That afternoon, in the back room of the antiques shop which was now his headquarters, Nurhan applied his calligrapher’s skill. It was easy to change, with two strokes of a pen and a razor blade, his passport description. Najjar, Carpenter, had become Tajir, Merchant.
Aliyev smiled with satisfaction. Prince Jamal, son of Zaid, would soon be here, walking into the trap.
BOOK 4
Hail Jamal, Son of Zaid!
Mulla Nasrudin went to the office of the People’s Democratic Party. He asked the man at the information desk:
‘Where is Comrade Amin, our first Socialist leader?’
‘He’s dead, Comrade.’
‘And where, Comrade information officer, is Comrade Chairman Tariki, our second Socialist leader?’
‘He’s dead, too, Comrade.’
‘And our fraternal Russian KGB chief, General Viktor Paputin?’
‘Dead. But why are you asking all these questions?’
‘Because, Comrade, I do so enjoy hearing the answers!’
Night Letter of Mazar, Occupied Afghanistan
1 ‘This is your mission Jamal …’
The Airport
Hadiqa City
Narabia
Arabian Gulf
JUNE 12
There were over a hundred Cadillacs, ‘stretched’ Mercedes limousines, bullet-proof Rolls Royces and Range Rovers with special bodies parked on the tarmac, as Prince Jamal drove up to his private 707. The turnout might have been larger. Everyone knew that one always saw off and greeted one’s relatives, fellow members of the Royal Family. On the other hand, Jamal had had more than his share of it himself, turning up at all hours of the day and night, driving hell for leather to the huge airport from the capital along the kingdom’s beautiful, but only, eight-lane highway. It was almost obligatory to kiss the hand of Uncle this and Aunt that, or Cousin someone, as they returned, often reluctantly, from Europe or America, where the need for urgent medical attention so often took them. Especially in the dreadful summer heat of Hadiqa City, when a cooler West beckoned.
He stamped on the brake-pedal and opened the doors of his favourite Ferrari, a 512 BB, by pressing a single button. Tawfik, his secretary, tumbled out of the passenger seat, his stocky form cramped, the flabby face twitching with fear. Prince Jamal liked to cover the twenty-four miles in twelve minutes. The stupid but useful little man actually panted with distress when Jamal played little games to worry him, like ostentatiously painting over the speedometer. After all, flat out the car could do a hundred and seventy-two miles an hour. The fastest of its kind in the world.
Jamal tossed the car keys to Snowflake, one of the Nubian slaves, and smiled at the respectful throng.
The usual, practised cry – signalling either welcome or farewell – went up from the assorted millionaires, princes, princesses and Bedouin chiefs, the hangers-on, servants and drivers who were clustered at the foot of the embarkation steps. Jamal waved to them, and turned as Tawfik tugged his sleeve to draw attention to the guard of honour which he had to inspect, to the strains of the national ode.
The Narabian colonel, black-bearded and beetle-browed, with naked sword held upright, escorted Jamal back to the steps as the women in the crowd started their shrill ululation, the walwala, as indispensable as a salute in the East as carols at Christmas in the West. Jamal silenced them with an upraised hand, and spoke: ‘Sidi Aqid! Colonel, brethren! I go in the service of the Nation. Allah ma Narabia! God be with Narabia.’ This was the formula, which never failed to produce a tear. It had been provided, at very great expense, following a million-dollar study by a top Madison Avenue public relations firm; as was, too, the statutory answer, equally moving to the hearts of the people: ‘God be with you, too, Our Lord Jamal. Long life to Jamal, Son of Zaid, the Narabian!’
Jamal paused for the photographer of the Narabian Times, after Tawfik had adjusted the gold circlets of his agal, and twitched the kaffia headcloth so that it formed a tiny peak, the sign of a prince, at the hairline. They went into the aircraft and the door, with its golden crescent moon and black scimitar emblem, banged shut.
Over the Arabian Sea, heading for Pakistan, Jamal took off his robe, belt and jewelled dagger. He felt better in the Savile Row suit, of specially woven white sharkskin cloth. Educated in the West, virtually brought up there, he liked to think of himself as a citizen of the world and a son of Narabia. And his public school in England, rounded off by Oxford, had certainly sharpened his mind.
Time for a conference. He admired what the papers called his lithe form and hawklike features briefly in the full-length bathroom mirror, and called the others: the secretary Tawfik, Court Minister Hafiz and the Military Adviser, Colonel Yahia ibn Yusuf (Eton and Sandhurst) to the conference table in the main lounge, the Diwan, of the great aircraft.
‘History of Afghanistan, please, Tawfik.’
The secretary rustled a piece of paper. ‘Size of Texas, Highness, mountainous, shaped like an oakleaf, wedged between China, Iran, the USSR and Pakistan, which latter was formerly part of India. Fierce independent people, ninety-five per cent Moslems. Part of the ancient Arab conquests under Caliph Haroun El Rashid. The British and Russians have vied with each other to gain power over it for a hundred and fifty years. The British called this struggle “The Great Game”. Live Long, Highness.’
‘Thank you. How about the Russian invasion?’
‘Ten years ago, Prince Daud sent his cousin the King into exile and set up a dictatorship. The government, then as now, only controlled the towns. Life continued as before, mostly under feudal chiefs, mostly tribal. Five years ago a band of malcontents, mainly half-educated communists, seized power, killing dictator Daud. Successive Red administrations, if you can call them that, followed up to end 1979, December 27, when – sliding into anarchy – the terrified Reds called in the “fraternal Russians”.’
The Prince said, ‘How did the governments change, one after another?’
‘Just by one party boss killing another. Daud, the republican prince, was killed by the communist Taraki, then Amin killed Taraki and became boss. He then called in the Russians, and their puppet, Karmal, killed him.’
‘And Karmal is still in power?’
‘Yes. His faction had Amin smothered with a cushion, and gave out that he’d died of “galloping diabetes”, suddenly, during the invasion.’
‘That seemed to bring things up to date. But how about the guerrilla war? Colonel, what are the military implications of the Russian presence?’
‘May the Emir’s life be extended!’ Colonel Yahia stroked his neat beard and inclined his long head. He looked regimental, even in civilian clothes. ‘With a strong military and guerrilla tradition, Highness, the Afghans are not like their neighbours. Everyone is regarded as a soldier. The Russian Army’s objective is to secure the country as a base for further expansion, and to open the way to India. They have at least 105,000 troops in place; one airborne and six motorized rifle divisions, plus tank divisions, but this is not enough. Against that, the Pashtun Durrani tribe alone can put almost a quarter of a million fighting men into the field, if properly armed.’
Quite a copybook soldier. He spoke in clipped sentences, but had done his homework.
But Jamal wanted to know the present situation. ‘Sidi Aqid Yahia! What’s happening now?’
‘The people, Highness, have been subjected to devastating attacks by heliships and airborne commandos. Most of the old regular Afghan Army has joined the rebels, in the mountains, which form the major part of the land surface. All the larger towns have had uprisings from time to time. The best intelligence estimates are that the Russians have lost 10,000 men and four hundred aircraft – some of the most modern in the world – felled by guns and missiles, captured by the rebels from the Russians. The puppet government reckons the damage done by guerrillas to their installations and facilities at four to five hundred million dollars, and have announced that officially.’
‘Can the rebels hold out: could the
y even win?’
‘Highness, they are learning. But the Russians are learning, too. There are reports, for instance, of some Soviet forces being sent out disguised as rebels, operating in the mountains against the Muhjahidin. Nobody can yet say what the outcome will be. The guerrillas are fighting, in widely separate groups, under local commanders. They are unlikely ever to combine into a single movement. This is because of the nature of the terrain and the fact that they are of many different ethnic stocks. It also means they can’t be easily crushed.’
‘Are they getting any outside help?’
‘The Russians and the communist regime claim, of course, that they are. They can hardly admit that the ordinary people are fighting for freedom and have few arms. So they blame Egypt, China, Pakistan and the United States. In fact, such aid is minimal, if, indeed, there is any at all.’
‘And the refugees?’
‘Driven out by bombing and terrorism, their fields are barren, deliberately devastated. There are nearly four million refugees. There are two hundred and eighty camps in the Pakistan border area alone. Refugee support costs over one million dollars a day, for bare subsistence. Half of the cost is met by Pakistan, a poor country, in a magnificent effort. Half comes from international agencies, and hundreds of millions from Islamic countries.’
‘The Western response?’
‘Much shouting, Highness, anti-communist rhetoric. Dutiful printing in their press of the fact that five thousand people a day, two million a year, are fleeing from terror attacks …’
‘“Verily, when God seeks the downfall of a man, he first makes him blind!”’ the Prince quoted.
‘Eminent Highness!’ It was the suave, courtly Minister.
‘Speak, Alim Hafiz.’
‘You have honoured me. The situation, may my words find agreement from you who know better,’ Hafiz could not cure a lifetime habit of flowery speech, ‘the situation is complicated and, may it find favour, needs close attention.’
The Prince was getting bored. ‘You are a learned man and speak well, but I need facts, and I want to sleep.’
‘May I be the sacrifice for the life of His Royal Highness!’ The Alim started his compliments again, but caught himself just in time. ‘The facts are these: although called in by a minority government which only came to power by coup and murder, the Russian presence is legal. Any sovereign state can call in troops from anyone else.’
‘Even to butcher their own people?’
‘Regrettably, yes. That is the state of international law, the legal basis. It explains how the Soviets keep their hold on their satellites: Poland, Czechoslovaia, and so on. But to continue. This means that we can’t easily denounce the communists.’
‘Right.’
‘It also means that Your Royal Highness will have to be careful in making contacts with political figures of the Resistance. There are several groups of them with offices in Pakistan. Added to this, some may be – probably are – penetrated by Red agents. Nobody can be sure.’
‘I see. Now, what are the rebels called?’
‘Muhjahid is the name of the warriors: “Struggler”. Traditionally it is translated in the West as Holy Warrior, like the Crusaders of the old days. The plural is Muhjahidin. News commentators from abroad think that Muhjahidin is the singular, though.’
‘Thank you, Alim, perhaps we are getting a little too detailed. “Speech short and work long”, isn’t that the proverb?’
‘Your Royal Highness’s patience had emboldened your loquacious subjects to prolong their ramblings, my Lord …’
‘So, I’m to blame for what you do, is that it?’ Jamal liked to make the courtier cringe, because he was more than a little annoying, even if he had a crafty brain.
Jamal addressed the whole group. ‘His Majesty has sent us on a special mission. Overtly, I am going to Pakistan to visit the refugee camps, to bring some comfort to three and a half million of our brothers and sisters. I shall be touring the camps in the Peshawar area. In one sense, however, I am your cover. You will collect all possible military and political information, to enable the Throne to decide how to deal with the Russian threat. Make sure that you do your utmost. Our survival may depend upon it.’
All nodded. The meeting over, Prince Jamal retired to the luxurious bedroom and slept, to be fresh for his reception in Pakistan.
2 Highness, I am Samir, servant of Akbar
Peshawar
North-West Frontier
Pakistan
JUNE 13–17
Prince Jamal, staying at the luxurious Peshawar Intercontinental Hotel, went out daily to see the refugees in their camps a dozen miles away. He was not well prepared for the horror of it. Three and a half million people, mostly women and children, the survivors of relentless bombing raids whose purpose was to drive them into destitution, make their land barren, and deny refuge, food and cover to the patriots who still fought in the mountains. He saw people without eyes, with shattered limbs, lacking medical help and sometimes even food.
But he also saw a proud people who, when he stood in the back of his Land Rover throwing them hundred-dollar bills, cried: ‘Prince of Arabia! Give us guns!’ And as he watched, astonished, while the ragged multitude ignored the money and still called for guns, the reporters and photographers, some from highly reputable news media, already earning huge salaries, fought each other for the fluttering notes. Are we all mad? he thought, were we born for this, is the whole world insane?
Jamal sat down on the hard bench in the back of the open-top Land Rover, neat packets of banknotes beside him, the shouts of the people ringing in his ears.
A towering Pashtun, who had walked for twelve days through the mountains from the northern battlefields of Afghanistan, fought off the armed police and jumped onto the vehicle. There was practically no flesh on his bones, and he was dressed in rags. His eyes burned red as he sat down beside the Prince.
The policeman sitting opposite Jamal struck out at the newcomer with a lathi, a brass-bound stave. The hillman seized it, broke it in two, and gave the Pakistani three strokes over the shoulders. The little sergeant screamed with pain and rage and drew his gun.
‘Stop that,’ said Jamal, and the policeman subsided into a sullen heap.
The Land Rover continued its slow progression as the Pashtun spoke.
‘Son of a King! Your ancestors and ours fought side by side on the battlefield and they won their wars. Today, people who call themselves our leaders sit on silken cushions and beg from you, who skulk in your marble palaces, afraid to fight. We, the fighters, go without.
‘Son of an Arab! The weak, the women, the children, are tortured and dying because of your neglect! God will requite you! Show me your palm.’
Jamal, without knowing why, held out his hand. The Pashtun looked at it, as if reading the lines.
‘O Prince, whose ancestors were eaters of desert locusts and became noblemen: you will become dirt!
‘What a beautiful, what a soft hand, O Prince! How sad to realize that one day, perhaps soon, it will burn in hell!’
Jamal shuddered. The man was right. The Arabs were full of talk and sometimes handed out money – but often to the wrong people and usually because they did not want to be thought stingy. The Kuwait and Saudi clinics serving the camps were good, but small. The Pashtun was talking again.
‘Prince of the Arabs! You have thousands of young Emirs, princes, and wonderful weapons, the best. We are fighting with our bare hands, in the freezing mountains and scorching deserts. We are starving while you are overfed. We sleep on rocks and you doze in satin. If one, only one, of your princes were to come to us, to fight side by side, it would say more to the world, and to our people, than a thousand of your majestic visits!
‘Don’t put it out of your mind, noble Arab!’
Jamal’s orders, from his father, the King, were to see and to be seen, while his entourage collected the information which the old man needed. The refugee question was – not secondary, exactly: after all,
he had brought money to hand out, and to give the people at least some hope. There was little that an individual could do. Surely it was mainly a political problem, surely one should not get too involved with distress which one could not remove? The United Nations Refugee High Commission was swamped by the problem; so was Pakistan, so were the International Red Cross and the other agencies. Dr Bruttin, the IRC surgeon, was at full stretch, doing seven amputations a day.
At another camp, Prince Jamal raised his camera to take a picture of a group of children when they screamed in terror and ran away, falling over in their panic.
The camp commandant touched his arm gently. ‘We forgot to tell you, Highness, that the last time anything was pointed at those children, it was a gun, and bullets followed, killing their parents. Look at their eyes, Prince.’
Jamal could stand it no more: not for today, anyway. He went back to his hotel suite and lay on the bed, listening to the racing of his heart.
Then he heard another sound, a tapping. A ragged figure had climbed onto the ledge outside his window and was trying to gain his attention. His first thought was to call the guard and have the man arrested. But Rind had already hissed, in Arabic, through the half-open sash, ‘Prince, I am from your father’s friend: I am Samir from Afghanistan, from Sirdar Akbar. Let me in!’
He spoke with the intonation of the Gulf. Jamal opened the window wide.
Once inside, Rind bowed, and touched his head, eyes and heart. ‘Homage, Highness!’ he said. The Arabs might, privately, call him ajami, ‘one of the dumb’, in spite of his knowledge of Arabic; but Rind had no doubt that he could outthink this locust-eater, and was convinced that he would pull off his deception.