Stinger

by Stinger (retail) (epub)

  I looked back towards the frontier. We were five miles from safety, just one more group of refugees making for Peshawar. But even as I framed the thought I knew what we had to do.

  I looked at Amica.

  ‘We don’t have a choice, do we?’ she said.

  We turned our backs on the border and began to climb down the mountainside. Every step was twice as hard, because it was taking us away from safety, back into Afghanistan.

  We moved fast, knowing that if pursuers reached the ridge behind us before we had found cover or left the valley, they would spot us from miles away, as easily as we had seen Salan. We were exhausted and needed to rest, but the loose slabs of rock afforded only the most rudimentary cover. We were all clumsy with fatigue – slipping, sliding and stumbling down the mountain – but I urged the others on.

  The track was barely discernible among the scree. We stumbled to the bottom of the slope, undetected by the figures ahead of us. I had to fight the urge to turn my head and stare back towards the ridgeline, afraid I would see the Taliban turbans outlined against the sky.

  There were no houses in this remote upper valley, only crude drystone goat pens and a ramshackle shepherd’s hut, abandoned for the winter. We moved on, following the headwaters of another river but staying close to the side of the valley. The adrenalin that had fuelled us so far had ebbed away. All I felt was a numbing weariness and an overpowering hunger. I filled my bottle from the mountain stream. Water at least would be no problem. It was as clear as tears, but so cold it froze my teeth and set me shivering still harder as I drank.

  A couple of miles down the valley, we came to a cave in the hillside, little more than a shallow recess screened by a mound of fallen rocks. Salan and his men were still moving on ahead of us, but I knew that we had to stop, eat and rest, if only for a little while.

  We huddled in the entrance and shared out our remaining raisins and the last of the nuts the merchant had given us. We now had nothing left but two days’ emergency rations for one man. It was precious little to share between three.

  I pulled out the silk escape map and stared at it. ‘Where are they heading for?’ I said. ‘We heard Salan talking about going to the frontier. Why didn’t they cross at the border to Peshawar?’

  When Amica raised her head, the hard glint in her eyes had been dulled. I had never seen her look so weary. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing in this valley but the pass leading to Dir, and whatever Salan’s doing, he’s not going on the haj with Daru’s uncle.’

  As she spoke, Salan’s words at the mule train came back to me: ‘He will be truly blessed.’ I remembered his men’s laughter and I knew his plan.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘He’s going to Dir.’

  ‘To ship the Stinger out on the charter flight?’

  ‘No, to shoot it down.’

  ‘But that’s crazy,’ Amica said.

  ‘Is it? A planeload of devout Muslims, shot down on their way to Mecca by an American missile? It would provoke a jihad that would set half the world ablaze. Salan won’t even have to cross into Pakistan; jets taking off from Dir follow the southern slopes of the mountains all the way west. Remember what Dave Regan said: “You could wave to the Taliban from the windows – they’d be on the mountaintops looking down on you.”’

  I paused, still studying the map. ‘We can box round most of the settlements, but there are two villages at choke points in the valley. We’ll have to go through them. There’s no way round, but we’ll deal with that problem when we get to it.’

  I looked at Amica. ‘We know when Salan will attack and we know where – and we’ve got three days to get there. We have to destroy the Stinger and then cross the frontier. Even if it’s guarded by the Taliban, these mountains are full of smugglers’ tracks. And we still have the gold. We could bribe our way across.’

  I patted my waist as I spoke, and then froze. I began clawing at my clothing. ‘It’s gone,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean? It can’t have. Who could have taken it?’

  ‘Someone must have stolen it in the teahouse.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘They could have cut the belt while I was asleep.’

  Daru looked away as I glanced up. ‘What do we do now?’ he said.

  I put a resolve in my voice that I didn’t feel. ‘We go on.’ I faltered, knowing that I had lost the one thing that might have guaranteed our escape. ‘What else can we do?’

  ‘I can find us food,’ Daru said, ‘and blankets. There will be houses further down the valley.’

  ‘No stealing,’ I said. ‘Not this time. I don’t care about your hand being cut off, but the whole country will be looking for us. Anything that draws attention to us could seal our fate.’

  ‘We leave now,’ Amica said. ‘We’ll make what ground we can while daylight lasts.’

  I knew she was right, but my heart sank at the thought of trudging on for more miles. ‘Are you strong enough?’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Are you?’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘We can do it together. Share out a little more of the rations.’

  I began to argue, but she held up a hand. ‘Trust in Daru; he’ll find us food.’

  I divided a high energy bar between us, and we took a square of chocolate each. I felt as though I had never tasted such intense sweetness before. Then we moved on.

  The sun was high in the sky now, and the ice underfoot was melting before our eyes, turning to slush. I slipped and fell, bruising myself on the stones and sinking to my knees in icy mud. I dragged myself upright and trudged on, grateful at least that the dull pain from my leg wound was easing.

  Alone in that lunar landscape, we travelled for five hours before we saw another figure. A shepherd cradling an antique long-barrelled rifle left his herd foraging the dry grass among the boulders and walked towards us.

  Amica and I stood in the background, our heads bowed, as Daru told our tale. We were refugees from the earthquake trying to reach relatives in Pakistan. We had no money and little food.

  The shepherd immediately offered us a share of his stale naan bread and a raw onion. We each took a mouthful and passed it back to him. Daru thanked him and we moved on.

  In the late afternoon we passed an isolated teahouse. We were cold, hungry and tired, and the smells of woodsmoke and cooking made it hard to resist – but teahouses were too dangerous for us now. They were policed by the Taliban, and the customers also carried news of strangers and travellers far up and down the valleys.

  About an hour before dusk we spotted a shack some distance from a small hamlet. ‘We can sleep there,’ I said.

  ‘If we keep going, we could overtake Salan,’ Amica said.

  ‘We could, but in the darkness we might blunder into his guards or miss him altogether. When we do catch him, I want it to be when we’re fresh and alert, and at a time and place of our choosing – the one place we know he’s going to be.’ I paused. ‘It’ll increase our chances of getting away as well. We can kill him and be across the border before anyone else can react.’

  As I looked up and met Amica’s eye, I knew she wasn’t fooled. Neither of us expected to come out of this alive.

  ‘If we fail, that plane will be shot down,’ she said.

  ‘But that’s the risk we run wherever we attack him.’

  We took shelter among the boulders, and watched and waited as dark fell. There was a flicker of light and movement from the houses, but we saw no sign of life in the shack. We waited until an hour after sunset, but as we stole down towards the shack a dog in one of the houses started barking. I heard a voice curse it into silence and a door bang. We kept our rifles at the ready, but there was no further noise.

  I eased open the door. Inside was a single, windowless room. There was a powerful smell of goats, and a layer of dried dung a foot deep covered the entire floor.

  We settled ourselves on the floor and I divided what was left of the night into three watches. I took the first and most dangerous o
ne, and gave Daru the second so that Amica could get an uninterrupted spell of sleep. Her haggard face and black-rimmed eyes showed that she needed it even more than us.

  She woke us an hour before daybreak, and we moved on at once, measuring each footfall to avoid rousing the dogs, then hurrying away down the valley. We now had exactly forty-eight hours to reach the frontier and stop Salan.

  We were descending below the treeline now, and clumps of woodland began to appear, first rowan and spruce contorted by the wind, then tall stands of fir and cedar. Where the valley narrowed we saw the first large village clinging to the hillside. Each succeeding layer of houses was built directly above the ones below, rising to an almost impregnable bastion, more fortress than house, with square turrets and a rampart like a castle. The village blocked the valley. There was no way to pass without being seen.

  Daru scouted ahead while we hid in the rocks outside the village. When he returned, his face was grim. ‘There’s a Taliban checkpoint in the square,’ he said. ‘They’re stopping everyone.’

  Amica bowed her head and stared at the ground in silence, but when she spoke, the spark was back in her voice. ‘They’re looking for three strangers – two men and a woman.’

  ‘We’re not splitting up,’ I said. ‘We’ll be even more vulnerable.’

  ‘We don’t have to.’ She pulled out the second burka she had taken from the ruined house. ‘If one of you puts that on, we’re a man and two women instead.’

  ‘I will not wear it,’ Daru said. ‘A warrior does not hide beneath the skirts of a woman.’

  Amica smiled despite her fatigue. ‘Stop crowing and flapping your wings – you don’t have to wear it. You’ll have to speak for us with the Taliban.’

  She handed me the burka. ‘You must wear it.’

  ‘A six-foot woman?’

  ‘I’m almost that myself.’ She gave the same tired smile. ‘We could be sisters.’

  ‘And when we’re stopped?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’re refugees. The whole country is fleeing war, earthquake, flood and famine.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘All right.’ I stood up and struggled into the burka. Through the mesh covering my face I could see Daru’s grin. ‘Save the jokes,’ I said. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  The mesh fragmented my vision, and sound was muffled by the hood. I could see nothing to either side, just a blurred rectangle ahead. I had to swing my head in a strange, exaggerated manner to see anything other than the ground directly in front of me. I would have no warning of anyone’s approach.

  ‘We might as well be walking in the dark,’ I said. ‘I can’t see a thing through this.’

  Amica turned to look back at me. ‘Stop complaining. Afghan women travel like this every day of their lives.’

  We began to walk through the warren of narrow streets. Children with mongoloid features watched us from doorways as we made our way over the steep, slippery cobbles. Each time a man approached from the other direction, we paused and turned our faces to the wall. Every man passed us without a glance, as if we did not exist. Amica looked back at me. ‘Now you are beginning to know what it is to be a woman in Afghanistan,’ she said.

  The street opened into a small square lined with the stalls of a threadbare bazaar. Groups of men sat talking in the open-fronted teahouse overlooking the square. A handful of traders squatted on the stone steps or sat cross-legged on the wet, cold ground with a handful of potatoes, onions or a few wizened tomatoes spread before them on a cloth. Barefoot boys sold single cigarettes, and a few tin and plastic novelties. A goat was tied to the leg of a stall on which a butcher was dismembering one of its peers. Chewing the cud, it was oblivious to its fate.

  Just beyond the stalls, a row of black-garbed Taliban soldiers manned the checkpoint. Amica and I stood, heads bowed, as Daru approached them. The burka muffled the sound of their speech, but I heard Daru say ‘faranji’ and point back to the way we had come.

  The effect of his words was instantaneous; the soldiers turned and sprinted for their red Toyotas drawn up on the far side of the square. A moment later they screeched off up the valley, leaving the barrier unmanned.

  We hurried past the square and threaded through the maze of streets to reach the far edge of the village.

  ‘What happens when they find out you were lying?’ I said to Daru.

  ‘They won’t. I told them we had seen faranji hiding in the shepherd’s hut at the head of the valley. It will take them several hours. Who knows where the foreigners might have gone by then?’ He smiled. ‘Now I will find us food. Wait here.’ He pointed to a clump of larches on a bluff overlooking the river.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘We can’t risk…’ But he was already gone, running back up the street.

  He returned apparently empty-handed, but as we stood up he winked and patted his jacket. ‘Salan and his men stayed at the teahouse last night,’ he said. ‘There is much talk in the village about what they had with them. One of them stayed awake all night to guard it.’ He smiled. ‘The villagers think it is a great treasure or a holy relic.’

  We found a ledge half a mile downriver, from which we could overlook the track while we rested and shared Daru’s booty – two naan breads, a piece of stale goat’s cheese and a pocketful of mulberries.

  ‘How?’ I began, but Amica shook her head.

  ‘Don’t ask. It will only upset you.’

  We sat for a few minutes after we had eaten, feeling the warmth of the sun soaking into our damp clothing, then we moved on down the valley. We paused every couple of miles to scan the mountains to the east of us for the break in the ridgeline that would signal the pass leading to Dir.

  In the late afternoon we approached another village. Any hopes of passing by unnoticed were quickly dashed: a delegation of villagers, led by one of the elders, came up the valley to meet us.

  ‘Should we run for it?’ I said.

  Amica shook her head. ‘Villagers often do it to welcome travellers. It’s a sign of hospitality and respect.’

  I stayed next to Amica, two meek and respectful women in burkas, as Daru exchanged the ritual courtesies. Then the elders led us back to where the local warlord waited to greet us. He stood with legs astride, the inevitable Kalashnikov at his shoulder and crossed belts of ammunition on his chest. ‘You are a welcome guest,’ he said. ‘There are few travellers in these troubled times.’

  ‘There are Taliban soldiers on the road,’ Daru said.

  The warlord spat in the dust. ‘Three passed not two hours ago, but they slunk by like the robbers they are. You will stay with us tonight.’ It was more a command than a request.

  ‘I thank you, but we have far to go,’ Daru said, trying to ease past him.

  The warlord blocked his way and threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘And you will travel better tomorrow for food and rest tonight.’

  My mind was racing. We were heavily outnumbered, and to insult him by refusing his hospitality would lead to a fight we could not win – but to accept would cost us eight or ten hours of the thirty-six we had left before the flight left Dir. We would have to march without pause all day and all night to reach the frontier in time.

  I thought of the hours we had spent resting on the way and cursed myself, but there was nothing we could do now.

  I caught Daru’s despairing glance towards us and bowed my head in acceptance. At least, as the warlord said, we would travel faster with food in our stomachs and a night’s rest behind us.

  The warlord’s house was built of massive baulks of timber plastered with mud and adorned with his hunting trophies: the huge, curling horns of wild rams and the skulls of wolves and bear.

  I could hear Daru’s voice filtering through to us down the corridor and the answering, booming laugh of the warlord as his wives led Amica and me to the women’s quarters. They pestered us with questions, asking about our journey and for news from other areas. Amica answered for us, explaining that I was mute.

  I had no knowledge of the
etiquette of the women’s areas, and was terrified that we would have to remove our burkas. If the warlord found out that a man had tricked his way into the quarters of his wives, I had no doubt that I would be castrated and skinned alive.

  ‘Sisters, you have been many days on your journey. Let us wash your clothes for you,’ one of the wives offered. I shook my head vigorously.

  ‘Sister, you are very kind,’ Amica said. ‘But we washed them only last night. Now tell me about your lord. Is he a mighty warrior?’

  I kept my head bowed and my hands folded in my lap as Amica talked and the women cooked a meal. When it was ready we carried the food through and laid it before the men.

  Daru sat with the warlord, his sons and a group of villagers who had gathered to welcome the guest. We women sat meekly in silence at the side of the room, our heads bowed, waiting for whatever scraps our lords might spare us from their table. We took them back to the women’s quarters, where the warlord’s wives and daughters fell on them without ceremony. I shovelled a few handfuls of rice and fish down before I noticed one of them staring at my hands. I hid them in the folds of the burka and ate no more.

  As soon as it was dark, the women hurried outside, leading us to a corner of the field where they carried out their ablutions. It was not seemly for women to do this during the hours of daylight, in case they were observed by men. They squatted on a patch of ground no more than twenty yards from the bank of the river, where they washed their hands and faces, and drew their water.

  We returned to the house, and the women settled themselves to sleep on the rugs and cushions scattered around the room. I lay down next to Amica, away from the others, and we whispered together, our heads so close that I could smell the warm, almond scent of her breath.

  ‘One of the wives kept staring at my hands,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she realised I was a man.’

  ‘I doubt it. If she had, her screams would have woken the dead.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The lantern was extinguished, and I wrapped my arms around Amica. From elsewhere in the room I heard giggles and then a stifled moan of pleasure.