It took Mac, Logan, Baz and Ginger half an hour to drive south from Lashkar Gah to Qala-e Bost, where they were to pick up Pasoon and an escort of the governor’s best militiamen. They were all wearing body armour – ceramic plates which slotted into nylon plate carriers. The three men’s were plain black, but Baz’s was bright blue with the word ‘Press’ stamped on front and back. Over these, they wore ops vests, though none of them had the premium brand, Blackhawk. Instead, theirs were cheap Dawood Shams knock-offs – but they would serve just as well. There were plenty of pouches for their AK mags. Or in Baz’s case, various camera accoutrements and spare batteries. The back of the Surf was loaded up with petrol, water, food – four days’ worth of Meals-Ready-to-Eat, or MREs – med packs, a toolkit, and a range of basic vehicle parts. A pair of spare wheels was chained and padlocked to the roof rack, along with a bright red safari jack. Logan wasn’t taking any chances of a vehicle failure out in the danger zone.
Baz had insisted on coming with them. ‘Reporting on things like this is my job,’ she said when Mac gave a slight frown.
‘Okay, sure, but bring your flak jacket.’
Now they were sitting in the back of Logan’s Surf, watching the countryside slip by out of their respective windows.
As they reached Qala-e Bost, their driver took a sharp left turn off the main road, and Baz saw ahead of them the legendary fortress that had stood overlooking the Helmand Valley for more than three thousand years. Now it was crumbling and deserted, but in its heyday it must have been an intimidating sight to the medieval tribesmen that roamed the area. Vast walls of ochre brickwork towered above the surrounding countryside, and Baz recognised the famous archway that featured on the hundred-Afghani banknote.
She craned her neck at the structure as they drove past, but there was no sign of the governor’s men. Heat shimmered on the road ahead, and the only living creature in sight was an old man squatting in the shade of a courtyard wall.
‘We’re not stopping here?’ she said to Logan, who was in the front seat next to the driver.
‘Uh-uh,’ said Logan, with a shake of his head. ‘We’re meeting them at the shrine – a few kilometres further on.’
Ten minutes later, they drew up in front of a squat brick building and parked up at the end of a row of four Hilux SUVs. It wasn’t quite what Baz had been expecting – of the shrine or the militiamen.
If she hadn’t known beforehand, she wouldn’t have guessed that the dozen or so men lounging in the shade by the side of the shrine were the governor’s crack troops. With their ages ranging from probably fifteen to fifty, the ragtag bunch of men were in mismatched uniforms, with sandals on their feet, and shemaghs wrapped round their necks, despite the heat. They didn’t exhibit any sort of military discipline, and several of them were smoking what looked like joints – confirmed by the smell as soon as she climbed out of the Surf. The youngest, a teenaged kid lacking the de rigueur beard or heavy stubble of his companions, was striking poses with his AK, as if ready to shoot the strangers.
An older man shouted at him, and he lowered the weapon.
Logan went over and started talking to the guy who seemed to be in charge, so Baz took the opportunity to peer into the doorway of the shrine. Ginger and Mac were standing a few feet away.
‘Jesus, if these are Khaliq’s best men, I dread to think what the rest are like,’ said Ginger.
‘What were you expecting? A fucking parade?’ said Mac.
Baz turned back to study the group again. They looked more like a bunch of narco heavies, and given that the governor’s brother was Feda Khaliq, the region’s biggest opium grower, that’s probably what they were. Was Logan really happy to rely on these hoodlums to help them scoop up Bakker from under his kidnappers’ noses? It looked like Mac thought the same, and his doubt showed on his face as Logan walked towards them.
‘Don’t underestimate them, Mac. I’ve fought with a few of these guys, and they know one end of their AKs from the other.’
‘Talking of which…’ said Ginger. The militiamen were supposed to have brought extra AKs and munitions for him and Mac.
‘They’re sorting them for us,’ said Logan. He pointed at the older man he’d been speaking to. ‘That’s Commander Ibrahimzai. He’s in charge. And the little guy standing next to him is Pasoon. He’ll be guiding us to the compound where Bakker is being held.’
The teenage kid and another young militiaman were digging into a large metal trunk in the back of one of the Hiluxes.
Logan turned to Baz and pointed at the doorway of the shrine. ‘We’re going to be here a while – we’ll need to check the weapons they give us. Why don’t you take a look inside? It’s some of the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen.’
‘Sure,’ said Baz, as the guys wandered over to the Hilux to look at the weapons. She’d heard of the shrine of the glass coffin, and it could make a good local colour piece for the paper at some future point.
‘Whose body is it?’ she called back to Logan as she stood on the threshold.
Logan laughed. ‘Literally no one can remember.’
It seemed hard to believe that this was a venerated shrine. There was no sign on the outside, or any form of religious decoration. Just a small brick and mud building, hardly taller than a man. Baz ducked and went inside. A low, vaulted corridor led downwards into pitch black. Not particularly enticing, but the air was cool, so she ventured further.
Switching on the small torch that she’d crammed into one of the pockets of her ops vest, she walked on to the end of the short tunnel. Its brickwork walls were pale and unadorned, the uneven stones casting craggy shadows ahead of her. It was silent down here, apart from the soft gritty crunch of her boots on the floor. She couldn’t hear the chatter of the men outside, and it suddenly felt as if she were all alone, somewhere at the edge of the world.
At the end of the passage, a stone archway opened out into a small, low-ceilinged room. Baz stood on the threshold, casting the thin beam of light around the space in front of her. In the centre of the room, something reflected brilliantly, and Baz shivered. This must be it – the famous glass coffin for which the shrine was named.
She stepped forward and concentrated the torch on the shadowy glass box. Inside she could make out a lying figure, and as she peered down at it, she realised it was the desiccated form of a human corpse. The skin was like boiled leather, stretched over jutting bones, and the figure was naked apart from a grimy loincloth draped around its waist. Its face was pinched and pointed – sunken cheeks, a gaping mouthful of brown teeth, and huge hollow eye sockets staring up at her.
Baz gasped and stepped back, hitting something that hadn’t been there before.
She screamed.
Hands clutched her shoulders. ‘It’s okay, Baz. It’s all right – just me.’ Mac’s calm voice reassured her, and she laughed. Nervously.
‘Damn!’ she said. ‘This is like something out of a horror movie.’
‘Come on,’ said Mac. ‘Time to go.’
Heart still pounding, Baz followed him out into the bright, sharp sunlight. Logan and Ginger were stashing weapons into the back of the Surf, and the militiamen were climbing into their Hiluxes.
Baz wondered what the rest of the day held for them. Najibullahkhan Kalay was still a fair distance south from where they were, and they were pretty much at the limit of where it was deemed safe for westerners to venture. Sure, they had the governor’s men. But they were on a mission that would bring them into conflict with a Taliban cell. She watched as the kid with the Kalashnikov climbed into a vehicle, slammed the door shut behind him and then half emerged to sit on the open window rim, calling out excitedly as the convoy of Hiluxes started to move.
Would he still be alive by the end of the day?
The air-conditioning kicked in and Baz shivered. She felt as cold now as she had in the dark and silent tomb just moments before.