by Simon Hawke
He stretched out his hand and she passed the flask back to him.
“It’s a strange thing,” he said, staring up at the rock walls towering above them. “I both hate and love this country. It isn’t mine, you see, and it never shall be. Look at Din over there. He’s got no home, but he’s happy as a lark. He’s got his soldier suit and he isn’t an untouchable out here and that’s all it takes to make him satisfied. Ortheris, well, Stanley doesn’t much care where he is nor what he’s doin’ so long as he comes out of it okay. A more easygoin’ chap you’ll never meet. Mulvaney? If Terrence would have his way, he’d be back with the field force headin’ for Chakdarra, He dearly loves a good, rousin’ dustup. He’s not truly happy unless he’s putting his steel in someone’s gizzard. In England he’d probably be in gaol. But me, I think about things far too much, so I look for trouble to keep my mind from thinkin’.” He smiled.”As they say, it may not be much, but it’s a livin’.”
He handed her the flask. “Here, have another drink.”
“What are we drinking to?” said Finn, returning with the others.
“Old times,” said Andre.
Finn took out his own flask and unscrewed the cap. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.
“Old times,” Learoyd said, holding up his flask.
“Old times,” they echoed. They drank. And then a rifle shot cracked out. Ortheris fell to the ground.
The camp of Sayyid Akbar possessed all the atmosphere of a Kabul bazaar. It had engulfed the small cliffside village where it was situated, enlarging it many times. Tents had been erected not only all around the village, on all sides of it, but in the village streets as well. The thousands of tribesmen who gathered in answer to Akbar’s summons made the camp festive and cacophonous. The mood was infectious. A great leader had arisen. The Light of Islam would rid the land of the hated British once and for all, and as the hoped-for day grew near, the fanatical enthusiasm of the tribesmen reached a fever pitch.
News of the siege at Malakand had spread quickly. There were as many different accounts of what had happened or was happening there as there were tongues. One version reported that the British garrison had been wiped out to the last man. Another claimed that the British garrison was being starved out. Still another story had it that the British soldiers were being decimated in ceaseless attacks by the faithful. The most popular seemed to be that the British soldiers had attempted to escape and were cut to pieces in the Malakand Pass. Sadullah supposedly had the head of the British commander on a pike. Sadullah himself had led the attacking forces, impervious to the bullets of the British. Sadullah was even now on his way to join Sayyid Akbar, the Light of Islam, bringing his thousands of followers with him. Together they would strike the final blow and call down the host of heaven to destroy the alien invader.
It was like a giant festival. Veiled women danced for the pleasure of the raucous mob. Horsemen played games of uzkashi, a savage Afghani version of polo in which the “ball” was a freshly killed goat. The object of the game was for the carcass of the goat to be dragged across the goal line, and there weren’t any rules beyond that. It was a juba—a fair—in which the temper of the throng possessed an ebb and flow, like tides, the noise often rising to a deafening level.
In the centre of the village was a large brick house which Sayyid Akbar had taken as his headquarters. Outside its walls a pit had been dug. It was deep and square, with sheer walls of earth that made it impossible for anyone thrown into it to climb out. The pit had been filled with bugs of every description, so many that the floor writhed with them. As Phoenix looked into it, he saw that several unfortunate British soldiers, as well as native tribesmen who had served in British regiments, had been thrown into the bug pit. One of the men had gone insane after who knew how much time spent in there with inspects crawling over him. He screamed continually, ceaselessly trying to clamber up the sheer walls of the pit, clawing at them with his ruined hands, much to the amusement of the watching tribesmen. Another of the men had died and his body lay in a corner, slowly being devoured by bugs. The others were not far from dead themselves. They expended what little energy they had by constantly brushing off the insects. It was clear that none of them had slept for a long time. Sleep in such an environment was even more terrifying than wakefulness.
“Poor bastards,” Phoenix mumbled under his breath. “Sayyid Akbar must be really something. It takes a truly sick mind to come up with this.”
“I’ve seen sicker,” said agent Fox, standing close to Phoenix. “But this one is right up there with the best of them.”
“There must be well over ten thousand men here,” said agent Sable. “And if it’s true that the Mad Mullah’s coming here with his followers, that will make it at least twice as many. None of the garrisons in the area will be able to cope with a force that size.”
“They didn’t cope,” said Phoenix. “Landi Kotal was overrun. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will.”
“Look,” said Fox. He pointed to several men wearing khaki uniforms and turbans with red swatches of cloth in them.
“Khyber Rifles,” Phoenix said. “Colonel Warburton’s legendary native regiment. According to history it broke Warburton’s heart when he found out his men deserted to the Ghazis. He trained them into the finest fighting force in the country, and this was his reward. Still, I wonder if you can really blame them.”
“What does that mean?” Sable said.
“Put yourself in their place,” said Phoenix. “You take service with a regiment whose duty is to keep the Khyber Pass open and to protect caravans from banditry. Suddenly you’re faced with a war in which you have to fight your own people, not just bandits, but your countrymen, members of your tribe, maybe even blood relations. Worse, it’s a jehad and there you are, a good Muslim, forced to fight against your own people in a war your faith tells you is a holy struggle to rid the country of infidel invaders. Invaders whom you serve. It has to tear you up. So you desert and get twice as fanatical and twice as savage as anybody else, to prove to them and to yourself that your heart was in the right place all along.”
“I’d like to get a look at this Sayyid Akbar character,” said Fox.
“You’ll get your chance,” said Phoenix. “I understand he grants an audience to each arriving chief and khan, along with his retainers. We’ll be with the latest bunch that came in. We go in at sundown.”
“Sundown, eh?” said Sable. “Dramatic. What is this guy, a vampire?”
Phoenix glanced back at the pit. “After seeing that, I shouldn’t wonder.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s almost time. Come on. Let’s go pay our respects.”
They joined the group gathered by the gates in the wall outside the house. Phoenix glanced up and saw that the gun tower over the house was manned. Sayyid Akbar was security-conscious. As the sun went down, the gates were opened to them and they went inside with a group of about twenty other tribal chiefs who had recently arrived. They crossed the small courtyard and went into the house, into the large central chamber which was decorated with tapestries and silk hangings.. A number of lamps had been lighted to give the room a soft, dim illumination.
They were directed to wait at one end of the room, opposite a platform with a throne upon it, made from wood covered in hammered gold and silver. As the last rays of the sun disappeared, a group of heavily muscled guards came in to stand between the platform and those who had come to attend the audience. The men were armed with captured British MartiniHenry rifles, as well as officers’ Webley-Wilkinson pistols. They all had charras tucked into their belts, along with smaller knives.
“On your knees before the Light of Islam!” one of them called out. Sayyid Akbar appeared seated on the throne, materialising out of thin air. Amidst the shocked reaction, agent Sable whispered to Phoenix, “A warp disc! We’ve hit the jackpot!”
They dropped down to their knees, touching their foreheads to the floor. Phoenix raised his head slightly, staring at Sayyid Akbar intently.
“Arise, my faithful ones,” Akbar said in a deep, rich baritone.
“Drakov!” Phoenix said under his breath. He kept his head lowered, hoping Drakov would not get a good look at his face.
“I am Sayyid Akbar,” said Drakov.”I have come to join with you in the Great Jehad.”He got up and approached them, flanked by his bodyguards. “The time has come for the faithful to arise and throw off the chains of the invaders. The infidel firinghi has come to our land, seeking to claim it as his own. He comes seeking to expand his empire and to enslave us. He comes with arms to subjugate us. He comes with missionaries to attack our faith, seeking to make us infidels like himself. He comes to change our way of life, to take our land, to make us join his soldiers and to deny us Paradise. In so doing, he has raised our wrath and he has raised the wrath of higher powers.”
His piercing gaze took them all in as he came closer, establishing magnetic eye contact with each man as he spoke.
“This day we are all one. Afridi, Mahsud, and Waziri; Yuzufrai, Mohmand, and Utman Khel; Swati and Orakzai—all joined together in the holy cause to fight for freedom. Today we are all Ghazi. Today we are mujahidin—holy warriors of the Great Jehad!”
He was coming closer. Phoenix kept his head down.
“The day is close at hand,” said Drakov. “When next the moon is full, it will be the Night of the Long Knives.” His hand closed around the jewel-encrusted hilt of his charra. “On that night the gates of Paradise shall open. A great host shall come forth to fight with us in our holy struggle. The British forts shall burn and the flames shall be seen in their own homeland, so that they will know never again to—”
He paused, standing before Phoenix. As if with great humility, Phoenix kept his gaze averted, looking down at his feet.
“You,” Drakov said. “What is your name?”
“I am called Sharif Khan, Holy One,” said Phoenix.
“Look at me.”
Slowly Phoenix raised his head, meeting Drakov’s gaze. Drakov’s eyes widened for a moment, then he gave a faint ghost of a smile.
“Take this man,” he said. “He is a British spy.”
The bodyguard were on them instantly. Fox and Sable found their arms pinned behind their backs before they could get their weapons clear, and Phoenix was seized, the sharp point of a charra at his throat. The other tribesmen began yelling, pulling out their own knives and threatening to cut the agents to pieces on the spot. Drakov raised his arms and silenced them. Slowly, theatrically, he lowered them.
“Leave this man with me,” he said. “As for the other two …” He turned and nodded to his guard. Moving with lightning speed, two of the guards plunged their long knives into Fox and Sable. The agents never even had a chance to cry out.
They appeared like wraiths from the shadows all around them, gliding like ghosts out of the darkness. Ortheris lay upon the ground, clutching at his left shoulder. A voice called out to them in English, “Throw down your weapons and you will not be harmed! Resist, and you will all be shot dead where you stand!”
“Bloody hell,” Mulvaney said, “that sounds like a bloomin’ Yank!”
Finn and Andre stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
“There are twenty rifles trained on you,” the voice from the darkness said. “You’re more valuable to me alive than dead, but if you force my hand, I’ll take the loss.”
Finn dropped his rifle. The others followed suit. Andre lowered her revolver. As it fell from her fingers, she stared at Finn and said, “It can’t be!”
The man walked forward into the firelight. He was dressed in Temporal Army base fatigues, but they were field gray instead of black, and the insignia were different, unlike any they had ever seen before. He wore a patch over one eye, and in his right hand, held a laser at his side.
“Lucas?” Andre said with disbelief.
“See to the wounded soldier,” the man in the gray uniform said. Another man similarly dressed came into the light and crouched down over Ortheris. He removed a first-aid kit from his pack. Others now moved into the light, and they could see that there was only one other man dressed in gray fatigues. The others were all Pathan tribesmen.
“Lucas, it can’t be you!” said Andre. “We buried you!”
“Did you? What a shame. I guess I’m late to my own funeral.”
“Blimey!” said Mulvaney. “ ‘E looks enough like the Father to be ‘is ruddy twin!”
“Finn?” said Andre, looking at him wildly.
“It isn’t Lucas,” Finn said slowly. “At least not our Lucas.”
“Congratulations, Lieutenant. Or is it lieutenant? What is your actual rank?”
“It’s lieutenant. Second Lieutenant Finn Delaney.”
“And you?” he said to Andre.
“Sergeant Andre Cross,” she said numbly.
“Sergeant?” said Mulvaney. “Would someone mind tellin’ me what in bloody ‘Ell is goin’ on ‘ere?”
“It would only confuse you, soldier,” said the twin. “I apologise about your friend. It was meant to be a warning shot, but these tribesmen tend to get a bit overzealous. Keeping them in cheek can be difficult. I strongly advise you to cooperate so as not to provide them with any excuse to give in to temptation. I believe you’re carrying dispatches. May I see them, please?”
“What dispatches?” said Mulvaney. “We were only escortin’—“
“Please, Private, don’t waste my time. The dispatches.”
“Do as he says, Mulvaney,” Finn said.
“What manner of uniform is that?” Learoyd said as Mulvaney removed the dispatches from the saddlebags. “You’re not British, surely.”
The twin Priest smiled. “It’s the uniform of a captain in the Special Operations Group of the United States Temporal Army.”
“The United States?” Learoyd said. “I don’t understand. What’s your interest here?”
“That,” said the twin Priest, “would take a bit of explaining. And frankly, I don’t have the time. Let’s have those dispatches.”
Mulvaney handed them over.
The twin Priest glanced through them quickly. “Yes, well, I’m afraid we can’t allow these to get through.” He handed them to one of the other men. He glanced at Finn. “Interesting, “ he said, “but not completely unexpected. Paradox piled upon paradox. Zen physics run riot in the presence of a confluence. I assume from your reaction on seeing me that my counterpart was with your unit. Pity. I would have liked to have met him.”
“What is he talking about?” said Learoyd.
“Not now, Chris,” said Andre, the initial shock having passed.”What are you going to do with us?”
“Take you prisoner,” said the twin Priest. “After all, I have as many questions to ask you as I’m sure you have to ask me.”
“What about them?” Finn said, jerking his head toward the others.
“We’ll bring them along, just to ensure your cooperation. I wouldn’t expect commandos to be very cooperative by themselves, but with hostages, it might be different.”
“Look ‘ere,” said Mulvaney, striding forward belligerently. “I demand to know just what in bloomin’ blazes—“
The twin Priest signalled to one of his men. There were three sharp, hissing sounds and Mulvaney and Learoyd dropped to the ground. Din slowly backed away, eyes wide.
“You there!” the twin Priest said, pointing at Din. “Come here!”
Din froze, petrified with fear.
“They’re not dead,” the twin Priest said. “They’ve just been put to sleep for a while. You have nothing to fear if you obey instructions.”
Swallowing hard, Din came forward. The twin Priest looked at him hard. He spoke to Delaney. “This one’s not a soldier. He with you?”
“He’s just a Hindu attendant we hired,” said Andre. “He’s no danger to you.”
The twin Priest looked at Din uncertainly for a moment. “Perhaps. I think we’ll bring him along, just the same.”
He turned and spoke b
riefly in Pushtu to the Pathans, telling them that he was leaving one of his men in charge and that the British soldiers were to be brought to the temple unharmed or else there would be dire consequences. He then addressed the two commandos. “Your warp discs, if you don’t mind. Carefully. Don’t try anything or the others die.”
Reluctantly Finn and Andre surrendered their warp discs. The twin Priest glanced at Din, who stood quaking.
“He doesn’t have one,” said Andre. “I told you, he’s only a—”
“Search him,” said the twin Priest.
After a thorough search yielded no warp disc, he was satisfied. “Right. Follow me.”
They went off a short distance into the rocks, to a spot where three Afridis stood guard with one gray-uniformed soldier over a warp disc about the size of a dinner plate. It was large enough to generate a field that could transport a platoon of men at one time. They took up position around it, within its field radius, and the uniformed man activated it. The Afridis dropped to all fours, pressing their foreheads to the ground as the disc began to glow. A moment later they disappeared.
A thorough search had divested Phoenix of his weapons and his warp disc. He sat cross-legged on a small cushion in a room on the upper floor of the small palace. Two muscular, armed guards stood by the door behind him, tulwars held across their chests. Four guards flanked Drakov, two on either side. Under other circumstances Phoenix might have found the scene amusing, reminiscent of The Arabian Nights. Drakov reclined before him on an elevated, cushion-covered platform. They were surrounded by rich silks and tapestries. Incense made the air fragrant. Drakov smoked a water pipe, adding the pungent odor of latakia to the smell of burning incense.
Beautiful young girls with diamond nose studs, emerald and ruby ornaments in the centres of their foreheads, and bracelets of hammered gold and silver on their wrists and ankles, waited on them, gliding in and out of the room in their flowing, silky costumes, bringing them platefuls of fruit and sweetmeats. One dark-eyed young beauty lounged on a cushion by Drakov’s side, staring at Phoenix as Drakov absently fondled her breast. It was a fantastic scene, surreal except for the horrifying image of the guards plunging their knives into Fox and Sable.