Amica gave a throaty chuckle. She leaned even closer to my ear and whispered, ‘Even in purdah, Afghan men cannot control everything their women do.’
I was aroused both by the closeness of Amica and the sounds in the darkness. Through the thin cloth of the burka, I traced the outline of her face and the contours of her body. She placed her hands on mine, pressing them against her. ‘And even the other women don’t know our secret.’
I heard the rustle of her clothing and saw the soft curve of her breasts and the sheen of her skin. A moment later she eased my burka up and over my head. As I struggled to free my arms from the folds of cloth, I felt her hands caress my body. I lay there, biting on my knuckle to silence my own groans of pleasure, then reached down for her. I tasted her lips, kissed the hollow of her throat and slid down over her body.
We made love in silence. I fought down the waves of pleasure coursing through me until I saw her close her eyes and throw her head back, giving herself up to it. Then I too surrendered, oblivious of any danger, aware only of Amica and the force driving us together.
Spent, we lay still, locked in each other’s arms. We lay in silence for some time, looking into each other’s faces. ‘What will happen to Daru?’ she said at last.
‘If we get out of this? He’ll find his natural home in the West. He’s completely amoral and an accomplished thief and liar; he’ll be welcomed with open arms in the City of London or Wall Street. He’ll have made his first million before he’s fifteen.’ I paused, searching her expression. ‘What about us?’
She did not reply, and when I touched my hand to her face, it came away wet with tears. ‘Regrets?’
‘Not for making love to you.’ Her voice was so faint that I had to strain to catch her words. ‘But regrets for love, and for loss, and for what might have been.’ She kissed me once more, then one of the warlord’s wives stirred and cried out in her sleep.
I pulled the burka back on and lay quiet, staring into the darkness.
* * *
We were woken before dawn, prepared tea, bread, yoghurt and mulberries for the men, then fought over what was left.
After dawn prayers, the warlord strode with us to the edge of the village, showing his protection of his guests. I thought of Daru’s father who had done the same a few days ago. Since then, of all that group who had gathered in the village square on that occasion, only a handful of us were still alive.
The warlord faced Daru and touched his hand to his heart, but ignored Amica and me as we followed him along the track.
We walked quickly, refreshed and revitalised both by food and rest – and by the sight of the notch in the wall of mountains that showed the line of the pass we were seeking.
The track dipped and twisted, following the course of the river as it tumbled over rapids and flowed through empty plains. We crossed a ridge and entered a small wood, the track a dark tunnel beneath the trees.
As we emerged into the sunlight we found the way blocked by a barrier manned by two men. If they were Taliban, they lacked the distinctive black turbans, but they were well-armed and their expressions were hostile.
Beyond the barrier the way split. The main branch carried on down the left bank of the river. The right-hand path led to a ford, and beyond it I could see the track snaking its way up the hillside.
I lifted my bundle from my shoulders, as if glad of the chance to rest. It was not seemly for women to bear arms, and my Kalashnikov was rolled inside my blanket. I rested one end on the ground and slipped my right arm into the bundle, feeling the cold metal against my skin. I slid off the safety catch and eased my finger around the trigger, then raised the bundle again and cradled it across my chest.
The men’s greetings to Daru were brusque and perfunctory. They demanded a thousand Afghanis to let us pass.
Keeping my head bowed in what I hoped was the correct attitude of deference, I scanned the rocks on either side of the track. I could see no other figures.
‘Is this how a Muslim greets travellers?’ Daru said. ‘We have no more money. We are refugees from the earthquake, the last of our family. The rest are dead.’
‘It is the will of Allah,’ one of them said. ‘But you must pay or you will not pass.’
Daru handed over the last of our money – two hundred Afghanis. ‘We have nothing more to give,’ he said.
‘Then you will pay with your lives.’
‘We are under the protection of the warlord of Baran.’
The man shrugged. ‘His writ does not run here. If you are under his protection, you are our enemy too.’
Daru’s rifle was still slung over his shoulder. The guards held theirs in their hands ready to use, both of them with their eyes fixed on him, ignoring us.
I slipped the catch on the Kalashnikov to automatic and fired from the waist, swinging the rifle in an arc. The recoils pushed the barrel higher and it cut a diagonal line from the right hip of the first man to the left shoulder of the second. The first was killed instantly. The second man’s hand closed around the trigger of his gun and he unloosed a burst into the sky as he toppled backwards.
The sound of the firing reverberated against the walls of the valley. We stood for a moment, our ears ringing from the gunfire. Then I began dragging the first body towards the riverbank.
‘Wait,’ Daru said. He riffled through the pockets and pulled out a thick wad of Afghanis, before helping me push both bodies down the slope into the water.
As they were swept away, rising and falling, an arm broke the surface like the branch of a sunken log.
I scattered some dirt over the bloodstains on the ground and kicked the ejected shells into the river. Then we ran down the track to the ford. It was barely shallower than the bed of the river itself.
‘We must take off our clothes before we cross,’ I said. ‘Hold them above your head and at least they’ll be dry.’ I threw down my bundle, tore off the burka and tossed it in the river. ‘There’s no point in disguise now. If they catch us, they’ll kill us.’
Amica stripped and threw her burka after mine. ‘As you said, it’s no use now. I’ve a coat and trousers in my bundle.’
Daru stared at her body saucer-eyed, then turned away as he took off his own clothes.
The shock of the water was heart-stopping. We were waist- and then chest-deep as we waded across. Something thudded against my leg. I looked down and saw the corpse of one of our victims bobbing against me before it swirled away in the current. I could feel the cold rising through my body as we forced our way through the water and clambered up the far bank.
I rubbed at my legs with the coarse blanket, trying to force some circulation back, then dragged my trousers back on. I tried to lace my boots, but my frozen fingers were clumsy and numb.
Daru was again staring open-mouthed at Amica.
‘Rub yourself dry and get dressed,’ I said. ‘We don’t have long.’
I crouched down and reloaded the clip of my rifle, then we hurried away through the forest, climbing the hillside as fast as we could go.
Chapter Nineteen
We emerged from the first belt of trees on to a scree-covered hillside. The path was a wavering grey line, zigzagging up the hillside.
I think I heard the sound of engines first, and I looked back towards the river. A convoy of red Toyotas was approaching the checkpoint.
We turned and scrambled towards the sanctuary of the next belt of trees, and had almost reached it when I heard the crack of rifles. I flattened myself to the ground, the survival instinct stronger than the knowledge that we were out of range.
I looked behind me. The distant figures began to run along the track and climb down the riverbank into the water. I forced myself to wait, counting them, before moving on. Twenty men crossed the river. I saw the first figures disappear into the trees with frightening speed, then I leapt to my feet and ran up the slope, urging the others on.
We climbed through the next belt of trees, crossed another stretch of scree and boulders,
and dived into the wood beyond.
Then we paused to catch our breath, our chests heaving. ‘We can’t allow them to slow us down,’ I said. ‘We have to get to Salan before dawn.’
‘We won’t outrun them,’ Amica said. ‘They’ve travelled over these mountains all their lives.’
‘Then we have to take them by surprise.’
We followed the track up through the wood, moving line abreast, crushing and trampling the undergrowth. When we reached the top, we moved left along the margin for fifty metres, then cut back down through the trees, working our way round to intersect our own track at the lower edge of the wood.
I’d expected the Taliban to move in a line, separated from each other to present a more difficult target, but they emerged from the woods below us in a double column. They clearly weren’t expecting much opposition. Most of them held Kalashnikovs, but one had a grenade launcher.
They barely paused before advancing over the scree towards us. Amica was behind a tree five metres away from me, Daru the same distance on the other side of the track. ‘Hold your fire until you hear me shoot,’ I said. ‘Nobody fires until I do. Daru, take front left, I’ll take front right. Amica, the next behind him. Fire short, controlled bursts. Save your ammunition; we’ll need every round. As soon as you hear me stop firing, bug out fast to the top edge of the wood. I’ll give you cover, then I’ll follow.’
The Taliban moved forward, their eyes raking the trees, adjusting their stride to the terrain by instinct. As the lead pair neared the trees they swung up their rifles and fired. I ignored the shots. They were aiming up the broad track we had made, hoping to make us keep our heads down or trick us into giving away our position.
I slid the safety catch off my weapon and heard a faint click as Amica did the same. I drew a bead on the pit of the stomach of my target and tracked him up the slope. I waited until he was no more than fifteen metres from me, so close I could see his eyes darting from side to side. Then I squeezed the trigger.
Amica’s and Daru’s guns echoed mine, and three men dropped. The grenade launcher clattered on to the rocks in front of them. I swung my rifle and fired again as the remainder of the group dived for cover. My target disappeared behind a boulder, but I saw tufts of black fibre and a mist of red blown on the breeze.
Return fire smashed into the tree trunks, shredding the foliage around us. I fired another burst as one of the Taliban raised his head to take aim. He dropped out of sight and I stopped firing, ready to move out.
Amica wriggled backwards, turned and ran. I glanced left. Daru had sprinted forward out of cover. Shots ricocheted from the rocks as he stooped to pick up the grenade launcher, then turned and ran, ducking and weaving, to the trees. I heard him crashing on up the slope, laughing as he ran.
I fired another burst to keep the Taliban heads down, then turned and ran after him. As I did I heard a whoosh and a roar. Daru had wheeled and fired the grenade launcher. There was a massive explosion and a cloud of smoke and dust.
He threw the launcher into the undergrowth, then turned and ran ahead of me. We didn’t even break stride at the top of the wood, racing on across the scree towards the ridge.
We dropped into cover, drawing breath as we reloaded. ‘I think we got at least four of them,’ I said, ‘but that’s still heavy odds in their favour.’
Daru laughed. ‘Let’s ambush them again and kill them all.’
I shook my head. ‘Not here. They may split and come up either side of us. In any event, they’ll be more cautious for a while. We’ll use the time to get some distance on them and close up on Salan.’
I looked at the bandoliers on Daru’s chest. One was already empty; the other had only a few rounds left. All the rounds I had were on the gun and in a spare clip. Amica had even fewer.
The track zigzagged down a steep slope towards a lake the colour of agate. A few tufts of desiccated grass clung to the slopes, the only vegetation in acres of rock and bare earth. I ran down, jarring my knees and forcing the air from my lungs as I stamped my feet against boulders to break the speed of my descent.
Amica kept comfortable pace with me. Daru bounded ahead, sure-footed and nimble. We ran around the edge of the strange, green lake. The wind knifing through me barely seemed to ripple the surface, for beneath a thin layer of water it was solid ice.
I ran on, struggling for breath as we met the rising ground once more. The skeleton of a long-abandoned mule lay where it had fallen at the edge of the track. Patches of skin mummified by the cold, dry winds still clung to the bones.
I turned to glance back at the ridge. A row of black figures was outlined against the sky like crows on a wire. We were out of range for the moment, but they would overhaul us fast as they came down the mountain and we laboured up the other side.
Cold and weariness dragged at me as the gradient grew steeper, and I had to use my hands as well as my feet to haul myself upwards. At almost every step fragments of ice-shattered stone skittered away beneath my feet and tumbled down the hillside. A rock the size of my fist, dislodged by Daru, flew past my head, and I worked my way a few feet sideways, out of the line of his ascent.
The air grew thinner as we climbed, each foot and handhold a little more of a struggle than the one before. I had to pause, gasping for breath. The Taliban were more than two-thirds of the way down the other side of the valley, moving with alarming speed. I saw one trip and fall, rolling down the hillside. He came to a sudden stop against a boulder, but a moment later I saw him stagger to his feet and move on.
I turned and began to climb again, keeping my gaze fixed only on the next handhold above me, scared that if I raised my eyes to the ridgeline, the knowledge of how far I still had to go would paralyse me. I became oblivious of time, the cold, the wind, of anything but the pounding of my heart, the pain in my lungs and the roaring in my ears. Then there was a crack as a bullet smashed into the cliff a few metres to my left. I flinched, slipped and almost fell, then clutched again at a rock and swung myself behind it. The Taliban were at the foot of the climb, at long – but still lethal – range for their Kalashnikovs. I saw the muzzle flashes as they fired again and more bullets whined around me.
I forced myself to turn and climb again, ignoring the ricochets. The wind and the extreme range meant they would hit any of us only by the greatest good luck. They must have reached the same conclusion, for a couple of minutes later the firing ceased and they disappeared from sight as they began to climb after us.
I could not stop myself from looking up. Daru was well above, almost at the ridgeline, Amica just a few yards ahead of me, climbing with a slow, steady rhythm. I tried to fill my lungs with the thin air and began to move upwards again.
The summit lay perhaps a hundred feet above me, but it was a steep, almost sheer climb. I grasped at a boulder as big as my body to lever myself upwards and felt it shift. I whipped my hand away and found a more secure hold. I climbed above the boulder, then braced my back against the cliff, took a firm grip with either hand, and began to push it with my feet. I let it rock backwards and forwards, gathering momentum, then pushed with all my strength. The effort sent pain stabbing through my wounded leg, but the boulder teetered and then tumbled over.
I almost followed it, and had to scrabble at the rock face to save myself. It gathered volume and speed, crashing over the scree, dislodging more and more slabs, creating fresh rockslides. I thought of the Taliban raising their eyes to see a wall of rock smashing down on them. Then I turned and began to haul myself up the final stretch towards the ridgeline.
It took an age to cross, and when I’d made it I lay flat, my whole body shuddering as I struggled to draw oxygen into my lungs. Amica and Daru were there, both sitting as they recovered from the climb. Even after I’d regained my breath there was a dull ache in my temples and a feeling of nausea I recognised as the onset of altitude sickness.
The track descended briefly into a hanging valley, then dog-legged to the right and followed the floor before climbing aga
in to another ridge, still grey with frost and snow beyond the reach of the sun.
I could see a further ridge in the distance, covered with a thick mantle of snow. I dragged the map from my pocket. It was the summit we were seeking: on the far side was the frontier with Pakistan.
We would be climbing that eighteen-thousand-foot ridge during the cold of the night, in a wind chill that could drop the temperature to twenty or thirty below zero.
By the time we reached the valley floor, everything was in shadow. I turned. Ten black-clad figures were descending the trail behind us. My heart leapt as I dared to think that the avalanche had carried the rest of them away. Then I saw three more figures picking their way along the razorback of the ridge, aiming to cut us off. It was not a move that I would have wanted to make in full daylight, let alone the gathering dusk, but if they reached the summit of the track before us, we would be trapped on the slope.
I called to the others and pointed. Before I could stop him, Daru had swung up his rifle and unloosed a burst at the figures on the skyline. They ducked for cover then re-emerged, inching their way along the ridge.
‘Reload and don’t waste your ammunition again,’ I said. ‘We must get to that summit before them.’
Ice was already forming on the crags as we climbed, making each hand and foothold doubly precarious. The rasping of my lungs and the pounding of blood in my ears began again. Once more I was locked into the same grim, blind struggle, placing one hand in front of the other, closing my mind to everything but the few square metres of cliff in front of me.
In places the gradient eased and I could almost walk upright. Then it rose sheer again and I dragged myself upwards, willing more effort from my exhausted body.
Even Daru moved more slowly now. I risked a sideways glance: the three Taliban were still dimly outlined against the sky, moving ever closer to the notch where the track cut through the line of the ridge.
I urged Daru and Amica on again and redoubled my own efforts, my legs and arms quivering with the strain. I counted to five hundred, each number a movement of my hand or foot up the mountainside. Then I glanced to the right again. The Taliban were now invisible in the darkness.
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