They headed east from the checkpoint, passing through the strategic border town at Hairatan. Carter looked out of his side window as they drove past a tableau of poverty and despair. Long lines of people queued up for handouts outside a food relief distribution centre. Others sat begging on the sides of the road, their malnourished children lying on blankets at their feet. There was a palpable sense of desperation in the air. Carter could see it in their faces. A people forced to the brink.
Twenty years of war, and this is how we’ve left the country.
He recalled that Afghanistan was in a different time zone and changed his G-Shock to the local time, thirty minutes behind Uzbekistan. After several kilometres the road curved south and they pushed deeper into the country. Carter saw groves of apricot trees, neglected farmsteads and impoverished villages. Columns of people trudged along the roadsides, many of them barefoot, the men dressed in a variety of waistcoats, tunics and trousers. Some walked alongside underfed donkeys weighed down with the family’s worldly possessions.
They continued east on the main road, heading in the direction of Kunduz. Twenty minutes later, they hit a road junction with an abandoned truck stop at the side. In the distance, the rusted metal carcass of an Afghan light-armoured vehicle baked beneath the sun. From his study of the maps, Carter swiftly recognised this place as the prearranged RV point.
Kabiri dropped the Land Cruiser to fifteen per and steered off the highway, then parked next to the derelict truck stop. Carter glanced round.
‘Where’s Omar?’ he asked.
‘We are too early,’ Kabiri said. ‘Omar will be here soon. Don’t worry, my friend. Patience. He will come.’
They sat and waited. Kabiri chained his way through another rancid-smelling cigarette. Carter pulled out a plastic bottle of water from his rucksack and took a couple of sips.
Eight minutes later, he descried a cloud of dust on the road further west. A white Toyota Hilux scudded towards them. Carter watched it turn off the metalled road before it pulled up next to the Land Cruiser. The Hilux was one of the four-door models, with a shortened rear bed. It looked several years old, with worn tyres, and the paintwork was coated in a patina of sand and grime. The perfect vehicle for blending in with the local environment.
Kabiri tipped his head at the pickup and said, brusquely, ‘There. That is Omar. Go. I’m done here.’
‘Good luck, mate,’ Carter told him. ‘With your relatives.’
Kabiri smiled. ‘I think, my friend, I do not need the luck as much as you.’
Too fucking right, thought Carter as he climbed out of the Land Cruiser.
He hooked round to the rear door, opened it and snatched up his rucksack from the back seat, pausing to tear off the NGO badges from his shirt, trousers and bag. He stowed the Velcro patches in his pockets: if they ran into any more Taliban checkpoints along the way, Carter would slap them back on and try to bluff his way through, sticking to the original story that he was here on official business.
He slammed the door shut. Kabiri quickly accelerated away in a swirl of hot dust and churned dirt as he steered the Land Cruiser back onto the highway. At the same time Carter jogged over to the pickup. Omar Sharza hopped out and greeted him with a fierce handshake.
‘My brother,’ he said in faintly accented English. He stood back and gave a weary smile tinged with sadness. ‘I did not think I would see you here again.’
‘That makes two of us, mate,’ Carter replied.
Sharza looked exactly the same as Carter remembered him. He was big all over, a great bear of a man with meaty paws and a full beard. But his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a strained look on his face. The constant stress of running people out of the country from under the noses of the Taliban.
‘You are ready?’ asked Sharza. He had a soft voice that seemed completely at odds with his grizzly-bear physique. Carter nodded, and Sharza said, ‘OK, then. Let’s go.’
Carter bundled his rucksack into the back of the cab and jumped into the shotgun seat. Then Sharza punched the start-stop button on the dash, the Hilux engine fired up, and soon they were cannoning east on the highway.
Towards Khordokan, and the last known location of David Vann.
Every few minutes Sharza glanced in the rear-view mirror, as if he was worried that someone might be following him. But the road behind them remained clear of vehicles and after several kilometres the interpreter visibly relaxed.
‘I am sorry I couldn’t meet you in Uzbekistan,’ he said at last. ‘But you must understand. People are hunting for me. I could not take the risk.’
‘None of that, mate,’ Carter replied. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’
Sharza smiled sadly. ‘It is a shame we must meet again.’
Carter shot him a questioning look and said, ‘What are you still doing here, Omar? You should be out of the country by now, bedding down with your family in Kent, or wherever.’
Carter surprised himself with the feeling in his voice. But he liked Sharza. Respected him. He had spent eighteen months living with the bloke while he’d served as an embed with Afghan SF. The two of them had taken meals together, shared jokes and fought against the Taliban. In that environment, you quickly learned who you could trust, and who wasn’t up for the job. Over time, Sharza had proven himself a man of dedication, loyalty and toughness.
The guy had risked his life to serve alongside Carter. If anyone warranted a shot at a new life, it was him. He certainly deserved better than staying put in Afghanistan.
‘I couldn’t leave,’ Sharza explained quietly. ‘The British government offered to help get me out, but I could not accept.’
‘Why not?’ asked Carter.
‘There are people here . . . people who need my help. I could not abandon them.’
‘You’ve got a wife and kids, Omar.’
‘I know.’
‘So why stick around here? You’re putting your neck on the line every time you set foot outside your home.’
Sharza stared dead ahead for several beats. Then he swallowed and said, ‘I have a nephew. My brother’s son. Amredin. Nineteen years old. He is still here, in Bazarak. Hiding.’ He glanced at Carter. ‘If the Taliban find him, they will kill him. This I know.’
‘What about your brother?’
‘He’s in Greece. In a refugee camp. With the rest of his family. Amredin was supposed to join them, but my brother received a warning from a friend that the Taliban planned to arrest him, so he had to flee in the middle of the night, without any notice. They did not even have time to pack their things.’ Sharza paused. ‘Amredin was staying with his grandparents at the time. My brother had to leave him behind.’
Carter was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘That’s why you’re still in-country? Because of your nephew?’
‘Yes,’ Sharza said. He scratched his beard. ‘The Americans, they promised that they would get Amredin to safety if I agreed to help others escape.’
‘Did they?’
‘Not yet. They are waiting for the right moment, they say.’
‘What about your family?’
‘They are waiting for me in Britain,’ Sharza said. ‘At a place called Cardiff. You know it?’
Carter laughed heartily, breaking the sombre mood. ‘Aye, I know it.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You might speak English better than some of our lads, but you won’t understand a word the locals are saying. They speak a whole different tongue in them parts.’
‘Then I shall learn,’ Sharza said, proudly. ‘I am keen to educate myself, learn many things. My children too. I will get out of here soon, I hope. Once we find your friend.’
Carter said, seriously, ‘How much have they told you about the mission?’
‘Only that your friend is in danger.’ Sharza hesitated. ‘They said this friend of yours, Vann, he is close with Jabar Hakimi, the leader of the National Alliance. This is true?’
‘As far as I know,’ Carter said. ‘Why?’
‘I have contacts, in Kabul and elsewhere. They say the Taliban are planning to destroy the National Alliance while it is still weak. They have vowed to hunt down and kill anyone who is guilty of working with them.’ Sharza paused. ‘Including your friend.’
‘Then we’ll have to find him first,’ Carter said.
Sharza nodded. He said, ‘I have done as the Americans have asked. I have spoken with people I trust about your friend. To see if any of them have seen or heard of such a man.’
‘Any news?’
‘Nothing. No one has seen him since Khordokan.’ He looked across at Carter. ‘Your friend, he is like a ghost.’
Carter rubbed his jaw. ‘We’ll have to take a closer look at the maps later. Find out where he might have taken refuge. If Vann was in that area a few days ago he can’t have gone very far.’
‘No.’
‘Where’s the safe house?’
‘I have found a place for us in a village, fifteen kilometres from Khordokan. We will stay there tonight.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘I know the people who live there. They are good people,’ Sharza replied confidently. ‘They do not like the Taliban. They will shelter us. I would trust them with my life.’
You already are, mate, Carter almost said.
Carter consulted his G-Shock. A little past one o’clock in the afternoon. A two-hundred-mile journey on Afghan roads equated to a journey time of around four hours. They were looking at an ETA of around five o’clock. Two hours before nightfall. Plenty of time to start casting an eye over the maps before beginning their search the next morning.
They continued east, through the major cities at Kunduz and Taloqan. Taliban-controlled territory, but Sharza had explained that there was no other way of reaching the safe house. But he knew the locations of the main police checkpoints, and the spots where Taliban were likely to be found in large numbers: guarding mosques, government buildings, food distribution centres.
Besides, most of the police officers were former Taliban soldiers, Sharza added. Many of them came from tiny villages. They had never set foot in a city before in their life and knew nothing of the backstreets and the side roads in a place like Kunduz. Sharza expertly navigated his way through chaotic back roads crowded with beggars and packs of feral dogs. Women rooted through bags of rubbish while homeless people wrapped themselves in tattered blankets.
East of Kunduz the situation looked even more desperate. They rolled past narrow strips of fertile land and meadows on either side of the river, hemmed in by forbidding mountain ranges. Small, dirt-poor villages clung to the riverside, many consisting of nothing more than a scattering of dismal hovels and poppy fields.
Carter said, ‘Looks like this area hasn’t changed much.’
Sharza smiled. ‘You mean the opium?’
‘That’s still the big trade, I’m guessing.’
‘For now,’ Sharza replied. ‘But not for much longer, maybe.’ He waved a hand at the surrounding mountains. ‘The people here are poor, but this land is very rich. Many minerals here. Coal too. The Chinese are opening mines now. All across this area. Many Chinese come here to work.’
‘Got to be a dicey place to operate,’ said Carter. ‘They’re at risk of getting caught up in the fighting.’
Sharza said, ‘That is one of the reasons why the Taliban wish to crush the National Alliance as soon as possible. The Chinese want the government to guarantee the safety of their workers. Otherwise they have threatened to end their operations and leave. This the Taliban cannot afford.’
Same old bloody story, thought Carter. One foreign power pulls out, and five minutes later another country moves in to take advantage of the situation. These people can’t catch a break.
Sharza continued, ‘Things here are bad. But I fear they will get worse.’
‘Worse than this?’ Carter asked, arching an eyebrow.
Sharza nodded. ‘The Taliban came to power because people believed they would not be as corrupt as the old regime, and they were willing to give them another chance. But if they cannot feed their own people then they will not stay in power for long. Already their enemies are gaining support.’
‘You mean the National Alliance?’
‘Some have joined their cause, yes. But others are siding with ISIS-K.’ He sighed wearily. ‘They are taking advantage of the misery of the people. They say that the Taliban is a puppet of the American government and cannot be trusted. Lots of disillusioned Taliban are joining them. Soldiers who thought victory over the Americans would bring peace. Every week, ISIS-K grows stronger.’
‘Do you think they’ll topple the Taliban?’
‘One day, who knows? Perhaps they will eventually grow strong enough to defeat the Taliban. But I hope not. That would be very bad for us.’
Carter decided to change the subject. ‘What happened to them other lads we worked with?’ he asked. ‘Hamidullah and the rest? Did they get out in time?’
Sharza shook his head and said, gravely, ‘Hamidullah was killed in the fighting with the Taliban in Panjshir. Faysal was arrested in his village and strangled to death. The Taliban killed his sons, raped his daughter and forced his wife to marry a Taliban commander. Mustafa was tortured and buried alive.’
‘Fuck me, did anyone get out?’
‘Ahmad. He escaped across the border just before the Taliban took Kabul. He is in a camp in Iran now, I think. The others, I do not know.’
He stared at the road ahead, his expression devoid of emotion. Carter tried to think of something comforting to say. He came up empty. There was nothing you could say to a bloke who had lost most of his mates.
They carried on in silence for twenty minutes until they hit another Taliban checkpoint manned by a pair of slovenly soldiers. Carter could tell from their gait and the way they carried their AK-47s that these guys were the dregs. He slapped the Velcro badges back on his clothing and let Sharza do the talking. The interpreter waved the NGO letter at the two soldiers, but they showed no interest in it and Carter guessed they were both illiterate.
The guards looked at one another, sized up the car and Sharza’s white passenger. Reached the obvious conclusion.
Then one of the fighters thrust an outstretched hand at the driver’s side window. Making the universal gesture for a bribe.
Carter dug out a couple of gold tabs from his pouch and handed them over. Five hundred pounds’ worth of bullion. The Taliban fighter stepped back from the road, motioning with his rifle for the Hilux to proceed.
‘Good to know some things haven’t changed around here,’ Carter said as they drove on past the checkpoint. ‘The place is as corrupt as ever.’
‘Worse now than it ever has been.’ Sharza laughed.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Most of the Taliban’s soldiers have not been paid for months now. The government has no money. The treasury is empty, and they cannot pay the salaries of their own men. Which means the men cannot afford their rent and bills, not even food for their families.’
Carter grinned. ‘Lucky for us.’
Sharza shrugged his shoulders. ‘Today it is good for us. But tomorrow, maybe not so good.’
‘Meaning?’
‘If the Taliban are not paid soon, they will ignore the orders from Kabul and start taking hostages. Then it will be very hard for people like you to operate here.’
Shortly before five o’clock they crossed a decaying bridge over the river and then Sharza hung a right, pointing the Hilux east along a single-lane track. Which they followed for three kilometres until they pulled up in front of a crude shack, with a front yard enclosed by a waist-high mud wall. A pair of scrawny mules grazed among the rocks and dirt.
Sharza cut the engine and said, ‘We are here, brother.’
Carter debussed from the Hilux and snatched his rucksack from the back seat. Then he followed Sharza towards the weathered wooden door built into one side of the farmhouse. A dry wind gusted fiercely across the valley, blasting sand in Carter’s face and gritting his teeth.
As they approached the door swung open and an older-looking guy wearing a light patterned turban emerged from the gloom. He had a cobwebbed beard and a face like shrivelled fruit. Sharza greeted the man warmly and the two of them talked for a short while, exchanging pleasantries, before the interpreter gestured towards Carter. The old man looked impassively at his guest. He didn’t seem surprised to see a Brit on his doorstep. But then again, thought Carter, the bloke had probably seen it all in his lifetime. The Soviets, the Taliban, the War on Terror, and now the Taliban again.
‘This is Khaibar,’ Sharza translated, indicating the old man. ‘My father fought alongside him in the Northern Alliance, when they battled the Taliban. He says he is honoured to welcome you to his home.’
They shook hands. Carter looked at the interpreter. ‘How much does this bloke know about me?’
‘I have said that you are a close friend of mine, from years ago. He does not need to know anything else.’
‘Tell him I’m very grateful for his hospitality.’
He knew the risk the old man was running in sheltering a Western soldier under his roof. If the Taliban found out, he could expect nothing less than the death penalty.
Khaibar chatted to Sharza as he led them across the front yard. Carter paused to take off his shoes before he followed the Afghans into a modestly furnished abode. He peered into the rooms leading off the main hallway but saw no one else inside. Which struck him as odd. Usually a dwelling this size would house several families. But this place was emptier than a pub in lockdown.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asked Sharza. ‘Where’s the rest of the family?’
‘Most of them have left. Those who did not die in the fighting. Some went to Kabul to look for work, others have fled the country. Now there is no one here except Khaibar and his grandson. It is the same in many other villages in this area.’
‘How does this fella get by?’
‘He finds a little work here and there in the other villages, doing odd jobs. But it does not pay very much, and he barely has enough to stave off hunger.’ Sharza added despondently, ‘You see, brother. This is what the Americans have left us.’
They followed Khaibar through to a spacious room with frayed rugs covering the floor and richly decorated cushions stacked against the walls. Tattered curtains were draped across the rear window. In the middle of the floor space was a scuffed metal tray with a teapot and a set of glasses. Carter saw bowls of rice, a few slabs of coarse bread, some fruit. The walls were bare except for several framed family portraits. An old stove provided the only source of heat.
A small boy in a dark brown tunic sat beside the stove, watching a video on his smartphone. Apart from the clothes, he could have been any other child in any other corner of the world.
‘This is Zohib,’ Sharza said. ‘Khaibar’s grandson.’
The kid glanced up at Carter. There was a numbed look in his eyes that Carter had seen before, on the faces of children in other war zones. He gave the boy a friendly smile. Zohib blinked and returned his attention to the phone screen.
Khaibar gestured eagerly for Carter to sit down. Carter sat cross-legged while the old man spoke through the interpreter.
‘Khaibar apologises that he does not have more to share with you,’ Sharza said. ‘But food is scarce these days, he says, especially since the markets closed down.’
‘Tell your man not to worry,’ Carter said. ‘This spread will do just fine. Tell him I appreciate it.’
He remembered how generous the Afghans had been during his time as an embed. How most of the families he’d stayed with didn’t have a pot to piss in, but still insisted on sharing everything they had with you.
He sat and ate while the two men conversed. Carter didn’t refuse the scran, even though he had his ration packs, because he didn’t want to cause offence to the old-timer. He scoffed down his food with his right hand and feigned interest when the old man described the latest developments in the nearby villages. Basic stuff, but the kind of details most of the Americans he had served with in Afghanistan had failed to grasp.
After the meal, the boy got the stove going, filled the kettle with water and they went through the familiar ritual of drinking green tea. As Carter sipped his brew, he noticed the kid staring at him expectantly. Something about his expression moved Carter. He finished his drink, reached into his rucksack, dug out a chocolate bar from one of the ration packs and offered it to the boy. Sharza looked at him with an anxious expression.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Giving the lad some chocolate. No harm in that.’
‘Don’t,’ Sharza hissed. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘The kid’s hungry.’
Sharza shook his head forcefully. ‘You can’t.’ He dropped his voice so low it could have slithered across the floor. ‘If these people get caught with Western food, it will be a death sentence for them. They’ll be accused of collaborating with the enemy.’
‘The Taliban would kill him because of a chocolate bar?’
‘Anyone who works with the West is a traitor.’ Sharza composed himself. ‘I know you want to help, brother, but please. This is not the way to do it.’
Carter glanced at the kid. He was staring wide-eyed at the chocolate bar in Carter’s hand. Sod this, he thought. He tore off the wrapper and handed the bar to the boy.
‘Tell him to eat it now,’ he said to Sharza. The latter began to protest, but Carter cut him off. ‘Look, I’ll keep hold of the wrapper, so there’s no risk of the kid getting in any trouble.’
Sharza sighed and uttered a few words to the boy. Zohib tore off a chunk of the bar and chewed enthusiastically, his face glowing with innocent delight. A small gesture, maybe. But better than nothing.
After a while the old man got to his feet and gestured for Carter and Sharza to follow. He guided them down the hallway, into another bare-walled room carpeted with richly decorated rugs. Khaibar stood back, arms at his sides while Sharza dropped to his knees and rolled back one of the rugs, revealing a hole in the ground covered with a strip of wood. The sort of thing a family might use to hide their cash and valuables. Sharza dug his fingernails into the slender gap between the edge of the hole and the board and prised it off.
Inside, Carter spied the gleaming tip of a rifle.
‘This is all I could find at short notice,’ Sharza said. ‘If you need anything else, maybe we can get from another village. But it will cost money.’
Carter reached down into the hole. He hauled out an M4 assault rifle swathed in blankets, with a bungee sling clipped to a mounting point on the underside of the receiver. He took out five thirty-round clips of 5.56 x 45 mm NATO ammunition, set the rifle and magazines down on the floor and thrust his arm in again and retrieved a semi-automatic pistol. An MP-443 Grach. A Russian nine-milli firearm, with a stainless-steel barrel and a sturdy polymer grip. Weapon of choice for Spetsnaz operators.
Carter pulled out four spare magazines, each one containing eighteen rounds of 9 x 19 mm Russian 7N21 ammunition. Plus a black leather pancake holster. At the bottom of the hole, he found a Soviet-built NRS-2. Which at first glance looked like a survival knife, but also functioned as a single-shot weapon, capable of firing a round of 7.62 with an effective range of up to twenty-five metres. As an added bonus, the knife also came equipped with a pair of bolt-cutters.
‘Where did you get this lot from?’ asked Carter.
‘A friend,’ said Sharza. ‘Over in Fayzabad. He served in the army, before the Taliban returned to power. He has many weapons from an American cache they left behind at the firebase. He sells to anyone who is willing to pay. Smugglers. Warlords. Al-Qaeda.’
‘Must be a lucrative side hustle.’
‘Very lucrative, yes. But dangerous. If the Taliban find this out, they kill him and his entire family.’
Carter inspected the hardware, disassembling the M4 and the pistol. They both looked to be in good working order, no rusted parts or signs of wear and tear. He reassembled them, then transferred the extra mags into his rucksack. He tucked the gun knife into the pocket of his cargoes, slid a clip into the mag feed on the underside of the M4 and switched the fire selector to the safety setting. He kept the rifle by his side, within arm’s reach, the way every Regiment man had been taught. Then he loaded the MP-443 Grach and sheathed it in the pancake holster threaded through his belt.
While the old man tended to the fire, chucking in rags and bits of rubbish as fuel, Carter unfolded the maps and spread them out on the floor in front of him. Sharza leaned in closer and by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp, he talked Carter through the area in close proximity to Khordokan.
Vann’s last known location.
Carter was familiar with the layout of the area, the names of the villages and biggest towns. But a map only told half the story, he knew. To narrow down the search, he needed to understand the loyalties of the people living in each district. Their tribal, ethnic and cultural ties. He listened closely while Sharza described the area to the east of Khordokan.
‘These elders in this place are in alliance with ISIS-K,’ he explained, indicating a tight grouping of villages. ‘ISIS-K recruits many fighters from this area.’
‘Would Dave know that?’
Sharza scratched his jaw and thought for a moment. ‘I think so, yes,’ he replied. ‘Everyone understands this is ISIS-K territory. If your friend is working with Hakimi and the National Alliance, they would have told him of such things. He would know to avoid the villages there.’
‘What about this area?’ Carter tapped a finger over the terrain to the south. ‘Who lives here?’
‘Few people,’ said Sharza. ‘Even less than here. Most of the villages in that valley have been abandoned. Many are home to only one or two families.’ He bit his lip. ‘But I do not think we will find your friend there.’
‘Why not?’
‘That district is under Taliban control now. They guard all the main entry and exit points along the mountain passes, they patrol the major settlements. Your friend would be captured as soon as he tried to leave.’
Carter mentally eliminated that area and concentrated instead on the terrain around Khordokan. Six days had passed since Vann had been spotted on the outskirts of the village. Assuming the information from Sharza’s contact had been accurate. Carter ran his eyes over the nearby roadheads, rivers and footpaths. He visualised the route Vann would have taken from the rebel hideout to the south, then on to Khordokan. Tried to put himself in his mucker’s position.
Vann would want to avoid the villages. Someone sympathetic to the enemy might catch sight of him and report his location. Therefore, Carter was looking for a remote location. Somewhere on raised ground, with an unobstructed view of the main approaches, a good backstop to cover the rear and an escape route if the position was compromised and things got ugly. He’d also need food, or a means of acquiring it, which meant he couldn’t base himself too far from the villages. Plus access to fresh water. In a region suffering from historic drought.
‘Is there a well in Khordokan?’ he asked.
‘Not now. It dried out last year. The drought . . . But there is one in the next village, I think,’ Sharza replied uncertainly.
‘What about him? Would he know?’
Carter inclined his head towards Khaibar. The old man prodded at the weak flames with a gnarled stick. It was dark outside now, and noticeably colder. Carter felt a chill draught whispering in through the cracks in the window.
Sharza put the question to his friend. Khaibar stabbed at the fire some more, as he made his reply. Then Sharza translated.
‘He says there is a well in Zarangir, but it has almost run dry. Now there is only a little water.’
‘What does everyone use, then? They have to get their water from somewhere.’
‘There is a stream to the north. Three kilometres away.’
The interpreter indicated the place on the map. Carter frowned at it. Zarangir. Another tiny settlement. A speck on a map. The next village over from Khordokan, eight kilometres to the east. Fifty kilometres or so south of the Tajikistan border.
‘The stream freezes in the winter,’ Sharza went on. ‘But now it is the only source of water in the area. Many people rely on it.’
‘What else is there?’ Carter said.
‘Not much,’ Sharza replied. ‘The area used to be grazing land. This was many years ago, before the Russians came. Now there is hardly any vegetation left. Just dust and rocks,’ he added sadly.
‘What about Zarangir? What’s in that place?’
Sharza stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘There are a few families there, as I recall. Thirty or so. But it is a poor village, very isolated. In the winter there is heavy snow and they are cut off for months from the rest of the country. Beyond it the land is mostly inaccessible.’
‘Pro-Taliban?’
Sharza smiled and shook his head. ‘Many of the people in Zarangir grow the red gold. The same is true of the other villages in this area. It is the only way they can earn a living.’
Red gold, thought Carter.
The poppy trade.
‘Who do they sell to?’
‘Local barons. Different people. They have no allegiance to the Taliban or anyone else. But they don’t like outsiders. They are afraid of reprisals from the Taliban if they discover they are growing the poppy.’
Carter looked down at the map once more, an idea slowly taking shape in his mind. He noticed a road stretching up from Zarangir and traced the route with his index finger. The road ran in a northerly direction for fifteen kilometres, past the stream and the old hunting grounds, before it abruptly stopped near the base of a mountain range.
‘This road,’ Carter said. ‘Where does it go?’
‘Nowhere,’ Sharza replied. ‘It is, how do you say, a dead end.’
That puzzled Carter. ‘Who would build a road that goes nowhere?’
‘There used to be a village here, many years ago,’ Sharza said, indicating the roadhead abutting the mountains. ‘But it was abandoned during the war with the Taliban. Nothing left now.’ The Afghan canted his head to one side. ‘You think your friend might be there?’
‘It would make a good base. He’d have a clear view of anyone trying to make an approach, and there’s plenty of drinking water within easy access.’ Carter looked up, the thought quickly gaining definition. ‘Is there another escape route from there? Any other way out of them mountains?’
Sharza shook his head firmly. ‘No escape. Why?’
Carter said, ‘Wherever Vann is bottled up, he’ll need a way out. He won’t choose a location that doesn’t have a secondary exit. Standard doctrine in the SAS. Never let yourself be cornered.’
Sharza gave a shrug and exhaled. ‘Then your friend cannot be there.’
‘You’re sure it goes nowhere?’
‘I know that area very well. Trust me, brother. The road ends there. It goes no further. Beyond it is only mountains.’
Carter clenched his jaw in frustration and dropped his gaze to the map. He focused on the dead end beyond the abandoned village fifteen kilometres north of Zarangir.
The perfect location. Almost. But Carter was certain that Vann wouldn’t choose somewhere without giving himself an escape route.
He said, ‘Let’s take a closer look at Zarangir anyway. If that stream is the only water supply in the vicinity, then maybe Vann has been using it. One of the locals might have seen something.’
Sharza clicked his tongue. ‘It will be a pointless journey. I’m telling you, there is nothing else in that area. No villages, nothing. Nowhere a person could survive, at least,’ he added quietly.
‘Maybe not. But it’s worth a shot.’ Carter sighed heavily. ‘Look, we’ve got to start somewhere, mate. We’ve got to try.’
Sharza shook his head again. ‘The people in Zarangir will not want to talk. Not even to me. They don’t like outsiders.’ He repeated the phrase like it was a religious mantra.
Carter said, ‘You must know someone there, Omar. Come on.’
Sharza pursed his lips. His face was taut with unease. Then he gave a weary sigh and said, ‘There might be someone. But I cannot make any promises. It will be dangerous for this man to talk to me. I am an outsider.’
‘Just try, mate. That’s all I’m asking.’
‘OK. We can try to ask people in Zarangir. We do it your way,’ Sharza replied guardedly. He paused. ‘You will have to stay out of sight. If they see you, no one will talk.’
‘Fine by me,’ Carter replied. ‘When do we leave?’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Sharza. ‘First thing, I will take you to Zarangir. Then we will find out if anyone has seen your friend.’