David Gibbins - The Tiger warrior

“I noticed. It sounded like the engine was still running.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Of course not.”

Pradesh appeared beside the jeep door. “You needed sleep.” He was also wearing a sheepskin hat, and an Indian Army green sweater. He squatted down over a small Primus stove, and passed a steaming cup up to Jack. “Fresh brew. Finest Darjeeling. I always carry some with me. It’s one military tradition we inherited from you British and just can’t shake off.”

“Thanks.” Jack took the metal cup and cradled it. He peered at the valley ahead. The mountains of the Hindu Kush rose beyond, huge folds of stark rock and scree, dusted white on the nearer ridges and carpeted with snow on the peaks beyond. Jack lifted the compact binoculars that were hanging around his neck and peered through them. He could make out Katya and Altamaty, coming down a path that skirted the side of the valley. There was another figure with them, in Afghan gear. Jack lowered the binoculars and glanced at Pradesh, who nodded. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. They had arrived at Feyzabad airport in northern Afghanistan just after dawn, and had walked out of the plane straight into the jeep. Jack had an old friend who ran an aid agency in Feyzabad, and he had arranged the vehicle, complete with the freshly painted letters TV on the roof and sides. They had wanted to keep a low profile, and avoid any kind of military reception from NATO. There was an ISAF reconstruction team in the region, but after a phone conversation with the Danish colonel they had decided against an escort. The colonel had warned them of the risk. Taliban attack was possible anywhere, even up here in the north of the country. But the local warlord was known to be an independent, a stalwart of the old Northern Alliance, and he was someone they needed to nurture, not provoke. The colonel had given them an assurance of a helicopter medevac if they needed it, but beyond that they were on their own.

Jack raised the binoculars again, scanning the opposite slope of the valley, looking for flashes of reflection, for hints of movement among the rocks, but knowing he would see nothing. Somewhere out there, somewhere ahead of them, was the sniper Katya was sure had watched them by the lake in Kyrgyzstan, and who would now be here. They would be safe until their destination was clear, until they had found what the Brotherhood wanted, but with every step closer they would become more vulnerable, until there was no reason left for the sniper not to strike. Jack felt powerless and exposed, but knew they now had no choice but to play the game out and hope they would find a way to even the odds. The others knew the score. Everything depended on whether Katya and Altamaty had succeeded in their objective in the two hours since they had left the jeep to reconnoiter up the valley.

Pradesh folded up the stove and stowed it in his rucksack. “Time to saddle up, boys.”

Costas swung his legs out of the jeep. “I don’t know where you get these expressions from, Pradesh.”

“U.S. Army Engineer School, Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Six month secondment last year.”

Costas stopped and peered at him. “Really? Did you come across Jim Praeder?”

“Submersibles technology, seconded from the Naval Academy? I did his course.”

Costas looked at Jack, and jerked his thumb toward Pradesh. “We really need this guy. Big-time. Permanent IMU staff.”

Jack flashed a smile at Pradesh, then got out of the jeep and stood up, stretching. He was wearing his own kit brought in the plane, his beaten-up leather hiking boots, a fleece with a green Gore-Tex outer shell, a cherished blue woolen cap he had been given as a boy by one of Captain Cousteau’s team. He pushed his old khaki sidebag until it was comfortable, feeling the shape of the holster inside. It was reassuring, but they needed more than handguns. He squinted up the path, and saw the Afghan figure with Katya and Altamaty leave them, bounding up another path and disappearing out of sight. He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. Altamaty had been up here before, twenty years earlier, and he had known where to go. He and Katya both spoke the main Dari language of Afghanistan, and they both knew the Pashtun code. It was better for them to make the first contact. Too many westerners had come here promising help and peace, but bringing only betrayal and death. Jack knew they already had one sniper to contend with, and if they antagonized the local warlord as well they stood no chance of making it out of the valley alive.

He reached back into the jeep and picked up Wood’s Source of the River Oxus. He opened the old volume where he had bookmarked it, and saw the faded notes made by John Howard, his great-great-grandfather, and then the neat notes on an interleaved sheet by Rebecca, his own daughter. There seemed to be a flow between them, a continuity, and the book seemed to bridge the generations. He glanced at the text, at the sentence that had been in his head when he had nodded off After a long and toilsome march we reached the foot of the Ladjword Mountains . Ladjword he knew was the old Persian name for the place where the lapis lazuli was mined. They were there now, where Wood had been, at the end of the road, at the farthest point they could reach by jeep. From here on in they would have to go by foot, just as Howard and Wauchope must have done if they really did make it this far. Jack closed the book and pushed it into his bag. He thought of Rebecca with the dive team on Lake Issyk-Kul. His dream of her a few moments ago was still visceral, sharp in his mind. He remembered what Katya had said about dreaming up here, on top of the world. Dreams were harder to distinguish from reality, as if you were always halfway in a dreamworld. She had said it was the thin air, the restless slumber. Jack shook himself, and concentrated on Katya and Altamaty as they came down to the jeep. It was time to focus on hard reality.

Katya was bundled in a thick down climber’s coat but seemed in her element. “Okay. Here’s the score. The good news is that we made contact with Altamaty’s old friend.”

“The mujahideen guy who captured him during the Soviet war?” Costas said.

Katya nodded. “His name’s Rahid, Mohamed Rahid Khan. Word had already passed up here that we were on our way, a film crew. He knew your name, Jack. He knows who you are. He even knew there were Kyrgyz among us. Amazing how information travels here, in a place almost barren of people.”

“Has he seen anyone else?” Pradesh said.

“I didn’t ask. He’s got other things on his mind. Earlier this morning the Taliban attacked a village in the next valley to the north. It was some act of vengeance dating back to the time when the Taliban were in power in Afghanistan, before 9/11. Vengeance against Rahid’s cousin, a schoolteacher. You don’t want to know the details. Rahid’s sent all of his men with most of his weapons, and he’s leaving himself in less than an hour.”

“So no backup for us after all,” Costas said.

“There might be. I told him what Jack wanted. I didn’t tell him our real reason for being here, but he’s no fool. Jack Howard doesn’t come to a war zone to make a documentary film. But these people know when not to ask questions. With the Pashtun, you talk around intentions, guess at them, size each other up first. He said there are a few people living in the valley, and it’s always possible there might be Taliban sympathizers. Where there’s one attack, like this morning, there’s a general simmering, and the sight of any foreigners might be provocation. He said we should keep to the high path, avoid the valley floor. When I told him what you requested, Jack, he asked whether there was anyone among us who could handle a Lee-Enfield rifle. I told him about you, the Canadian rangers. You told me once.”