Retribution

TWO

Afghanistan/Pakistan border, 2012

The man named Kassim came down out of the hills at a steady pace, losing altitude quickly under the growing sun. He had been hustling along for nearly three hours now, raising spurts of dust off the narrow, rocky path. Sixty minutes on the move, ten motionless. For a newcomer to the region, it would have seemed suicidal travelling this way. But nobody strolled in these hills; you moved fast and with the utmost caution. It was a way of life. A way to continue living.

The pace was punishing. He was beginning to tire, his concentration dwindling. He had not eaten properly for two days and water had been scarce. He was beginning to feel the effects of dehydration, and the heat hung heavy like the inside of an oven, rasping his throat.

A buzzard soared overhead and he stopped, moving off the trail. He squatted by a large rock, watching the bird until it became a speck, indistinct against the blue of the sky. He wondered idly if it would encounter one of the many drones sent over by the Coalition forces. Bigger, faster, a bird infinitely more dangerous. Maybe they would soon train buzzards to carry their little cameras for them, filming everything as they floated on the thermals.

The thought drew his eyes back to the valley slopes. He surveyed the trail either side, searching for dust where there should be none, for the darting flight of a hare in panic or the telltale flare of a fox’s bushy tail. He was well aware of enemy Special Forces operating in the region, of the heavily whiskered and grubby Taliban hunters, like cave dwellers with sniper scopes and long-range rifles. Up here, this close to the border region, a lone man was viewed with suspicion on all sides, a person to be stopped and examined.

Or killed.

Half a mile away the burned-out, rotting hulk of a Russian helicopter rested on its side where it had crashed years before. Long since stripped of anything useful, it was now a wind-burnished resting place for the birds to perch, a relic of another war in a long list of so many conflicts in the region.

He plucked at his shirt and waistcoat, flapping the warm air around him, and scratched at the beard covering his lower face. He felt a gritty sheen of sweat-soaked dust among the hairs. He needed a bath, and could feel in his mind the embrace of soft, soapy water and the touch of a rough towel.

He shook away the daydream and stood, relieving the tightness in his thighs and calves, then swung his arms wide to loosen his shoulders. He was tall and lean, with no spare meat on his bones after so long in the hills. His hands were powerful, yet with the long fingers of a musician, which his mother had hoped he would one day be. Cruelly, those hopes had died years ago with the death of so many other things, and he had not given the idea another thought since leaving the hills above the shattered village where he had been born. Later, through the madrasas where he had been schooled by those who had taken him in; then in Chechnya and the desert camps where he had been trained and tested; in the many weeks with specialist ‘tutors’, who had taught him so much, there had been no time for music.

All he had now was the mission.

He dipped a hand into the bag across his shoulder and took out a water bottle. It was nearly empty. He trickled the few tepid drops on to his tongue, rinsing out the dust and spitting it on to a rock nearby. The moisture sizzled for a moment, and was gone.

He chewed slowly on a piece of dried meat, stomach growling for more. He had used a great deal of energy coming down from the hills, and would have to find something soon, before he became too weak. But for now he ignored his body’s demands. There would be time for food later.

He stood and set off at the same ground-eating shuffle, the slap of his sandals the only sound to accompany his breathing. He followed a steep path, knees feeling the strain of the descent, and crossed a small wooden bridge over a dried river bed strewn with large boulders the size of cars. There would be water in this area again when the snows melted high in the mountains and gushed down the passes into the valleys below. Until then, it would remain as dry as a biscuit.

He paused briefly on the other side, sniffing the air. He was right on the border with Pakistan, and although patrols were irregular, there were occasional watchers on the high ground, monitoring illegal crossings.

Continuing on down, he passed a herd of scruffy, fat-tailed sheep picking at meagre grazing on the steep slopes. There was no sign of a herder but he wasn’t surprised; only the foolhardy trusted strangers on the trails in this area.

An hour later he skirted a tiny collection of dwellings, arousing a frantic barking from a mangy dog. In the distance the cry of a small child was abruptly silenced, testifying that adults here chose to stay out of sight, incurious about the passing stranger and his intentions.

After another hour he reached a track clinging to the side of a hill.

A Mitsubishi truck was waiting, four emaciated-looking goats in the back. The driver was standing by the front, tinkering with the engine. The moment he saw Kassim, he dropped the hood and gestured to him to climb aboard. There was no exchange of words. Kassim got in and dropped his bag between his feet.

After forty minutes they emerged from a narrow valley into Torkham, the official border crossing point. The air was thick with noise and dust and colour, and Kassim felt a spike of anxiety at the crush of people in the streets.

The driver sensed his mood and looked at the bag on the floor. ‘You have a weapon?’ When Kassim nodded, the driver pulled over and stopped alongside an open drain. ‘A pistol?’

‘A Makarov.’

‘The make is not important. You get caught with it and we might as well cut our own throats. Drop it in the hole.’

Kassim didn’t argue. He took out the semi-automatic and dropped it, along with the spare clip, into the mouth of the drain.

The driver laughed as they drove away. ‘Don’t look so sad, my friend. Someone will take it out later and clean it. It will go to a good home, I promise.’

They passed two American army Humvees at the side of the road, loaded with soldiers. Inscrutable behind their dark glasses and bristling with weaponry, they stood out among the mountain people. His driver waved a vague hand as they drove by, the goats in the back protesting uneasily at the noise, and Kassim felt a burn of irritation at the man’s cavalier attitude. Maybe down here things were different; where he had just come from, if you saw American soldiers, you didn’t wave — you shot them.

They threaded their way through the crowded back streets, a stop-start journey, finally emerging on the main Torkham to Peshawar road. Here they joined vehicles of every size and description, most carrying bundles of goods of unknown origin, or overloaded with families heading who knew where. Signs of military activity were everywhere, and Kassim felt that he was being assessed and recorded by every pair of eyes he saw. They stopped once at the driver’s insistence, at a roadside eating place. Kassim wanted to continue to Peshawar, but the other man insisted it was for the best. He ordered meat and vegetables cooked in red chillies, and sat eating and watching the road, nodding to Kassim to do the same. ‘You will see,’ he murmured.

Minutes later, a convoy of Pakistani army trucks roared by and set up a road block to the north of their position, stopping every vehicle going south.

It was a signal for the driver to move. ‘Come,’ he said, wiping his hands and face. ‘We go now.’

The traffic thickened and slowed noticeably as they neared Peshawar. Kassim was thinking about the chain of arrangements that had been made for him to come here, starting up in the Hindu Kush and ending wherever his journey might take him. This man, the driver, had not enquired as to his name nor given his own. For whatever reason, he was helping Kassim and that was enough. Kassim felt humbled by the risk the man was taking.

On the outskirts of Peshawar, the man pointed to a bus stop. ‘From there a bus will take you to the airport,’ he said. ‘Your flight leaves in the morning, Insha’Allah, and you should use the time in Lahore to shake off anyone you think is watching you.’ He glanced at Kassim’s clothing, which was that of the hills, stiffened by dust and sweat, and pointed to the back of the truck. ‘There is a bag for you. It contains clothes. Find somewhere to change into them before you board the bus. And get your hair cut. The passengers are mostly airport workers and would not let you on the way you are.’

‘What is wrong with the way I am?’ Kassim had so far seen more people dressed the same as him on every street corner than in western clothing.

‘Because you look like a Talib, my brother — or a wild man.’ He tapped the side of his head with a stubby finger. ‘From now on, you have to think like the unbelievers and be one step ahead. And speak English, the universal language.’

It was an indication that this man was no mere driver, but someone in the chain of command. The risk must have been judged worthwhile for such a person to come down here to see him off. He said nothing, merely nodded in understanding.

Three hours later, Kassim was walking on board a Pakistan International Airlines flight to Lahore, with an onward connection to Paris Charles de Gaulle. He was carrying a sports bag and dressed in dark slacks, leather shoes and a white shirt, and had been shaved clean at a street corner barbershop, his hair washed and cut short with a side parting. He felt restricted in the new clothes, as if his body were encased in a tight sleeve from head to toe, and was convinced he was about to be stopped by security guards at any moment. But nobody paid him the slightest attention.

As he took his seat, he put his hand in his pocket and felt for the piece of soft blue material that accompanied him everywhere he went. As he did so, he muttered a soft prayer and made a firm vow to succeed.

All the talking, the schooling, the training and testing — and the years of fighting — had been aimed at this moment.

He was on his way.