Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [53]
The risk to Jean-Pierre of these meetings was a little less. His constant traveling to outlying villages to hold clinics was only mildly odd. However, suspicion might be aroused if anyone noticed that he happened to bump into the same wandering Uzbak more than once or twice. And, of course, if somehow an Afghan who spoke French should overhear the doctor’s conversation with that wandering Uzbak, Jean-Pierre could only hope to die fast.
His sandals made no noise on the footpath, and Maggie’s hooves sank silently into the dusty earth, so as he neared the hut he whistled a tune, in case anyone other than Anatoly should be inside: he was careful not to startle Afghans, who were all armed and jumpy. He ducked his head and entered. To his surprise, the cool interior of the hut was empty. He sat down with his back to the stone wall and settled to wait. After a few minutes he closed his eyes. He was tired, but too tense to sleep. This was the worst part of what he was doing: the combination of fear and boredom which overcame him during these long waits. He had learned to accept delays, in this country without wristwatches, but he had never acquired the imperturbable patience of the Afghans. He could not help but imagine the various disasters which might have overtaken Anatoly. How ironic it would be if Anatoly had trodden on a Russian antipersonnel mine and blown his foot off. Those mines actually injured more livestock than humans, but they were no less effective for that: the loss of a cow could kill an Afghan family as surely as if their house had been bombed with them all inside. Jean-Pierre no longer laughed when he saw a cow or a goat with a rough-hewn wooden leg.
In his reverie he sensed the presence of someone else, and opened his eyes to see Anatoly’s Oriental face inches from his own.
“I could have robbed you,” said Anatoly in fluent French.
“I wasn’t asleep.”
Anatoly sat down, cross-legged, on the dirt floor. He was a squat, muscular figure in baggy cotton shirt and trousers with a turban, a checked scarf and a mud-colored woolen blanket, called a pattu, around his shoulders. He let the scarf drop from his face and smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “How are you, my friend?”
“Well.”
“And your wife?”
There was something sinister in the way Anatoly always asked about Jane. The Russians had been dead against the idea of his bringing Jane to Afghanistan, arguing that she would interfere with his work. Jean-Pierre had pointed out that he had to take a nurse with him anyway—it was the policy of Médecins pour la Liberté always to send pairs—and that he would probably sleep with whoever accompanied him, unless she looked like King Kong. In the end the Russians had agreed, but reluctantly. “Jane is fine,” he said. “She had the baby six weeks ago. A girl.”
“Congratulations!” Anatoly seemed genuinely pleased. “But wasn’t it a little early?”
“Yes. Fortunately there were no complications. In fact the village midwife delivered the baby.”
“Not you?”
“I wasn’t there. I was with you.”
“My God.” Anatoly looked horrified. “That I should have kept you away on such an important day . . .”
Jean-Pierre was pleased by Anatoly’s concern, but he did not show it. “It couldn’t be anticipated,” he said. “Besides, it was worth it: you hit the convoy I told you of.”
“Yes. Your information is very good. Congratulations again.”
Jean-Pierre felt a glow of pride, but he tried to appear matter-of-fact. “Our system seems to be working very well,” he said modestly.
Anatoly nodded. “What was their reaction to the ambush?”
“Increasing desperation.” It occurred to Jean-Pierre, as he spoke, that another advantage of meeting his contact in person was that he could give this kind of background information, feelings and impressions, stuff which was not concrete enough to be sent by radio in code. “They’re constantly running out of ammunition now.”
“And the next convoy—when will it depart?”
“It left yesterday.”
“They are desperate. Good.” Anatoly