The Avatari (47 page)

* * *

Igor Upanov watched as two of the Mi-8s landed somewhat awkwardly one after the other, guided by a man with a stump for a leg who followed instructions from Gaffar Khan and used a strip of cloth in each hand to do the needful. As Igor stepped out of the helicopter, a shout went up and there was pandemonium among the tribesmen.

‘It’s a Russian!’ they exclaimed, brandishing their weapons threateningly.

Igor was immediately surrounded and dragged forward by both arms, his flight helmet knocked off in the melee. It took all of Gaffar Khan’s leadership skills, along with the liberal use of his stick, to persuade his tribesmen to take their hands off the Russian.

‘Leave him, you mongrel dogs! He is a guest!’ he shouted to his men, knowing that the code of Pashtunwali, of providing sanctuary to the enemy who seeks it, was being tested to the limit.

Igor was brought to where the woman sat waiting.

‘I am Igor Upanov,’ he said to her brusquely in English when she extended her hand to him, indicating that she was the contact.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she responded, without giving her name. ‘Is everything as we had discussed?’

‘Yes. The helicopters are fully functional. I have catered for running spares and maintenance for about six months and there are spare barrels of fuel in each of them.’

‘Good. How about the weaponry?’

‘It’s in order. Mostly rockets and machine guns. I have added some incendiary rockets, along with high explosives. You had given instructions to fit out for personnel targets.’

‘The men you leave here – they can fly in the mountains?’

‘They are the best; I have trained and flown with them. I have also trained them to fly these new birds, which are best suited for high altitudes.’

‘Excellent. That will suit the specified requirements.’

The woman now turned to Gaffar Khan, switching easily to Urdu as she spoke to him.

‘So everything is as we had agreed. Our people are very impressed with your capabilities and you will be looked after when the new government is formed.’

‘Let this be the will of Allah,’ the old man murmured.

‘We must leave now; we have a long way to go,’ the woman announced.

‘Will you not share a meal with us?’ he asked, making the expected gesture as a hospitable host.

‘Thank you, but there will be other times,’ she replied, in keeping with the local custom of exchanging such pleasantries, knowing quite well that she had no intention of returning to this place.

‘Shall we go?’ she said to Igor.

‘Certainly,’ he replied, anxiety seeping into his voice. He hated this place. He added, almost as an afterthought, ‘Tell them to hide the helicopters from sight; there is every likelihood of a huge search being organized for them.’

The woman nodded and spoke to the chief in Urdu. Gaffar Khan smiled wryly, not bothering to reply. The cave complexes in these mountains could conceal an entire regiment of helicopters.

The woman took leave of the chief.

‘Khuda hafiz,’
she said in farewell.

‘Khuda hafiz,’
he responded.

Both Igor and the woman boarded the Alouette. The pilot, who had remained seated in the helicopter all through, started the rotors. The blades swung slowly, then picked up speed. They lifted off and lurched forward. Almost immediately, they were in the valley. As the Alouette steadily gained height, they looked below and saw Gaffar Khan turn to his men, who raised their arms in what appeared to be a cheer. They thought they heard shots, but the woman wasn’t perturbed. These people fired in the air to express their joy on every conceivable occasion, including weddings. They had just made one million dollars; they had every reason to celebrate.

‘The money is here!’ she shouted to Igor over the noise of the Alouette, pointing to another briefcase at her feet.

The Russian nodded in satisfaction. Though his contact had been keen that he stay on with Gaffar Khan and his men till the time they were required, he had stood by his decision to leave. He did not relish the prospect of lingering in the company of the mujahideen who would probably, if they got the chance, have slit his genitalia and stuffed it into his mouth, ensuring that he died either from suffocation or loss of blood – or both. He looked down and saw that they were passing over a deep gorge. Then he felt something and turned, his hand instinctively going to his pistol.

Claire Donovant shot him with the small 32mm Beretta she had tucked into the waistband of her trousers. The bullet was soft-nosed; she had personally filed it so that when it entered its target, it would tumble and fragment in his chest. She watched as Igor’s body slumped forward. She had taken special care with that one, anxious to ensure that the bullet did not exit his body in the confines of their helicopter cabin. Igor was still alive when the pilot helped the woman with the catch to the door and pushed him out. She tossed the revolver out after him and they shut the door, not an easy manoeuvre, since the helicopter had rocked when the body was thrown out and there were stiff winds to contend with. The pilot managed to recover balance, however, and they set course for Pakistan, from where she would get in touch with her superior over the phone.

CHAPTER 27

Ishkashim, Afghanistan–Soviet Border

S
EPTEMBER 1986

They started out the same night on pack horses that Suleiman’s father, Hazarat Khan, had insisted on gifting them, adamantly refusing to accept payment. The darkness was almost impenetrable as they plodded along the hillside; they could barely see ahead of the horse directly in front. The moon wouldn’t be out before midnight, but visibility was unlikely to improve even then, for the sky had remained overcast all day and all evening. The wind was picking up, tossing grains of dust and grit their way along with the odd raindrop, stinging the exposed parts of their faces. Susan was snugly wrapped in her shahtoosh shawl which she wore under her fur jacket, but she felt the bitter cold air on her face. Their guide, the old man from the village who knew the way to the Blood Mountain, rode ahead with his son.

The group had left Zhawar after formally bidding farewell to the chief who, accompanied by his men, had seen them off at the mouth of the valley. Ashton and Hazarat Khan had shaken hands and embraced each other, while Suleiman stood by and translated the words they exchanged. The young man had taken a splinter in the head and wore a rough bandage around it, stained pink where the blood had seeped out from the wound.

‘Thank you for your kindness and hospitality and, of course, your gifts, Chief,’ Ashton had said formally.

‘It is not for you to express gratitude,’ Hazarat Khan had responded. ‘It is we who shall be forever in your debt. Please do us the honour of visiting us again. You are the guests of Hazarat Khan and the name is known in Badakhshan. While you are in our lands you will encounter no trouble, Inshallah.’

He had then formally presented Ashton with a jewelled dagger which was heavy to hold.

‘Thank you again, Chief,’ Ashton had said. ‘I am afraid I have nothing to give you.’

‘That is not the custom here,’ the chief responded gruffly, before adding, ‘my men will lead you to the place you are looking for. May Allah protect you.’

They had all shaken hands, the Afghans carefully avoiding speaking to or even looking at Susan who, for all practical purposes, might not have been present at the scene at all. On an impulse, she had gone up to Suleiman, flung her arms around him and planted a kiss on his forehead. There had been murmurs from the men as they exchanged comments, but their faces were creased with wide grins. Suleiman had blushed a deep crimson and hurriedly extricated himself from Susan’s embrace. Peter, who had been watching the men closely for their reactions, thought he detected a glimmer of a smile on Hazarat Khan’s face.

‘What was that about?’ Peter had asked Susan casually, helping her mount her horse.

‘What was what about?’

‘Never mind,’ was his gruff response.

Turning away, he had slung his rifle over his shoulder, mounted his horse and allowed it to trot ahead. With a wicked grin on her face, Susan had nudged her horse forward and followed Peter on the barely visible trail.

The victory at Zhawar had not been achieved without cost; it had taken its toll on the Afghans too, and there would be many families in mourning. The Soviets had opened up on the radio channel they knew the Afghans used and sued for a truce, agreeing to vacate the
pir
. In return, they had asked for hostilities on the highway to cease, a condition Hazarat Khan had assented to. The Russians had raised a white flag and, on orders from the chief, had been allowed to pull back the bodies of their dead and collect their wounded, many of whom hobbled back to the line the Russians had formed with their BMPs. The Russians, in turn, had kept their part of the bargain and pulled out from the
pir
that afternoon in three Mi-8 helicopters.

Ashton and his group rode through the night, their horses occasionally having to plod through hard-packed, ankle-deep snow. Susan noticed that Peter was now riding alongside. The wind had really picked up and she hunched forward on her saddle to ward off the cold. She must have dozed off, for when she woke up and realized where she was, she saw that Peter was holding her steady. He looked at her and nodded reassuringly and she dozed off again, her last thought being that somehow, however great the strain, she had never ever seen him look tired.

They were headed for the town of Ishkashim, located on the border at the precise point where the Pamir Highway entered Afghanistan from the Soviet Union. The old man who was their guide said they would travel further east for some days, moving into the high mountains of the Pamirs along the small strip called the Wakhan Corridor that projected into the Xinjiang province of China. There were no passes and all motorable roads ended at Ishkashim. The terrain was inhospitable, even in good weather. In the month of September, it was not a place people ventured into.

By dawn, Susan was awake, her body stiff and aching. As they descended yet another rocky slope far down in a bowl, she observed a cluster of mud huts by a mountain stream. They appeared to be approaching the caravanserai on the outskirts of the town. They had decided against entering the town for two reasons: first, the chances of a Soviet presence on the border post were high and it was unlikely that their entry would go unnoticed. And second, it was quite possible that their unknown adversaries were lying in wait for them; after all, they had ambushed the messenger trying to get to Ashton, leading to his death. By now, those same adversaries would have realized that Ashton was missing, travelling abroad; it wouldn’t take too long for them to figure out where they were.

Suddenly, a voice hailed them in a language Susan could not decipher. It was, quite unmistakably, a command for them to halt. From behind the rocks, a large man wrapped in a black fur coat emerged, Kalashnikov in hand. He was riding a mule and as he approached, she noticed his swarthy Mongol features.

He rode up to them, peering at their faces. Then he recognized the old man and an exclamation escaped his lips. He began speaking to their guide in a loud, excited voice. The old man’s responses sounded guarded. The Mongol horseman, introduced by their guide as Taidjut, waved them on to the caravanserai, before riding ahead, looking back once and shouting towards the rocks on both sides. As they rode on, Susan saw two teenage boys emerge from behind the rocks, rifles in hand, their long dirty-blonde hair hidden under woollen caps. They too mounted their mules and came to ride alongside the group, lingering by Susan’s side and gawking at her with unabashed interest.

‘How did they know we were coming?’ she asked Peter.

‘They didn’t. Their lookout picked up our silhouettes as we crossed the ridge.’

‘A lookout
here
? Against what or whom?’

‘In Afghanistan, there is always a lookout,’ Peter said shortly.

‘Oh god!’ she exclaimed, her tone weary. ‘I just hope I can get a hot bath and some sleep.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Peter said, then murmured, almost to himself, ‘I just hope our supplies have reached.’ Peter had foreseen they would need supplies and had placed an order with Vilayat Hussain to deliver them to Ishkashim, a town they knew they would cross en route to the Blood Mountain.

‘I wanted to ask you something earlier,’ she said. ‘How are you so certain our fat friend, Vilayat Hussain, won’t renege on his deal? Or what if the police got him after the fireworks?’

‘Oh, he won’t do that. Never has,’ Peter said confidently. ‘He is known for charging the earth, but he always delivers. He wouldn’t risk tarnishing his reputation and depriving himself of such lucrative opportunities in the future. In that sense, he’s like a Swiss banker. As for your other question, he’s too big for the police. They all know what he’s up to, but Vilayat has contacts in all the right places and knows how to keep them happy. If the police took him out, Peshawar’s economy would collapse. Besides…’ Peter stopped in mid-sentence, looking away from Susan.

‘Besides what?’ she persisted, half-knowing what the answer would be.

‘He knows that if he doesn’t come through, I’ll go back and kill him.’

* * *

A few days before Peter and Susan’s discussion about his reliability, Vilayat Hussain had no inkling that he would be stepping into a nightmare. He was at the orchard farmhouse on the outskirts of Peshawar which served as a haven for him when he wanted to get away from his skinny, nagging wife, an occasion that had grown distressingly frequent of late. The evening had started badly. His ulcer had played up, despite the numerous glasses of cold lassi he had downed to soothe it, and it had been past midnight when he finally managed to doze off, settling into an uneasy and fitful sleep. He was tired and irritated when his personal servant shook him awake. His current mistress, a young, slightly overweight girl, had tried to inexpertly arouse him when he came to bed and on failing to do so, had turned over and fallen asleep, one heavy leg thrown across him. Bleary-eyed, he now pushed the leg off angrily and addressed his servant.