Death in Kabul, page 32
‘Out here?’ said Mac. ‘You know some local camel herders or something?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Logan. ‘Just let me see what I can do.’
‘Please to come inside now!’ It was Kourash and he didn’t sound happy.
Cigarettes stubbed out, they all trooped back into the entrance hall. Mac looked into the dining room, but the meal had been cleared and Kourash’s men were already unrolling their bedding for the night.
He caught Logan’s arm.
‘What did you mean out there, about digging us out of a hole?’
‘I’ve got an idea. Let me talk to the guy on the desk.’
The white-haired old man was fetched from his quarters by one of the militiamen. He came grumbling into the foyer rubbing his back, and took the only chair with a sour exhalation of breath. Logan squatted down in front of him and started talking to him in Dari.
Standing to one side, Baz whispered a running translation into Mac’s ear.
‘He’s asking the man how many camels Holmberg took, and what provisions… and how many men he had with him… two men and a young girl…’ Mac saw Logan wince. ‘They have six camels, each with a boy… they loaded some with food and water… three of them with boxes and packages…’
‘The artefacts?’ said Mac.
‘I think so,’ said Baz. ‘The old man says they took a local guide to show them the way through Jawand District and take them north to Jawand Bazaar, the district capital.’
The commander interrupted the man with a sharp exclamation.
‘He says they’re crazy to try that,’ said Baz. ‘One hundred miles of festering brigands who’ll kill them for a pair of sunglasses… they won’t make it.’
‘And we can’t follow them?’ said Mac, stepping forward to address the group.
‘One of my men is from Jawand,’ said Kourash. He went to the dining room door and spoke to someone. The militiaman who had helped the injured passenger out of the car came and joined them. Even Mac could tell the Dari he spoke was strongly accented and Baz struggled to understand him. He talked for some minutes with the guesthouse keeper and then with his commander.
Kourash translated for them. ‘He grew up in Jawand and he knows the guide who Holmberg is travelling with – his uncle’s second wife’s cousin – they grew up in the same village.’
It wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. Mac had quickly come to realise that everyone in Afghanistan, especially outside Kabul, seemed in some way related to almost everyone else.
‘He can guess the route they’re taking. It will be governed by how far they can walk each day, and they’ll need to find caravansaries for their overnight stops – to keep them safe and to ensure they have food and water.’
‘So he could act as our guide?’ Mac was determined they shouldn’t just give up and go home.
There was more talk between Kourash, his man and the innkeeper.
‘No. Not without camels or mules to carry provisions – and we have neither.’
‘There might be a way,’ said Logan.
‘How?’ said Jananga, who’d been surprisingly quiet up to now.
‘Just gonna make a couple of calls,’ said Logan. He had a Thuraya satellite phone with him and he went outside by himself to get the best signal.
Mac caught Baz’s eye and she shrugged. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He paced around the reception area waiting for Logan to come back and explain himself. He looked out of the door into the pitch black, but he couldn’t hear anything. He peered around and saw a tiny glow of light in one of the vehicles. It came from Logan’s phone. Mac went back inside.
‘I’m gonna call it a night,’ said Baz, stifling a yawn.
‘You going to be okay?’ said Mac. ‘Sharing a room with him?’
‘With Logan? Of course.’ Then she laughed. ‘Safer than with you, I think.’
Mac glanced round. The dining room door was shut. Ginger had gone to bed already. There was no one around, not even the guesthouse manager. He took a step towards her.
‘I think you’d be safe with me.’
‘Too bad you’re sharing with Ginger.’
Being so close to her made him acutely aware of how much taller than her he was. And, despite the day, how good she smelled. And how awkward and difficult it was to work out whether he could kiss her.
She made the decision for him.
‘Happy Christmas,’ she said, leaning in. She kissed him on the cheek, then she was gone.
Chapter 53
Thursday, 25 December 2003
Mac was dreaming. Snow was falling, silently at first, then with a soft thwap-thwapping noise as the flakes grew larger. Something was wrong. Snow didn’t make that sound. And it was getting louder and louder…
He sat up and opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his container. He was in a small room, somewhere east of Herat. Afghanistan. Light bled in at the edge of an ill-fitting blind. The blanket-covered form on the other side of the room was Ginger. But the sound of his snoring was rapidly drowned out by an insistent thwap-thwap-thwap somewhere outside the window.
It was coming closer.
He pulled off the rough cover he’d slept under and squinted out through the gap, but he could see nothing but one side of the ravine and the watery grey sky above it. The room was cold. A glance at his watch told him it was just before seven. Thwap-thwap-thwap.
‘What the fuck?’ He knew what it was now. ‘Come on, Ginger. Up.’
He pulled on his trousers, shoved feet into his boots without bothering to do them up, and ran out into the foyer. He opened the door onto the gravel car park at the front of the guesthouse. Outside, the noise was practically deafening.
A helicopter, descending rapidly, blotted out the scrap of sky between the two sides of the gulley. Logan was waving it down to land on a flat gravel area just beyond the end of the guesthouse.
‘What the fuck, Logan? How did you manage that?’
His words were whipped away in the downdraught and there was no chance of Logan hearing them.
As the aircraft settled onto the ground, Mac shielded his eyes from the whirlwind of dust.
‘Christ,’ said Ginger, from somewhere behind him.
Kourash and his men streamed out of the guesthouse, shouting excitedly, followed by Jananga and a very confused-looking Ardshir.
Mac rubbed his eyes and blinked. No, he wasn’t still dreaming. The blades of an old Soviet Mil Mi-17 transport helicopter were still slowly turning as Logan ran up to greet the pilot.
Vertical Lift.
He knew the logo painted on the side of the plain grey chopper. Vertical Lift was a charter helicopter company used extensively by the UN and a lot of the NGOs. Mainly because it was the cheapest option. Shit, he hoped Logan wasn’t expecting the Afghan police to foot the bill for this – there was no way Jananga could finance this type of op.
‘Privet, Kolya!’ shouted Logan above the dying noise of the chopper. ‘Surprised to see this old crate still in the air.’
‘Logan, my friend,’ said the pilot as he dropped down onto the ground. ‘Surprised to see nobody has shot you yet.’ He spoke with a distinct Russian accent, and had pale skin and Slavic features. All of Vertical Lift’s pilots and engineers were ex-Soviet air force or army who’d flown in Afghanistan during the occupation.
The two men laughed and hugged each other, before walking back towards the guesthouse. A second man came round from the other side of the helicopter and caught them up, giving Logan a hearty slap on the back.
‘Pyotr, you dog. I thought you went to Dubai.’
Dark haired and dark skinned Pyotr shook his head and laughed. ‘Too boring – the hotel to the airport. The airport to the hotel. Back and forth, all the day.’ He spat in disgust on the ground.
‘Logan, how the hell?’ said Mac, stepping forward and snagging Logan’s attention away from his reunion.
‘My Christmas present to you,’ said Logan, with a grin.
‘Best stocking filler ever, pal,’ said Mac. ‘But seriously?’
‘Let’s just say these boys owe me a favour. A big favour.’
Mac raised his eyebrows.
‘Another time, man.’
Somehow Mac doubted he’d ever hear the full story, and maybe he didn’t want to.
‘That’s one fuck of a favour,’ said Ginger in his ear.
‘What’s all the commotion?’ Baz was the last one out of the guesthouse.
‘Logan’s Christmas present to us,’ said Mac.
‘A helicopter?’ she said. ‘I was hoping for camels.’
* * *
An hour later, Mac felt his stomach being left behind as they lifted off. Dust and gravel clouded underneath them, and the guesthouse became as small as a doll’s house before they swept away over the top of the gorge.
He’d been surprised that they all fitted inside, but the Hip, to use the NATO name for the Mi-17, was a transport helicopter, designed for heavy payloads and up to twenty-four passengers. It wasn’t comfortable inside, and it was bloody noisy, but it meant the mission was back on track, so Mac, for one, wasn’t going to complain. One of Kourash’s men was distributing naan and water. The commander and the militiaman with local knowledge were sitting up at the pilots’ shoulders, while the rest of them sat on hard benches down either side of the fuselage. At least there were windows, so if they couldn’t talk, they could look out over the extraordinary landscape.
Holmberg had a two-day start on them. As they’d boarded the chopper, there had been some debate as to how far he could have got in that time. According to Kourash’s man, there were two routes he could have taken – due north towards Qeysar, or north-west in the direction of Qala-e-Naw. Both lay on the N Cir Highway, but the latter was nearer. From either of these he would be able to go on to the border with Turkmenistan.
‘We’ll try the trail that leads to Qala first,’ said Logan. ‘The terrain is easier and it’s not so far to travel – it would be the logical choice. He’ll do, say, fifteen, max twenty, miles a day. We’ll drop down into the first village that might have been an overnight stop and find out if anyone’s been through.’
Out of the window, the landscape was steeper and more spartan compared to that they’d flown over between Kabul and Herat – and they were flying much lower over it, at just a couple of hundred feet. The trail followed the rocky valley of the Harirud for a few miles west and then, where the river took a sharp bend south, struck north away from the water. The chopper climbed as the track curved up towards a shoulder on a low ridge. Over the other side, they swooped down and Mac felt his stomach flip as if they were on a roller coaster. They swung down towards a long valley. It was wider than the course of the Harirud, but there was no river at the bottom, just the mountain track, following the path of least resistance, used by traders on the Silk Road for more than a thousand years.
Cold air rushed through the cabin – one of Kourash’s men was crouched by the open door, one arm hooked through a metal rail, the other holding binoculars to his eyes.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Mac, leaning against Logan’s shoulder to shout in his ear.
‘Looking for camel dung.’
They lurched up again, the sides of the crags dropping away as the trail passed through a narrow buttress of rocks.
‘Shit!’
Mac read Ginger’s lips, rather than heard the word. He was looking positively green, slumped on the bench opposite with his head in his hands.
‘Here you go, chum,’ he said, leaning forward and tapping on Ginger’s knee with a sick bag.
Ginger nodded, his mouth clamped tight shut. Mac turned back to looking out of the window – the last thing he needed to see was Ginger puking his guts out.
After another half hour of stomach-churning ups and downs, Kourash walked unsteadily down the swaying fuselage, hanging onto the guide rails.
‘There’s a village ahead – could have been their night stop. We’re putting down,’ he said.
Ginger looked overcome with relief – and then scrabbled to get the bag to his mouth before being volubly sick.
Mac couldn’t get out of the Mi-17 fast enough – it stank of vomit. The ground seemed weirdly unstable for a couple of seconds, but once he’d got beyond the sound and the downdraught of the rotor blades, things started returning to normal. Ginger appeared to be somewhat shakier, but he managed a weak smile as he reached the patch of rocky ground the team were gathered on. Baz handed him a bottle of water and he rinsed his mouth out. The two pilots strode a bit further away and both lit cigarettes, laughing loudly at some private joke.
A hundred yards below them, Mac could see a small settlement – a handful of muddy brown dwellings, crudely built and without glass or even polythene in the small windows. There was a narrow stream and a patch of tended land, but it hardly looked like a place to subsist. A woman in brightly coloured tribal dress hurriedly herded two small children into one of the buildings.
‘Stretch your legs for a minute,’ said Logan. ‘Kourash will take a couple of guys down to the village and ask if Holmberg came through.’
‘I’ll go with him,’ said Jananga.
Logan shrugged. ‘If you like.’
Mac was happy to let them go. He wouldn’t have understood what was being said anyway. As he watched them walking down the hill, Baz came and joined him.
‘Weirdest Christmas Day ever,’ she said.
‘Too true.’ He took a swig of water. ‘Do your family celebrate Christmas?’
‘Not as such. But it’s the holiday season in America, and I’m used to it. I love the Christmas lights and all the festive food. You missing it?’
‘Christmas dinner, Mum’s mince pies, sure. I think they miss having me home at Christmas, more than I miss the celebration itself. Hogmanay’s more my thing. How are you doing, Ginger?’
Still looking green, Ginger had come over to where they were talking.
‘I’ve felt better.’
Mac laughed. ‘A fully paid-up member of the airborne brotherhood – and you puke your guts up on a short helicopter flight.’
Ginger managed a smile. ‘Why d’you think I was so damn keen to jump out of the bloody things?’
Below them, a man emerged from the first of the homesteads. He was carrying a weapon and had a leather bandolier of rounds slung across his chest. Mac squinted and so did Ginger.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ said Ginger.
‘A Lee Enfield No4.’
‘He’s had that a long time.’
‘Must be sixty years old, if it’s a day.’
‘What?’ said Baz.
‘They were using those in the Second World War,’ said Mac. ‘It must have seen some action over the years.’
The man shouted something at the party going down the hill and raised his weapon. Shit – hopefully it wasn’t about to add to its tally. Kourash shouted back at him. The man scowled, but he lowered the gun. As they got closer, the first man was joined by another, older man. They spoke for a minute and then Kourash led his men and Jananga back up the hill.
‘No – no one’s been through here since the summer,’ said Kourash, confirming what Mac had suspected from the brevity of the conversation.
‘We’ll cut north-east, across to the Qeysar trail,’ said Logan. ‘All aboard.’
Another hour of flying, punctuated regularly by Ginger retching into a paper bag, and they picked up the other track. The way was steeper and the gulley narrower than the first route. The Mi-17 stayed just above the top of the crags on either side – smoother flying, at least for a while. Then the valley opened out and the chopper swooped down. Patches of vegetation became more common, close to the banks of a fast-flowing river, and at one point they passed half a dozen or so nomad tents.
Mac got up and picked his way precariously to where Logan was sitting with Kourash.
‘Are we not going to stop and ask those tribesmen we just passed?’
Kourash grinned and then dragged a forefinger across his throat.
‘They’d as soon shoot us as talk to us,’ said Logan. ‘They hate Ismail Khan, his men and anyone in uniform.’
Mac went back to his seat. Surely Holmberg couldn’t have made it much further than this?
He didn’t have to wait much longer.
Fifteen minutes later a cry went up from the front of the helicopter.
‘Shotor, shotor!’
‘Camels,’ said Baz, wide-eyed with excitement. ‘We’ve got him.’
Chapter 54
Thursday, 25 December 2003
Baz might have spoken too soon. The helicopter lurched to the side and then jerked upward. For a second Mac thought it was going to stall. Baz gasped and grabbed hold of the nearest thing, which was his arm. Pyotr and Kolya were cursing almost loud enough for him to hear them over the engine noise. A precipitous swoop to the right, and Mac realised what was happening – they were avoiding gunfire from the ground.
You couldn’t sneak up on someone in a helicopter.
Kourash’s men calmly readied their weapons for combat, while their commander, hanging onto one of the handrails with white knuckles, stood at the pilots’ shoulders, assessing the situation on the ground below.
The plan was simple. Once they spotted the caravan train, they would land, arrest Holmberg and whoever else was with him, and rescue the girl. Of course, Mac had anticipated some resistance – but shooting at the chopper? This guy was taking no prisoners. If one bullet hit one rotor… He tried not to think about it, but there was nothing else to think about as they swung from side to side and lurched up and down. A sudden rush of acceleration took them out of range, then Mac felt the elevator-drop sensation of a fast landing.
As soon as the wheels had touched down on the uneven ground, the militiamen stormed out, dropping behind a ragged outcrop of rocks. The camel train was about two hundred yards further down the trail from them. Mac squinted out through one of the Mi-17’s windows. Holmberg was also using boulders for cover. He watched as the three camel boys took off down the track the way they’d come, too terrified to try and retrieve their frightened animals.
