Death in Kabul, page 30
‘We stop here tonight,’ said Logan to Baz, ‘and then head east to the Minaret of Jam in the morning.’
The minaret was an eight-hour drive in good conditions, longer if it rained or snowed, and while Mac had been all for driving through the night, Logan had counselled against it.
‘We’ll be driving through bandit country,’ he’d said. ‘They attack at night. Even Khan’s militia will only travel in convoy during the day.’
The gates to Alexander the Great’s fortress were more heavily guarded now than probably at any time over its two-thousand-year history. Armed militiamen manned a walled checkpoint, and once Kourash had got them through that, they drove up a steep incline to a pair of solid wooden gates in the original stone walls, where they were checked by more guards.
Finally, they got out of the Surfs in the large rectangular courtyard at the centre of the citadel, lined on one side by an arched walkway and on the other by the main structure of the building, punctuated by double doors and shuttered windows. The visitors were shown to the rooms they would use for the night. There was some consternation caused by Baz’s unexpected arrival, but Kourash volunteered his quarters for her to ensure her privacy.
‘Tashakor,’ said Baz, bowing her head.
‘Kosh amaded,’ answered the commander, obviously charmed by his American guest.
The afternoon was spent preparing kit for the next day’s journey. They would travel in five vehicles – two Surfs and three Toyota High Lux trucks – Kourash was taking ten men and there were six in the Kabul party, but as he explained, they always travelled with spare vehicle capacity in case of breakdowns or worse. There were more than enough weapons to go around – AK74s, Makarov pistols, PKM machine guns and RPG7s. From his time in anti-terrorism, Mac was familiar with them all, though his experience with Soviet-era ordnance was limited. Kourash showed them off proudly, recounting tales of derring-do during the Soviet occupation and after that under the rule of the Taliban. The weapons were allocated and loaded onto the vehicles, along with water and basic food supplies for four days – again more than they thought they’d need.
As the sun set, the convoy was declared packed and ready for their sunrise departure.
‘Now, please take pleasure in our hospitality,’ said the commander.
The Kabul party were shown through a heavy wooden door studded with iron into what must have been one of the great rooms of the ancient citadel. It was cavernous and bare, apart from the overlapping carpets that covered the floor. The ceiling was vaulted, and a series of high arched windows allowed the last rays of sunlight to carve amber patterns on the bare stone walls and worn carpets. Two teenage boys unfurled and spread out a rectangular stretch of oilcloth in the centre of the floor, while another lit braziers around the sides of the room.
Following Kourash’s lead, Mac unlaced his boots and left them neatly by the door. As the others did the same, he found a place to sit down cross-legged at the edge of the oilcloth. Baz joined him on one side, and Jananga sat on the other. Ginger sat opposite, already making stilted conversation with Ardshir and one of Kourash’s deputies. As everyone settled, one of the boys came round with a tray of glasses, followed by his companions offering drinks. Bottled water, green tea, a yogurt drink called doogh, or Zamzam. Mac helped himself to a bottle of Zamzam, an Iranian cola named after the water from the Holy Well in Mecca. It wasn’t Coke, but it was infinitely better than green tea.
The food started to arrive. Huge platters of Kabuli palaw, a golden rice dish studded with raisins, grated carrot and huge chunks of steaming, fatty mutton. It was accompanied by mâst, a yogurt sauce that Mac knew was delicious but played havoc with his digestion, big bowls of brightly coloured salad and mountains of naan bread, which doubled up as plates. There was no cutlery, and Mac was careful to follow Kourash and his men, eating only with his right hand.
It was a feast. The stringy meat had the distinctive strong flavour that always transported Mac back to his grandmother’s kitchen as she cooked mutton pies or Scotch broth. He ate till he was full, as did the others, but it seemed they made hardly a dent in the mountain of food before them.
Logan and Kourash spent the time trading war stories until the dishes were cleared and one of the boys came round with tea.
‘So,’ said Kourash, looking around to include Mac and Jananga in the conversation, ‘the man you are hunting is travelling alone?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Mac. ‘We think he’ll be collecting stolen artefacts at the minaret to take over the border, so my guess is he wouldn’t attempt that without some fire power.’
Kourash nodded. ‘Does he know you’re coming after him?’
‘He’ll be expecting it.’ Logan’s mouth settled in a grim line.
‘He’s wanted for murder,’ said Jananga.
‘So you want to take him alive, Major?’
‘Insha’Allah.’
Kourash called to one of his men to join them and there followed a heated discussion in Dari.
‘What are they talking about?’ whispered Mac to Logan.
‘Final details for tomorrow.’
The conversation continued in a mixture of Dari and English as the plans were laid. Orders were issued, maps were consulted, details settled. Finally, Mac felt, they were ready for action – and he could already feel a charge of excitement tautening his muscles.
Eventually, the commander clambered to his feet, signalling an end to the evening.
‘We leave at dawn. Time to sleep. May Allah grant you the dreams that you wish for.’
Chapter 49
Wednesday, 24 December 2003
Mac cursed silently into his pillow as the alarm went off. One minute Ginger had been snoring on the other side of the room, next the tinny digital alarm on his watch was hammering against his temple. He could have done with another few hours.
‘You awake, boss?’
There was no shower, just a pitcher of cold water and a bowl, and Mac had to use his electric razor without the benefit of a mirror. Thankfully, he knew his own face well enough for it not to matter.
Ten minutes after the alarm had sounded, they were out in the courtyard. Mac blinked, still bleary eyed with sleep, but Baz was standing by the open boot of one of the Surfs, already in animated conversation with their host.
‘Good morning, Mac-jan,’ said Jananga, coming up behind him as he arrived with Ardshir. Mac noticed that Ardshir was carrying both of their backpacks. At least his bad mood seemed to have melted away.
‘Morning, Major,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep well?’
He didn’t really listen to the reply. He was too busy watching Baz.
After putting on a camouflaged ops vest, she took hold of the Makarov pistol Kourash held out to her, saying something in Dari as she measured the weight of it in her hand. The commander grinned and so did she. Then she expertly ejected the magazine, racked the slide back, caught the ejected round neatly in her other hand and looked inside. Having viewed it to her satisfaction, she released the slide, fired off the action and inserted the magazine. She racked the slide back again to feed a round into the chamber, ejected the magazine and reloaded the round she still held in her hand. Finally, she inserted the magazine, applied the safety and tucked the pistol into the holster in her ops vest.
‘Shut your mouth, Mac, you’ll catch flies.’ Logan could hardly suppress the laughter in his voice.
Mac shook his head. ‘You’re pretty nifty with that Makarov, Baz.’
‘And why would that surprise you?’
‘Just didn’t realise you’d have much call for it, as a reporter.’
Baz laughed. ‘True. My father taught me how to handle weapons a long time ago. But a spot of revision with Logan and it all came back to me.’
‘Impressive,’ said Ginger, grinning at Mac. ‘Probably better than you, plod.’
Kourash’s men were milling about the courtyard, carrying out last-minute checks on the vehicles and arguing about who was going to ride where. His number two was briefing the drivers and issuing handheld radios to the lead personnel in each of the trucks and Surfs. Kourash, Mac, Logan and Baz would be in the blue Surf, with a driver. Jananga, Ginger and Ardshir would be in the black Surf with Kourash’s deputy. Kourash’s ten men were divided across the Toyota trucks, two in each cab, with the rest in the open backs, armed with AK47s, RPGs and machine guns.
‘Are we ready now?’ said Mac.
Kourash nodded.
‘Okay. Load up and let’s head out.’
As soon as everyone was aboard their allotted vehicle, Kourash gave the order to move out over the radio.
‘Boro! Boro!’
The heavy wooden gates opened, and the first of the trucks rolled forward. The two Surfs followed it out, with the other two trucks bringing up the rear. As soon as the first set of gates opened, the guards at the lower checkpoint opened their steel gates to let the convoy through.
It was barely light and the city was still sleeping. Most of the streets were empty of traffic and it only took them ten minutes to get onto the Martyr Alauddin Khan Boulevard. This took them east to the edge of the built-up area, where it became the A77, the main road between Herat and Kabul. Kourash spoke briefly with his driver, then turned to the passengers in the back.
‘Mac-jan, if you are hungry, there is a bag with naan and fruit behind your seat.’
It was a basic breakfast, but despite the previous evening’s feast, everyone had an appetite. By the time they’d eaten, they’d left the environs of the city behind them and were passing through the arable lands of the river valley. Small holdings with postage-stamp fields flashed past, though at this time of year nothing was growing in the brown earth.
Although it would take several hours to reach Jam, Mac was already feeling on edge with the prospect of what lay ahead.
‘My informant came to me last night,’ said Kourash. He spoke in English out of courtesy to Mac, even though Logan and Baz were both fluent Dari speakers. ‘Holmberg stayed two nights in the city, at the Park Hotel, and left yesterday in a rented Land Cruiser.’
‘Was he on his own?’ said Logan, leaning forward in his seat.
‘He had a woman with him, and two bodyguards, according to the hotel manager.’
‘Maybe it’s Xiaoli,’ said Logan. ‘Was she Chinese? Young?’
‘Yes, Chinese,’ said Kourash.
‘His destination?’ said Mac.
‘They didn’t share that with the hotel staff. But you are certain he had business in Jam?’
‘We think he’s storing stolen artefacts out by the minaret,’ said Baz.
‘Jam is a small village. We’ll find out straightaway if he’s been there, or if he’s still in the area.’
About half an hour outside the city, the road forked. The North Circular Highway swung away north towards the border with Turkmenistan, while the A77 continued east in the direction of Jam and, ultimately, Kabul. After the split, the road they were travelling on went from tarmac to gravel. Rutted and with frequent potholes, their speed dropped significantly, and Mac suddenly wished the vehicle had better suspension. His teeth jarred and he grabbed hold of the handrail above the door to keep himself steady. But he didn’t care – he was impatient to reach their destination, and they needed to gain ground on Holmberg.
* * *
The dirt road wound along the valley of the Harirud River. Sometimes they were passing through farmlands, but just as often all Mac could see were barren, rock-strewn hillsides, climbing on either side of the river. As the day wore on, the villages and cultivated areas became further between and the valley narrowed. The Harirud carried meltwaters from the mountains to the north of them, and he could clearly see the highwater marks of the spring torrents, but its winding course made the journey arduous and probably three times longer than the distance as the crow flies.
Baz slept part of the way, resting against his shoulder, occasionally softly snoring, causing him to exchange smiles with Logan across the top of her hijab. She smelled faintly of sandalwood and oranges.
Kourash checked in regularly with the other vehicles. The morning wore on, and Mac found himself dozing off too every now and again, until a particularly big pothole would jolt him awake.
The hills on either side of the road grew steeper, and there were glimpses of snow-topped mountains in the distance. Most of the time, however, all he could see was ochre earth and blue sky, all filtered through the cloud of dust thrown up by the Hilux truck ahead of them. The men sitting in the back of it had wrapped their keffiyehs tightly around their faces and most of them wore sunglasses to keep the grit out of their eyes.
There was virtually no other traffic on the road – an occasional KAMAZ truck, liberated by the locals as the Soviets had withdrawn, one or two scooters, and a man with a donkey. The villages they drove through were like ghost towns. He heard a dog barking in one, and saw an old woman in another, but most of the time they could have been deserted. They also saw a couple of Kuchi nomad encampments by the side of the road, their sprawling tents the same colour as the dirt they were pitched in. Goats and camels roamed the camps, watched over by small boys, while grown men would stop their discussions and stare as the convoy passed by. It was as if they’d travelled back in time.
A couple of times they stopped and Kourash’s deputy would talk hurriedly to one or two old men sitting outside their village mud huts.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Mac, the first time it happened.
‘He’s asking if anyone’s driven through recently,’ said Kourash, watching the exchange closely.
The deputy walked back to his Surf, giving Kourash a nod as climbed back in. A moment later the radio crackled into life as he reported the conversation.
‘Yes,’ said Kourash, ‘a blond westerner passed through here yesterday. Holmberg.’
Mac felt a surge of adrenalin. They would corner him at the minaret – the road effectively ended here as there was no way he would be able to ford the river in winter unless he was in a Soviet Kamaz ten-tonner, and they knew he wasn’t.
They parked up at lunchtime to stretch their legs and eat. Ginger looked particularly pained as he clambered out of the second Surf.
‘All right, chum?’ said Mac as they hiked a small hillside by the road to take in the view.
Ginger shook his head. ‘Just bored. The major and Ardshir haven’t stopped talking the whole way – and I can’t understand a bloody word of it.’
Mac laughed. ‘At least you haven’t had Baz snoring in your ear.’
They crunched down the slope to where Kourash’s men were apportioning more naan and the leftover Kabuli palaw from the night before. Mac grabbed a bottle of water and drank greedily – the dusty air left him with a dry throat and gritty eyes.
Baz was talking to Kourash in Dari. He laughed, showing off a dazzling set of straight white teeth. For a moment, Mac didn’t like him quite so much. Then Baz came over and pointed at the food.
‘Dig in.’
They didn’t stop for long, and ten minutes later, they were back in their vehicles, pulling out onto the road again.
‘How much further, Commander?’ said Mac.
‘Two more hours,’ he said. ‘If the road stays good.’
If this was a good road, Mac didn’t want to experience a bad one.
Mesmerised by the hum of the engines, he closed his eyes.
‘Stop! Estad shaw!’ It was Baz. ‘Look!’
He opened his eyes and looked in the direction she was pointing. He could see nothing – just another empty slope.
Kourash started shouting instructions into his radio as the Hilux ahead of them screeched to a halt.
‘What? What did you see?’
‘There,’ she said, pointing again. ‘A man.’
Mac looked and this time he saw it – on the crest of the hill, a man on horseback, rifle raised and pointed in their direction.
He wasn’t alone.
Chapter 50
Wednesday, 24 December 2003
A stream of automatic gunfire ripped through the silence as the vehicles stopped, and Baz heard the sharp crack of bullets piercing metal and pinging off stones. The windscreen of one of the trucks shattered and it skidded onto the gravel at the side of the road. She gasped – it was heading over the edge, towards the river. The men in the back dived out, clutching their weapons and shouting. Then it suddenly swerved. Someone had managed to grab the wheel and avert disaster.
She could breathe again.
Mac shouted something at her but his voice was drowned out by gunfire. She ducked her head down to her knees, feeling in her ops vest for the pistol Kourash had given her earlier. Mac was already cradling an AK47 between his legs. She heard return fire coming from the trucks behind them and twisted her head to see what had happened to the mounted gunman. The hillside was empty. Of course – he wasn’t going to present himself as a sitting target, but she could see small puffs of smoke coming from behind a rocky outcrop. That’s where they were firing from.
‘Get out! Get out!’ Mac yelled in her ear.
He had the door on his side open and pulled her roughly by the arm. Adrenalin flooded through her as they scrambled out and dropped down behind the cover of the Surf. Mac glanced around.
‘Here,’ he said, scurrying back from the Surf towards a pair of giant boulders.
Baz inched her way to the edge of the truck to peer around the side. It was all quiet at the rocks where their attackers were stationed. She could feel the pulse at the base of her throat going ballistic.
‘For fuck’s sake, Baz – you’ll get yourself killed. Get over here and stay down.’
She scrambled low to the ground and joined Mac behind the first of the boulders. Logan, Ginger and Jananga were crouched behind the other, alternately reloading their weapons and firing.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Kourash. He was still sheltering behind their Surf, but he sent one of his men out towards the Hilux that had skidded off the road. Mac and Logan leaned around their rocks to give the militiaman covering fire. When he reached the truck, he snatched open the driver’s door. The blood-covered driver slumped out and Baz could see a chunk missing from the side of his head. The soldier dragged him to the ground and then helped the passenger out – equally covered in blood, but still alive.
