Fear was overtaken by fury as Mac realised that he was simply a meal ticket to pakul and keffiyeh. There was nothing political about his abduction. They were a pair of criminal opportunists who’d seen a chance to make what was, for them, big money. He’d been snatched, trafficked and sold, placed in the hands of people even less scrupulous who would no doubt try and sell him back to his own country.
Problem was, it was a trade the UK government didn’t care to participate in.
As pakul and keffiyeh climbed back into their truck and turned it round to leave the compound, the man with the white beard barked an order. One of the others squatted down at Mac’s side, drew a knife and cut through the rope that was binding his ankles. He grabbed hold of Mac’s left upper arm and yanked him to his feet, making Mac yelp with pain from the pressure this put on his broken collarbone. Starbursts flared in front of his eyes and he felt light-headed. He bit down hard on his bottom lip to anchor himself. He needed to keep his wits about him, now more than ever.
As White Beard gave more orders, Mac looked around the compound. It covered a large area, and the house at the centre was big – two storeys, and though crudely built it certainly wasn’t a farm worker’s hovel. There were a couple of additional, smaller buildings, one of which appeared to be a stable or livestock barn, and one which had small, high windows and a heavily padlocked door. Two battered Toyota Hiluxes and a technical were parked close to the main gate, along with several Hando motorcycles – the ubiquitous Honda knock-offs, ridden all over Afghanistan. And so far Mac counted at least seven men, all carrying Krinkovs or AKs, as well as a variety of pistols in holsters or simply shoved into waistcoat pockets. He would have his work cut out if he was to make an escape bid on his own.
But most interesting of all, running along one of the side walls of the compound, under the charred and blackened wooden covering of a lean-to, stood a row of four huge firepits. Oil drums were suspended above two of the fires, which were gently smouldering. The stench of chemicals wafted towards him. Beside the firepits were rows of empty oil drums, discarded iron pans, stacked barrels of chemicals and cans of solvents. A teenage boy with a scarf wrapped round his mouth and nose was stirring the contents of one of the drums with a long stick.
Mac knew immediately what he was seeing. This was a heroin lab. Not content with the profits to be made from smuggling raw opium over the border into Pakistan and Iran, Afghanistan’s drug barons were increasingly bringing the manufacture of heroin in-house to enhance their profits. Ten kilos of opium could be transformed into one kilo of heroin – worth far more than ten times the value of the raw opium. It took little skill, and the chemicals involved, though illegal, were easily available, so why not keep a bigger slice of the pie to themselves? And who was going to stop them, when they could pay off the government officials and police who might have challenged them? It made perfect sense.
The man who’d pulled him to his feet prodded Mac in the back, and Mac tore his eyes away from the heroin still. The men were all making their way into the house. It was getting dark now. The gates to the compound had been bolted and a couple of guards had been posted just inside. Mac followed his captors through the door, hoping the fact that they’d paid good American dollars for him meant they’d want to keep him alive.
Like most Afghan houses, a small vestibule led into a large communal room, where the men now congregated. The floor was carpeted with overlapping handwoven rugs, and the tapestry-hung walls were lined with seats made from giant floor cushions. Apart from that there was no furniture, and the small windows were set high up, allowing just enough light during the day, while keeping out the heat of the sun. Now it was getting dark, the room was illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The exposed wiring, crudely stapled to the wall and ceiling, showed that electricity had been a recent addition to the house. Somewhere outside Mac could hear the hum of a generator.
An old man jostled the chattering men out of the way to lay out a large, food-stained tablecloth in the centre of the floor. It was time for the evening meal. Mac was shoved down onto a floor cushion in the corner of the room. Were they going to allow him to eat with them? He could smell cooking, and his dry mouth started to water. It was more than twenty-four hours since he’d had anything to eat, and while a day of high anxiety meant food had been the last thing on his mind, now he could smell it he realised how much he needed sustenance.
The younger men leaned their rifles up against the walls and sat down, talking loudly among themselves while they waited. The old man and the teenage boy who had been stirring the heroin outside brought in plates piled with rice, huge, charred naans and bowls of stewed chicken in a thin-looking broth. The men fell on the food as if it was their first meal of the day, but Mac, with his hands still tied behind his back, was unable to join in.
At least the bastards could give him something to drink.
He cleared his throat. The men ignored him. He tried again, louder this time.
‘Water,’ he said. He didn’t know the Pashto word. His voice sounded cracked, and it was difficult to form the word as his slashed tongue was swollen and the geography of his mouth felt alien. They certainly didn’t understand what he was saying.
‘Water.’
He said it louder this time, and when White Beard finally deigned to look in his direction, Mac made a drinking gesture. White Beard looked away and spoke to a younger man with glossy black hair swept back from his forehead and a dark, luxurious beard. Some discussion ensued, and as both men occasionally glanced in his direction, he guessed they were talking about him. The discussion turned to an argument, but White Beard prevailed with a sharp finality. Black Beard said something to the man next to him, who stood up, cramming a last piece of bread into his mouth, and came across to Mac’s corner.
He gestured with a hand for Mac to stand.
Mac struggled to his feet as quickly as he could. His shoulder was still burning and the last thing he needed was more manhandling.
‘Water?’ he said again, earning himself a slap across the jaw from his new keeper.
The man pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and hustled him out of the room. Mac paused in the small vestibule, not knowing if he was supposed to go up the flight of stairs that led to the first floor or out through the door.
The man shoved him with the muzzle of the pistol. It was through the door, and Mac felt the heat hit him again as he stepped out into the darkened courtyard. His keeper shouted something to the two guards at the gate and they laughed.
Mac received another shove in the back, but he didn’t know where he was supposed to be going. Had he been brought out here so he could be shot? That didn’t make sense, given that they’d just paid for him, but this logic didn’t stop the bitter taste of fear from flooding his mouth. He stumbled on the uneven ground.
He’d never felt so helpless or so vulnerable in his life, and in a rush of thoughts he wondered if he’d ever see Baz or his parents again, or get back to Scotland, or…
The man lost patience with him and grabbed hold of his right arm, and suddenly Mac was thankful for small mercies and fully back in the moment. He was being frogmarched towards the squat building with the padlocked door he’d noticed earlier. His captor let go of him to undo the lock and then shoved him roughly inside. He followed him in and rebound his ankles.
As the man turned to leave, Mac made one last appeal for a drink of water. The man said something he didn’t understand and slammed the door behind him. Enveloped in darkness, Mac waited for his eyes to acclimatise. The small windows high in the walls let in a glow of moonlight, and eventually Mac was able to discern dark silhouettes in the room around him. Not furniture – they were all square. He felt with his hands. Boxes and crates. He was in a storage room. He sniffed. There was the tang of chemicals on the air, and he guessed this was where the ingredients for the heroin-making enterprise outside were stashed.
And now his makeshift jail.
He was exhausted and weak. Without giving it much thought, he sat down on the pressed mud floor, resting his back against the door. If they didn’t give him food or water, he wouldn’t be of much value to them for long. And by the same token, if he didn’t get sustenance, he wouldn’t have the strength to mount an escape attempt.
The sound of footsteps approaching on the ground outside made him tense all his muscles. Someone was coming towards the hut, so he scuttled from where he was to a position resting against a crate opposite the door.
He heard the noise of the padlock being released and the door creaked open. A torch shone in his eyes, temporarily blinding him.
‘Bread. Water,’ said a husky voice from behind the light.
‘You speak English?’
There was no reply, but the light showed a hand reaching forward to place a plastic bottle of water and a metal plate with a folded piece of naan just inside the doorway.
‘My hands,’ said Mac. There was no way he’d be able to open the water bottle with his hands still fastened behind his back.
The man said something in Pashto, but he stepped into the room and swiftly cut the rope from Mac’s wrists.
It could have been an opportunity to attempt an escape. He could have knocked the bloke over and gone for the door. But he’d already suffered the failure of one unplanned escape attempt. This would be too risky – there were two armed guards at the gate, and he was weak, injured and disorientated. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
Instead, he rubbed his wrists where the ropes had chafed, and thanked the man.
‘Mn’n’na, thank you.’
He would bide his time and wait for a better chance.
That might never come, but at least he had some bread and water.