17.

OSAMA WOKE FIRST, AROUND SIX IN THE MORNING, and slipped silently out of the house. The sun still hadn’t come over the mountains, but a pinkish dawn was breaking in the East. He picked up his prayer mat, taken by a sudden desire to pray at the top of the hill above the village, where he’d have a stunning view over the whole area. The sun came out as he reached the top of the hill, shining its rays over the bare mountains, lighting them up in oranges and greys, dotted with patches of fog. The landscape was spectacular, and he looked at it quietly for a long moment, his heart full of a sense of plenitude. Allah had created this beauty; what a shame that the Afghan people couldn’t just enjoy it, in peace. Soon he would go back to Kabul and read Wali Wadi’s CD. He wouldn’t be able to keep information like that to himself without putting his life in danger, so he would give it to the Ministry of Justice, or even publish it on some kind of website: once the information was in the public domain, he would be safe. He thought of Mullah Bakir, who wanted this information, and of the Westerners who had tried to kill him. The truth was, he couldn’t decide anything before he knew exactly what was in the CD, and who was implicated.

He was just about to kneel down and pray when he noticed something moving in the distance. He screwed up his eyes for a better look. He knew that movement by heart; he’d seen it hundreds of times when he was fighting with the mujahedeen, and also later, when he’d joined the Northern Alliance. It was a group of men walking through the mountains. He counted about twenty — some on foot, some on horseback. A few more, even, maybe twenty-five. He thought of the men they’d encountered the day before: there hadn’t been that many of them. The Westerners would have come with helicopters and drones. Only Taliban would travel like this, on foot and horseback. One thing was for sure: if he and his men stayed where they were, they’d be dead. Their only option was to flee while there was still time. He sprinted back down the hill to the village.

Rangin was rinsing his face from his flask. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked when he saw Osama’s alarmed face.

‘A group of armed men, under an hour’s walk from here. They have horses. We must flee. Where’s Abdullah?’

‘He’s sleeping.’

‘Go and wake him — we’re leaving immediately.’

Osama looked for the head of the village. He was peeing crouched down, in the scree.

‘The road to the east isn’t safe,’ announced Osama, ‘I’ve spotted a group of men. We’ll have to leave another way.’

Osama thought back to the map he’d examined in Kandahar, with Captain Kukur. There was a Baloch area to the southwest of this place. Pashtun Taliban wouldn’t follow them there.

‘How do we travel to the southwest?’ he asked. ‘To the Baloch area. Is it possible in a vehicle?’

The head of the village thought for a moment.

‘There is a track; it leaves from bottom of the village. Follow it for two hours. You’ll reach the top of a hill, the tallest hill around. Instead of continuing down into the valley, take a track along the crest of the hill, to the right. That track might be good enough for a vehicle, or it might not. After half an hour’s drive, you’ll reach a new crest, even taller this time. You’ll see it — we call it the blue hill. Watch out for mines; the Russians left hundreds of them in these mountains. Leaping mines and toy mines. They’ve killed many men, women, and children. After the crest, you come to a plateau. That’s where the Baloch live, but be careful; they’re not hospitable like the Pashtun — they don’t have our traditions. People say they slit the throats of stray visitors.’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Osama.

They left immediately. The track was even worse than the one they’d come in on, and the Toyota was confined to walking pace.

‘What exactly did he mean, when he warned us to watch out for leaping mines?’ asked Rangin. ‘And toy mines? I thought all mines worked the same way.’

‘Leaping mines are special devices that the Russians dumped here at the end of the war,’ said Osama. ‘The wind covers them with dust and sand, but they remain active for a very long time. If you step on one, a spring projects it into the air, where it explodes. Instead of blowing your leg off, the fragments hit you in the head and chest. Horrific. Toy mines are pocket-sized mines made out of coloured plastic, designed especially for children, who are attracted by the bright colours. When a kid picks one up, he sets off the arming plunger and it detonates. They’ve blown off the hand or arm of plenty of children around here.’

Rangin looked shocked at Osama’s explanations. He was a young man from the capital, an urban kid who wasn’t yet familiar with all the atrocities that had been committed during the campaigns, by the Russians as well as the Taliban. Osama envied his indignation. Like all old-timers, he’d long become accustomed to all kinds of horrors — those inflicted on the country as well as those it had inflicted on itself.

‘I’m scared they’re going to catch us up. Are we going any faster than a man on foot?’ asked Rangin anxiously.

‘Barely,’ admitted Osama.

At the top of the hill, Osama looked back through his binoculars. The Taliban were almost at the village — in fact, those on horseback were entering it as he watched.

‘They won’t kill everyone, will they?’ asked Rangin in a frightened voice.

‘No. Even in these campaigns, melmastia must be observed. They could not harm these villagers for having respected the Pashtun code of honour, by welcoming other Muslims.’

Osama was interrupted by the sound of gunfire. He paled, and took up the binoculars again. He saw men driving the villagers out of their houses and shoving them to the ground. Shots rang out; the shapes on the floor shuddered under the impact, and were still. A little further on, another group of men were leading away the women — some in burqas, some still in house clothes.

‘My God, the bastards are massacring them,’ cried Rangin. ‘We’ve got to help!’

‘There are three of us, and more than twenty of them. We’ll only get ourselves killed, too.’

Osama hoped that the women would be shot immediately, like the men, but he knew that they’d have their throats slit after being raped by several men. After the murders, the Taliban would set fire to the houses, and burn the bodies with petrol they’d found in the village. Then they would portray it as a Coalition blunder, a botched bombing by Allied forces. Some journalists would believe them, some wouldn’t, but they would definitely report the news, because a war that doesn’t kill innocent people is of no interest to anyone. Plenty of massacres carried out by the Taliban had been blamed on American bombers in this way, increasing the resentment of an ill-informed population always quick to believe in atrocities committed by the occupying forces.

They continued for two hours without incident, at the same frustrating pace. From time to time, Osama checked behind them with the binoculars. They had barely increased their lead on the group. They were at the mercy of a breakdown or any kind of problem with the track. As if echoing his thoughts, Abdullah let out a curse.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Osama.

‘We’ve got a flat.’

They frantically changed the tyre. The bolts were too tight; they thought they’d never manage to detach the wheel. After a stop of more than thirty minutes, they finally set off again. The pass that the village elder had told them about became visible above them. Two figures appeared at the top: men in turbans, carrying guns. Abdullah swore.

‘Stop the car,’ ordered Osama.

He got out, carrying his Dragunov. The gun felt strangely familiar, with its sturdy wooden stock and the big sights on the top. He had lived with one for several years, fought with it, held it at nighttime, felt its roar against his cheek each time he fired it. He’d vowed to himself that he’d again never use a sniper rifle, he thought bitterly, as he loaded a cartridge into the chamber — but what good were vows in Afghanistan? He cursed the Taliban as he put the rifle on the roof of the vehicle, balancing it on a blanket to give himself a better firing position. He could see the figure of the first man very clearly, thanks to the remarkable magnifying power of the Zeiss. He adjusted the dials. The man was over half a mile away, the wind was strong, and his targets were moving. He used a powerful cartridge. It was a remarkable shot, which only a tiny number of snipers could have pulled off in such conditions. The shot reverberated like a canon in the silence of the valley. One of the figures reared up, flung backwards like a puppet. Osama didn’t give the other Taliban time to think before he pulled the trigger a second time. A new shot boomed out three seconds after the first. The head of the second figure disappeared, blown off by the bullet.

‘Al Hamdullilah, you got them both. From half a mile away!’ exclaimed Abdullah admiringly.

‘Let’s go,’ said Osama simply, not keen to comment on his prowess.

When they reached the summit they came across the two Taliban fighters lying on the side of the track. The Dragunov’s supersonic bullets had finished them off immediately. They were frozen in grotesque positions, arms and legs spread as if doing gymnastics, covered in blood. Rangin stepped out of the car to take their guns — old Pakistani Kalashnikovs — and, most importantly, their radio, which he stuffed into the car. One of the men had also been carrying a curved dagger, the Taliban’s weapon of choice for slitting their enemies’ throats. Rangin threw it into the ditch and got back into the car.

‘If they’re waiting for us at the top of every hill, we’ll never get out of here alive,’ said Rangin.

‘This region is almost deserted; I don’t think they can mobilise men that easily. We’ve got a chance,’ said Osama.

Suddenly, there was a great crash. The 4x4 lurched violently forward, as if pushed by a giant hand, and then ground to a halt with a screeching of metal. They got out to check the damage. The track had collapsed, and the Toyota was stuck in a hole, its rear wheels in the air. Abdullah bent over the vehicle, horrified.

‘The front axle is twisted. We’d need a winch to get it out of here. The car is fucked.’

‘We’ll continue on foot,’ said Osama. ‘We’re not very far from the Baloch plateau now.’ He pointed to the top of the mountain. ‘It’s after this pass. Less than three hours’ walk; maybe only two.’

They took as much water, provisions, and ammunition as they could manage, and started walking. Suddenly, Rangin yelped.

‘Look!’

Osama turned around. The cavalrymen had split off from the foot soldiers and were galloping towards them. At that speed, it wouldn’t take them long to catch up. Osama gave the CD to Abdullah.

‘I’ll hold them off with the Dragunov. You’re Pashtun — they might let you go. If you get out of here alive, give this CD to your mother and tell her to give it personally to the head of the intelligence department at Kabul police. He’s my friend, his name is Reza, and he’ll know what to do with it. Go and see my wife — tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry not to live out my life with her.’

He hugged both men, moved into position with the rifle on a rock, and waited. He had to let his pursuers approach until they were close enough to shoot. The sun warmed his face, and he soon felt a bead of sweat drop into his eyes. After about fifteen minutes, he decided they were close enough — just over half a mile away. He checked on his companions. They were running more than walking towards the crest of the hill; they’d soon reach it. He moved into firing position and shot down the first horseman. The bullet went straight through his face, and a purplish cloud surrounded the back of his head as the shot rang out across the valley. He aimed at the second horseman, and brought him down like the first. The third turned hastily, but he didn’t have a chance. Osama’s third bullet hit him square in the back, sending him flying off to one side.

Osama stood up, gripping his rifle. The three horses had stopped, anxious. Osama couldn’t leave them alive for the other Taliban to use, and if he walked all the way over to catch them, he would risk finding himself face to face with the foot soldiers. He killed all three horses with well-placed bullets. What did three animals matter, when so many men had died? And yet killing these splendid beasts saddened him deeply. He slung the Dragunov over his shoulder and rushed to catch up with his friends behind the crest of the hill.

He reached the crest after fifteen minutes’ brisk walk. The sight warmed his heart. A massive plateau unfolded before his eyes, many miles wide, dotted with scrub and a few scrawny trees here and there. A little further on, less than an hour’s walk away, was a town, with the minaret of a mosque towering above it. These were the Baloch people, his own tribe. They were saved! His two companions had noticed him and were waiting. Osama sped up. Suddenly, he saw young Abdullah leave the track and head for a big rock a hundred metres away. He screamed, ‘Abdullah, no! Stay where you are!’

Hearing his shouts, the young man stopped, but he was too far away to understand. He gave Osama a friendly wave and carried on walking, unzipping his trousers as he went. Osama frantically shook off his rifle strap. He’d have to shoot in the air, to get Abdullah’s attention. At that very moment, there was a dull crack. As in a nightmare, Osama saw a sort of grey disc shoot up from the ground, above Abdullah’s head. It exploded, hitting Abdullah at point-blank range. The young man made a macabre pirouette as pieces of his flesh flew off in every direction. Rangin was about to go to his aid, so Osama fired twice in the air. The shots stopped him. Osama put his hands in a cross shape over his head, instructing Rangin not to move. He ran to reach him.

‘Was that a leaping mine?’ asked Rangin, white as a sheet.

‘Yes. Stay here. I’ll walk in Abdullah’s footsteps to reach him.’

The body wasn’t a pretty sight. One leg lay fifteen metres from the body, the head had been blown off, and the other limbs had been mutilated. The body, riddled with mine fragments, was cut all over. Osama covered himself in blood searching Abdullah for the CD. When he found it, he felt a pang of anguish. The CD had been hit, and the plastic had melted. He hung his head. No more CD; no more leads. He had lost.

A group of men from the village was coming to meet them. Osama looked at Abdullah’s blood flowing from his body. His own hands and clothing were stained with it — as they had been with Gulbudin’s, and Babrak’s before him.

Osama wept, for the first time since his son had died.