by Saul David
‘Thank you, cousin. You’re a brave man to have stayed in Ghazni until now. You’d have made a better ruler than my brother.’
‘Perhaps – but I know who would have made the best ruler. Even as a child you had a commanding presence and the skill to make people do your bidding. You haven’t lost it.’
‘But I’m a woman still. Why do you not try to dissuade me from this dangerous enterprise, cousin?’
‘Because, dear Yasmin, I know you too well. You wouldn’t listen. You never did. Adieu, then, and may Allah be with all of you. You will need His blessing if you’re to leave Ghazni alive.’
Chapter 15
Old Town, Ghazni
‘Huzoor! Wake up!’
George opened his eyes to see Ilderim crouching beside him. ‘What is it?’
‘I think I know where they’re hiding the cloak.’
‘Where?’
‘Come up to the roof and I’ll show you.’
George threw off the warm Kashmir shawl he had slept under, rose to his feet and followed Ilderim out of the first-floor room and up the handsome wooden staircase to the top of the house. They had arrived in darkness the night before and, having left the horses in a stable off the inner courtyard, had quickly settled for the night, George and Ilderim on cushions in the main room on the first floor, and Yasmin in the more salubrious quarters reserved for women on the third.
Now George climbed the last few steps to the zenana. Every piece of wood used as a support or in the partition walls had been carved and fretted with great skill, while the inner rooms were cut off from the glare outside by carved wooden screens in elaborate patterns. The walls were gay with frescos of every colour, the plaster covered with Afghan scrollwork, filled in with birds of startling plumage and flowers of many hues. The ceilings and cornices were similarly adorned, the latter set with mirrors in long, narrow strips that reflected the gorgeous artwork.
As George gazed around in awe, Ilderim was already halfway up the staircase that led to the roof. ‘Wait,’ said George, stopping him in his tracks. ‘We must first wake the princess. Which room is she in?’
Ilderim groaned, muttered something about modern women not knowing their place, and pointed to the door at the far end of the hall. George walked over to it and knocked. There was silence. He slowly turned the handle and went in. The room was dark, but he could just make out the sleeping form of the princess on a pile of cushions. She looked so peaceful lying there – like a sleeping child – that he found it hard to wake her. A strand of hair had fallen over her face and, momentarily entranced by her beauty, he leant forward to move it away. But barely had his fingers touched it than his wrist was grabbed and Yasmin was sitting bolt upright. In her other hand she held a knife.
‘It’s Captain Hart,’ said George. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’
She let go of his wrist. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that, Angrez. What do you want?’
George repeated what Ilderim had told him.
‘Give me a moment to dress and I will join you.’
‘Of course,’ said George, thankful that the darkened room was hiding his embarrassment. But as he reached the doorway he could not resist a quick glance behind him. Yasmin had her back to him and was balancing on one shapely leg as she pulled on her jodhpurs. It was a sight more erotic than if she’d been naked.
Minutes later, the three were lying flat on the roof and peering down from the parapet to the mullah’s compound, which lay to the south of Hamid’s house, on the far side of a narrow lane. It looked to George like the typical dwelling of a wealthy Afghan, with suites of rooms at either end of an inner courtyard, and an outer compound housing servants’ quarters, storerooms, and stables. The one difference was pointed out by Ilderim. ‘You see that building to the left of the entrance gate, the one guarded by two armed men? It’s a mosque. I’m convinced that’s where they’re keeping the cloak.’
George looked at the nondescript building, with its mud walls and simple roof, and found it hard to believe it was a place of worship. ‘Are you certain it’s a mosque?’
‘Yes, huzoor.’
‘What do you think, Princess? Could he be right?’
‘Yes. But we must know for sure. Perhaps you should send Ilderim to the bazaar to buy supplies and listen to the gossip. It’s the surest way to find out what is going on in any city.’
‘Are you happy to do that, Ilderim?’
‘Of course, huzoor.’
‘Good. Meanwhile we’ll keep a watch on who comes and goes.’
Once Ilderim had gone, the princess put her hand on George’s and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Thank you, Angrez, for everything you’re doing for my country.’
George wanted to tell her the truth – that he was doing it as much for himself as for anyone else – but her touch had given him goose-pimples, and he was unwilling to destroy the intimacy of the moment. He felt a fleeting sense of guilt – as images of the two women he had left in South Africa, particularly Lucy, flashed before his eyes – but it did not last.
Two hours later, with Ilderim back from the bazaar, they retired to the main room on the first floor to eat and discuss their next move.
‘Did you hear anything about the cloak?’ asked George, between mouthfuls of pilau rice and boiled chicken, which Ilderim had bought from street vendors.
‘The word is that the mullah is indeed keeping the cloak in his private mosque and will soon display it in public. This I was told by the shopkeepers, but also by many black-clad Ghazis who invoked Allah that it might be so. One told me that his only wish was to die a martyr and enter Paradise. Such fanatics feel they have nothing to lose and everything to gain by jihad.’
‘Which is why,’ said the princess, picking at her food with distaste, ‘we must take possession of the cloak tonight. If we wait we may be too late.’
George shook his head. ‘Tonight is far too soon. There are only three of us. We need to plan this properly. My suggestion is that we continue to observe the compound for another day or so, making a note of when the guards go off duty and when the cloak is easiest to steal.’
‘I cannot agree, huzoor,’ said Ilderim, licking his greasy fingers. ‘The princess is right. Time slips away. We should act tonight.’
‘But we don’t even know how many men will be guarding the cloak. Surely it’s better to wait a day if it increases our chances of success.’
‘I know about the guards, huzoor. I climbed on to the roof last night and could see only one on the main gate and one at the mosque. The rest were sleeping in their barracks close to the inner courtyard. At first light the guards were doubled. So we must make our move while it’s dark.’
George looked from Ilderim to Yasmin. Their expressions were fixed, their minds made up. ‘All right,’ he said, hands raised in surrender. ‘I can see I’m outnumbered. But how do we deal with the guards? If we shoot them we’ll wake the others, not to mention the hundreds of Ghazis camping on the wasteground beside the mullah’s compound.’
‘True, huzoor, which is why we use this,’ said Ilderim, drawing his long Khyber knife from the scabbard on his belt.
George smiled. ‘Is it my imagination, or do most Afghans actually enjoy killing?’
‘It is not your imagination, huzoor.’
‘So, we kill the guards with knives. But how do we get close enough without being seen?’
Ilderim shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can kill a man at ten paces with a knife.’
‘I’m sure you can. But what if you miss? We can’t take that chance. We have to get close. The question is, how?’ George mused. Suddenly the solution came to him. ‘What if I stagger up the lane, pretending to be intoxicated, and distract the guard long enough for you to stab him in the back? Then you can dress in his clothes and call the second guard over. Once you’ve dealt with him you can get the cloak from the mosque while I cover the guardhouse with my carbine. How does that sound?’
‘Risky, huzoor – but it might work.’
‘I didn’t . . . er . . . think you . . .’ George coloured slightly.
‘What? That I’d want to take part? Don’t you know me by now, Angrez?’
‘You’re the sister of the amir, for Heaven’s sake, and it wouldn’t do to put you in harm’s way.’
‘Then don’t,’ said Yasmin. ‘But I insist on taking part. I will hold the horses a short way up the lane while you two heroes recover the cloak. Then we’ll leave by the Kabul Gate. Agreed?’ she asked, one shapely eyebrow raised.
‘Agreed.’
George peered round the edge of the wall and could just see by moonlight, barely fifty yards away, the lone guard on duty at the mullah’s front gate. He had sent Ilderim to work his way round to the lane beyond the gate, and knew that by now he must be in position, lurking in the shadows. He turned to Yasmin, who was standing behind him, holding the reins of their three mounts. ‘Don’t forget,’ he whispered, ‘that if we are separated, we’ll meet at Mahmud’s tomb on the Kabul road. Wait there until daybreak, but no longer. If we haven’t appeared by then, we’ll either be dead or captured, so you must save yourself. Understand?’
She nodded, then leant forward to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Be careful, Angrez. Your life is very precious. My country’s future depends on your success.’
‘What about you, Princess?’ asked George, staring into Yasmin’s large brown eyes. ‘Is my life precious to you, too?’
‘Of course. I am my country.’
‘In that case,’ he said, pulling her towards him, ‘I’m sure you won’t object to this, in case I don’t come back.’
He kissed her full on the mouth, and she responded by moaning softly and pressing her body hard against him. After a few seconds they parted, and George turned away to collect his carbine from where he had left it leaning against the wall. He hid it under his long kurta and, without looking back, walked out into the lane and began stumbling up it, shouting a few incoherent oaths.
‘Who’s there?’ roared the guard.
George ignored him, and continued to stagger along the lane, swearing as he went.
‘A wastrel!’ exclaimed the guard, his voice tinged with disgust. ‘Hold your tongue, you dog! If you wake my master you’ll pay with your life.’
‘Go to the devil!’ replied George.
‘Why, you . . .’ The guard drew his pistol and advanced from his post in front of the wicket-gate, his teeth bared in a snarl.
Suddenly George feared that Ilderim wouldn’t react in time. He was about to pull out his carbine to defend himself but he needn’t have worried. At that moment a dark figure ran up behind the man, clamped a huge hand on his mouth and stabbed him in the neck. The guard twitched for a second or two, and was still. Ilderim lowered him gently to the ground and began to remove his turban and clothes. Once he had put them on he beckoned George to follow him.
The wicket-gate was open and they peered through it. Fifty yards to the right lay the guardhouse and beyond that the door to the inner courtyard; about the same distance to the left, on the far side of the compound, was the small mosque. Outside it stood the second guard, his face turned towards them. ‘Abdul! Who was shouting?’
‘Just a wastrel, brother,’ replied Ilderim, his hand muffling his voice, ‘who’ll wake up with a headache.’
The guard grunted. ‘I hope you didn’t hit him too hard, or we’ll have to get rid of the body.’
‘Now you have me worried, brother. I’ll check his pulse.’ Ilderim waited for a few seconds, then shouted, ‘He’s not breathing!’
The guard uttered an oath and strode across the compound towards the wicket-gate. But something aroused his suspicion, possibly the sight of Ilderim’s huge frame, and he retraced his steps. ‘Abdul! Come out where I can see you properly.’
‘What’s wrong, brother?’ asked Ilderim.
‘Nothing. I just want to see that you’re all right. For all I know you might have a knife to your throat.’
‘What? Let a wastrel overpower me? Never. Now come and help me revive this fool.’
‘First you must show yourself. You have five seconds, and then I’ll raise the alarm. One.’
Ilderim drew his knife and looked at George.
‘Two.’
George nodded.
‘Three.’
Ilderim moved a step closer to the second guard, as far as he could risk without being identified.
‘Four.’
Ilderim hurled his knife as hard as he could. It seemed to take an age to reach its target, turning end over end, and finally embedding itself in the soft wood of the door frame, two inches from the guard’s neck, with a loud thwack. Shocked by this closest of shaves, the guard looked at the quivering knife, then back at Ilderim before raising his rifle. But George was quicker. A gunshot rang out and the guard toppled backwards.
‘I thought you never missed!’ scolded George.
‘He must have moved, huzoor.’
‘Never mind that now. Get the cloak. I’ll try to hold off the other guards.’
As Ilderim ran towards the mosque, George made for the cover of a small godown between the gate and the guardhouse. From there he could hear shouts and see armed men emerging into the night with lighted torches. He shot one, causing the others to fling themselves to the ground and return fire. Bullets were slamming into the front wall of the godown, sending splinters of wood slicing through the air. George flinched as one shot whistled narrowly past his face. More men, waving rifles and swords, were emerging from the door behind the guardhouse that led to the mullah’s private dwelling. George fired at one, and saw him crumple, but others kept coming, and soon the storm of fire against the godown had forced him to duck out of sight. ‘Ilderim!’ he shouted, towards the mosque. ‘For God’s sake, hurry!’
Seconds later, Ilderim emerged from the doorway of the mosque, wearing a bag across his chest that had to contain the cloak. In spite of the danger all around, George’s heart skipped a beat as he took in the significance of the moment: at last, after all they’d been through, they had in their possession a piece of clothing that had belonged to the Prophet Muhammad. But for how long?
The guards had spotted Ilderim and a great roar of fury went up as they realized what he was carrying. Bullets were kicking up the ground as he ran, but he made it unscathed to the main gate where he stopped and raised his carbine to give George covering fire. ‘Run, huzoor!’ he bellowed, firing and loading as fast as he could.
George set off for the gate with shoulders hunched, doing his best to keep the godown between him and the mullah’s guards. He could see bullets striking the gate post above Ilderim’s head, and inwardly rejoiced that the Ghazis were such bad shots. But with barely five yards to go he felt a searing pain in his right calf and pitched heavily to the ground, his carbine clattering along the cobblestones. Barely able to look, he put his hand to his leg and felt a penny-sized hole close to the fibula. It was seeping blood. He felt sick, and the pain was so acute he was close to blacking out.
Strong hands were lifting him. It was Ilderim who, seemingly without effort, hauled him up onto his shoulder and quickly covered the remaining distance to the gate. Once through it, he turned left and ran as fast as his burden would allow him towards the junction where Yasmin was waiting with the horses. He could hear shouts and running feet from inside the compound, and knew that the mullah’s men were in pursuit, and would soon have a clear shot at his back. Just as he neared the junction, a bullet zipped past his ear. More shots rang out, but none found its mark, and he and George reached the cover of the building at the junction. Twenty yards further down the side lane Yasmin sat on her mount, holding the reins of the other horses in one hand and a pistol in the other. ‘Princess!’ shouted Ilderim, as he ran towards her. ‘Help me get the sahib on to his horse. His leg is wounded.’
‘No,’ she said, pointing the pistol at Ilderim’s chest. ‘Put the Feri
nghee and your weapon on the ground and give me the cloak. If you don’t I’ll kill you.’
‘What? This is no time for jokes, Princess. Those fiends from hell will be here at any moment. Get off your horse and help me.’
Yasmin aimed and fired, the bullet striking sparks from the ground at Ilderim’s feet before ricocheting harmlessly away. ‘Hand me the cloak,’ she said coldly.
Cursing her faithlessness, Ilderim dropped his carbine before gently lowering George to the ground. He then unhooked the large bag from across his chest and handed it to Yasmin. She opened it to inspect the contents. Satisfied, she refastened the tie at the neck and placed it in her saddle-bag. ‘I’m taking the horses so you can’t follow me,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tether them in the compound of Mahmud’s tomb.’
George looked up at her from the ground and, through a fog of pain and disbelief, uttered a single anguished word: ‘Why?’
She gazed down at him, a tear in her eye. ‘Forgive me, Angrez, but I have my reasons.’
Before George could respond, she had turned her horse and was cantering down the lane and away from the mullah’s compound, trailing the two mounts behind her.
Ilderim picked up his carbine and was about to fire a shot after her when George intervened: ‘Forget her and save yourself. Quickly, before the mullah’s men arrive.’
‘And leave you?’
‘You must. Now go.’
As Ilderim continued to hesitate, a Ghazi poked his weapon round the wall and fired, the bullet narrowly missing the prone George. This made up Ilderim’s mind for him. He fired a single shot in reply, gave George a nod of encouragement, then ran down the lane and into the night.
Suddenly George was alone and immobile. He drew his revolver, fully determined to keep the last bullet for himself. But he was still in a state of shock – the effects of his injury compounded by Yasmin’s desertion – and did not register the approaching footsteps until it was too late. As he swung round to fire, a foot kicked the pistol from his grasp, while another man leapt on him and held a knife to his throat. More shadowy figures ran up. ‘Does he have the cloak?’ asked one in a gruff baritone.