Stinger

by Stinger (retail) (epub)

  We huddled in the shadows at the entrance to a small square. Dexy checked his compass and led us across, towards another labyrinth. We passed a break in the façade where a house had collapsed, then were hemmed in again by the fortress walls.

  Whether through tiredness or inattention, Jeff tripped and stumbled and his boot dislodged a pebble. It rattled away across the cobbles. We all froze. I could feel the rapid beat of my heart as I waited, straining my ears for any answering sound.

  After five minutes we began to advance again. I could see the open ground at the end of the alley glowing a faint grey in the starlight. There was a sudden guttural shout from the rooftops above us. I glanced upwards and saw a figure outlined against the night sky.

  I slid the safety catch off my rifle and heard the faint metallic clicks as the others did the same. The challenge was repeated. I looked up again. More figures had joined the first and I saw the glint of gunmetal.

  I looked ahead, towards the end of the alley, where more dark figures blocked our way. I heard footsteps in the dust behind us.

  A figure on the rooftop challenged us again, first in Pushtu and then in Farsi. ‘Who are you?’

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘We are travellers seeking shelter,’ I said.

  I heard a whispered conversation above us then there was a flare as a lantern was lit. It swung in the wind as they lowered it into the alley towards us. The watchers were now invisible to us, but we were sitting targets.

  I heard Amica’s urgent whisper close behind me. ‘Don’t be defensive. Take the initiative. They’re Muslim, demand hospitality.’

  I swallowed. ‘Is this the way your village receives guests? Enough of this foolishness, we travel under the protection of the Taliban.’

  They swung the lantern towards me. ‘You are not Afghans,’ the voice said.

  ‘We are Arab fighters for the cause. We speak the language of the Prophet.’ I gave them a sample of my best Arabic to prove it, then waited, my scalp pricking, sweat trickling down my neck.

  There was a long pause, then another shout and the lantern was jerked upwards. ‘Walk to the end of the alley,’ the voice commanded.

  I saw Tank turn to say something to Jeff who then whispered to me: ‘Stay spread out, we’ll be harder targets.’

  We came out into a broad square and stood facing a circle of villagers training Kalashnikovs on us. A ladder carved from a single tree trunk was propped against the end house. The men on the rooftop clambered down and the leader walked towards us. ‘Brothers, if you are what you say, you are welcome in our village.’

  He held up the lantern so that he could see our faces. By its light I also saw him for the first time. His beard was grey, but his thick eyebrows formed jet-black bars across his face, accentuating his piercing gaze. ‘You have papers?’

  I fumbled in my pocket and produced the dog-eared, forged Taliban pass.

  He stared at it in silence for some time and did not hand it back. ‘You are breaking the curfew,’ he said.

  ‘We are doing it to try to save men’s lives.’

  ‘What is your business here?’

  ‘We are fighters,’ I said, ‘but we have come to help rescue people trapped by the earthquake.’

  ‘On whose authority did you travel here?’

  ‘With the permission of Mullah Nur of Konarlan.’ I held my breath. If the man had a radio or even a cell phone, one call would reveal the lie.

  There was a long silence. ‘You have travelled far. I hope you are not too tired.’

  The tension eased as he began the ritual greetings. His men even laughed and joked with us as we walked across the square towards the mosque. It appeared to have survived the earthquake almost intact, but as we were led inside I could see starlight through a jagged crack snaking out towards the apex of the dome.

  Amica was led away by two women, the rest of us propped our bergens against the wall and were ushered to a low table. We sat on cushions as black tea, cold rice and cucumber were laid before us. The hospitality was offered without resentment, though from the meagre offerings they put before us, they had little enough to spare.

  When we finished, we spread our hands palms upwards and said grace, thanking Allah for the food, then wiped our hands on our beards and turbans.

  The villagers asked about the destruction that the earthquake had wrought lower down the valley and discussed their own losses without rancour or self-pity, brushing away the destruction of crops, buildings and lives with a shrug of the shoulders.

  There was a shuffle of feet at the entrance to the mosque. I glanced up and saw two of the villagers leading in a white-bearded figure in the black turban and robes of a mullah. He limped heavily across the floor and lowered himself on to the cushions.

  He peered at each of us in turn, staring over the top of his round, wire-rimmed glasses with unblinking concentration. He put out his hand and the elder passed him the forged Taliban pass. He studied it with minute care, turning the paper over and over in his hands. ‘You are under the protection of Mullah Nur, you say.’

  We nodded our agreement.

  ‘Yet this is not his seal.’ The villagers stopped talking among themselves and moved closer to the table, fingering their weapons.

  ‘No, it is not,’ I said. ‘Two weeks ago we were in Kabul. The seal is that of Taliban commander Salan. That is his mark.’ I pointed to the thumbprint pressed on to the corner of the pass.

  He looked at it again. ‘I do not know this man.’

  ‘We are a long way from Kabul,’ I said, ‘but I am surprised that his name is not known here, for he is a brave fighter and a fine leader.’

  Dexy and Rami picked up their cue, nodding sagely.

  ‘He killed many Soviets,’ I said, ‘including a garrison commander.’ There were more nods of approval, this time from the villagers and accompanied by calls of ‘Allah Akhbar.’

  The mullah remained motionless.

  ‘We are grateful for your hospitality,’ I said, ‘but we have travelled far and are tired. It will soon be dawn and we must sleep a little then move on. Every hour’s delay in reaching the heart of the earthquake zone may mean more lives are lost.’

  ‘Our leader has travelled up the valley today,’ he said, lowering his voice as he said the name. ‘He will wish to talk with you on his return.’

  I bowed my head. ‘Then we shall meet him on the road.’

  His gaze still held mine and he continued as if I had not spoken. ‘He will wish to see you here on his return.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Today, Insh’Allah.’

  I glanced at Dexy, who gave the faintest of nods. I spread my hands. ‘We are your guests.’

  One of the villagers walked forward and whispered in his ear. He fixed me with his heavy-lidded gaze. ‘You are carrying explosives.’

  I looked behind me at the bergens. One had been opened and I could see detonator cord and slabs of PE. I struggled to keep my face neutral. ‘We may have to blast our way through rockslides or into buildings to rescue survivors.’ I held his gaze.

  He stood up and placed his hand on his heart. ‘May your rest be comfortable. We will talk again later.’ His voice was friendly, but his eyes remained cold.

  We made a move towards our packs, but the mullah held up his hand. ‘They will be looked after.’

  I hesitated and then bowed. ‘You are truly kind.’

  There was just a trace of a smile across his face before he turned away to talk to one of the villagers.

  ‘What do we do?’ I said in Arabic.

  Dexy shrugged. ‘We have no choice; we wait for their leader,’

  ‘We could take these peasants easily,’ Rami said. ‘They’ve got our bergens, but we’ve still got our pistols.’

  Dexy shook his head. ‘Even if we get away, we’ll have blown the mission. We’ll have every Taliban soldier for miles around on our tail. All we can do is wait.’

  ‘But we’ve got less than forty-eight hour
s.’

  ‘And we can manage it in twenty-four if we have to,’ Dexy said.

  The villagers led each of us to separate low-ceilinged cells, their floors sunk below the level of the rest of the mosque. There were no windows to the outside, only a small barred opening high up on the inside wall, looking back into the interior of the mosque.

  There was a rug in the middle of the floor, but no cushions, and I made myself as comfortable as I could. A moment later the door closed and I heard the clack of a latch. There was no handle on the inside. I lay down and closed my eyes.

  I was woken by the voice of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer. Some time later, a mug of brown water and a tin platter containing a few grains of rice were pushed inside the door.

  ‘Has your leader returned?’

  The man shrugged. ‘He will be here soon, Insh’Allah.’

  The door slammed shut again. I put two-thirds of the rice in my pocket, saving it for later, and then forced myself to make a ritual meal of the remainder, first washing my hands with a little of the water and then eating the rice one grain at a time.

  The calls of the muezzin punctuated the long day, summoning the village to prayers at noon, before sunset, before last light and once more when darkness had fallen.

  The whole day had passed with no sign of the warlord’s return. After the last prayers, the villagers remained in the mosque, and the mullah began to chant.

  Slow at first, the chant began to quicken, ‘Allah Hu, Allah Hu.’ It became higher and faster. I could hear the mullah’s followers striking their heads and chests with their open hands. They carried on for an hour or more, their shouts reverberating across the dome. At last the mullah called a halt, his voice hoarse and cracking. The men roared out a last chorus: ‘Allah Hu. Death to traitors. Allah Akhbar. Death to our enemies.’

  There was a sudden flurry of movement, the latch was withdrawn and the door swung open. We were marched across the mosque and lined up standing in a row, facing a familiar warlord, who had finally returned.

  Agha Shah Azuin’s keen hazel eyes missed nothing as his gaze ranged over each of us in turn. He raised an eyebrow as he recognised me, but said nothing for the moment. His expression changed when he saw Dexy. He sat motionless for a moment, then stood up and strode around the table to embrace him.

  Dexy cracked a broad grin as the warlord turned to his men. ‘This is a brave fighter. He fought alongside me in the war against the Soviets and killed many men. I learned much from him. He and his companions are our honoured guests.’

  He led Dexy back around the table and sat him in the place of honour on the cushions to his right-hand side. Then he called his son, who was standing in the shadows by the wall. ‘Daru, you have heard me speak often of a brave faranji warrior. This is the man.’

  The boy greeted Dexy and the rest of us gravely, touching his hand to his heart, then took his place at the table between Dexy and me. Food and sweet black tea were brought and laid before us.

  While the warlord and Dexy traded reminiscences of the Soviet war, Daru told me of the devastation further up the valley – villages wiped out, tracts of forest swept away and whole hills obliterated without trace, leaving him struggling to find a familiar landmark. Then he glanced around him and lowered his voice. ‘I know what you are. My father has spoken often of the brave faranji warriors who helped us against the Soviets.’

  Seeking a safer subject, I pointed to the figure seated on the far side of his father, as tall and powerful as the warlord himself. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My uncle. He leaves tomorrow on a haj – a pilgrimage to Mecca. His house was destroyed in the earthquake. He thinks it was a punishment from Allah because he has not been a good Muslim.’

  I smiled. ‘You should go with him, Daru. Think of the fortunes to be made supplying the pilgrims with food, drink and souvenirs.’

  ‘My father has forbidden it.’ Daru’s voice showed his injured pride. ‘He says I am too young to cross the mountains to Dir.’

  ‘But that’s in Pakistan. Why not Kabul?’

  He tapped the side of his nose. ‘The charter planes that fly pilgrims to Mecca from Dir also carry lapis.’

  ‘And when they return they also bring back other things than pilgrims?’

  He smiled. ‘You ask too many questions, Inglisi.’

  It was now almost dawn. We breakfasted on naan bread and green tea and then walked to the door of the mosque. Our bergens were laid out in a neat row outside, the contents undisturbed. His men lounged on the steps nearby, but Azuin led us across the square alone. ‘I will walk with you to the edge of the village and guarantee your safety with my body.’

  Daru tried to join us, but his father sent him back. The boy gave him a reproachful look, then smiled at us, touched his hand to his heart and walked away.

  Azuin shouted a command and a group of women led Amica from a nearby house. She kept her head down and her gaze averted, and took her place a few paces behind us as we filed out of the square.

  There was a volley of shots. I flinched, my heart pounding, and Jeff ducked. There was more ragged firing, as the warlord’s men gave us a traditional farewell, loosing off rounds into the sky. Jeff straightened again, avoiding my eye.

  At the edge of the village Azuin turned to Dexy. ‘The debt of hospitality that I owe to you has been repaid. You were once my friend and ally, but now your country is the enemy of mine. You are free to leave my territory and I will not pursue you or betray you to the Taliban, but if you return in the future, I will have to kill you.’

  He touched his hand to his heart as we filed past him and moved away up the dusty track. He remained motionless as we climbed the hillside and raised a hand in farewell just before we passed beyond the ridge.

  We held a quick council of war at the side of the track. ‘We’re blown,’ Rami said. ‘We have to abort.’

  Dexy shook his head. ‘I know Agha. He’s a man of his word. I say we go on.’

  Rami shrugged. ‘We’re screwed either way.’

  ‘So let’s get on with it, then.’ Dexy glanced at Tank and Boon. ‘Okay with you guys?’

  They nodded.

  ‘And the Air Force?’

  ‘I’d rather take my chances with you lot than the warlord and his mates back there.’

  He turned to Amica. ‘I am a mere woman,’ she said. ‘What can I do but follow my men?’

  We shouldered our bergens and moved on up the road. It forked after a mile, the left branch following the track of the river towards the target, the right one curling away across a ridge into the valley beyond. Without a pause, Dexy led us up the right-hand track.

  ‘This is the wrong one,’ Jeff said.

  ‘He knows that,’ I said. I pointed behind us at the marks of our boot prints impressed in the dust.

  We followed the track for almost a mile up the hillside. As we climbed, it became more stony and when we reached a broad band of rock, Dexy checked and then led us back down into the forest. Boon dropped back to obliterate any trace of our tracks. We worked our way down through the forest, grateful for the shade.

  I caught a glimpse of the other road below us, and we began to make our way parallel to it. Dexy paused to check his map. ‘We’ll be able to see the LUP from the next ridge.’ He made one more attempt to call Dave on the net. There was still no response.

  When we reached the ridgeline, he frowned and re-examined the map. I moved up alongside him and glanced down into the valley.

  The site chosen for the hide had been the face of a rounded hill on the opposite side of the valley. Stands of larch and cedar had covered the hillside, bordering a stream. It now looked like an opencast mine. Topsoil and rock had been ripped away in an ugly gash half a mile wide. The stream had disappeared completely, choked by boulders, broken trees and rubble.

  The shape of the hill was still just recognisable, but the trees, the undergrowth and every other living thing had been swept away. ‘Maybe they were out patrolling,’ I said.r />
  Dexy remained motionless.

  ‘Maybe they were recceing further up the valley.’

  He shook his head. ‘I told them to stay here.’

  We moved down the hillside in silence, pausing to listen and watch at the side of the road. We climbed on to the moraine of loose rubble at the foot of the slope – the burial mound of eight men.

  I stared stupidly at the ground beneath my feet. Then I glimpsed a smudge of khaki among the chocolate-brown dust. I tugged at it and uncovered a webbing strap. As I pulled away more of the rocks and soil, the corner of a bergen began to emerge.

  Galvanised, the others began to rip and tear at the mound of rubble. Tank and Boon used broken branches like crowbars, levering out the larger rocks. Every few minutes we stopped to call and listen. There was no reply.

  Dexy found another bergen a few minutes later. The discovery made Boon and Tank redouble their efforts. They sent a large boulder toppling, setting up a small avalanche of smaller rocks and dirt, and a human hand stuck out of the newly exposed patch of earth. I bent towards it, praying that there would be some response from the fingers. There was none. More earth and rubble slid away, exposing the rest of the arm and a head.

  Dave’s sightless, dust-rimmed eyes stared at the sky, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. I pressed my fingers to his neck, but I already knew there would be no pulse.

  I heard Dexy cursing behind me. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

  He worked alongside me as we pulled away more soil and rock. Dave had died upright. Two other bodies were sprawled around his feet, engulfed and suffocated by the landslide before they even had a chance to get to their knees.

  I could see Dexy’s jaw clenching and unclenching as he looked at them. One was SAS, the other Delta Force. Tank and Boon were still digging frantically, but Dexy called them off. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘They’re dead and buried already. Let’s leave them that way.’

  We stood in a semicircle, with our backs to the bodies behind us.

  ‘Well?’ Rami said.

  ‘We go on.’