Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [141]
Each search party had a guide, and when they came to a place where the trail forked and both ways led to Nuristan, they would conscript an additional guide from the nearest village and split into two groups. By noon Jean-Pierre’s map was spotted with little red pinheads like a case of measles.
In the middle of the afternoon there was an unexpected distraction. A bespectacled general on a five-day fact-finding tour of Afghanistan landed at Bagram and decided to find out how Anatoly was spending the Russian taxpayer’s money. This Jean-Pierre learned in a few words from Anatoly seconds before the general burst into the little office, followed by anxious officers like ducklings hurrying after the mother duck.
Jean-Pierre was fascinated to see how masterfully Anatoly handled the visitor. He sprang to his feet, looking energetic but unruffled; shook the general’s hand and gave him a chair; barked a series of orders through the open door; spoke rapidly but deferentially to the general for a minute or so; excused himself and spoke into the radio; translated for Jean-Pierre’s benefit the reply that came crackling through the atmosphere from Nuristan; and introduced the general to Jean-Pierre in French.
The general began to ask questions, and Anatoly pointed to the pinheads on Jean-Pierre’s map as he replied. Then, in the middle of it all, one of the search parties called in unbidden, an excited voice jabbering in Russian, and Anatoly shushed the general in midsentence to listen.
Jean-Pierre sat on the edge of his hard seat and longed for a translation.
The voice stopped. Anatoly asked a question and got a reply.
“What did he see?” blurted Jean-Pierre, unable to keep silent any longer.
Anatoly ignored him for a moment and spoke to the general. At last he turned to Jean-Pierre. “They have found two Americans at a village called Atati in the Nuristan valley.”
“Wonderful!” said Jean-Pierre. “It’s them!”
“I suppose so,” said Anatoly.
Jean-Pierre could not understand his lack of enthusiasm. “Of course it is! Your troops don’t know the difference between American and English.”
“Probably not. But they say there is no baby.”
“No baby!” Jean-Pierre frowned. How could that be? Had Jane left Chantal behind in the Five Lions Valley, to be brought up by Rabia or Zahara or Fara? It seemed impossible. Had she hidden the baby with a family in this village—Atati—just a few seconds before being caught by the search party? That, too, seemed unlikely: Jane’s instinct would be to keep the baby close to her in times of danger.
Was Chantal dead?
It was probably a mistake, he decided: some error of communication, atmospheric interference on the radio link, or even a purblind officer in the search party who simply had not seen the tiny baby.
“Let’s not speculate,” he said to Anatoly. “Let’s go and see.”
“I want you to go with the pickup squad,” said Anatoly.
“Of course,” said Jean-Pierre; then he was struck by Anatoly’s phrasing. “Do you mean to say you’re not coming?”
“Correct.”
“Why not?”
“I’m needed here.” Anatoly shot a glance at the general.
“All right.” There were power games within the military bureaucracy, no doubt: Anatoly was afraid to leave the base while the general was still prowling around in case some rival should get a chance to slander him behind his back.
Anatoly picked up the desk phone and gave a series of orders in Russian. While he was still speaking, an orderly came into the room and beckoned Jean-Pierre. Anatoly put his hand over the mouthpiece and said: “They’ll give you a warm coat—it’s already winter in Nuristan. À bientôt.”
Jean-Pierre went out with the orderly. They walked across the concrete apron. Two helicopters were waiting, rotors spinning: a bug-eyed