by Nick Cook
Girling twisted the ignition key and the BMW purred into life. It was no longer possible to see the entrance to the embassy. He had hoped for some illumination from the street-lamps. But either they didn’t work, or somebody somewhere had forgotten to pull the switch. He had heard a story once that as fast as municipal workers erected street-lamps here, thieves followed in their wake stripping out the cables. Everything had a price on Cairo’s black market. Everything.
A lone light glowed dimly above the guard’s sentry box, but it was not enough to detail the faces of the few people who had left the building in the last ten minutes.
Girling took a last look through the binoculars. Bugs and moths swarmed around the solitary bulb. Beyond, all was black but for a few lights shining on the second floor. Maybe Lazan was working late. Then again, maybe Lazan didn’t work at the embassy any more. Maybe Lazan was in Tel Aviv. Or maybe he was dead.
Too many maybes...
He inched the BMW out of the parking slot. He hoped he could find Andrea’s restaurant in the blacked-out countryside near the Pyramids.
Bitov could go no further. Not because his courage or strength had deserted him - he derived a certain energy from the fact that he, a Soviet soldier, was carrying one of the pride of America’s special forces on his back. Bitov knew there was no shame in calling a halt. With the sudden change in gradient and the worsening light, further progress wasn’t a question of stamina, tenacity, or spirit. It was simply an impossibility.
The Russian let Jones’s dead weight slip gently to the ground. He positioned the unconscious form so that it sat upright on the rocky ledge, back against the rocks, face turned to the sun as it slipped behind the mountains on the far side of the sand sea.
Bitov sat beside Jones and turned his eyes to the west. All day the sun had been their enemy. Now he was sorry to see it go. He took a sip of water, then tipped some into Jones’s mouth. Most of it dribbled onto the Pathfinder’s T-shirt, but some found its way down his throat. Jones coughed twice, convulsively, then fell silent. Bitov leaned over and listened to Jones’s breathing and checked the wound at the back of his head. There was little change in his condition. Helped by the makeshift bandage that he had fashioned from a bedouin’s robe, the gash in Jones’s scalp had stopped bleeding, but not before the American had lost a good deal of blood. His pulse was coming back up, but he was still a sick man.
The ledge was a six-foot-wide notch in the side of the rock face. Its position, around a third of the way up the escarpment, seemed to coincide with a step-change in the gradient. The first four hundred metres had been steep, but Bitov, summoning deep reserves of strength, had managed to scale it in a little under two hours with Jones on his back.
Bitov twisted on the ledge until he stared at the near-vertical incline above him. The rest of the way would have been testing enough for the fittest of men in broad daylight. But because night was closing in on them, he would be going nowhere until Jones regained consciousness.
The Russian closed his eyes and felt himself lapsing into a light sleep. He gave little thought to the action that had transpired by the well. What were four more dead after the horrors of the Panjshir, Herat, and Jalalabad? To Bitov, soldiery since that winter in 1979 had consisted of little else but killing.
CHAPTER 12
Jones blinked several times and brought his hand up to the back of his head. His hair was caked thick with blood in varying stages of congealment.
Stretching away before him was a landscape of nightmarish beauty. A three-quarter moon bathed the rocks in an electric blue-black light and cast shadows of endless depth. The dunes of the sand-sea stretched endlessly, far below.
Jones spent long minutes trying to fathom why he was on a ledge, a thousand feet up a mountain, propped against the rock like a dummy, with Bitov beside him, sleeping like a baby. He recalled snatches of his attempt to steal the water from the well, but for the most part, his mind was a blank. He tried to get to his feet, but overcome by nausea and pain, tipped forward, striking his head as he fell.
He dreamed he had pitched headlong into the bedouin well and that Bitov was in there with him, holding him down. He came round to find the Russian bringing water to his parched lips.
‘Go on,’ Bitov urged. ‘We have plenty.’ He pointed to two full goatskins further along the ledge.
‘You carried me?’
‘Quiet, Jones.’
‘What happened to the bedouin?’
After Bitov had told him, Jones said nothing. He pulled himself into a sitting position and stared out over the monochrome landscape.
‘The guard caught you stealing his water,’ Bitov said. ‘They would have killed you.’
Jones grimaced. ‘It feels like he already did.’ He raised the water bottle to his lips. Jones wanted badly to hate this Russian, his natural enemy for eighteen years of soldiery, his whole career. Yet the enemy had a human face. And it had saved his life.
Jones lay back against the rocks, trying to ignore the pain in his head. Somehow, he drifted into sleep. When he awoke he was overcome by a feeling of panic. He sat bolt upright. ‘How much longer?’ he stammered.
Bitov remained unruffled. ‘About twelve hours, with just under thirty-five kilometres to go. Distance is not the problem, Jones. Across the sand, I could carry you for a hundred kilometres, further even.’ The Russian pointed to the rock face above them. ‘That is the problem.’
Jones lifted his head slowly. The granite cliff towered above them, its pinnacle lost against a black belt of sky. Just raising his eyes had caused the nausea to return.
‘Stay conscious, Yankee, and let me do the rest.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can help you.’
‘It’s almost vertical, Bitov. You’ll kill us both.’
Bitov grabbed Jones by the belt and pulled him to his feet. ‘Jones, you talk too much. Now you climb.’
Jones slipped the toe of his boot into a notch in the rock and pulled himself a few feet up the cliff face. He turned to find Bitov beside him, watching over him like some grotesque mother hen.
‘Why?’ Jones asked.
Bitov smiled, his one good front tooth glowing bright in the moonlight. ‘Why? Because I want you to be there when we go into the Lebanon, Jones. When we go angel hunting, I want to know who is best.’
For the next two hours, Jones slipped back and forth across consciousness. All the while, Bitov pushed him and pulled him, forcing his fingers into handholds and encouraging his feet into niches in the rock. Sometimes Bitov shouted, sometimes he whispered: whatever it took to drag Jones back from the brink and up to the lip of the precipice.
Jones pressed his face against the rock. It was cool from the night. As he hugged the granite, he caught a glimpse of the sheer drop below him. He no longer knew what was real and what was imagined. His vision swam in and out of focus and the nausea moved like a viscous liquid from the tips of his fingers to the pit of his stomach. It was at that point that he felt the rock beneath his feet crumbling to nothing.
Just as Jones slipped, Bitov grabbed him. He anchored himself to the rock face with a bear-like grip on a granite buttress, steadying the American long enough for him to hook his arm around another pinnacle of rock. Bitov inched himself up the
buttress, dragging Jones after him. A ledge, barely wide enough to support both of them, appeared to their right and Bitov manoeuvred towards it. As soon as they reached it, they collapsed, shoulder to shoulder, panting for breath. Their bodies shimmered and their chests heaved. They looked like two fish washed onto the rocks.
‘Was Afghanistan ever like this?’ Jones asked.
Bitov’s head and arm dangled over the precipice. His voice was almost lost to the abyss. ‘I died a hundred times in Afghanistan, Jones.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Jones gasped. ‘Talking helps.’
Bitov transported Jones’s mind to a mountain fortress called Karagar, where, on a single day thirteen years before, he witnessed the c
omprehensive destruction of his company. While one group of commandos, a Spetsnaz unit attached to troops of the Soviet Army’s 105th Division, had stormed the Darulaman Palace of President Hafizullah Amin in Kabul, an elite unit under Captain Shabanov, in which he, Bitov, had been a lowly yefreytor, a corporal, undertook an altogether more formidable mission. They had been ordered to take Karagar - and one very special occupant - at all costs.
By the time the battle was over, Shabanov and he were the only Russians left alive. What Bitov omitted to say, was that they never found the man who had provided the reason for the mission in the first place. He had disappeared into thin air, just like all the other times.
‘It was mountainous country, much like this,’ Bitov said, his voice hard to hear, half swallowed by the chasm below. ‘Except for the snow and ice. It was so cold it froze your breath solid, so cold your bones felt brittle enough to snap. It was Christmas, so they told me. But what did Opnaz care about Christmas?’
‘What the fuck’s Opnaz? I thought you were a Spetsnaz unit.’
Bitov heaved himself round till he faced the American. ‘What are you mumbling about, Jones?’
‘I thought-’
‘Your mind is playing tricks, Jones.’
Jones rubbed the back of his head. Talking with Bitov had made him feel better, helped him focus his mind, or so he thought. Now he wasn’t so sure.
‘Come,’ Bitov said. ‘We talk while we climb.’
Summoning the last of his strength, Jones began to haul himself up the last leg of the cliff.
‘We were a Spetsnaz unit,’ Bitov continued, ‘much like the one here, at Wadi Qena. Only the faces were different.’ Bitov began edging along another narrow ridge. He held Jones tightly by the sleeve, gently but forcefully urging him to follow.
Jones kept his eyes on the back of Bitov’s head. He did not look down. ‘What happened to them?’
‘All gone.’
‘And you blame yourself?’
‘Many of them looked to me.’
It took them an hour to complete the climb. During that time, Bitov captivated Jones with a tale of courage, the like of which the American had never heard before. The ferocity of the Afghan tribesmen was described in a vivid, awesome way that Jones would hardly have believed possible from one as ponderous as Bitov. Then again, their very circumstances helped to colour in any gaps in the Russian’s narrative. Jones heard how the Soviets fought hand to hand with the tribesmen on ledges overlooking drops of a thousand feet or more. During the course of their journey back from the summit, Bitov’s entire platoon fell into the abyss one by one, many of them still locked in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy as they tumbled to their deaths.
As Jones pulled himself over the lip of the rock face and looked down at the gentle gradient that would take them into Wadi Qena, Bitov offered him his hand one last time. Jones hesitated. His head hurt, but the dizziness had gone. He didn’t need Bitov’s support any more, but he took the hand all the same.
There was no hint of a breeze to dissipate the smoke from the great open fire in the centre of the restaurant. It hung in thin layers a few feet above the ground, mingling with the smell from the spiced meats, chickens, and small wild birds roasting on the spits above the grill.
Girling watched a wisp of smoke wind its way lazily past one of the palm tree trunks supporting the thatched roof. Andrea’s seemed a favourite place for Egyptian families and foreigners alike. And on that evening, they had gathered en masse. Girling sat at the bar. Beyond the tables, the still waters of one of the Nile’s many tributaries reflected the gaudy lights strung across the rear of the restaurant. A child’s laughter pealed across the open room. Somewhere in the distance, a water buffalo lowed mournfully. Girling took another sip of beer. It was cold enough to sting his throat, cold enough to turn the taste of the warm Coke into a distant memory.
When the barman asked him if he’d like another Stella, Girling nodded and reached for his wallet. He produced a passport-sized picture of Stansell and placed it on the counter next to the money for the beer.
‘Do you know this man?’ Girling asked.
The barman looked between him and the photo-graph. He was middle-aged, with greying hair and large, understanding eyes. Girling thought he saw a flash of recognition pass across them before the
photograph was slid back across the counter, accompanied by a shake of the head.
‘Are you sure?’ Girling pressed.
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘What about the other staff?’
‘They have not seen him, nor do they know him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I know everything that happens here.’
Girling looked at him across the top of his glass. ‘Mind if I ask them myself?’
‘I don’t want any trouble here.’
‘There won’t be any trouble. I just-’
‘If you ask questions you will have to leave.’ The large, doleful eyes briefly registered menace.
Girling held the stare until the barman moved away. He replaced the photograph in his wallet and swore lightly under his breath.
The barstool creaked behind him. ‘Why does his reaction surprise you, Tom Girling? Can’t you see he is afraid?’
Girling turned, his mind still working on the voice even as he faced the man who had addressed him.
The black, silver-topped cane tapped the leg of his stool. ‘I am surprised it should take you so long to recognize me.’
‘I know who you are,’ Girling said. ‘I’m more than a little surprised, though, that you should know me.’
Lazan was perhaps five years older than him, but the scars of war had added another ten to his looks.
‘Stansell told me much about you,’ the Israeli said.
‘Yes, but-’
‘And my secretary filled in the gaps.’
Girling floundered for a moment. ‘The woman in the taxi?’
Lazan shrugged. ‘As I said, I know a lot about you.’
‘And you? Who are you, Lazan?’
‘You don’t know? I thought...’ Lazan smiled. ‘A lowly military attache. I hope you weren’t expecting more.’ He held his hand out. ‘And it’s Zvi, Tom Girling. Colonel Zvi Lazan. Is there anything else you would like to know?’
In Ibn Zanki Street, Girling had seen a flamboyant man. But the cane and the clothes had distracted him. Close to, Girling saw that Lazan had suffered terrible injuries at some point in his life. The lumps of skin tissue on his face and the peppered holes in his cheeks and neck allowed only the barest glimpse of the good-looking man that had once been.
Girling tried to keep his voice even, free of surprise. ‘Why is he afraid to talk to me, the waiter?’
‘Because you are being watched by the Mukhabarat. Did you know that?’
Girling twisted instinctively.
‘Oh no, you won’t see them,’ Lazan said. ‘They’re outside. In the blue Fiat. Quite obvious when you know what you’re looking for.’ He gestured to the barman. ‘He has a good idea that it’s you they’re interested in. Egyptians are very resourceful people, very intuitive.’
After the inactivity of the day Girling realized he had become careless. ‘Aren’t you taking a risk sitting here, talking to me?’
Lazan reached for a sunflower seed, cracked the shell with his thumb nail and popped the fleshy kernel into his mouth. ‘You know how the Mukhabarat works, Tom Girling. Its problem has always been a lack of imagination. The two bozos in the car have been told to follow you and that is precisely what they have done. When you leave here, they will diligently pursue you to your home, or wherever you decide to spend the night. And then, when they are relieved of their watch, they will go to their beds and sleep like babies, safe in the knowledge they have carried out their orders.’ He smiled softly. ‘But if only they had come in here; how much more Al-Qadi would have learned.’
Lazan clicked his fingers and asked for a beer before turning back to Girl
ing. ‘Don’t worry, my driver will warn me if they make the slightest move.’
‘You know Al-Qadi, then,’ Girling said. ‘Aren’t you afraid of him?’
‘It would be stupid not to fear such a man. Though hardly a genius, he is most... unpredictable.’
‘Should I fear you, Lazan?’
The Israeli laughed. ‘Your colleague Stansell did not fear me. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘You know as well as I that that’s quite impossible.’
‘Oh?’ Lazan lifted his glass and drank.
‘You may be the last person who saw him alive,’ Girling said.
‘Alive? This is all very dramatic, Tom Girling. First following me then - ‘
Girling brought his bottle of Stella down hard on the counter. ‘Don’t play games with me, Lazan. Sure, I’ve been looking for you, but it was you who found me, not the other way round. Now why should that be?’
The Israeli lowered his glass. His small brown pupils watched Girling intently. ‘Stop talking in riddles, Tom Girling. Get to the point.’
‘The point is Stansell’s been kidnapped and you know it. You met Stansell last week at his request. It was the evening after the terrorist attack at Beirut, the day after they disappeared off the face of the Earth taking Franklin and his peace team with them. Do you remember now?’
Lazan said nothing.
‘You’d supplied information to Stansell before,’ Girling continued. ‘It was natural, therefore, that he should turn to you for help. Our editor had set him an almost impossible task, but what a prize would await him and Dispatches should he succeed. He’d been told to unmask the hijackers’ identity, a job made none too simple by the fact the government of the United States itself has no idea who is responsible.
‘But Stansell turns to you, because he knows that if anyone can give him a steer on Arab terrorism, it’s the boys from Tel Aviv. Stansell goes to see you at home and - because you and he are old pals - you help him out. You give him the Angels of Judgement on a plate. You were the primary source. But Stansell is a professional. He has to second-source this information. So he goes across town to see someone who can verify what you’ve told him. Dispatches goes and publishes the story and less than twenty-four hours later, while Cairo sleeps, the Angels of Judgement - or people who call themselves the Angels of Judgement - snatch him from his apartment. I know very little about you, Lazan, but I believe Stansell considered you a friend. I, too, am his friend. And I need to know what you told him that night.’