Kara Kush
Several men, at the Mulla’s urging, took hold of the figure lying next to the man of faith and held him down. One had a long dagger out, its point at the throat of the captive.
‘Kill him now!’ screamed the Mulla. ‘Child of abomination, Russian! Shoravi, communist!’
Khalil stood up and went over to see what was going on. The prisoner, until so recently a travelling companion, was spreadeagled on the floor. He was a good six feet tall with a scraggy reddish beard, and his eyes rolled in great alarm.
‘How do you know he’s a Russian?’ Khalil said.
‘How do I know? I know, you fool! I was lying there, just about to get up to call the dawn prayer, rehearsing the phrases, “Come to Prayer, Come to Success!” Then I realized this swine was talking in his sleep. Yes, talking. And he was talking Russian. Carrion-eating dog!’ The Mulla’s forehead was a mass of knotted veins. He trembled all over, and repeated chokedly, ‘Godless, godless’, as the assorted Tajiks, Pashtuns and Hazaras gazed at him with expressions of fear, respect and delight chasing across their features.
The captive cleared his throat and managed to say something which sounded to Khalil like ‘comrade’. ‘Roussi?’ Khalil asked.
‘Nein, nein, Kamerad, Deutsch,’ howled the six-footer, his beard covered with spittle.
‘There you are, he’s talking Russian, slayer of children, eater of filth!’ said the Hazara.
‘No, he’s not, he’s talking German, he’s an Almani, he says.’ Khalil suddenly realized that everyone was now looking at him, ignoring the man on the floor. The Mulla pointed his finger dramatically at the Australian. ‘Alman, Alman, is that not in Russia?’
‘No,’ said Khalil, ‘it is not.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Khalil.’
‘Khalil, stand aside, for your evidence may be polluted. We do not yet know.’
He faced the crowd. ‘Which of you, swearing by the Four Friends that you are submitted to the Divine Will, understands the language of the Alman?’
Nobody could speak much German. Finally Khalil regained some credence by suggesting that a mixture of French and English be used, since the German admitted to knowing some of each. ‘Fransavi! Inglizi, ja, ja. A leetle. Un peu, kleine …’
Khalil, suspicion having been lifted from him, was asked to translate the German’s story. It was short enough. He was a craftsman in metalwork from Dresden, fed up with life in West Germany and something of an idealist. He had heard of the war in Afghanistan, decided to go and help, was making his way to the Afridi gunsmiths of Darra who had started a secret factory north of Kabul.
The Mulla led him away, saying, ‘Now, brother, repeat after me, “All praise to Allah, Lord of All the Worlds …”’
Khalil had an aim now. There would be work for him, surely, at the gun factory.
6 Bright Wolf
The Eagle’s Nest
Paghman Mountains
North of Kabul
JUNE 8
‘I am a Christian,’ said the German. He was taking to Callil at The Eagle’s Caves. ‘And it was that which made me come here, to do what I can. I did not come here to engage in religious activities, however.’
Callil said, ‘I saw you being led away by the Mulla at the caravanserai, under religious instruction, it seemed. What happened next?’
‘That did not last long,’ said the German, shaking his head slowly.
‘Because there are plenty of Mullas, alleged men of Islam, who support the communists: I suppose you told him that.’
‘As a matter of fact I did not. I did not know it at the time, though the airwaves are full of Kabul propaganda claiming that Islam and communism are the same,’ said the German.
‘Well, then. What did you do to get away?’
‘When I was jumped in the serai, I didn’t have a chance to say my piece. I had learnt a portion of the Koran, specially, to explain myself to the Moslems.’
But the Koranic recitation had not worked, in the Mulla’s case. He wanted the German to start from the beginning, Chapter One.
The Mulla’s attempt to convert the German to the Firm Faith had, however, been frustrated by the lack of a common language, and by his determination to fight tyranny rather than the devil. After getting away from the Mulla, which he had only managed to do by borrowing his donkey without permission, he had fled from the caravan. Now he kept going south west, hoping to find a guerrilla band to join. The worst of the mountains were behind him: but even so his journey to the Paghman Caves showed remarkable optimism and tenacity.
Two days later, passed from one way-station to another, the German was installed in The Eagle’s nest, demanding to be trained for battle.
Callil had taken longer to find Kara Kush. In Afghanistan a man who spoke the language but did not know the name of his own tribe, or his ancestral village, was more than a curiosity. Callil was determined, but had to wait until a man was sent to Paghman by his hosts, at one village, to find out exactly who this strange visitor might be.
Adam Durany had welcomed both the German and the Australian into the ranks of the resistance. Now they were trying to settle down. It wasn’t easy: the Muhjahidin were itching to fight, chafed at the discipline and the idleness while Adam made plans and awaited specific information and arms for specific projects.
It occurred to Callil that he didn’t know the German’s name. ‘What are you called?’ he asked. ‘I’m known as Khalil in these parts.’
‘Me? My name is Bardolf. That means “Bright Wolf”, you know. But I can’t be called such a name here; wolves usually stand for unpleasantness south of Turkestan. So they asked me what I should be called, so that people would be able to remember it. I chose, from what I have just recited to you, to have myself called Shaahid, “The Witness”.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ the blacksmith asked. The others nodded. They wanted to know, too.
‘He’s saying what his name used to be, in Almanistan.’
The baker laughed. ‘Yes, I’ve heard, I know what it was. It was Gurg-i-Roshan, Bright Wolf. It’s quite crazy, really. How can you have a bright wolf? They don’t shine at all. I’ve seen hundreds of them, and they’re always dull. It’s like saying “iron wool”. Crazy.’
Khalil said, ‘But, in the west, they do have a sort of iron wool. It’s called steel wool, as a matter of fact.’
‘In the west,’ said the blacksmith, ‘they’re all crazy, as the baker said.’
‘Crazy enough to drop everything and come to help you,’ said Khalil, without thinking.
The blacksmith stood up. ‘Help us to do what, you dog and son of a dog!’ His face was contorted with rage, and his turban was falling off, a cascade of cloth over his right shoulder. ‘Help us to fight, to shed our blood? We know well enough how to defend our honour without people coming here and saying that they are helping us. The help we need is knowledge of surgery and medicines; we need arms, we need cartridges, we need technical skills. Where is his help? He did well to call himself “Witness”, for what he does is to witness the bravery of real men!’ He spat on his hands and paused, looking around wildly, as if to seek more foes.
The German looked puzzled; he wasn’t a jumpy man: in fact he was quite slow, both in movement and in speech. All the same, he was very large. He asked Khalil, ‘What’s he saying?’
‘Yes, yes. You tell him. Say it in your own dog’s tongue, wagh–wagh, that yelping nonsense!’ roared the blacksmith, still thoroughly aroused, as Khalil started to translate.
The German said, ‘I don’t see why he should be annoyed because we want to help them. I don’t think I would be …’
‘But I do see,’ said Khalil, ‘and I’m going to say I’m sorry. It was all my fault. Afghans won’t accept help if there is any suggestion that they can’t do their own fighting. The fact is that things are very bad for the Muhjahidin just now. When all you have is your pride, you can’t stand to be patronized.’
‘But they do accept help. The tribes
sometimes work together, don’t they?’ said the Witness.
‘That’s different. If they are allies, one helps the other. If they are not, they make a pact to share the victory. We aren’t either. In fact, we are uninvited guests, in their eyes, and pretty strange ones at that.’
The German was shaking his head over this when the blacksmith leapt. His arms caught Khalil on the shoulders, and brought him down, half-winded, to the cave floor. Someone adroitly removed the daggers from the scabbards of the two men as Khalil rose and the two, crouching, circled around, looking for an opening to attack.
The blacksmith was a good six inches taller than Khalil, and had very well-developed arms. But the Australian was lighter, probably fitter, and ten years younger. The smith made a hideous grimace, and flapped his arms up and down, in the imitation of a bird of prey, a gesture of bravado so often seen at Afghan wrestling bouts. Khalil bared his teeth, and the appreciative audience cried out with glee. So far, nobody seemed to be backing either contestant. This was a fight, and it had to be stoked up before they would commit themselves.
The two jumped and sprang, forward and back, until Khalil, tired of the preliminaries and his blood now up, moved back to prepare for a great lunge. Then he realized, as his back hit the cave’s wall, that the smith had manoeuvred him into a corner, was closing in. In a second, his great hands had closed around Khalil’s throat, choking him; he felt his eyes actually bulging, as people said they did when being strangled.
Khalil did not hear the shouts of the delighted Muhjahidin. He could not feel the blacksmith’s breath on his cheek, although the man’s face was now only a few inches from his own. He was blacking out, with a sensation like a roar of water in his ears and a dark cloud, rolling across his mind. But, as he fell to the floor, a shot rang out, and the blacksmith threw him aside like a toy, while the whole company swivelled to see who was coming in, through the cave’s mouth.
Adam fired into the air a second time, his face expressionless. Walking straight up to the crumpled Khalil, he struck him in the solar plexus once, carefully, with the butt of his revolver. With a great gasp, Khalil started to breathe again, and to come to. The blacksmith and the others stood limply, like small boys caught stealing apples. Kara Kush’s calm was worse, they knew, than his fury.
‘Gather round.’ Adam sat down on his accustomed ledge, while they ranged themselves in front of him to attention, in the military way which he had taught them. He looked at them until they were completely still, his grey eyes boring into theirs, lids unblinking. Then he spoke, deliberately using the rustic Dari, the common speech that they knew best.
‘I’m giving you a command now. If, at any time, at any place, anyone starts to fight with anyone else, without my orders, and against a member of the group, both parties will be shot. I shall not shoot them, and neither will there be a trial of any kind. It will be the duty of any and every man who sees a fight start to shoot anyone else involved, and immediately, without warning.’ He stopped. The atmosphere was crackling, as if there was electricity about.
‘If you accept this order,’ said The Eagle, ‘raise your arm and say “Understood and accepted”.’ He stuck his thumbs into his belt and stared again, straight at the standing figures.
In a moment, thirty hands were in the air. As Khalil came to full consciousness the roaring in his ears was replaced by the shout, ‘We understand and submit, O our Chief …’
Adam Durany had been working day and night to weld his men into something like a fighting unit.
The Paghman Caves were the ideal hideout, the people were keen to fight. At the same time, few of the volunteers had military experience, they lacked arms and money, and there was – at first, at least – little understanding of the need for training and equipment.
Word had been reaching Paghman that arms were to be had on the frontier, near Pakistan; that a man called Pendergood, or Painda-Gul, the Abiding Flower, was organizing supplies, a man who had no truck with the contending factions of exiled politicians there, and wanted only to help restore freedom.
Khalil had little scope for his engineering skill here, Adam realized; but on the other hand, he could be useful in a delegation, finding out about Pendergood and his arms. And he could take the German. It would mollify the blacksmith.
After a discussion with Khalil and Bardolf, and excited talk about the possibilities of rockets, mines, machine-guns from the fabled stores of the mysterious Pendergood, the Australian and the man from Dresden set off together.
Dressed as Pashtun tribesmen they slipped southwards, through the valleys of the Kunar and Kabul rivers, travelling by day and night, eight hours walking, then four for sleep.
7 Noor Sharifi, Hostage
Pul-i-Charkhi Prison
Kabul
MAY 2
Hatim Quli looked exactly what he was: cunning, malignant, petty – and dangerous to anyone who fell into his power.
One of the first few recruits to the People’s Democratic, communist, Party of Afghanistan, Quli was a total opportunist. He had wormed his way up in life because things like principle did not trouble him at all: and because intrigue for its own sake awakened in him a delight which gave him the energy which seems to underlie all human success.
He loved to do things anonymously, destructive things, and to watch the effects unseen. Even under the royal, and later the republican, regimes, he had flourished. Hatim Quli sought people’s weak points, found out who their enemy might be – and sold the information. For twenty years he had been known to the Afghan political police, and especially those of its officers whom he was blackmailing, as ‘The Devil’s Secret Service man’.
For fifteen years Quli had worked within the party, skilfully surviving the internecine warfare among the comrades. When the Russians entered the country in force, he had come into his own: and now he was commandant of the notorious Kabul prison at Pul-i-Charkhi.
He imitated the Russians in only wearing uniform on ceremonial occasions. Although he felt safer, more anonymous, in European civilian clothes, he chose shirts, ties and the rest which were in such startling taste that almost any westerner would have classed him on sight as an exhibitionist pimp.
The dirishi, civilian outfit, which he preferred was a tightly-fitting suit of green and blue stripes with a purple fleck, cut from heavy topcoat tweed. His double-breasted waistcoat was set off by a heavy watch-chain. In his platform-soled shoes he stood all of five foot six. But now, crouched behind his desk, he seemed to the handcuffed girl who was being pushed towards him like nothing so much as a very large, very repellent toad. Even his face was like a frog’s.
‘Miss Noorjan Sharifi, please, honour me, come in, do! You’ll really have to take another name, you know. This is the New Age, we are all equal now. “Sharifi” means of high, princely, rank! This is not Europe, you know. Here hardly anyone has a surname, and those who do are always people with these ancient pretensions.’ He had managed to forget that his own father, a thieving grocer who put sand in the sugar, had once tried to adopt the aristocratic surname of Hashemi, because his father’s name was Hashem. Quli senior had been chased out of his village for it. He himself had been named Hatim after an ancient hero. ‘Besides, the Sharifs are descendants of the Prophet, and we don’t really want that nonsense in a free country like this.’
‘The country may be free, Commandant, but I am not. Why don’t you stop making speeches and tell me when I can get out?’
‘I have a file here on you.’ He rummaged in a mass of papers which he kept on the desk to make it look important. ‘Yes, here it is.’ The girl took in his beady eyes and the rolls of fat on his neck, his broken teeth, and shuddered. ‘Your father, former Minister Akbar Sharifi, was an associate of Zahir, the former king who hasn’t answered our invitation, from his bolthole in Rome, to return to Kabul for re-education.’
‘My father served his country all his life.’
‘Wrong. He did not serve his country, he served the fascist swine. But now he
may have a chance of serving his country – if he is sensible.’ He gave a self-satisfied smile. At Party meetings he was being more and more noticed for his clever speeches. One day he might become Minister of the Interior, then he could really serve.
‘Have it your own way.’
‘Luckily I do not have to have a way of my own. I glory in having been given the way, the Way of the Leader, the Great Babrak Karmal.’
‘Long live the Revolution,’ she said. Quli sidestepped the sarcasm.
‘Now that’s better. People such as you, young, let’s see, yes, twenty-four, studied abroad, attractive,’ he looked at her auburn hair, green eyes, beautiful hands, for somewhat longer than was necessary for mere identification, ‘such people can be valuable to the nation.’ She was too tall, he thought. Must be five foot eight in her stockings, and she had that supercilious Sharifi face. He preferred them podgy.
‘I have always been ready to serve Afghanistan.’
Quli scowled. ‘The kind of service that people of your sort are readied for, my dear, is lying on their backs in silken capitalist boudoirs, or tripping half-naked around swimming pools set with diamonds, showing themselves off to European degenerates.’
‘What should I be doing, then?’
‘You could be trained, and work for Department Six of the Intelligence. They want people like you, with cosmopolitan backgrounds, international contacts. Why, you must know half the capitalists of the West. Don’t you?’
‘I do know a lot of people over there.’
‘Then you can help us, and you can help your father. If you don’t agree, I’m afraid he’ll be in great trouble. I could not protect him beyond a certain point. If you are sensible you will be well rewarded.’
See what he had in mind, she thought, it might be the best policy. Think about the implications later. Besides, the food might improve if they thought she was co-operating. The meat was rotten and full of maggots.