There were no cities, or even sizeable towns, south of Lashkar Gah in Helmand Province, and this meant there was no light pollution. Mac stared up at the endless black sky, following the shimmering trail of the Milky Way with his eyes. It reminded him of home where, on the west coast of Scotland, the skies were similarly clear.
But he couldn’t pause for long. It was time to go.
He pulled himself out of the karez with newfound strength. After eating his fill of the goat’s liver and part of the heart, he’d rested further along the karez, giving it time to digest. Now he was ready to set out across the dark expanses of the poppy fields, and this time he had a plan. During the day, he’d been able to work out the compass points from the movement of the sun, so now he knew which way was which. It was his intention tonight to relocate the river, and then follow its course north, while keeping on the furthest edges of the cultivated area to avoid the villages and farms along its banks. It would be one hell of a walk – he had no idea how far south of Lash he’d been taken. He suspected it would be a journey of weeks rather than days, and only possible if he could find more food and suitable hiding places along the way.
He’d stripped all the muscle meat from the goat and had tied it up in a pouch of goatskin he’d cut from the animal’s back. But it already stank, and it wouldn’t be fit to eat for long in the oppressive heat. He left the remains of the animal in the karez – at some point a goatherd would realise one of his beasts was missing and start to search. And once it was found, they’d see that its death had been no accident.
With the pouch of meat slung around his waist, Mac surveyed the landscape. He’d emerged from a different access shaft than the one where he’d found the goat – he didn’t want to risk that one again in case the goat had already been missed. Instead, he’d walked approximately a kilometre underground before climbing out.
This time, he came up in the heart of a poppy field. Around him, the stems rustled in the slight breeze, the flower heads closed for the night with petals furled tight. Cautiously, he raised his head above the level of the plants and looked around. He was on an area of flat ground beneath a ridge. Climbing to the top of the ridge, he could see the broad expanse of the Helmand glinting in the starlight, about three kilometres away. Any signs of human habitation – a couple of small villages, a lone compound – were down near the water. Up here there was nothing but fields.
Good. He would stay up on the hillside and cover as much ground as he could before finding a place to shelter just before dawn.
Reaching the edge of the field, he set off at a relaxed jog. He would run for as long as he could, then walk, all the time scouting – for humans, for water, for shelter. The ground was uneven and rocky, meaning he had to watch where he was placing his feet, but his eyes were already acclimatised to the darkness. He alternated between scanning the ground and scanning the horizon, thankful that his boots were sturdy and gave him good ankle support – and that the kidnappers hadn’t taken them to incapacitate him. The idiots.
However, despite having eaten and rehydrated, Mac wasn’t as strong as he’d hoped. The jogging soon took its toll on his knee and jarred his broken collarbone. Drawing in the deep breaths he needed to run made his mouth dry. He stooped down and picked up a pebble to suck on, to increase his salivation, but it didn’t work for long. Eventually, he concluded that if he slowed down, he’d be able to preserve energy and hydration and carry on longer. A brisk march would still eat up the kilometres. Some at least.
Whenever he needed to pass a village below him on the riverbank, he took extra care to find cover, crawling along to stay below the level of the poppy plants or dropping back behind rocky outcrops on the hillside. He couldn’t afford to be seen, and even though it looked as if everyone was asleep, he couldn’t count on it.
Once, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming down the rutted track that hugged the river. He ducked out of sight behind a clump of thistles, watching through the thorny branches as a pair of headlights danced over the bumpy ground. As it passed, far below him, he identified the black silhouette of an SUV. One of Jamali’s vehicles, out looking for him? Maybe he was being paranoid, but better to err on the side of caution, so he waited until it was completely out of sight before moving off again.
Every hour or so, he would sit down and chew on some of the goat’s meat. The taste was strong and it already seemed rancid. When he’d been starving, it had been easier to eat. Now, not hungry but wanting to maintain his strength, he could barely bring himself to swallow it, and he was sorely tempted to dump it behind a rock. But he wasn’t going to allow himself the luxury of dumping food just because he didn’t like the taste. It would last until the next day before it was too off to eat, so he would persevere with it, even though every mouthful made him retch.
The landscape barely changed as he walked. The stars moved overhead as the planet turned, the moon rose, casting its silver glow over the fields and turning the Helmand into a mirror. But still, from the river basin to the top of the slope where he walked, the land was a continuous patchwork of fields, and the only crop was the barbed bringer of sweet dreams for its users and, for its growers, cold, hard cash.
Mac thought about the problem as he walked. How would the west ever persuade the Afghans to give up their most lucrative crop? From the field workers to the narco barons, there was no incentive to swap opium for okra. The numbers didn’t add up, while demand for what they grew continued to rise as the unscrupulous found ever more ways to snag people on its golden hook.
Cursing, Mac stamped on a flower head that had drooped across his path. He understood how people got addicted, but there had to be some way of breaking the chain of evil that stretched from these beautiful flower heads to the filthy squats and piss-drenched alleys of Europe’s cities.
He’d be damned if he knew the answer.
He trudged on, his legs beginning to feel tired and heavy, his mouth dry and his lips sore. He decided to drop down the slope to the flat valley floor to see if there were any irrigation canals. He desperately needed water if he was going to keep up this pace for another few hours. If only he’d thought to bring one of the empty plastic bottles from Jamali’s compound. But there was no point in regrets. It was too late now.
Walking down in the valley meant being far more careful and by necessity taking wide detours to avoid villages and compounds. The progress he made was slow and still he didn’t find any water. He was thirsty and he needed a drink.
Finally, on the very edge of a small village, he saw an enclosure of goats, penned in by a crude wooden fence. Goat’s milk. Salvation. He’d occasionally milked a cow as a child, so how hard could it be to milk a goat? He allowed himself to go right down the slope until he was within twenty metres of the pen. It meant he was close to the road, and he prayed that he wouldn’t hear an engine rumbling in the distance.
He waited for several minutes, his eyes scanning the village for signs of life. But dawn had yet to break and the early morning call to prayer was still some time away. Some of the goats were awake, silently chewing the cud, while a few were huddled together sleeping. As Mac crawled closer to the fence, one of them heard something and let out a derisory bleat of alarm. The sleeping goats stirred and a couple of them clambered to their feet to check out what was going on. Mac saw that one of them was female, with a heavy udder slung beneath her body. She would be his target.
Still trying to be as quiet as he could, he skirted the perimeter of the pen to find a rudimentary gate. It creaked as he pushed it open, and again when he closed it behind him. He dropped to the ground and lay still, once again assessing the surrounding area for signs of people, but apart from the occasional bleating of the now interested goats, there was nothing to be heard. The stench of goat was overwhelming inside the pen, made even worse when he inadvertently rested one elbow in a pile of dung.
Now was the time to act, but he felt some trepidation. Up close, the goats were larger than they’d appeared from outside the pen. They were milling around him and he was concerned that the increasing volume of their bleating would alert the village. He needed to be quick.
He picked out the large-uddered female goat and moved towards her on his hands and knees, making soft clicking noises with his mouth.
‘Come on, you beauty,’ he whispered as he reached out to grab the rope around her neck.
A male goat with stubby, hooked horns butted up against him with remarkable strength, sending him sprawling on the dirt. All of his injuries protested with sharp bursts of pain, but he was more intent on keeping hold of the nanny goat’s tether as she tried to struggle free.
‘Come on, darling. Just stand still for me.’
The goat twisted her neck from one side to the other, tugging against his hold. He sat up and pulled her in close to his chest. He was able to snake one arm around her neck and he held her tight. With his free hand, he grabbed for her udder, feeling for a teat to squeeze. She gave a loud bleat of protest, calling on her male protectors. He wasn’t sure this could possibly work, with nothing to squirt the milk into except his mouth, but he had to give it a try.
The goat that had already butted Mac came in for a second shot on target. This time he crashed his bony forehead into Mac’s bad shoulder. Mac flew backwards with a howl of pain, letting go of the female goat, which took full advantage to put distance between them. Cursing loudly, Mac attempted to stand. But the nanny goat had other plans for him and before he’d regained his balance, she charged. Her weight cut his knees out from under him and he crashed to the ground. The breath was blown out of his chest and his vision blurred. The bleating around him had reached fever pitch, but he still heard the creak of the rickety gate.
Then a female voice shouted angrily in Pashto. ‘Sta noom sa de?’
He sat up, blinking.
The voice belonged to a girl in a hijab and a brightly embroidered red dress. She was barely a teenager, but she was holding a hefty-looking wooden club above her head.
Mac rolled out of range and shoved a hand to the back of his waistband for the Makarov – only to find that it was no longer there.