Kara Kush
Adam could not help smiling. ‘A capitalist monopoly of the treasures of ancient kings, operated by the Kremlin!’
So the Russians were selling collectors’ items, worldwide, through the KGB. Afghanistan was certainly one of the world’s great storehouses of such things, as the French, Italian and other archaeological missions had discovered and reported.
He stopped smiling. It would not be easy, might well be impossible, to prevent this rape of the country’s wealth and heritage. Noor had stopped reading aloud, and was scanning yet another document. Adam began to turn over possibilities in his mind.
‘My father!’ Adam jumped from his seat at the girl’s cry, unable for a moment to understand what she meant. He and Qasim stared at Noor, while she in turn, face almost bloodless, stared at the paper in her hand.
‘What is it?’
‘Adam, this is about my father. It says: “Engineer (formerly Sirdar) Akbar Sharifi, of the Kajakai electrical generating complex, Afghanistan, is working closely with the Soviet authorities. Through his instrumentation, the treasure hoard, known as the gold of Ahmad Shah, was made available to us.”’
She looked wildly at the two men. ‘Working with them? Then they were right when they told me he was a traitor!’
Adam and Qasim looked uncomfortably at one another. What was one to say?
Adam said, ‘Look, Noor: your father is my friend. We need not believe any of this unless we hear it from him. Forget about that. What about the gold?’
‘It says,’ she went on, dully, ‘a first consignment of ancient gold coins, worth in melting value, as bullion, some $28 million but perhaps ten to thirty times that much in collector-value, is to be held at Qizil Qala, on the Oxus, to await transfer to the USSR.’
Qazim clapped his hand to his head. ‘The gold of Ahmad Shah! That’s the treasure that everyone has been looking for since the sack of Delhi, two hundred years ago! People say it’s worth billions. How did he find it? Why did he tell the Russians? Can this be true?’
‘I think it is true,’ said Adam. ‘The first Afghan king of modern times, who looted both the Peacock Throne and the Koh-i-Noor diamond, the “Mountain of Light”, now among the British Crown Jewels, had a vast treasure which he captured from the Persians.’
Noor said, ‘At least I know where my father is: he’s at Kajakai. But if he’s gone over to the Russians, there is nothing more to be said.’
They studied the papers for hours. Kirilyan certainly had been efficient. There were details of the gunboat Jihun, to be used in the transfer, of the unit of border troops which would protect it and its disposition, and of the likely date when the accumulated treasure, with a guard from Moscow, would be moved. The date was six weeks off.
‘We must go and investigate, you know,’ Adam said, when they had made a written summary of all the information. ‘This even tells us exactly where the treasures will be kept, and which unit will guard them.’
‘But,’ Qasim was more cautious, ‘supposing, after losing the papers, the whole plan has been changed? After all, they may know that we have them.’
‘We have no means of knowing that,’ said Adam. ‘But I’m ready to try, anyway.’
Adam sent word to Afghan contacts in the secret service, asking if there was any news about General Kirilyan’s papers. The answer, brought by courier within three hours, was a huge bonus. It was a photocopy of a telex message, before encoding, from Kabul KGB Residency to Moscow Centre. It stated: ‘General Kirilyan’s papers relating to the Afghan treasures now established as destroyed without falling into enemy hands. Security is therefore intact.’ Obviously Kabul KGB were terrified of being held responsible, and were trying to lie, or hope, their way out.
With the colonel’s help, Adam and the others began to work on a plan for an expedition to the north. As Barakzai told them, it would be extremely dangerous. Nobody could travel to Turkestan by the only good road system, for this was the main means of entry and exit for the Soviet forces. Also, it went through the Salang Tunnel, carefully controlled and patrolled for fear of sabotage.
‘We have no good maps, and never have had in this country. The Russians have some, as they have carried out a complete aerial survey of Turkestan. These maps haven’t been generally issued, even to the Red Army, though. So we can’t hope to get hold of one. Then we have to remember that the overland route is across some really tough mountains. In places there are ravines; elsewhere only goat tracks: so we couldn’t use vehicles. Getting over mountain passes at ten thousand feet is no joke.’
‘Furthermore, we have no friends at the other side,’ said Adam.
Shahrdar Haidar was on his feet at once. ‘We have all of Turkestan on our side, if we can get in touch with the guerrillas. There are the Wolves, the Turks who have been fighting since long before the Russians invaded. They declared war on the communists after the original coup, years ago. And I have heard of many army deserters there, most of them originating in Turkestan, who are fighting very well.’
‘That’s true, Shahrdar. But we still have to contact them.’ Adam could see that there were more problems than he had thought.
‘Remember,’ Haidar said, ‘I have just covered that exact route. I came across the Hindu Kush alone, so I know that it can be done. It was difficult, but there are people in the mountains to help, and food can be had. There are fertile valleys. There are few Russians at ground level: they mostly patrol the region from the air, and not very frequently at that. You have a guide, at least, in me.’
The colonel said, ‘There are, in fact, ten ancient caravan routes across Kohistan, to the north. That is, after we get over the Paghman Mountains, just beyond here. We can take the Ghorband, instead of the Charikar, road, and this will avoid the main highway. That means following deep river-beds, for the most part, as these run through the valleys, of course.’
‘If we ever managed that,’ said Adam, ‘would that not bring us out too far to the north-west? We want to emerge directly north, or north-east of here.’
‘No.’ The colonel was positive. ‘I have flown over that area. Once you have got across the Paghman Mountains into Kohistan, you can use one of the ten caravan trails. You can work your way straight north, or anywhere you want to go.’
Adam asked, ‘What sort of heights would we be travelling at?’
‘Two to four thousand metres. Of course, there are peaks covered with glaciers and perpetual snow, but the trails themselves are nothing like as high.’
‘And after Kohistan, Land of Mountains, we still have the north-west Hindu Kush range. How do we get through that?’ Adam wanted to know.
‘That’s the least of our troubles. The main highway that we are avoiding follows the Charikar River plain. We do the same, but keep out of sight of the arterial road itself. And, in that area, we are sure of local help and advice. By the time we get to somewhere north of Doshi, we’ll be in the river area, heading north.’
‘Colonel, what is the actual distance?’
‘I suppose it might be two hundred and fifty miles, Adam. But that doesn’t really tell you anything. What counts is the terrain. One mile up a mountain can be worse than a hundred on the flat. And we have three mountain chains to cross.’
This was roughly the route which Haidar, the Turkestani, had travelled, carrying Captain Juma’s message. It had taken him just under three weeks, on foot or riding with friendly peasants, on horseback, on donkeys, sometimes in a cart.
It was now June, one of the hottest months of the year. Such a journey could not be made after September, and should be completed by the end of August. Even the petrol froze in the tanks during the winter on the main roads through the mountains.
It took a day to obtain a French army map, dated May 24th, 1901. It was on the scale of one to one million, and actually used by a Russian unit. This document showed several routes through the northern mountains, but it covered only the region from Kabul and Paghman to Pul-i-Khumri: about half the route they proposed to follow.
&n
bsp; ‘Still,’ said Colonel Barakzai, ‘it confirms my memory. And it does cover the worst part: the most mountainous area. Though I cannot say whether a map, even a military one, which is over eighty years old, is likely to be very accurate.’ Still, as Qasim pointed out, it was correct in all the places that they were able to check from their own knowledge.
‘Here’s to the Service Geographique de l’Armée,’ said the colonel, reading from the map, ‘even though the whole idea, given that the treasure may not still be there, is crazy!’
‘Not only that,’ said Noor, ‘but we have forty-two days until the treasure is moved. It took Haidar three weeks to get here; so if we want to make it, we’ll have to start almost at once. That leaves twenty-one days for equipping, for training and everything. What does the mayor think about speeding it up?’
They all turned to Haidar. ‘Could the journey be done quicker?’ Adam asked him.
‘Eagle, I heard that there was a shorter route, but that was after I had come most of the way. The mountain people say that, with guides, the journey can be done in fourteen days. That is, with a caravan, though you can only use animals at certain stages. And I had no money at all, so I was dependent on charity.’
‘What do you do with the animals when you can’t go any further?’ This was Qasim.
‘I know about that!’ Noor had been on several mountain journeys, into Nuristan and in the Paropamisus, north of Herat; ‘You hire them, with their owners. Then, when the going gets too hard, you pay them off. When you get to another stretch where pack animals can be used, you hire some more.’
‘I suppose you want to come along, Noor?’ The Eagle was not sure whether this was a trip for a woman, but she had done more mountain travel than he had …
‘Of course I do. Whether you like it or not!’
‘If we decide to go, of course you can.’
While they were talking, a young man dressed in the office suit and karakul fur cap of a Kabul city-dweller came rushing in, shouting, ‘Where’s The Eagle?’ Two armed guards were following him closely.
Adam looked up. ‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Halim Jan, from the Afghan Tour Agency, that I was talking to you about. Friend of Colonel Sakafi’s,’ said Colonel Barakzai.
Halim was out of breath. ‘Quick! Look at this!’
Adam took the piece of paper and read it. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘A friend of mine brought it to me from the Nizami KHAD.’
‘Halim, have you transport?’
‘Yes, but if they start to ask questions afterwards, I’m going to have to get out and come here.’
‘You’ll be welcome.’ Adam spoke to the others, who were trying to work out what might be happening. ‘Read this paper. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’
He took off his gunbelt and snatched up an old felt cloak. When he had put it on, it covered him completely, from his shoulders to his heels.
As the colonel reached for the piece of paper, Adam and Halim were scrambling down the cliff-side.
Perhaps they would beat the KHAD and save Kalan.
3 Time to move on, Big One …
Eagle’s Nest
Kalan’s Farm
Near Kabul
JUNE 20
They called him Kalan, the Big One. He might not have seemed such a giant in the Pashtun borderland country, but here, near Kabul, where people were wiry rather than massive, he was really big.
Kalan ran the restaurant, the trading post and a workshop for simple machinery repairs, just off the northern road. If you wanted a cup of tea while your irrigation pump was being fixed, you could get it there; and admire a range of rugs, or a new line in kerosene lamps, while you drank it.
Kalan had been in the area for years. Nobody around there really knew where he came from, and nobody cared very much. He was useful and he was popular. Some thought that he must be a man with a past; others, satisfied with their own community, believed that it was the most natural thing in the world that a man would want to settle in a happy, quiet and prosperous area of fruit-trees and good farming land.
Today, Kalan called his assistant, Hashim, to take over while he went to look at a pick-up truck that had broken down. It belonged to a farmer some four kilometres away, always a good customer for the miscellaneous services of Kalan’s establishment. He took up his shotgun and pulled on a pair of beautiful red leather, curly-toed Bokharan boots that he was breaking in. In his jeans and loud check shirt, he looked like a farmer from the American Mid-West. In fact, he had been, until ten years previously, a shipwright on the Pacific coast. Then he had got wanderlust, and had wanted a place of his own, work to do, but something which he could control, among the kind of people he could get on with. He’d started wandering, and ended up here. Now he was forty, and he liked the life.
Kalan waved, ‘Couple of hours should do it, Hashim; repair job at Shirinab,’ and climbed into his beaten-up 1976 Chevrolet, the service kit in the back and a nodding donkey mascot in front. When the Chevvy truck turned off the main road along the gravelly track which led to the farm, something caught Kalan’s eye: something had moved, he was sure of it, in that tree, over there. A lone bandit? There were several loose in these parts; but Kalan thought that he was well enough known not to be attacked. Bandits were some of his best customers, for cartridges, food supplies, information.
A Muhjahid on the run? Kalan, like the rest of the people in this flat, fertile area, kept out of trouble as much as he could. One gunship could destroy the whole place in minutes. But everyone would help a rebel – if he could do it discreetly. He stopped the car and opened the door, shotgun at the ready. A man was grinning, no, laughing, and waving to him. Tall, dark-haired fellow, looked quite tough. Dressed like a guerrilla. No gun though: not that you could see, anyhow. Kalan sat there, while the other man jumped out of the tree and came running up. Kalan called to him in Dari.
‘Chi gup as – what’s up?’
‘Chi hal dari – how are you?’
‘Fazl-i-Khuda – I’m well, thanks to God …Where’s the busted pick-up truck?’
Adam spoke to him in English. ‘There isn’t one. I sent the message. It just struck me,’ said The Eagle, ‘that you might be able to help us. And we could help you, too. We’re thinking of a trip to the north.’
‘Adam K. Durany! That Kabul professor. Haven’t seen you for years. How’s the University? Why are you dressed like that? What’s all this about?’
‘Thrown in my hand. I’m a Muhjahid now.’
‘Is that right? Any future in it? Pays well, does it?’
‘Listen, Louie,’ it was the first time that Louis Palmer, of Seattle, Washington, had heard his own, real name for years, ‘if you care for a trip, we could take you on – and you could help us, too.’
‘Gee, I don’t know. Got a pretty good little business going here, now. All this Robin Hood stuff is all right for some people …’
Adam sat down beside him, in the passenger seat. ‘Don’t let this influence you too much, Louie, but one of the reasons I stopped by was to tell you that I’ve just heard, from a good source, that the KHAD are onto you. They have been asking around if that “big American” was still running a store somewhere round here. If this wasn’t such a crazy country, they’d have had you in the bag months ago. You’re registered with the Aliens Office, you know.’
‘Gosh, if that’s so, I’ll certainly have to make plans.’
‘Not plans, friend, tracks. The KGB could be at the Karkhana any moment. Turn over the store to your manager and come on a trip.’
‘What is all this about a trip? Where to, and for what?’ Louis was interested.
‘To the north, to the Oxus at Qizil Qala. And to blow up a boat, that’s what for.’
‘I’ll be darned. The Afs have only one crazy little boat, the Jihun, in the whole country – and you want to blow it up?’
‘That’s right. It’s working for the Nikolais now, and it is an important job; and –’ Adam
’s voice became more serious ‘– I think that you, with your maritime experience, could be useful.’
‘What the hell? Sure, I’ll come along.’
‘Great. Haraka – Let’s get moving.’
Kalan would be a useful addition to the expedition: Adam had, in fact, thought of him before the tip-off through Afghan Tour. The day before, word had come that the Russians were pressing the Kabul authorities to round up stray Americans and people educated in the West. Just as journalists, barred from entering Afghanistan in their professional capacity, could get there by simply asking for tourist visas, so too, dozens of Westerners were living in the country without restriction. Russian efficiency had flagged when faced with Afghan casualness.
And The Eagle had moved just in time. Hashim, Palmer’s friend and assistant, left in charge of the café-workshop, received a visit from a Soviet snatch squad within twenty-four hours. He told their leader that Kalan had gone.
At The Eagle’s Nest it was decided to leave Qassab the butcher as Adam’s deputy, to work in joint command with Colonel Barakzai’s training group to organize the community and train everyone in the various functions which would make the Whirlwind a better fighting force. For the first time, logisitics, liaison with other resistance groups, intelligence and communications were being put on an efficient basis. The Eagle’s aim was a group which could now absorb and train almost any number of new recruits.
Karima, listening to the plans but saying little, now put in her bid. ‘Eagle seb! I have to come with you to the north.’
Adam had been waiting for this. Karima always spoke tentatively about anything that might be challengeable: but if she thought that something was right, she used positive words, and somehow she seemed to get her way. But surely, a woman of over sixty, however big and strong …