Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [127]
The man began to protest: nakedness was terribly shameful to Afghans. Anatoly shouted an abrupt command in Russian, and the soldiers threw the man on the ground and pulled off his shirt. They all laughed uproariously to see his stick-thin legs poking out of his ragged shorts. They let him go and he scuttled away with his hands over his genitals, which made them laugh all the more.
Jean-Pierre was too nervous to find it funny. He took off his European-style shirt and trousers and donned the old man’s hooded shirt.
“You smell of horse piss,” said Anatoly.
“It’s even worse from inside,” Jean-Pierre replied.
They climbed into their helicopter. Anatoly took the pilot’s headset and spoke into the radio microphone at length in Russian. Jean-Pierre was very uneasy about what he was about to do. Suppose three guerrillas were to come over the mountain and catch him threatening Abdullah with the gun? He was known by literally everyone in the Valley. The news that he had visited Banda with the Russians would have spread rapidly. Without doubt most people now knew that he had been a spy. He must be Public Enemy Number One. They would tear him apart.
Perhaps we’re being too clever, he thought. Maybe we should just land and pull Abdullah in and beat the truth out of him.
No, we tried that yesterday and it didn’t work. This is the only way.
Anatoly gave the headset back to the pilot, who took his seat and began to warm up the helicopter. While they were waiting, Anatoly took out his gun and showed it to Jean-Pierre. “This is a nine-millimeter Makarov,” he said over the noise of the rotors. He flipped a catch in the heel of the grip and drew out the magazine. It contained eight rounds. He pushed the magazine back in. He pointed to another catch on the left-hand side of the pistol. “This is the safety catch. When the red dot is covered, the catch is in the ‘safe’ position.” Holding the gun in his left hand, he used his right hand to pull back the slide above the grip. “This is how the pistol is cocked.” He released it and it sprang back into position. “When you fire, give a long pull on the trigger to recock the gun.” He handed the weapon to Jean-Pierre.
He really trusts me, Jean-Pierre thought, and for a moment a glow of pleasure took the chill off his fear.
The helicopters took off. They followed the Five Lions River southwest, going down the Valley. Jean-Pierre was thinking that he and Anatoly made a good team. Anatoly reminded him of his father: a clever, determined, brave man with an unshakable commitment to world communism. If we succeed here, Jean-Pierre thought, we will probably be able to work together again, on some other battlefield. The thought pleased him inordinately.
At Dasht-i-Rewat, where the lower Valley began, the helicopter turned southeast, following the tributary Rewat upstream into the hills, in order to approach Banda from behind the mountain.
Anatoly used the pilot’s headset again, then came over to shout in Jean-Pierre’s ear. “They are all in the mosque already. How long will it take the wife to reach the mullah’s house?”
“Five or ten minutes,” Jean-Pierre yelled back.
“Where do you want to be dropped off?”
Jean-Pierre considered. “All the villagers are in the mosque, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did they check the caves?”
Anatoly went back to the radio and asked. He returned and said: “They checked the caves.”
“Okay. Drop me there.”
“How long will it take you to reach your hiding place?”
“Give me ten minutes; then release the women and children, then wait another ten minutes and release the men.”
“Right.”
The helicopter descended into the shadow of the mountain. The afternoon was waning, but there was still an hour or so before nightfall. They landed behind the ridge, a few yards from the caves. Anatoly said to Jean-Pierre: “Don’t go yet. Let us check the caves again.”
Through the open door, Jean-Pierre saw another Hind land. Six men got out and ran over the ridge.
“How will I signal you to come down and pick me up afterward?” Jean-Pierre asked.
“We’ll