“Fundamentalists.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps just angry young men willing to pay any moral price for a taste of hope and a chance of victory against the oppression of poverty.”
He turned and gestured behind him. A neighboring hillside was covered with a dense cluster of yellow, dusty buildings. “That is a fairly typical camp. It is crowded, squalid, poor. It has bad sanitation, few schools, fewer jobs, less hope. The middle class live in those overcrowded, crumbling apartment blocks. Poorer families gather in concrete huts with straw thatch or metal sheaves for roofing. Richer homes have high enclosed walls and solid steel doors. The camp is lined with open sewers and populated by rats and flies.”
“It sounds horrid,” she said quietly.
“It is,” he agreed. “But within those confines are also some of the finest people God has placed upon this earth. You must be careful never to condemn an entire population for the crimes of a few.” He hefted the heavier of her cases. “Come. Let me show you around.”
Within the clinic grounds, families had gathered. They had set down mats and rugs beneath the trees’ meager shade or alongside the building or on the covered walk and set up temporary housekeeping. Women in black tentlike djellabas and head scarves fed squalling children while other youngsters squealed and ran and played in the dust. The compound was as noisy as a schoolyard.
“Last week I had a child tell me before he was anesthetized for surgery that he hoped to have a vision of Saddam Hussein while he was under,” Ben said as he guided her through the chaos. At every step, families looked up and smiled and murmured respectful greetings to him. “I told that to a visiting American doctor, and she was disgusted. How can these people continue to believe all those lies about such an evil man, she asked. I agree with her about Saddam, yet I also feel the incident shows the state of mind within the Palestinian community. Here was a child who felt he could find no hope of a better life anywhere. Not from the West. Not from God. Only from the president of Iraq.”
He led her up the crumbling brick stairs and into the relative cool of the crowded front porch. Rusty metal posts held up overlapping sheets of plastic roofing. The simple concrete floor was packed with mothers tending babies. Men gathered and fingered worry beads and talked in undertones. Everyone paused to inspect Allison as she passed.
“It’s something of a rambling structure, I’m afraid. We’ve had to make do with what we had. When there was money, it always seemed there were few construction materials to buy. When we were poor, the market was naturally flooded.”
He opened a sheet-metal spring door and ushered her inside a corrugated metal hall with simple benches stretching down both sides. Notices in Arabic plastered the walls. Three large windows had been cut with a torch and then screened. A desultory breeze shifted the heat back and forth through the chamber.
“Our entrances and waiting chambers are castoff shipping containers. They are fine in cooler weather but like ovens in the summer. As you saw, most people prefer to remain outdoors.”
He took her through a second door, this one marked “Private,” which brought them to an open-air walkway roofed with the same plastic sheeting. Ahead was an ocher-colored building. They walked through the entrance, across a cramped parlor filled with rickety furniture, up a narrow stairway, and down a hall. He stopped before a door marked with an Arabic number. A key dangled from the lock. He opened the door to reveal a clean but austere chamber with an unmade single bed, a sink, a writing desk and chair, a grit-encrusted window, and a bare bulb.
“No doubt it is far from what you are accustomed to,” he explained, “but for you to live differently than the rest of our staff would only cause questions.”
“It’s fine,” she said, and meant it. In her weary state, the bed looked immensely inviting.
“Sheets and towels are in the cupboard down the hall, as is the bathroom.” He set down her case and said solemnly, “I hope you will be happy here, for as long as it is necessary for you to stay.”
She looked at him. “Why are you doing this?”
He regarded her with grave eyes. “There is danger here for us and for all our world. Very great danger. Not just today, but for many years to come. So long as we do not help these people gain a peaceful purpose and clearer vision, we are allowing their world to remain a breeding ground for terrorists.”
He looked through the dirty window and continued, “Some people out there seek to take advantage of this misery. They use the guise of their faith to preach of hate and pain and death. Them I oppose—with all that I have, with all that I am.”
7
On the evening of the second day, Wade’s truck crested a rise to find several hundred campfires flickering in the distance.
Within another hour the trucks had wound their way into an encampment filled with roaring engines, shouting men, diesel fumes, dust, the smoke of cooking meat, and the bleating of animals. Wade wrestled the oversized steering wheel with numbed hands and followed Robards to an empty space. He backed his vehicle so that the rear was close to the escarpment, facing out toward the myriad of flickering shadows.
Robards pulled in beside Wade, drawing so close the side fenders groaned as they meshed together. Then he cut his motor and said through his open window, “This way we’ll notice if somebody decides to pay us a visit.”
Wade translated for the old man seated beside Rogue.
“Tell the warrior that Chechen traders will come by with food and drink and eyes hunting the unwary. It would be best if I spoke for us.”
“Time to either fish or cut bait,” Robards said when Wade had translated. “You want to trust him with our lives?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because it’s your show, Sport. You’re what they call the payer. But if you want the advice of your payee, I’d say let the old man handle this.”
Wade called through the open window to where the old man sat beside Robards, “We would be grateful for your assistance, uncle.”
Without further speech, Mikhail pulled the gun from behind his seat and slid from the truck. He walked out in front, cradled the gun across his chest, and settled into the position of one accustomed to waiting for hours. Light from neighboring fires turned the old man’s weapon the color of burnished copper.
“Come on, Sport,” Rogue called, sliding from his truck. “Let’s see to the grub.”
Following Robards’ lead, Wade set up camp in a small hollow behind the two trucks. From his kneeling position he watched under the high-riding wheels as three pairs of scruffy legs approached the old man. One of the newcomers led a bleating sheep by a rope bridle. “Visitors,” he whispered.
“I hear,” Rogue replied softly from inside the back end of his truck. “Can you catch what they’re saying?”
“No.”
The men squatted down by Mikhail, and their faces came into view beneath the truck. All of the strangers were of a type—black hair and unkempt beards and vests with bullet pockets and the knit skullcaps of the mountain Chechen. Their guns fit their hands with the ease of a lifetime’s practice. As glittering black eyes searched him out, Wade dropped his gaze to the flickering cooker. “They see me.”
“Good,” Rogue said for his ears alone. “Here, take this.”
Wade accepted their three bedrolls, set them down, then took the extras Rogue had insisted they pack in case the others became wet. “What are you doing?”
“No need for them to know how few we are,” Rogue said. “Spread the beddings out. I’ll just stay up here out of sight for a while.”
Wade did as he was told, saw that his motions were followed by the men up front. He pretended a calm he did not feel and did his best not to look their way. He poured water from one of the drinking canisters into a pot and set it on to boil. The hollow where he worked was formed by a very large tree stump. The knee-high table was a full four feet across, and made an excellent work surface as he went about preparing their dinner.
Eventually th
e old man returned, a ghost of a smile on his features. “That was very wise, setting out the extra beddings.”
“It was Robards’ idea,” Wade confessed.
“Of course.”
At the sound of the old man’s voice, Robards sprang lightly from the truck. Wade handed him a plate of canned stew and a fork. He blew on the steaming food and demanded, “Ask the old man if there was any trouble.”
“There is trouble everywhere,” Mikhail replied, accepting his food with a nod. “Life itself is trouble. But they did not appear overly interested.”
“What did he say we were carrying?”
“Parts for these cursed Russian trucks,” the old man replied. “Items too heavy to be stolen with ease and not valuable enough to fight over unless the takings were easy.”
“One of us will be on duty all night,” Robards announced. “Two hours on, four off. I’ll take the first watch. One will sleep in the front cab, one in back, one on top.”
“I’ll take the top position,” Wade said quickly.
Robards showed the glimmer of a smile. “Like to do a little stargazing?”
“I’d just like a little fresh air. I feel as if I’ve been eating dust all day.”
“Well, take a couple of extra blankets. The night will get cold up there.”
It did. But Wade found he did not mind at all. Robards woke him for his watch with a hot mug of oversweetened tea and the words, “Be sure and sit up the whole time. Otherwise you might fall back asleep.”
Wade sipped and sighed sweet steam and wrapped the blankets up close around his neck. The camp spread out in front of him for a half mile or more in three directions. Silent, still forms huddled around many smoldering fires. Shadow figures walked in quiet vigilance around trucks, tall guns jutting like spears from their shoulders or hanging down alongside their legs. Drunken laughter drifted up from points unseen. Overhead the stars stretched out like a glittering silver blanket, bright enough to paint the entire scene with ghostly luminosity. The peaks surrounding their escarpment sliced sharp edges from the sky, silent sentinels overlooking the madness of man.
Morning was little more than a smudge across the eastern sky when Robards had them break camp and get underway. As usual, the old man rode in the front truck with Robards, while Wade followed close behind and ate the front truck’s dust. The morning was cold; Wade’s fingers were numbed by the steering wheel in the unheated cabin. His breath frosted the inside of the windshield, each dip in the road jarred his spine, the engine roared so loudly Wade could scarcely hear himself think. But he did not mind.
Every turn in the road brought new vistas. The mountains had the raw, untamed look of a new creation. The sun crested distant peaks and flashed fiery illumination into the morning, transforming the road into a molten river of gold and the dust into figures that coalesced and beckoned and vanished and reformed. Wade shouted a laugh as the next curve revealed a flickering stream from which a flock of sheep drank, oblivious to the thundering motors. He waved to the bearded shepherd with his trio of dogs and ancient rifle and pair of crossed bandoliers. Wade had never felt so alive.
By the time they approached the outskirts of Carcash, however, the thrill of adventure had long since faded beneath a blanket of fatigue and dust and heat. The sun poised mercilessly in a cloudless sky. In his cracked rearview mirror Wade inspected a face caked with white dust and a pair of red-rimmed eyes. His mouth tasted of grit and diesel fumes and the road. He was glad their mission was almost completed.
He followed Robards toward the truck compound that dominated one side of the village. Their passage garnered only a few disinterested glances from passersby. They were simply two of an unending stream of vehicles.
At Robards’ insistence, they paid a premium for spaces against a windowless warehouse wall forming the compound’s southern perimeter. Robards backed his truck in at an exaggerated angle, blocking out space for both vehicles. Then they had a quick cold meal and left the old man on guard duty as they set off once more in the second truck.
The village of Carcash filled a shallow, bowl-shaped valley with tumbledown shanties, warehouses, bars, stores charging vastly inflated prices, more bars, restaurants, still more bars, and hotels that were little more than bunkhouses. The buildings that fronted the main highway made a feeble attempt at respectability, with walkways raised to escape both mud and snow. There were only two other passages large enough to be granted the names of streets, and away from the highway they were soon reduced to rutted tracks. Most buildings were reached via unnamed, unlit alleys that wandered in haphazard fashion around dusty garden patches, lines of laundry, corrals for seedy-looking horses, scampering children, and outdoor privies. Few women were visible on the streets, and none walked alone. Many of the men were falling down drunk.
Everyone carried weapons of some sort, from antique blunderbusses with stocks sporting hammered silver plates to sniper rifles with scopes as long as Wade’s forearm. The Kalashnikov with its sickle-shaped clip was clearly the weapon of choice. Knives, some as long as short swords, sprouted from belts, from thighs, from boots, from backpacks. Bandoliers were worn like badges of honor.
Following vague instructions Wade had brought with him, they tried to find the track that led to the nearest Ingush mountain fastness. They had to ask repeatedly for directions; the first several times their requests were answered with hostile stares and indifferent shrugs. Finally Robards halted the truck, grabbed his gun, and climbed down. The next passerby was stopped by Rogue, looming large and stone-faced directly in his path. That time, when Wade asked, the man answered. But when Wade asked if all was well with the Red Cross camp, the man pretended total ignorance. After having the directions confirmed twice more, they set off.
“It doesn’t look good,” Wade shouted above the engine.
Robards shrugged his unconcern. “No use worrying,” he replied. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Their way took them along the valley’s western side. The rocky promontory clung to a steep cliff and sidled around a series of hair-raising drops. The roadway was mild in grade, designed so that it could be managed in snowy conditions. Around the curves the track was barely wide enough to keep all four tires on the surface. To one side was an unyielding rock wall. To the other was nothing but a swooping drop. Wade found it best not to look out his window at all.
At one level passage Robards braked. He pointed back to tracks curving off the main path and scrunching along an indentation in the wall. Wade followed the pointed finger but did not understand. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“That hollow was made so trucks or carts coming from opposite directions can pass each other.”
Wade imagined having to back up along that incline. “I’m glad we haven’t had to do that.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Robards answered, searching behind them. “Nobody’s used that passage in quite a while, by the looks of those tracks.”
“So?”
Robards swung back around. “So maybe nothing. Let’s go see.”
An hour passed before the road broadened and began a sharp descent. As the sun touched the distant western peaks, they rounded a corner and saw what once had been a large pastoral community. Now it was nothing but a blackened shell.
Crumbling rock-walled houses were surrounded by sooty shadows of corrals and hay barns. Nothing moved except large mountain crows riding the high currents. The place was utterly still. Lifeless. Robards halted beyond the village outskirts and slid from the truck. “You drive.”
Wordlessly Wade took his place behind the wheel. Robards swung into the passenger seat, hoisted his weapon, rasped the cocking arm, and set the barrel on the window ledge. “Take it slow.”
The closer they drew, the grimmer the picture became. What had been wood was burned to cinders. What had been made of stone was blown to bits. The place reeked of ashes and decay.
They found the clinic by its flagpole. It had stood just north of the village center, j
ust as Wade’s directions described. A blackened pole rose before the burned-out hulk of what once had been a long, low structure surrounded by an open veranda. Wade stopped the truck, walked down the ash-strewn path, and climbed the trio of blackened stone steps. There was no movement, no sound save the wind and the cawing crows.
“What happened here?” Wade murmured.
“Somebody got unlucky,” Robards replied, climbing the stairs behind him. “Might happen to us if we stick around too long.”
Wade turned to scout the silent valley. “You think they could come back?”
“This is a killing ground.” Robards kept his eyes trained on the village. “Never want to stay in one longer than absolutely necessary. Somebody comes looking for revenge, or for a lost friend, or loot, they might decide to add us to the list.”
“All right, I’—” Wade stopped, his attention caught by the wind flickering a page tagged to the side wall. He walked over and tore the sheet from the nail.
“What does it say?” Rogue demanded.
“It’s in French and the writing is terrible.” Wade squinted over the smudged script. “Something about, they came in the night. All the staff managed to escape, but one was wounded. They heard Russian and saw uniforms, then there’s something about the patients that I can’t make out.
They’ve decided it would be safer to head for Tbilisi.” Wade looked up. “That’s the capital of Georgia. It marks the southern end of the Trans-Caucasus Highway.”
“You get back to the truck,” Robards instructed. “I’ll take a quick look around this joint.”
Five minutes later Robards returned, his face streaked with ash. “All right, time to head on back.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Nothing you need to see. You drive.”
They left the silent village behind and began the lonely trek back to Carcash. Wade asked, “They were dead, weren’t they?”
“Who?”
“The patients. Whoever else you found back there in the clinic.”
Riders of the Pale Horse Page 8