AFGHANISTAN – TWO MONTHS AGO
‘This reminds me of my boyhood days,’ said Kazuman Tokash, breaking a silence that had lasted for two hours.
‘How so?’ asked Kiyo Arai.
‘The drone of the engine, the never-ending road, the dust. On the farm where I was raised, twice a year we took the village truck and drove our produce to the market at Kabul. My father never let me drive – even though the journey was two days in each direction.’
‘I remember that truck,’ said Arai, his eyes fixed dead ahead on the narrow tarmac roadway.
‘Yes. The elder tribesmen realised we could get better prices at Kabul, so, between the families, we bought an old Bedford truck – ex-British Army stock from India. An early form of communism, perhaps!’ he added with some amusement in his eyes.
Arai shifted down into third gear again as the truck began yet another long steep climb. Although spring heat would soon be on its way, snow still covered Afghanistan’s highest peaks – though none could compete with the majesty of K2 on Pakistan’s side of the border, second only to Mount Everest in height. Arai flipped the wiper stalk to clear the film of dust building up on the windscreen. They fell silent again, each to his own thoughts.
Darkness was falling on the third day of their drive as the dependable Tata trundled into the dusty square at the centre of the village of el Kohl. Sitting on a creaky wooden bench in the long shadow of the minaret on the village mosque, Ibram el Swahalid took careful note of the expected arrival of these very important visitors. As instructed, he confirmed that there appeared to be no other passengers in the truck and he would now stay in his position to make certain that no strange vehicles followed the Tata into the village.
Kiyo Arai took in the familiar village scene with its market stalls and whitewashed buildings. Groups of men sat on benches around the square with horses tethered nearby and two heavily veiled women were walking slowly past displays of bright, intricate rugs. A handful of cars, trucks and jeeps were scattered around and a group of children kicked up dust as they chased one another in circles. Kiyo Arai’s pulse quickened as he stopped the truck under a large canvas awning.
To a casual observer, the white awning was to keep the sun’s rays off a selection of vegetables in timber crates. However, its real purpose was to ensure that neither the truck’s registration, nor its occupants, could be photographed by a passing satellite. Arai was confident their journey had been undetected, but he would go to every extreme to ensure that not one possible clue might be casually given away by complacency, although they were safer in the mountain villages than in any urban setting. All the villagers had, since childhood, witnessed many enemies and traitors being tortured to a slow death in the square and none would ever forget the agonised screams of those unfortunates who begged for death to end their suffering. The idea of placing agents among the villagers was just not an option. Everyone was known and strangers stood out a mile. Only locals could speak their own very particular dialect of Dari or Pashto.
‘Salaam, salaam,’ muttered Mukhtar el Maswar, the el Kohl village mullah, as he embraced first Kiyo Arai and then Kazuman Tokash. They entered the stone building beside the awning and allowed their eyes to adjust to the low light.
‘Greetings and great thanks to you, mullah, and your tribesmen for your help on our journey,’ said Arai.
‘Please come and sit,’ replied el Maswar, smiling and gesturing to a low table, surrounded by brown cushions and creaking under the weight of a vast selection of cooked meats, fresh vegetables, breads, dates and jugs of cold water.
‘Thank you again, my friend, for your hospitality,’ said Arai as they lowered themselves onto the big cushions. In accordance with tradition, the mullah, as host, washed his hands first and dried them on a clean towel. The bowl of water was then passed around to the right and only when Kiyo Arai, to the mullah’s left, had dried his hands, did the Mullah invite them all to take salt and begin the meal. They ate in silence as the mullah and his two senior tribesmen repeatedly replenished their guests’ plates and drinking pots and allowed them to fill their bellies and relax. Mukhtar el Maswar had been the mullah, or chief of the tribe, for over twenty years and his ferocious devotion to al-Qaeda was his strongest instinct. He was trusted wholly by Najeed Shammas and had helped bring al-Qaeda colleagues to and from his secret locations many times before. He had known of Arai and Tokash for many years and was in awe of their abilities. He knew he didn’t have the education or skills to wreak havoc on the west in the way that Arai and Tokash could, but he was proud to play a role in assisting these men.
‘I hope your journey was a worthwhile one?’ asked the mullah, with a raised eyebrow.
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Arai, wiping his mouth precisely with a white cloth napkin. ‘We are anxious to report back to our leader – is he far away?’
‘Luckily for you, no. I am sure you have done enough travelling for the moment. A day’s horseback trek will get us there.’
Kiyo Arai felt a wave of relief.
‘We will leave at dawn.’
*
Arai and Tokash slept in a sparsely furnished bedroom to the rear of the old stone building. They were roused just before first light. They washed and changed into the fresh robes which their hosts had left out for them. After a good breakfast of cereals, bread, fruit and tea, they went through the back door into a rough stoned yard, surrounded by buildings and stables. Waiting for them was the mullah, Mukhtar el Maswar, sitting astride a magnificent white Afghan steed, a good sixteen hands high. A hunting knife in a brown leather scabbard hung from his waist and a shining AK-47 was fastened to the saddle, within easy reach. Two other bearded and turbaned tribesmen were also mounted, loosely holding the reins and also with AK-47s to hand. A third man, with an easy strength, helped Arai and Tokash mount their horses, which had water bottles and panniers filled with meat and bread, and Kalashnikov rifles strapped to the saddles. With the mullah leading the way, Kiyo Arai clicked encouragement to his horse and squeezed his heels into its flanks. The group made their way out of the yard to a dusty trail, leading ever higher into the mountains.
*
MANHATTAN – THE PRESENT
‘Good afternoon – Anna Milani.’
Why does the phone always ring just when I’ve taken a bite of a hurried lunchtime bagel?
Anna knocked over the remains of a strawberry smoothie when grabbing the phone. Blast. She quickly threw a couple of paper napkins over the spreading mess.
‘Hi there, it’s John, remember me? Brown sugar, you make me feel so good?’ At the other end of the line, John Wyse sang the chorus of the Stones classic.
‘Of course, I remember – it’s only been about twelve hours! What a to-do.’ Anna’s head still throbbed. She had never intended that her last-minute decision to go for ‘just one drink’ after work yesterday with Cindy would end up with her falling exhausted into a spinning bed at 3 a.m.
‘So, are you missing me already?’ chirped Wyse. Inwardly, he groaned as he heard himself say the line and realised that it sounded like a Cabrini chat-up classic on a bad day.
‘Not sure yet, concentrating on staying awake, not saying anything too stupid to a client and trying to keep a bagel down.’
‘What a night . . .’
‘Sure was,’ she replied. ‘How’s Mike?’
‘He’ll live. Just after you left, me and Harry, the owner, got him awake and into the back of a cab. Last I saw of him, he was collapsing face down on his bed. You know the annoying thing is he’ll breeze through the station any moment, with more energy than the whole division put together and talkin’ about some new bar downtown which just has to be checked out after the shift.’
‘Yep, I can just see it.’ Anna giggled as she neatly diverted a tide of strawberry smoothie from drowning her mouse.
‘Either that or he won’t show up at all. So, you got home OK?’ asked Wyse, trying to sound thoughtful and concerned.
‘Yeah, no problem. Me and Cindy shared a cab and looked after each other. How ’bout you?’
‘Yeah – just fine. Once I got the big baby to bed I got home, hit the sack and slept like a log. Not feeling too good today though. Apart from meeting you . . .’
Anna smiled. ‘That’s nice.’
Her desk at Dynamic Communications was in the middle of an open plan area of about five thousand square feet on the eighteenth floor of the Paramount building on Broadway and West 43rd, with a spectacular view into Times Square. She felt more like a New Yorker every day and her oldest friends in Leeds teased her about how she had so rapidly lost most traces of her native accent, apart from the odd giveaway turn of phrase. She caught Cindy’s eye, pointed at her phone and gave her a big ‘thumbs-up’.
‘So, will we do it again?’ asked Wyse, his heart skipping.
‘Yes, love to,’ said Anna, ‘but on one condition . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘Not so much alcohol.’
‘That’s a deal. Maybe we could go for a meal?’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Anna replied. ‘Perhaps in a week or so. I’m really busy at the moment.’ (Always keep them anxious, was Cindy’s advice. Never appear over-eager.)
‘Okay,’ said Wyse, puzzled as to why he would have to wait so long. Was this a brush-off?
‘So, why don’t you give me a call next week and we’ll fix something up?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Wyse, wondering if this was going the way he wanted.
‘Thanks, John. Talk to you then,’ breezed Anna.
‘Okay, see ya.’
‘And, John,’ she said, ‘I really did enjoy last night. You’re great fun,’ she added, concerned now she might have overdone the hard-to-get bit.
‘You’re welcome. Talk to you soon then,’ Wyse finished, feeling a bit better now.
Anna put her phone back down on her desk, pleased with how she had handled that. Cindy had taken Anna under her wing and had mentored her through Manhattan’s social scene. Some of Cindy’s instructions on ‘how to get a man’, with complicated combinations of low necklines, ‘open’ body language and ‘when to laugh’ protocols, were a bit much for Anna, but Cindy had a streetwise sassiness, which Anna knew she lacked. She definitely wanted this tall dark cop with the deep blue eyes to call. Despite all the usual male bravado, her intuition told her there was a gentler, shyer and more thoughtful person inside those very good looks. Maybe even a little bit of vulnerability.
‘That was him. John,’ she said to Cindy, across the passage. ‘Asked me out.’
‘Awesome,’ said Cindy, smiling. ‘Sounds like you played it well.’
Cindy turned back to her screen. Huh. I really fancied that guy, John. But, of course, I ended up having to fend off the overweight drunk. I’m getting tired of playing second fiddle to Miss Goody Two-Shoes there. Might be time to make sure she messes that one up. And then I’ll have a slice of John, all for myself.
*
AFGHANISTAN – TWO MONTHS AGO
In the equine world, experts will argue over whether US- or French-bred horses are best for speed on the flat, or whether Irish- or English-bred will get you around most reliably over fences. But all experts will agree that, when it comes to strength and surefootedness, the mighty Afghan mountain stallions are world-beaters. And so it was that Kiyo Arai and Kazuman Tokash, both natural horsemen since childhood, had little to do except stay in the saddle, as the steeds beneath them picked their steady way up the steeply rising stony tracks. From time to time the blue sky was interrupted by large flocks of waterfowl migrating northwards. The birds’ shadows, flickering across the rocks, caused their calm horses no alarm. As they came within ten miles or so of the cave complex, the riders knew that every step was being carefully observed by hidden al-Qaeda sentries.
Kiyo Arai and Kazuman Tokash were in familiar territory. Both had been born over fifty years ago, in small mountain villages near Badakhshan, close to the highest peak in the area, the Nowshak, which rises to 24,500 feet. Their fathers had struggled to make even a spartan living from a handful of animals, from cultivating unyielding soil and fishing the many rivers that flowed down their mountain. They refused to take the easier pickings available from producing hashish and opium on the lower slopes. The easy export of those crops, along old caravan trails protected by the Taliban, had seen Afghanistan become known as the world’s ‘cocaine kitchen’, but their families wanted no part of that. Their mothers worked long hard days, struggling to feed and clothe their children and supplementing the meagre family incomes by weaving rugs and tapestries in the finest Afghan tradition.
But what the boys were rich in was education. Continuing a tradition that started in the seventh century, the Taliban ran a Madrasa school in their village. The boys were expected to work hard, and work hard they did. Kiyo Arai and Kazuman Tokash had been classmates since the age of seven, in their small, stone-built school. At their fathers’ sides, they had learnt the arts of horse riding, hunting, fishing and survival in the wilderness. But they were most happy in their classroom, hanging on their teachers’ every word.
The Taliban teachers filled their pupils with passion for their country, their people and their religion. The boys swelled with pride as the teachers told them of their forefathers who had risen to arms, century after century, to protect their people from infidels and invaders. Apart from providing education and organising the shrines and religious ceremonies, the Taliban also administered all social services in the region.
Now, in the twilight, the mullah pulled gently on his reins as the five riders hesitated before entering a clearing between steep rocks on four sides. At the centre of the clearing was a grey canvas awning, suspended over four timber poles, close to the entrance to a deep labyrinth of caves. A team of horses was loosely tethered to one side and a dozen or so chickens pecked at the ground inside a roughly wired timber enclosure. Under the awning, six or eight men sat cross-legged on rugs and cushions. All of them were smoking peacefully from long ceramic pipes. As the riders paused to take in this sight, one of the men rose and stood to face them. Over six feet three inches tall, he was a commanding figure in pristine white robes, his dark grey beard flowing across his chest. He had well-defined features and large, intelligent brown eyes. Najeed Shammas smiled broadly as he waved his visitors into the camp.