Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

“Their village was attacked three nights ago,” she revealed. “A unit of Russian mercenaries. They killed three people and wounded another twelve. They think we’re part of the same unit.”

She turned and spoke some more. A young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty yelled at the others and, a few moments later, they dispersed and headed back toward town.

“I told them we’re friends of the pilot, the man the Russians were looking for,” Dinara explained.

The young Nuristani man stepped forward and slung his AK-47 over his shoulder.

“Hello,” he said. “You speak English?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“My name is Vosuruk,” the young man said. “After my grandfather. He was an important man here.”

“Nice to meet you, Vosuruk. You can call me Jack.”

“Welcome, Jack. Come with me, please. There is someone who can help you.”

I knew from experience that when you weren’t facing them across a battlefield, the Afghan people were warm and welcoming, and Vosuruk was no exception.

“Did you come from America?” he asked as he led us along the track that ran into the village.

I nodded.

“We came from Russia,” Dinara replied.

“The Russians killed my uncle,” he remarked. “But that was long ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Dinara said.

“What for? We fight with honor. We die with honor. And my uncle killed many Russians before he died. So maybe I also should say sorry.”

Feo laughed. “Smart kid.”

Vosuruk smiled in reply. He was about a foot shorter than me and wiry, but I could sense strength in the way he moved. The mountains punished weakness, so the people who lived here had to be tough.

“I want to go to Moscow one day. And America. I want to see cities where there are more people than there are stars in the sky.”

He turned right onto a narrower track that lay between two rows of houses. “This way,” he beckoned.

We followed and I admired the simple but resilient architecture and construction methods used to build homes in such a difficult environment. Square, functional, built with a mix of brick and concrete, much of which had been clad and whitewashed, there were still enough distinctive flourishes to distinguish one house from another. A blue ceramic plaque of Koranic text hung beside one door. Another had red-painted window frames. A third featured a wall that was covered in an abstract artwork formed of brightly colored cubes. No matter the conditions, wherever I’ve been in the world, people always seek beautiful ways to express their individuality.

“Have you seen a Ford F-350?” Vosuruk asked. “It is a pick-up truck.”

“It’s a good truck,” I replied.

“It is another dream. One day I buy one from America and bring it home. I see it in a magazine and I feel in love.”

“Where did you learn English?” Feo asked. He towered over the slight Afghan.

“From my teacher. We’re going to see him now,” Vosuruk replied. “He’s English. Proper English. Not American or Russian. Original English teacher.”

I wondered what could have led an English person to this remote mountain village. There were worse places to live, but it wasn’t somewhere I’d imagine was rich in opportunity for the foreign settler.

Vosuruk took us to the house on the corner at the far end of the alleyway. I looked south down a narrow road toward the bottom of the village and saw evidence of recent battle. There were blast craters and bullet holes in the thick walls of nearby houses, scorch marks on the white paint.

“The men who came here did that,” Vosuruk explained.

He knocked on the door of the house on the corner and a moment later a woman’s voice responded in Kamviri.

“She says to come in,” Vosuruk said. He opened the heavy, weatherworn door.

We stepped inside a small room that was full of shoes, boots and coats in two sizes. Vosuruk took us through an interior door into a large open-plan space that consisted of a living area decorated with richly colored cushions and throws. A kitchen was built around a large hearth and a stone chimney hung above it and stretched up to the steep ceiling. A couple of screens partitioned a sleeping area by the large window overlooking the valley.

A slim, brown-haired woman stood near the screen.

“These people say they’re here to help the American pilot,” our guide said.

“Thank you, Vosuruk,” the woman replied, and the young man nodded and withdrew.

“Who are you?” the woman asked. She sounded Californian.

“Jack Morgan,” I replied. “I run Private. It’s a detective agency. These are my colleagues, Dinara Orlova and Feodor Arapov.”

The woman studied us but said nothing.

“What do you want with him?” a voice asked from behind the screen. The man spoke with an English accent.

I heard a soft groan and someone shuffling around, then a tall, athletic man appeared from behind the screen, placing his hand on the woman’s shoulder. He wore a vest, and there was a bandage over his right shoulder. He looked pale, and I guessed from the nature of the dressing and the flecks of blood seeping through the bandage that he’d been shot.

“We’re here to take him home,” I replied. “We’re working for his family. Vosuruk said you’d be able to help us.”

“The paramilitaries who came here and shot the place up were well equipped and sophisticated,” the man said. “The kind of people who might come back to try a softer approach. How do we know you’re not working with them?”

His accent suggested he was British.

“We’re nothing to do with them,” I assured him. “I don’t know who they are or what they want with Joshua, but you’re right to say they’re sophisticated. They’ve been operating in the US at the same time, to try and capture his family.”

The man and woman judged us silently. Feo kissed his teeth and exhaled in frustration, but now wasn’t the time for confrontation.

“If you know where he is, please tell us so we can take him home. His family is in danger, and getting Joshua to safety is the only way to protect them.”

The man and woman exchanged a skeptical look before she fixed me with a piercing stare. “Convince us.”

“Convince us you’re telling the truth,” the man added. “And then we’ll see if we can help.”

Floyd woke suddenly. He hadn’t been dreaming, he was too exhausted. He came round from a black void that felt like death, and immediately wished he could go back to that blessed oblivion. Every muscle ached and his eyes burned with fatigue. He felt feverish, as though there were hot coals somewhere deep inside him, but when he touched his skin his temperature seemed normal. He suspected he was starting to experience the combined effects of altitude sickness and exhaustion.

He could see bright sunshine through the tiny crawlspace that allowed access to the cave where he’d planned to spend the day. He saw a shadow cross the light, and the hairs on his neck bristled. His stomach filled with acid as he realized something must have woken him. Was it a creature of some kind? A branch blown by the wind? He held his breath and listened closely, but heard nothing except the breeze through the trees.

He rolled onto his stomach, grabbed the coat he’d been using as an extra blanket, and slid it over his shoulders. He crawled to the cave mouth, which was only a little broader than his shoulders and taller than the width of his torso. He’d found the tiny entrance at dawn, after having spent much of the early hours looking for a place to bed down. He was at the foot of the last mountain before the range that would take him to the border. One final push up and over the next set of peaks would take him into the adjacent valley, on to a pass that led to the border with Pakistan.