow her to escape.
The snow came down thicker, harder, driving into him. The cold—even with his running he could no longer feel his feet. The rifle felt like lead in his cold-clumsy hands.
Just keep moving. Just pray she gets away.
“Allāhu akbar—God is great,” he groaned.
The great grey cliff rose out of the gathering darkness. The fall of rock was greater now, the ground littered with pieces of the stone sheered off the cliff face. The rock above his head groaned. Dangerous. He trotted along the escarpment and stopped by the road.
There was no sign of Khadija. The wind had blown away the gelding’s prints. The road itself was a white track with only faint indentations to tell of the Jeep’s passage. He lifted h
is head. The Jeep still idled somewhere down the road. Shit! He hadn’t wrecked the damned engine.
Go back?
He looked over his shoulder at the route through the gorge. Khadija was that way and suddenly he wanted to find her, wanted the chance to live, to have the opportunity to hold her if she would have him. The Jeep—if it came back he would guard her escape.
He turned and began to limp along the road towards the final pass. The wind picked up the rush of the river, the growl of the cliff-face cracking, so the wind, the water, the earth, roared in his head.
It was cold, so very cold. He pulled the sodden petu more tightly around his neck and shoulders. Just keep going. He still might make it. He still might see Khadija again. Might feel her arms around him, her lips on his. Each thought was another step, another push-off from the cliff when he found himself collapsed against it for strength.
The darkness made it almost impossible to see the track or where it ended in the steep fall to the river. The cold made it almost impossible to move and his hands froze on the weapons. He staggered forward, caught in the haze of his pain, and longing for Khadija and warmth by a fire, the sound of doves in the leaves above them, the scent of grapes heavy on the air. Khadija would be laughing. They would be together in the Panjshir with the river droning nearby.
Droning.
Michael jerked upright from where he sagged against the cliff. How long had he been there lost in an impossible dream? His chest felt like it would explode. Allah, no—not now when they were coming.
He tried to run, but his legs almost gave out. Instead he took cover near the cliff face and faced the road behind him. Headlights swung through the darkness as the Jeep came around the last curve.
The lights caught him in their glare, blinded him as he raised Hashemi’s man’s rifle, the old Enfield across his shoulder as he tried to back away into the darkness before he was seen. The vehicle stopped and beyond the glare of lights he heard a door open.