Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [129]
“They have gone away,” Abdullah spat, and saliva wetted his red-dyed beard.
“Where?” Jean-Pierre held his breath.
“They have left the Valley.”
“But where did they go?”
“To Pakistan.”
To Pakistan! What was the old fool talking about? “The routes are closed!” Jean-Pierre yelled in exasperation.
“Not the Butter Trail.”
“Mon Dieu,” Jean-Pierre whispered in his native tongue. “The Butter Trail.” He was awestruck by their courage, and at the same time bitterly disappointed, for it would be impossible to find them now. “Did they take the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll never see my daughter again.”
“They will all die in Nuristan,” Abdullah said with satisfaction. “A Western woman with a baby will never survive those high passes, and the American will die trying to save her. Thus God punishes those who escape man’s justice.”
Jean-Pierre realized he should get back to the helicopter as quickly as possible. “Go back to your house now,” he told Abdullah.
“The treaty will die with them, for Ellis has the paper,” Abdullah added. “This is a good thing. Although we need the American weapons, it is dangerous to make pacts with infidels.”
“Go!” said Jean-Pierre. “If you don’t want your family to see me, make them stay inside for a few minutes.”
Abdullah looked momentarily indignant at being given orders, but he seemed to realize he was at the wrong end of the gun for protests, and he hurried away.
Jean-Pierre wondered whether they would all die in Nuristan, as Abdullah had gloatingly predicted. That was not what he wanted. It would not give him revenge or satisfaction. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted Jane alive and in his power. He wanted Ellis to suffer pain and humiliation.
He gave Abdullah time to get inside his house, then drew the hood over his face and set off disconsolately up the hill. He kept his face averted as he passed the house in case one of the children should look out.
Anatoly was waiting for him in the clearing in front of the caves. He held out his hand for the pistol and said: “Well?”
Jean-Pierre gave him back his gun. “They’ve escaped us,” he said. “They’ve left the Valley.”
“They can’t have escaped us,” said Anatoly angrily. “Where have they gone?”
“To Nuristan.” Jean-Pierre pointed in the direction of the helicopters. “Shouldn’t we leave?”
“We can’t talk in the helicopter.”
“But if the villagers come—”
“To hell with the villagers! Stop acting defeated! What are they doing in Nuristan?”
“They’re heading for Pakistan by a route known as the Butter Trail.”
“If we know their route we can find them.”
“I don’t think so. There is one route, but it has variations.”
“We’ll overfly them all.”
“You can’t follow these paths from the air. You can hardly follow them from the ground without a native guide.”
“We can use maps—”
“What maps?” said Jean-Pierre. “I’ve seen your maps, and they’re no better than my American ones, which are the best available—and they do not show these trails and passes. Don’t you know there are regions of the world that have never been properly charted? You’re in one of them now!”
“I know—I’m in Intelligence, remember?” Anatoly lowered his voice. “You’re too easily discouraged, my friend. Think. If Ellis can find a native guide to show him the route, then I can do the same.”
Was it possible? Jean-Pierre wondered. “But there is more than one way to go.”
“Suppose there are ten variations. We need ten native guides to lead ten search parties.”
Jean-Pierre’s enthusiasm rose rapidly as he realized that he might yet get Jane and Chantal back and see Ellis captured. “It might not be that bad,” he said enthusiastically. “We can simply inquire along the way. Once we are out of this godforsaken Valley, people may be less tight-lipped. The Nuristanis aren’t as involved in the war as these people.”
“Good,” said Anatoly abruptly. “It is getting dark. We’ve got a lot to do