Sharky took Kaminski off their hands, still grinning that they’d done his work for him, though some of his crew were less than thrilled at having missed out on the action. They had a medic with them, who immediately inserted a drip into Kaminski’s arm to rehydrate him and counter the shock. He was also able to take a closer look at the worst of the Canadian’s wounds.
Over a quick brew, Mac introduced Logan to Sharky, who knew of the mercenary by reputation, and the two of them promised to meet up in Kabul some time to trade war stories.
‘Okay, everyone, time to head out,’ said Sharky, tossing the dregs of his tea into the roadside dust. ‘Doesn’t look like they’re sending anyone after you, or we would have known it by now, but I wouldn’t waste any time heading north if I was you.’
Mac shook his hand and accepted his gratitude graciously. But inside he was seething. He’d risked all of their lives on a piece of dodgy information and while Sharky was happy, they were back at square one.
‘What the fuck do we do now?’ he said to Logan, Ginger and Baz, as they climbed back into the Surf and fell in behind the British contingent. They would drive in convoy as far as Lash, where Sharky would carry on towards Kandahar to hand Kaminski over to the Canadians at KAF – Kandahar Airfield, the biggest staging centre in the region.
‘Even if we get better information on where Bakker might be,’ Ginger said, ‘this little jaunt has probably blown the whole Well Diggers budget, because the governor will still expect to be paid.’
‘Surely it’s time for the Dutch government to step in,’ said Baz. ‘With money, if not with manpower?’
‘I’ll have to talk to Anholts when we get back,’ said Ginger. ‘Basically, I’ve fucked up.’
‘Not your fault,’ said Mac. ‘What were the chances that the westerner who was spotted wasn’t our man?’
‘Almost as bad as a dry hole,’ muttered Ginger, referring to a rescue mission in which no hostage is found.
They slumped into silence, exhausted, deflated, all wondering what would come next. No one wants to return from a rescue mission empty-handed, even if it had been a success of sorts.
The drive back up to Lash seemed long, but at least it was uneventful. After waving Sharky and his team off once they’d crossed the Helmand River at the edge of the city, Logan drove back to the Well Diggers house.
‘Jeez, I need a beer,’ he said, following Mac and Ginger inside.
Baz limped in behind him. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.
‘How are you feeling?’ said Mac. He’d been pleased that she’d had the distraction of looking after Kaminski, at least for a bit, so she couldn’t dwell on the fact that she’d taken a hit and what might have been if she hadn’t been wearing body armour.
‘Bruised, battered.’ She smiled at him. ‘Lucky to be alive.’
He shook his head. He couldn’t afford to take her on any more missions if she kept putting herself in danger. But now wasn’t the time to get into it. Now they all needed a beer and some food, and a good night’s sleep once they’d had a chance to unwind.
Ginger called Nagpal to see if he could organise a delivery of food from one of the local restaurants, and he did one better by arriving with another crate of beer and the assurances that an order of Kabuli palaw was on its way – a popular Afghan dish consisting of rice and mutton, with raisins and grated carrot.
He joined them on the shaded terrace at the back of the house.
‘So where do you think Bakker might be?’ he said, once they’d filled him in on what had happened.
‘Fuck knows,’ said Ginger. ‘You’ve clearly not heard from the kidnappers?’
Nagpal shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘We’ve missed something,’ said Mac. ‘The man can’t have vanished into thin air. Someone, somewhere, knows where he is.’
‘If he’s still alive,’ said Logan, tossing his empty beer bottle into a bucket and reaching across the low table in front of them for another. It was a thought that no one had wanted to voice.
‘Whether he’s alive or dead, there’s got to be some information out there,’ said Mac. ‘Nagpal, who haven’t we spoken to? Where are we with Nazanina?’
‘She hasn’t come back to work, so we’ll probably have to go to her – she’s at a family compound somewhere in the countryside. I’m on it.’ Nagpal took a long drink of beer, and looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe…’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Maybe what?’ said Logan.
‘Okay, you remember our list of people who left the company?’ said Nagpal, putting his bottle down on the table.
Mac had completely forgotten about it, probably because he didn’t think it would lead to anything. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘I think we should follow up on one of them. About a year ago, there was an argument at the other house which resulted in Vinke sacking one of the gate guards.’
‘You surely don’t think that this was an act of revenge for something as trivial as that?’ said Mac.
Nagpal pulled a face. ‘Not trivial. The man lost his living. He supported his whole family on what he earned from Well Diggers. That sort of insult can only be settled by the spilling of blood.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Mac.
Nagpal frowned and shook his head. ‘No. It’s part of the Pashtunwali – the code of life. Nyaw aw badal – even a mere taunt, a peghor, counts as an insult.’
‘Shit. I wish you’d mentioned it sooner.’
Nagpal shrugged. ‘It might just be a waste of time.’
‘Don’t forget,’ said Logan, exhaling an odorous cloud of smoke from the chars he’d just lit, ‘Afghan society is tribal – and vengeful. Do you know what happened to him, Nagpal? Did he issue any threats?’
‘It was a year ago. Lash is big enough, but there aren’t many jobs as soft as being a gate guard at a western compound. If he wasn’t able to find work, he might still be blaming Vinke. And that would call for the shedding of blood.’
‘We need to find him and talk to him,’ said Ginger. ‘What was his name?’
‘Said Wali Gul.’
Mac remembered the name from the list Nagpal had given him.
‘Do you know where he lives?’ said Baz.
‘His family are from Kandahar – the Hotak tribe, I think. I can check his address in the office records.’
Despite feeling wrung out from the events of the past twenty-four hours, less than an hour later Mac found himself sitting next to Nagpal in the front of one of the Well Diggers Land Rovers. Ginger sat in the back, but for once Mac had managed to persuade Baz that she shouldn’t come. She needed to rest, and it wasn’t going to be much of a story for her – they were just going to question Said Wali Gul about his whereabouts on the day of Vinke’s death. Mac didn’t expect much would come of it, but they had to try everything. Time was running out for Bakker.
‘It said in the records that his family lived in Loy Bagh. It’s a run-down area of farmland on the other side of the river.’
‘You’ve got his address?’ said Ginger, leaning forward between the seats.
‘No, not a street address. Just a rough indication – the streets aren’t named and the houses aren’t numbered. When we get there, we can ask around if anyone knows the family.’
It didn’t seem very precise, but Mac knew it was the Afghan way. He just hoped they weren’t setting out on another wild goose chase.
Once they were across the river, the buildings thinned out and the roads became narrower. They drove through a patchwork of tiny fields, tended to by women and children. Instead of the large walled compounds of the city, the dwellings were small, mostly built of mud, without doors or windows. Despite their poverty, the women wore brightly coloured shalwar kameez, while their children sported a mixture of traditional and western-style clothing, all grubby and worn out, handed down through an endless succession of siblings and cousins. The little boys stared with wide, dark eyes as the Land Rover rumbled past on the rough tracks, while the little girls hid their faces in their mothers’ clothes, already knowing better than to look strangers in the eye.
A few kilometres north of the main river crossing, Nagpal brought the Land Rover to a halt in a more built-up, but no less poverty-stricken, area.
‘I think he should be living somewhere around here,’ he said, climbing out of the vehicle.
Mac quickly checked his Browning and got out too. He hoped he wouldn’t need it. After all, they were just here to ask a few questions. If they actually found the guy.
Nagpal walked towards the nearest house, a small, squat building made of mud bricks. A goat bleated loudly as Ginger pushed it to one side so he could come round the Land Rover. The air smelt of livestock and raw sewage. Mac hoped they would find the man quickly. The light was fading now, and this wasn’t the sort of area he wanted to be wandering around after dark.
‘Salaam alaikum,’ called Nagpal, to alert anyone inside of their presence and make it clear that they were friendly.
There was no response. Only the bleating of the goat and the sound of their boots on the stony ground.
He said it again, louder this time.
A small boy, maybe five or six, peered round the edge of the doorway, the two middle fingers of his right hand stuffed firmly in his mouth.
Nagpal stepped forward and squatted down in front of him. He asked him something in Pashto, but the boy’s intense blue-green eyes widened with fear and he ducked back inside the house.
Mac sighed. This was getting them nowhere. He looked around to see if there were signs of people at any of the other nearby dwellings. A teenage girl ducked out of sight, and Mac knew better than to attempt to talk to her.
Then a man appeared in the doorway of the first house, taking the boy by the hand. Nagpal straightened up with a groan, rubbing the small of his back. The man gave him a hostile stare – Mac supposed it wasn’t every day that a Sikh and two westerners appeared in his village and accosted his child.
Nagpal took a step back to lessen any threat he might have presented.
‘Salaam alaikum, chutor asti?’
‘Alaikum a’salaam.’ The man’s tone was gruff.
Nagpal spoke and Mac heard the name Said Wali Gul in amongst the words.
The man shook his head vehemently, with a torrent of words. But he rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger, a sure-fire tell that he was lying as far as Mac was concerned.
Nagpal turned back to him and Ginger. ‘He says he doesn’t know where Said lives. He hasn’t heard of him.’
‘Ask him what tribe he’s a member of,’ said Mac.
This set off a lengthy conversation that in due course turned into an argument. The little boy tugged his hand out of his father’s and went back inside. Mac could feel the tension growing, and beside him, Ginger stiffened, his hand drifting down to rest on the grip of his holstered pistol. Mac looked at him, giving a slight shake of his head. There was no point spooking the bloke.
The goat meanwhile had wandered off around the side of the house. A sudden sharp bleat and a scuffling of feet caught Mac’s attention. An angry shout.
‘Waa, ásha ásha!’
Someone was running away.
Without thinking or waiting, Mac set off after whoever it was. If the person had reason to bolt on hearing whatever Nagpal and the man were saying, the chances were that this was the man they were after. And if he was running away, it suggested he had something to hide.
As he came around the mud hut, Mac saw a figure dressed in dark clothing disappearing into the gap between two more houses. He pelted through the filthy back yard, shoving the protesting goat out of his way, and ducked into the space where the man had disappeared. He could still hear the footfalls thudding somewhere ahead and he was determined to catch up.
There he was, charging across a turnip field. The ground was softer, but the knee-high plants impeded Mac’s progress, and the distance between them grew.
‘Hey, stop!’ yelled Mac.
The man glanced back over his shoulder, but carried on running.
‘Wait, I just want to ask you some questions.’ He didn’t even know if the man would understand him.
It made no difference. The runner was determined not to get caught. He disappeared into a grove of stubby trees and Mac crashed after him, the low branches scratching his face and catching in his hair.
‘Fuck!’
Emerging from the trees some twenty metres further on brought Mac onto a narrow dirt road. He looked in both directions – there was the bloke, to the left, still running.
Mac’s chest was burning, and every breath was a struggle. But he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to catch the bastard if it killed him.