Jaz sank down on his knees to catch his breath but Mohamed urged him on. “There is no rest here Jaz,” he said. “Only death for those who stop.”
Jaz looked back at where they had come from and realised there was nothing but limitless sand all around and the blue sky above. He turned 360 degrees and had the sensation of being in a boat bobbing up and down on an ocean of sand unable to see any form of life.
It was two hours before they approached the dune’s ridge. The wind whipped fine flurries of sand off the crest. Jaz looked over and saw ahead of them a flat plain not only devoid of life but, in the harsh sunlight, drained of colour too. For the camels the descent was harder than the climb. At times, fearful of slipping to the bottom, they refused to move. Mohammed yanking the rope and thrusting his stick into the soft flesh behind their knees, urged and forced the camels down. For Jaz, though, it was easier now. He lay on his back and, as he slid, let gravity take him down towards the plain.
“We’ll be OK now,” said Mohammed when they reached the bottom. “But we must find a well.”
As they started walking Jaz wondered if the sheikh had sent him on the journey to learn that people like Mohammed had skills he could never hope to learn. Or probably he just wanted to see if he was fit enough to endure such an ordeal. It was past midday and the sun began to dip. Seeing Jaz flagging Mohammed said, “This is the time we can make best speed.”
Ahead, Jaz made out a dark patch and wondered if it was some of the smugglers Mohammed had warned about. But Mohammed seemed unconcerned and, as they approached, Jaz saw a couple of low scratchy trees and realised it was an oasis.
Mohammed scanned the horizon all around and, seeing no one, told Jaz they would spend the night nearby. The ground by the well was compacted by countless camel hooves that had trod on it before. Mohammed produced a leather bucket from one of his bags and lowered it down the well on a rope. After 30 feet, Jaz reckoned, he hit water and a splash reverberated up to ground level.
When he pulled it back up Mohammed asked Jaz to hold the bucket, scooped up some water with his hand and put it to his mouth. Grimacing, he spat it out.
“Brackish,” he groaned. “No wonder no one else is here.”
But the camels were thirsty enough to take anything on offer and as each bucket came up they eagerly sucked the liquid down their long necks.
At last Mohammed was ready to stop for the night. He pointed at some dunes ahead and, although he didn’t speak, Jaz gathered that was where they would shelter – away from the well and the people it might attract. As they moved the camels looked tired with sweat on their necks and drool dribbling from their mouths. But soon they were at their resting place.
With effortless technique Mohammed manipulated the camels’ knee joints until he eased them into a kneeling position. He unloaded the bags and then tied the beasts’ knees together before allowing them to stand again. Able to move only a few inches with each step the camels gave up and stood still.
“Soon they will sleep.” Mohammed said as he started to work on the fire using some wood he had gathered at the oasis. Once the flames had caught hold Mohammed was up again and rummaging in his bags. He produced the letter the sheikh had given him back at the fair. “He asked me to give you this on our second night,” he said. He handed it to Jaz who ripped open the sealed flap with his thumb. Inside was one handwritten sheet of paper.
Jasir,
You may worry that Mohammed has secretly read this letter and resealed it. Be assured, he is unlettered and cannot have read it.
Ravi has established that Mohammed is the man who tipped off the Americans about the Uzbeks going to your home. A GSM signal was sent from his house about 20 minutes before the drone attack. If you search Mohammed’s bags you will probably find a digital camera. It is in fact a GSM. Pressing the shutter gives your location to the Americans. Pressing twice is a signal of suspicious movement in the area. We have had a number of cases already. The Americans pay well.
The punishment is death. In this case it falls to you to carry out that punishment.
When it’s done burn this letter and continue to Fort Sandeman.
Underneath there was a spider’s web of ink that Jaz presumed to be the sheikh’s signature.
Jaz looked hard at the ground and felt his mouth dry up. His hands started to tremble and he thrust them onto the sand so that Mohammed would not notice. He looked up and saw Mohammed apparently unconcerned, pouring out the flour.
How could he be sure the sheikh was right? He thought of trying to tie Mohammed up so that he could search for the GSM and prove his guilt. And then he thought back to the conversation the sheikh had with Mohammed about the second camel. A gift from Allah. And how the sheikh had caught his eye.
Jaz had never killed a man before.
He looked once more at Mohammed and tried to think about what might have driven him to betray his own tribe. “Are you alright?” Mohammed asked.
So he had already noticed a change in his behaviour. There are no secrets, thought Jaz, in a place like this.
“Fine.”
“Bad news?” Mohamed pointed at the letter that was still in Jaz’s hand.
“Kind of. It’s something the sheikh wants me to do. Take a look.” Jaz handed the letter to Mohammed who, not wanting to admit he could not read, shook his head.
“It’s your business.”
Reassured Mohammed started making the bread.
Jaz felt as if his limbs had suddenly become heavy: his muscles slow to respond to the instructions his brain gave them. He remained stuck on the ground the letter still in his hand. How to do it? With a gun? Or the knife? Mohammed had both the guns by his side but the knife was sticking in the sand by the pile of wood. Jaz felt sure he could overpower Mohammed but where should he stick it in. In his belly? Or his throat? Or maybe it was all a mistake and the sheikh wanted to test whether Jaz had the ability to work out for himself who he should and shouldn’t kill.
“Which way do we go in the morning?” Jaz asked.
Mohammed pointed down the plain. “It’s all flat now. Another day’s walk.”
“I was wondering whether you could teach me to use that gun.”
Mohammed looked up alert.
“What do you mean?”
“My father left for England when I was a boy. Before he taught us properly.”
Mohammed stared at Jaz contemplating the idea that a fully-grown Chamaki had not learnt how to use a gun.
Jaz looked at Mohammed’s eyes. They had narrowed a little and were moving more actively than normal. Fuck, thought Jaz. He knows.
“We should eat.” Trying to keep himself busy Jaz got up and started looking through the bags. “Is there anything we can cook?”
“Not tonight. I have bread and dates. Over there.” Mohammed pointed at another bag.
They ate in silence as Jaz pondered his options. He could felt sure he could overpower Mohammed but he wanted time to think: to work out what he should do.
“I’ll collect some wood,” he said reaching over for the knife. “To keep the fire going.”
“Don’t go too near the oasis. People may be watching it.”
As he moved away there was complete silence in the desert. The scorching heat of the day had gone and the air was still, cold and dry. As the light had dimmed the colour of the sand had changed from gold to pink and now, lit only by the moon and the stars it had an oily quality. Jaz thought it looked like quicksand and he found himself treading more lightly, fearful of being swallowed up by the ground.
Jaz looked up at the ink black sky crammed full of dots of light of varying intensity. A streak shot from left to right and he was transported to his childhood when he and Mahmud, with their father sitting close by watching them, would compete to see who could see the most shooting stars. He heard the camels belching and saw they were lying down now, preparing themselves for the night ahead.
Reaching some shrubs Jaz turned so that he could keep an eye on Mohammed and s
tarted looking for the roots. He worked listlessly hoping that as he did so Mohammed would get bored and go to sleep. The fire was flickering, a tiny patch of glowing red light in the vastness that surrounded them. Jaz sat and scanned the horizon wondering whether as part of the test the sheikh had sent someone to observe him. But even if he had, Jaz figured he lacked the skills to spot someone steeped in the ways of the desert.
Taking the knife Jaz gathered some roots moving big distances between different bushes so that he could watch the angle of Mohammed’s head and see if he was watching him or not. But he wasn’t sure: sometimes Mohammed seemed lost in a dream looking into the fire but at others Jaz thought he was in fact alert and watching Jaz’s every move.
Doubting now that he could gather wood long enough to be sure that Mohammed would go to sleep Jaz returned with his trawl and put it on the fire. The roots cracked and sparked as the flames licked around them.
“Time for me to sleep,” Jaz said. “I’m not use to the exercise.”
Mohammed who was lying down now responded with a grunt.
As he lay in his back looking at the sky and gripping the knife in his palm, Jaz listened intently trying to work out if Mohammed was still awake. The fire obscured the sounds but from time to time Jaz heard Mohammed moving too quickly he thought, for a man who was unconscious. It was a waiting game and Jaz counted to one hundred and then repeated the exercise trying to pass the time. He started counting shooting stars and decided he would not move a muscle until he had seen 20. That way Mohammed might think he was no longer awake and conclude it was safe for him to sleep as well. And all the time he kept glancing at where Mohammed lay, to be sure that he would not try a pre-emptive strike.
It was when Jaz had to stifle a yawn that he realised he had to move. He might fall asleep himself. And anyway, the more tired he was the less sharp he would be. If he was going to do it, he might as well do it fast. And there was no point trying to conceal his movements. If Mohammed was awake then it would be best to overwhelm him with speed and fury rather than try to surprise him.
Resolved, Jaz tried to sharpen his reactions by pricking his palm with the end of the knife drawing blood. Then he leapt up and ran towards Mohammed. Mohammed, who was not asleep, swivelled round and grabbed Jaz’s ankle as he approached. Jaz fell and had his back on the sand and was straining his neck to see what Mohammed was doing. As he did so Mohammed climbed on top of him.
Jaz realised it was the moment he had to act. He thrust the knife upwards into Mohammed stomach and wrenched it left and right through the soft tissue.
“You killed my brother you …”
“No sir! No. I never did,” Mohammed gasped as his weight collapsed onto Jaz and their faces came within a few inches of each other.
Jaz could see the fear in his eyes.
“You told the Americans where he was you little bastard. What did he do wrong? Why did he have to die? My brother!” Jaz shouted.
“No! Please!”
Convinced now, Jaz slithered from underneath and climbed onto Mohammed’s rib cage. As he sat down on him, pinning him to the ground, he felt the warm, wet blood from Mohammed’s stomach seep through his shalwar kameez. And then heard some of the bones in his rib cage crack as Mohammed yelped with pain. He looked down at Mohammed’s scared, pleading face and knew what he had to do.
Jaz closed his eyes and with a sharp, jabbing movement thrust the knife towards the man’s broken ribs. But Mohammed raised his arms in self-defence and the knife just cut into the flesh above his wrist. Time and again Jaz tied to stab his torso and then his neck but Mohammed parried the blows until his forearms were covered in deep bleeding wounds. Blood flicked up onto their clothes and faces as Jaz, driven wilder by frustration, tried to land a fatal blow.
“Die you fucker. Just die!” He yelled.
Groaning, Mohammed lifted his head but he knew he was no match for the younger man.
Jaz was too big for him. But Mohammed was still alive.
With adrenalin giving Jaz a strength he never knew he possessed he suddenly changed tactics and crouching now thrust the knife into Mohammed’s crotch. Doubling up Mohammed let out an animal scream but Jaz, mentally blocking the sound, stabbed him repeatedly, his knife slicing through the flesh.
Mohammed whimpered as he weakened, his eyes no longer looking for mercy but rather for release. As they’d fought the two men had moved closer to the fire. Putting the knife down Jaz took off his keffiyeh wrapped it round his hand and thrust it into the edge of the embers. He grasped a small sharp stone and, roaring, raised it above his head. Holding it with both hands now, he drove it down just above Mohammed’s eyes.
His skull cracked open with the first blow and, as his neck twisted, grey ooze mixed with blood drained out into the sand. Mohammed’s body twitched its death throes and Jaz fell off him letting go the bloodied stone and lying on the ground.
He looked back at Mohammed. His face was still intact but above it was a large gaping hole with jagged bone protruding through the flesh
Suddenly exhilarated Jaz felt like cheering, but he could not make a sound. Instead tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to move his hands but they were cold, clammy and resistant to his commands.
Trying to calm himself he exhaled, slowed his breathing and looked up at the darkening sky. So he had killed. And he was alive. And in the vastness of the desert he felt very alone.
He lay still for over an hour replaying every moment of the fight until the fire became so feeble that he began to feel the cold. Moving slowly, and not looking at the body, he edged around fire and put a blanket around his shoulders. He imagined Aysha wrapping her smooth legs around his chest, sweat gleaming on her shoulders. Then, as he pictured her darting in front of him after the five-a-side, suddenly, as if someone had clicked a switch, he became busy.
First he went to fetch more wood and built up the fire. Having made a decent flame he considered the problem of Mohammed’s body. Seeing no point in burying it, he grabbed the feet and dragged the corpse about three hundred yards and left it to rot in the open air.
Then he went through the bags. They contained everything a man could need to survive alone. Paper packages of shrivelled dried fruit, extra water containers, ammunition, knives and a sling, blankets, turbans, rope, leather straps, matches, more lighters, binoculars, a tin of rupees and a copy of the Qur’an. Finding a clean shalwar kameez he put it aside so that he could wear it when he managed to clean up a bit. And deep within the recesses of the biggest bag of all, a small digital camera in a padded case. Jaz put it in his pocket.
Next he took some dates from one of the packages, looking forward to the increased rations. As he ate he realised there was no chance he would sleep, so he loaded the packs onto the camels, untied their legs and, with a last look at Mohammed’s body, picked a star to head for and set out in the desert night.
The movement helped him block out unbidden thoughts. As he placed one foot in front of the other and tried to ensure the camels did not veer off the direction he had set, he concentrated on the physical ordeal of moving two camels through a desert night.
Chapter Eight
“I was given $122 to drop chips wrapped in cigarette paper at al Qaeda and Taliban houses.” -- 19-year-old Habibur Rehman, just before the Taliban shot him dead for spying for the United States, April 2007
05:00, 13th December, Fort Sandeman, Baluchistan
Jaz first saw the men long after they had seen him. The first slithers of light were appearing low in the sky and, as Jaz looked up from his rhythmic march, he caught a movement away to his right. Taking Mohammed’s battered binoculars he twisted the lenses until the image sharpened up. There were men sitting around a fire surrounded by four-wheel drives. And one of them also had a pair of binoculars. He was looking directly at Jaz.
Jaz paused, unsure what to do. He looked again and saw dark shapes behind the men. Buildings. Realising that he must be close to Fort Sandeman, he figured they could not be smugglers. And
then the decision about what to do was taken for him. With a cloud of sand rising from beneath the tyres one of the four-wheel drives, its headlights on, headed towards him. Jaz kept walking regardless, but within a few minutes the vehicle was right by him, its windows being lowered as it approached.
Inside were two men one of whom poked first a rocket propelled grenade, and then his head, through the window. A black turban was bound tight around his head and a band of surplus cloth trailed down one of his shoulders. His face was further obscured by another cloth loosely tied around his neck and a trimmed back beard and moustache, Jaz could see he was wearing a slate grey baggy tunic and that his passenger had a Kalashnikov.
“Follow us!” the man ordered.
“I am going to Fort Sandeman,” Jaz said.
The vehicle came to an abrupt halt at such a show of defiance and the passenger also in a black turban stepped out and moved towards Jaz.
“You are coming with us.” The first one said. “You do what we say. Come to the checkpoint.” And he pointed at the group of vehicles Jaz had seen. Leading the camels Jaz complied as the second man walked beside him and the car fell back following them both.
Jaz fingered the GSM wondering whether he could drop it in the sand. But the man beside him would be sure to see it fall. His hands sweated with thought of al Qaeda, the Taliban or whoever they were, accusing him of being an American spy. The sheikh just killed his traitors. He had heard that when the Taliban found spies had their balls cut off and thrust in their mouths with some dollar bills to symbolise their treachery. The blood would flow from their crotch until they died.
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