by R G Ainslee
A chill invaded my core. Jack, a prisoner, and Roksana was dead. "You said another man?"
"Yes, there are three of you."
Amadeo was alive. They didn't catch him. "The man with the police is Russian." I decided to tell her, "He may be KGB."
Her face betrayed her astonishment. "KGB. Are you a spy?
"Go back to the hotel. Don't tell anyone you've seen me."
She tarried for a moment, with a puzzled expression, turned to leave, then called back over her shoulder, "Be safe … it would have been fun."
Mister Aziz asked me, "You have trouble?"
"Yes, did you understand?"
"I speak little, understand more. You kill Russian. Is true?"
"No. The Russians killed one of their own. They are trying to blame my friend."
"You come from Iran?"
"Yes, I worked in Tehran."
He stared straight into my eyes. "You work for Shah? You fight Khomeini?" His brow furrowed.
"I work to fight Soviets only, no politics, just fight Soviets."
"I no like Khalq. Khalq like Russian. You fight Russian. Maybe I help you. How you come Herat?"
"A man Abdullah Faraz from the border helped us escape. His nephew the police captain helped me."
"I know this man."
"He is your friend." It seemed like everyone knew Abdullah Faraz.
"No. He no friend. We not friend." He held up his hand. "Aziz and Abdullah not friend. Aziz and Abdullah have same enemy — Khalq. I help you. I help Abdullah Faraz fight Khalq. Abdullah not friend. You understand?"
"Yes, my enemy is your enemy."
"Yes, you understand. I help you. My son go to captain. He come."
"Thank you." I glanced around apprehensively. "I need a place to stay. I can’t go back the hotel."
Mister Aziz stepped to the front window and peered out. "You stay here this night."
Saturday, 10 February: Herat, Afghanistan
Captain Faraz declined to meet at the shop, opting for an early morning rendezvous in a remote chai-khana. Mister Aziz's son led me to the teashop through the back streets.
The morning sun was still low, the city beginning to stir. Merchant's stalls busy while people shopped for daily needs. The open stalls imparted an almost medieval air, unchanged for ages except for traditional Afghan music blaring from cassette players. The scene made it easy to imagine I was back in time.
The hind end of a camel hung in a butcher's stall, stacks of copper and alloy cookware piled on the ground, a barber trimmed a man's hair, smoke from morning cooking fires combined with the stench of stale human waste from side alleys added to the effect. Women covered in full chador and older men holding hands with young boys competed with donkeys and two-wheeled carts on the dirt streets.
The boy halted, pointed to an open door, and hurried away. I entered and paused a few seconds to adjust my eyes to the dim light. The chai-khana was busy, filled with customers dressed like Abdullah, wearing embroidered skullcaps. Captain Faraz sat on a large pillow at the rear. He motioned for me to join him.
"Thank you for meeting me, I need help. My friend—"
"Russian have friend. I not allow see him. Russians are…" He said something I couldn't understand, but easily interpreted as uncomplimentary. "I ordered stop people march tomorrow. Russians believe they our new masters."
"How did they find us?"
"Russian helicopter find Russian airplane on ground at village of Abdullah Faraz." He eyed me warily. "You know this?"
No choice, but to tell the truth, "Yes, I stole it from the Russians," and waited to gauge his reaction.
He pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and remained impassive for a few moments, before speaking. "This is truth?"
"Yes, they want to kill us. Did the airplane cause any trouble for Abdullah Faraz?"
"No. He say foreigners land and walk away. He say afraid and not talk to men." He blew out a cloud of smoke. The pungent cigarettes weren’t Camels but did smell like a camel's rear end.
"Did the Russians believe him?"
Captain Faraz made a dismissive gesture with the cigarette between his fingers. "I not know what Russians believe. They not believe in Allah."
"What about my friend? What can I do?"
"Russian KGB man come tomorrow." He inhaled deep on the cigarette and blew out a stream. "He take your friend to Russia."
The situation was deteriorating, my options limited. "I need to call the American embassy in Kabul, they can help." I didn't believe it, but what the hell, nothing else was working.
"No. Russian listen telephone and posts."
"I need to go to Kabul."
"I no can help you. They watch me."
"What can I do?" I wanted to bust him out of jail, but my only weapon was a knife.
"You travel with western people to Kabul. You safe with travelers. They look three people. They say three men. Where other man?"
"He's not with us." I didn't want to say too much about Amadeo, he needed all the breaks he could get, if he was still alive.
The captain stood and snuffed out his cigarette. "I talk to driver at hotel. He go to Kabul with travelers tomorrow. You stay here, room in back. I come evening today.
* * *
The little room, no bigger than a closet, lacked ventilation, and before long, stir-craziness edged in. Every little noise amped-up my already high anxiety level.
The thought of Jack locked up in an Afghan jail played on my mind. Was my recollection of the movie a premonition or a jinx? I shuddered to think what was happening. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness swept over me.
I passed time, practicing with my new butterfly knife. Before long, it swung open with a flick of the wrist. The way things were going, I might need it.
Later, I thought of Lara Dumont, a French intelligence officer. She helped me escape from Kenyan authorities and arranged for Lisette to join me in Mexico. Her punishment for helping me had been a transfer from Nairobi to Kabul. I owed her big time and wanted to find her and thank her personally for her help. If push came to shove, I could try to contact her. A resourceful woman, she might know what to do.
The tape and log — I speculated what would happen if discovered. The small room had no place to hide or destroy the evidence that might condemn me if the KGB showed up instead of Faraz.
It must be important. Why else would Suslov be involved? What's my first priority, Jack or the tape? … No contest, gotta find a way to rescue Jack.
I finally settled in and daydreamed about a reunion with Lisette, if there ever was to be a reunion.
Captain Faraz returned after dark. His mood was dour.
"You leave tomorrow. Boy go you to place, man meet you. You have luck, man go to Kabul."
"What about my friend?"
"Russian come tomorrow. Bad man."
"What is his name?"
"Suslov, I think KGB."
"I'm not leaving."
"You must go. Russian find you."
"No, I'm not going anywhere without him. Can you help me?"
27 ~ Revolt
Sunday, 11 February: Herat, Afghanistan
Iranian state radio announced the collapse of Prime Minister Bakhtiar's government. Khomeini supporter Mehdi Bazargan seized power. The news set off demonstrations throughout the country and elsewhere, including across the border in Herat.
The scheduled afternoon march by rural farmers and local merchants swelled in numbers. The rally began as a protest by traditional landlords angry about land reform proclaimed by the new communist government. City dwellers found new courage to face their unpopular overlords and joined the crowd. Soon hundreds marched towards the ancient fortress, first built by Alexander the Great, and now used by the Kalkh party and their Russian allies as a prison for political detainees.
Dressed in Afghan clothing, topped off by a pakol cap, I made a feeble attempt to blend in with the crowd. A beat-up Russian made Tokarev pistol rode uneasily in a makeshift bag under my shirt
, along with the tape and pages from the log. Captain Faraz, not entirely agreeing with my plans, did the best he could. Now I was on my own, waiting for an opportunity — the proverbial shot in the dark.
Not wanting to stand out, I kept to the middle of the pack. My disguise effective so far, all I had to do was keep my mouth shut. The first sign of trouble rang out a block from the old fort — a rifle shot — perhaps a warning from the soldiers.
The crowd stirred, a rumbling murmur grew louder. Emotions erupted into cries of "Allah Akbar — Allah Akbar — Allah Akbar." The shouts reminded me of Iran. Was I in the middle of a budding revolution? Hairs on my neck tingled in anticipation.
Chat-Chat-Chat, the sound of an AK-47, echoed off the buildings, followed seconds later by a continuous volley. Screams, yelling, more shots, the crowd dissolved in panic and pandemonium. Men, women, and children scattered to the margins of the dusty street. Slow to respond, almost left standing exposed, I just did make it to an adjacent merchant's stall before bullets peppered the ground.
A young man next to me darted out to the street, raised an Enfield rifle, and fired five shots with the bolt action before he fell mortally wounded by a hail of 7.62 bullets. A grizzled old man retrieved the weapon and scurried back to safety. Several men across the street took pot shots towards the fort.
A man dressed in traditional Afghan garb charged out into the street and shouted, "Allah Akbar," with passion and authority. He motioned for the crowd to follow and rushed towards the fort. The crowd reformed and surged forward. I joined in. A few isolated shots rang out. Automatic weapon fire ceased. The mob increased in intensity, accelerated to a full charge, their voices roared in unison, "Allah Akbar — Allah Akbar — Allah Akbar."
A solid wave of humanity surged against the main gate. Without warning, the metal hinges screeched, and the lock gave way. The throng burst in, a single machine-gun cut down the first row. Rifle fire resumed but directed at the machine gun position. The weapon ceased firing. The crowd surged into the compound. The army commander called out to his troops and joined the revolution, if that's what it was. I didn't care. We won. Soldiers occupying the walls cheered. I was where I wanted to be.
In a whirl of confusion, the mob stormed the armory and seized weapons. A large group pushed towards the main building, a large block structure with a flat roof. I looked around to get my bearings while the frenzied mob broke down a large wooden door. Moments later, scores of prisoners streamed out to the parade ground. Jack wasn’t among them.
I made my way through the mob, bolted through the main door, past the office, and down a dark narrow corridor to a massive steel door. The cellblock stood open revealing a vanguard of wild-eyed Afghan civilians celebrating reunions. Others busied themselves with bloody retribution on both Afghan and Russian guards.
I shouted Jack's name as I raced through the cellblock, checking open doors, the cells empty except for dead bodies. The handle on the last cell door, held fast — locked. A quick peek into a small opening revealed a Russian with a pistol pointed at the door. Jack lay on the floor. I ducked, the pistol fired, a round passed through the opening.
The sound of the shot outraged the crowd even more. A large man wearing a dirty robe and turban shoved me aside and pounded the door screaming bloody murder. The crowd surged forward, the noise overwhelming — the door gave way — the mob burst through, more shots, a blood-curdling shriek. I jostled my way in, pushing people aside. The Russian sprawled out on the floor, his face a bloody mess. Jack lay curled under a cot. I elbowed past a man with a knife and shielded Jack from the crowd.
"American — No Ruski — No Ruski — American." I wasn't sure what to say, hoping someone would understand.
The large man pushed past, glared at me, and yelled, "Shoma ahleh koja hastid."
"Hastam America," answered Jack.
The man's eyes brightened. He turned to the crowd and began to jabber. Whatever he told them worked. Two large men grabbed the Russian, drug him from the cell, and set off screaming down the corridor. I kneeled and cut the ropes restraining Jack's wrists.
"You okay?"
"Yeah — how'd you get in here?"
"Just got a few friends together and decided to spring you outta jail." From the look on his face, I knew he wasn't buying that line. "If you want to know, it was pure luck. A demonstration, or march or whatever you want to call it, got out of hand and I just went along for the ride."
Jack snapped, "You got a weapon?" His steely eyes effused grim determination.
I drew the Tokarev out from under my shirt. In the heat of the moment, I forgot it was there. Jack grabbed the pistol and growled, "Come on — I've got unfinished business to tend to." Someone was going to be a sorry SOB.
We stepped out into the corridor, the crowd already dispersed, alone except for moans from a few wounded Russians.
"What now?" I asked.
Jack growled, his tone scary, "We're going after that bastard." Jack inched the slide back on the Tokarev to make sure a round was in the chamber. It was empty. He gave me a dirty look and racked the slide.
We halted at the front door. The main yard a mass of confusion, guns everywhere. Civilians brandished liberated machine guns, rifles, and handguns. Shots rang out when teen-agers and children fumbled with unfamiliar firearms. A captured army truck filled with newly armed civilians sped through the front gate out into the city.
"Let's wait 'till things settle down," I said. "They might mistake you for a Russian."
Jack eyed me up and down. "Where in hell did you get that outfit?"
"It's what I was buying when you went back to the hotel. You should have stayed with me."
"If I had, we both would have walked into a trap."
"What happened?"
"They were waiting at the hotel, didn't have a chance. They tied me up and brought me here to the fort. A Russian officer interrogated me in English. Didn't let him know I understood Russian." He hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat. "They slapped me around and asked about you … they still think Amadeo is with us."
"How did they find out where we were staying?"
"Must have been somebody at the police station. Wasn't Faraz, he tried to talk to me, but they told him to stuff it."
"So, it was Russians, not Afghans?"
"No, one guy, an Afghan army colonel, told me I was gonna be put on trial. He accused me of being a spy, shouted: 'You CIA, you mercenary.' He also threatened me with execution."
"Was Suslov here? Faraz thought he was."
"Yeah, the bastard arrived about noon. He interrogated me for about an hour and was beginning to get frustrated right before the ruckus started." Jack gritted his teeth and exhaled. "Good timing, you saved me from something raw."
"He get away?"
"Yeah, he left to see what was up and never returned. He's here somewhere. We're gonna find the bastard."
"He say anything about else about Amadeo?"
"They believe there’re three of us. Guess he's still on the loose. He'll be all right."
"What about Roksana?"
"He claims we raped and killed the girl."
"She's dead?"
"Who knows? Could be a bluff or more likely, that bastard killed her."
"What'd they plan to do with you?"
"Got the idea I was to be taken to Kabul or Kandahar. They were 'bout to gear up for another sweep through town to try to find you. I think that's what Suslov was— Hey look at that."
An Afghan officer stood on the bed of a truck speaking to the crowd. No one paid him any attention. "What's he saying?" I asked.
"He's trying to get the crowd under control, but his demands are useless. They got blood in their eyes and it ain't gonna be pretty. We need to get out of here." He glanced at me. "You have any ideas?"
"Let's go speak to Faraz."
We made our way through the compound to the main headquarters where we met Faraz guarding three Russian prisoners.
"Have you seen the Russian Su
slov?"
"No — he not here."
"Not here, where is he?"
"Russian go Kandahar."
"How? — When?"
"I not know. You must leave Herat. Much danger. Kalkh party men return with Russian soldier. Many will die."
Midnight, Monday, 12 February: Outside Herat
The night air crisp and cold, a full moon offered light, but no reprieve from the pervasive chill. We halted in the saddle of a desolate mountain pass to survey the road ahead. Nothing stood out, nothing moved, the way seemed clear.
"How long's it been?" asked Jack. A Russian had stolen his prized Tag Heuer Carrera.
"We've been on the road for almost 200 k's. Kandahar should be only a few hours away."
"Man, I'm tired, frozen, and just plain beat." He looked even worse.
"Yeah, me too. Want to rest or go on? You've had a hard two days."
"Let's keep moving, we need to take advantage of the darkness, it's our only chance. We'd be sitting ducks during the daytime."
I scanned the darkness back down the road behind us. "Yeah. Lucky there's not more traffic at night."
Satisfied the way was safe, I restarted the motorcycle and eased back out onto the concrete pavement built by the Soviets. Designed for rough Russian roads, the Soviet built Ural sidecar-cycle performed well. The road between Herat and Kandahar was a breeze. However, the heavy-duty suspension proved useful the dozen times we made off road detours to bypass roadblocks and convoys. So far, the trip had been uneventful, except for a few stray shots from a distance.
The events in Herat proved frustrating. Suslov escaped, and now we were in pursuit without a plan. All we knew was that Suslov left in a Soviet army truck bound for Kandahar with a one-hour lead.
After the episode at the fort, Jack tried to persuade Faraz to help us, but he was preoccupied with organizing a defense. He expected the Kalkh and their Russian advisers to counter attack after reinforcements arrived from Kandahar. Hotheads called for jihad against the communists, both Afghan and Soviet. One group hacked two Russian advisers to death and displayed their heads on pikes beside the main gate. Faraz advised us to leave right away. We might be mistaken for Russians.
We stole a military motorcycle with a sidecar, along with two full fuel cans. The sun set as we motored south past the Herat airport, the first and so far, only real source of danger. I expected to find Russian troops guarding the field, but they fled, leaving only a ragtag band of Afghan civilians gathered by the gate.