Stephen Leather - True Colours

He came to rely on the torture to keep himself focused, using the pain to blot out Piruz’s questions and his own urge to tell him something, anything that would end his ordeal. The more they hurt him, the more determined he became. He would die without telling them anything.

When the near-drowning failed to loosen his tongue, Piruz had him flogged with the cable-whips until strips of his flesh hung from his back. Eventually he was thrown in the dirt at Piruz’s feet. ‘You are a traitor,’ Piruz said, for what seemed like the thousandth time. ‘Confess and by the Prophet’s holy name I will be merciful.’

Khan knew that he could not win. If he talked he would be killed and if he did not he would also be dead. The truth would not save him, and nor would silence. His only hope lay in a lie.

‘I am no traitor,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘You saw for yourself that I led the faranji into a trap where I knew my men were waiting. If I was going to betray my men there would have been many, many faranji soldiers with me, not just three, and those little more than boys. But I know who the real traitor is. Free me and I will tell you.’

Piruz silenced him with a blow to the mouth that loosened several more teeth and his men then brought their gun butts down on Khan’s feet and hands. Piruz had him tied to a tree, the rough bark agonising against the open wounds on his back. Piruz then produced a knife with a wicked, curved blade and held it in front of Khan’s eyes. ‘I shall castrate you, traitor,’ he said. ‘You will talk now or you will be no man at all, you will be less than a woman.’ He cut through Khan’s belt and a moment later Khan felt the bite of the knife-edge and hot blood trickled down his thigh. He knew real terror then and for the first time his resolve weakened. That cut might not have been a deep one, but Piruz was ready to cut him again and again, a cruel smile playing around his lips.

Wais the Night Wanderer had remained on the sidelines while Khan was tortured, but as Piruz raised his knife hand again Wais stepped forward. ‘Don’t kill him, Piruz,’ he said. ‘Not yet. He will talk, I am sure of it. And when we do kill him, Fahad will want to make an example of him. It will be a lesson that none can ignore. Whether they are warriors or cowards who hide behind the skirts of women, those who turn aside from the path of jihad, no matter what feats of arms they may have done in the past, will feel the holy wrath of Allah — may his name be praised — upon them.’

Khan saw Piruz hesitate and he waited, his heart pounding. Fahad — the Lynx — was the Taliban commander for the whole region, and one of Mullah Omar’s closest advisers. Piruz would surely not dare risk his wrath. There was a long silence, but then Piruz lowered his hand and strode away, his jaw clenched tight.

As he also turned away, Wais caught Khan’s eye for a fraction of a second. His expression was unreadable and yet Khan felt a sudden surge of hope. Perhaps there was still a way that he could survive.

The Taliban group moved on that night, crossing a final mountain ridge, even steeper than those before, and fording a river that was deep enough to reach to their chests and so cold that Khan let out a gasp as he was herded into it by his captors. The rushing water reignited the pain from his shredded back, but he bit his lip and made no other sound. To complain would only reawaken Piruz’s cruel desire to inflict more pain, he was sure. As he climbed out of the water he saw Ghulam farther down the riverbank. They made brief eye contact and Ghulam gave him a slight nod, a small gesture but one that filled Khan with hope.

In the middle of the night, Khan woke from an uneasy sleep to find Ghulam standing over him with a bottle of water. Khan’s wrists were bound behind his back so Ghulam had to hold the bottle to his mouth. ‘Piruz found out that you had gone to see the Brits. I managed to warn your men but it was too late for me to run. I don’t know what I can do to help you now.’ After the few snatched words, Ghulam hurried away.

The next morning, the Taliban arrived in a village that they still controlled despite a year-long concentrated effort by the American and British forces to dislodge them. The village dogs set up a chorus of barking as the Taliban fighters approached. Khan was paraded through the streets at the head of the column, covered in dried blood and dust, his clothing torn and his wrists bound behind him.

The frightened villagers peered from behind their doors and shuttered windows as the column of men moved past, too frightened to show themselves in the open.

They came to a halt in the dusty square in the centre of the village, where two Toyota Landcruisers were already drawn up. Standing in front of them, flanked by his personal bodyguard, was Fahad the Lynx, with his ten-year-old son at his side.

Piruz paid his respects to Fahad and he presented the AK-74 he had taken from Khan to Fahad’s son. The boy darted a nervous glance at his father and then, at his nod, gave a grave bow of thanks. He began turning the weapon over in his hands, squinting along the sight towards Khan and pretending to pull the trigger. His father gave an indulgent smile and Piruz roared with laughter.

The Taliban fighters then went from house to house, rousting out the villagers and forcing them to assemble in the square. As they watched silently, Khan was methodically kicked and beaten before he was dragged in front of Fahad.

Piruz puffed out his chest, revelling in the moment, his voice carrying to the farthest reaches of the village. ‘I accuse Ahmad Khan,’ he said, stabbing the air with his finger as if plunging a dagger into Khan’s heart, ‘of the grossest treachery, the betrayal of the faith, his country, and the nation’s protectors, the Taliban, charged by Mullah Omar himself with the sacred duty of guarding the Islamic Emirate from its enemies. I demand death for the traitor, who is not even man enough to confess his crimes.’ He spat in the dirt at Khan’s feet.

A few of the villagers applauded or shouted ‘ Allahu akbar ’ but most remained silent.

‘Ahmad Khan, you have one final chance to confess your crimes, before Allah, whose name be praised, sits in judgement upon you,’ Fahad shouted. He signalled to the guards flanking Khan to untie his hands.

As he rubbed some life back into his wrists and hands, Khan let his gaze travel over the faces of his persecutors. They all stared back at him with undisguised hostility, except for Ghulam, who was looking at the ground. At last he began to speak and, despite his exhaustion and the pain from his wounds, his voice was steady and clear. ‘Who among you has done more for our country than I? I have fought the Russians, the Americans, the British, the Afghan army and the Pakistani army. I have risked my life scores of times and I bear the scars on my body to prove it. Yet this is how you treat me in return?’ He pointed an accusing finger at Fahad’s son. ‘You take the weapons from heroes and you give them to children. And now you even accuse me of treachery? Give me a weapon and I’ll show you the real traitor.’

‘Liar!’ Piruz shouted, and raised his weapon ready to shoot him, but Fahad placed a restraining hand on his arm. He stared at Khan in silence, his eyes hooded, then reached into his robe and pulled out an old Makarov pistol that had been taken from a dead Soviet soldier many years before. It was so old that parts of the gunmetal had been worn to a shiny, silver patina. Fahad emptied the magazine into his hand, then put a single round back in the chamber, pocketing the rest of the ammunition.

He threw the pistol to Khan, while several Taliban covered him with their weapons. ‘Because you fought well for us in the past,’ Fahad said, ‘I am giving you this last chance to preserve your honour. Kill yourself now like a man, or we will kill you like the dog you are.’