The bodies were sprawled along the bottom of the embankment. Six of them, limbs contorted at unnatural angles. Streaks of blood trickled down the slope, which told Carter the victims had been shot at the side of the road and then dumped below. Their killers had made no attempt to properly cover their tracks. Hence the motorbikes, the spent casings, the blood splashes. Their only concern had been to clear the bodies from view, so that passing drivers wouldn’t spot them.
Whoever did this, Carter thought, they were in a hurry.
Two of the corpses were dressed in army-style camo jackets. Carter recognised their faces from the compound. Mansur and Yellow Scarf. He hadn’t seen the other four guys before, but he assumed they were the owners of the bikes. The mules lay a short distance further down from the embankment, blood pooling beneath them. Whoever had shot them had probably guided the mules down before discharging single shots to their heads. Less strenuous than dragging four hundred kilos of dead animal off the side of the road.
He couldn’t see Vann among the dead. Or Hakimi.
Then he spied a seventh figure partially concealed behind a large rock a few paces from the rest of the bodies. A right leg poked out from behind the boulder. Wearing camo-patterned trousers. Carter watched from the top of the embankment for several moments, but the leg didn’t move. Splashes of blood trailed from the embankment to the rock. A hell of a lot of it. Whoever was wedged behind there was either dead or badly wounded, Carter decided.
He tore the Grach free from his holster and edged down the embankment, putting in a dog-leg as he approached the boulder from an angle.
Flies buzzed around the dead bodies. The air was thick with the hot stink of blood, fused with the putrid odour of voided bowels. Carter shifted past the murdered bikers and circled slowly round the boulder. Pistol raised, eyes pinned to the target. He took another step to the right. He saw the face of the guy slumped against the rock, blood disgorging from the hole in his chest, and lowered the Grach.
Jabar Hakimi had been shot twice. Once in the chest, and a matching wound to the gut. His right hand was clamped to his belly in a futile bid to stem the bleeding. His fingers were wet with blood. The warlord was still alive, just. His breathing had reduced to a shallow rasp. His face was clammy and pale. The eyes had that fading-of-the-light look that Carter had seen before, on the faces of other dying men.
Hakimi had another thirty minutes to live, he guessed.
Maybe less.
Carter holstered the Grach and knelt beside the mortally wounded warlord. Hakimi looked up at him, eyes popped wide with shock but also fear. The grim knowledge that the lifeblood was rapidly seeping from his body.
He reached out to Carter with a limp hand, mouthing a word with his cracked lips. Carter leaned in closer, straining to make out the Afghan’s hoarse voice. His chest wound made a wet sucking noise every time he took in a breath.
‘Water,’ Hakimi croaked. ‘Water. Please . . .’
Carter retrieved the half-empty bottle of water from his pack. He twisted off the screwcap, pressed the mouth to the warlord’s lips. Hakimi drank greedily, fluid spilling out of the corners of his mouth and dripping from his scarred chin, until he coughed and spluttered and could drink no more. Carter set the bottle down next to his pack. Waited for the man to stop hacking his guts up.
Then he said, ‘What the fuck happened?’
Hakimi licked his lips. Swallowed hard. He spoke with a great effort. ‘Vann,’ he rasped.
‘Vann did this?’ Carter repeated.
‘Him . . . and the others.’
A black rage clenched around Carter’s heart. He had known in his guts that this was Vann’s handiwork. The realisation had dawned on him as soon as it became clear that the Ulsterman had escaped the massacre. He started to ask Hakimi why, then cut himself short.
I already know the answer, Carter thought. Vann double-crossed the Afghans. Led them into a trap.
He’s taken the entire stash for himself.
‘What others?’ he growled. ‘Tell me.’
‘We were supposed to meet . . . the Tajiks,’ Hakimi replied between ragged intakes of breath. He grimaced as another wave of pain tore through his body. ‘They were supposed to wait for us to arrive. That was . . . the plan.’
Hakimi took in another gulp of air. His breathing was becoming increasingly erratic. Carter waited for him to go on. He didn’t need to threaten the guy to get him to spill his guts. Hakimi had been stitched up by his partner-in-crime. He’d want to talk. In a weird way, Carter and Hakimi now found themselves on the same side.
We’ve both been screwed over by Vann. That means we both want the same thing.
Revenge.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘They crossed us,’ Hakimi continued hoarsely. ‘Killed my men, and the Tajiks. Took . . . everything.’
‘Who?’ Carter demanded.
‘Vann and his friends.’
‘Friends?’ Carter repeated.
‘Americans.’
Carter reacted with a jolt. He felt as if someone had pressed a pair of defibrillator pads to his head and flipped the shock button.
‘The Americans are in on this operation?’
Hakimi gave a weak nod.
‘How many?’
‘Three. I saw three of them. I don’t know their names.’
He started to go on, then coughed violently. Carter gave him another mouthful of water. Hakimi took a moment to recover before he spoke again.
‘We have been working with them for months.’
‘The Americans?’
‘Yes. We bring the heroin across the border. Give it to the Americans. They had brokered a deal with the Tajiks. A big deal.’
Carter listened, his mind reeling. Hakimi went on.
‘This was supposed to be the last run. We were going to make the exchange here.’
‘Exchange?’
‘Yes. The Americans were waiting for us here. The Tajiks too. I didn’t think . . .’
The warlord clenched his eyes shut. His body convulsed with agony.
‘Keep talking,’ Carter said. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘We began to load the drugs onto the bikes . . . made the trade. Then the Americans opened fire.’
Carter looked up at the road. He imagined Vann, Hakimi and the other guys accompanying the mule train making their way towards the RV. The Tajiks waiting for them on the side of the road. The Americans beside them in another vehicle, waiting to make the deal. Heroin to the Tajiks in exchange for money. A fairly typical exchange. Nothing out of the ordinary. There would have been no worries among Hakimi and his men. They wouldn’t have suspected a thing.
Not until it went noisy.
The Americans had rushed to transfer the bricks from the mules to their vehicles. They had dumped the bodies over the side of the road and raced away from the scene. One of them would have set up an OP somewhere to the east. At a lay-by, or similar. In another vehicle. They would have been tasked with keeping an eye on the approach road, looking out for any approaching military or police patrols. Hence the cigarette butt.
‘Where are they now?’ he asked.
‘Gone,’ Hakimi replied faintly. ‘Gone . . . north. With the truck. To Talbarok.’
‘What truck?’
‘The one the Tajiks brought here.’
‘Did Vann leave with the Americans?’
‘Yes.’
‘What the fuck is in Talbarok?’
‘The facility,’ Hakimi murmured. ‘The facility is there.’
‘What facility?’
The warlord didn’t reply. The light in his eyes was starting to go out. His breathing had reduced to a soft whisper. He was slipping in and out of consciousness.
‘Talbarok . . . the facility is in Talbarok,’ he repeated senselessly. ‘They’re going to send everything out from there.’
Carter pressed him for an exact address, but the Afghan didn’t appear to have heard him. He mumbled something unintelligible, eyes dancing in their sockets. He tried to say something else, but Carter couldn’t quite catch the words. He leaned in closer.
‘Your friend,’ Hakimi murmured.
‘What about him?’
Hakimi shivered. ‘Shit. So cold . . .’
Carter frowned heavily. ‘What the fuck is it? Tell me.’
The warlord didn’t answer. His breathing had ceased. His mouth slackened, his eyes dulled, and then his body went limp. As if someone had unplugged him from the mains.
Carter stood up, his mind frantically racing to make sense of everything the Afghan had just told him. Vann’s double-cross. The Americans. The facility in Talbarok.
The Americans were narco-traffickers, he presumed. Selling heroin to the Tajiks, according to Hakimi. But who were they? How did Vann know them? And what were they doing in Tajikistan in the first place? They were a long way from home.
He had a ton of fucking questions.
There’s only one person who can tell me what’s really going on.
David Vann.
He took out the map from his side pocket and conducted the world’s fastest map study. Talbarok was approximately a hundred kilometres north-west of the roadhead, at the southern end of a long valley shaped like a wine bottle. There was an airfield fifteen kilometres north of the town. Carter was looking at a two-hour journey from the roadhead to Talbarok.
He rooted through Hakimi’s jacket pockets, fished out a leather wallet stuffed with US twenty-dollar bills. Carter jammed the cash in his pocket, stepped back from Hakimi and left him as carrion for the birds. He didn’t feel bad for the warlord and his dead mates. They were drug-dealing scum.
Less than twenty-four hours ago Hakimi had been standing over Sharza’s dead body, grinning sadistically. Now he’d bled to death in the arse end of Tajikistan.
I guess karma is a fucking bitch.
First things first. Get out of the area. That was Carter’s immediate priority. He needed to be well clear of the roadhead by the time the next mobile patrol showed up.
Then locate Vann.
He threw on his rucksack and hastened back up the embankment to the patch of dirt straddling the roadside. He walked back over to the nearest Yamaha trail bike. It looked old, but in reasonable condition. A solidly built piece of machinery. Not the most comfortable ride in the world, but perfect for navigating back roads and mountain terrain.
Carter unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank and peeked inside. He judged it about half full. Seven or eight litres of petrol. Equivalent to around 150 kilometres. Sufficient juice to get him all the way to Talbarok. He replaced the cap, circled round to the side of the bike, swung a leg over the saddle and seated himself. He flipped up the kickstand, twisted the engine key and flicked on the run button.
Stamped his right foot on the kick-start lever.
A few moments later, Carter steered off the dirt track. He pointed the Yamaha down the secondary road, increasing his speed as he upshifted steadily through the gears. Soon he was racing north through the steep valley towards Talbarok.
Closing in on Vann.
And the truth.