Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [59]
Fara came in. Siesta time was over. She greeted Jane respectfully, looked at Chantal, then, seeing that the baby was asleep, sat cross-legged on the ground, waiting for instructions. She was the daughter of Rabia’s eldest son, Ismael Gul, who was away at present, with the convoy—
Jane gasped. Fara looked inquiringly at her. Jane made a deprecatory motion with her hand, and Fara looked away.
Her father is with the convoy, Jane thought.
Jean-Pierre had betrayed that convoy to the Russians. Fara’s father would die in the ambush—unless Jane could do something to prevent it. But what? A runner could be sent to meet the convoy at the Khyber Pass and divert it onto a new route. Mohammed could arrange that. But Jane would have to tell him how she knew the convoy was due to be ambushed—and then Mohammed would undoubtedly kill Jean-Pierre, probably with his bare hands.
If one of them has to die, let it be Ismael rather than Jean-Pierre, thought Jane.
Then she thought of the other thirty or so men from the Valley who were with the convoy, and the thought struck her: Shall they all die to save my husband—Kahmir Khan with the wispy beard; and scarred old Shahazai Gul; and Yussuf Gul, who sings so beautifully; and Sher Kador, the goat boy; and Abdur Mohammed with no front teeth; and Ali Ghanim who has fourteen children?
There had to be another way.
She went to the mouth of the cave and stood looking out. Now that the siesta was over, the children had come out of the caves and resumed their games among the rocks and thorny bushes. There was nine-year-old Mousa, the only son of Mohammed—even more spoiled now that he had only one hand—swaggering with the new knife that his doting father had given him. She saw Fara’s mother, toiling up the hill with a bundle of fire-wood on her head. There was the mullah’s wife, washing out Abdullah’s shirt. She did not see Mohammed or his wife, Halima. She knew he was here in Banda, for she had seen him in the morning. He would have eaten with his wife and children in their cave—most families had a cave to themselves. He would be there now, but Jane was reluctant to seek him out openly, for that would scandalize the community, and she needed to be discreet.
What shall I tell him? she thought.
She considered a straightforward appeal: Do this for me, because I ask it. It would have worked on any Western man who had fallen in love with her, but Muslim men did not seem to have a romantic idea of love—what Mohammed felt for her was more like a rather tender kind of lust. It certainly did not put him at her disposal. And she wasn’t sure he still felt it anyway. What, then? He did not owe her anything. She had never treated him or his wife. But she had treated Mousa—she had saved the boy’s life. Mohammed owed her a debt of honor.
Do this for me, because I saved your son. It might work.
But Mohammed would ask why.
More women were appearing, fetching water and sweeping out their caves, tending to animals and preparing food. Jane knew she would see Mohammed shortly.
What shall I say to him?
The Russians know the route of the convoy.
How did they find out?
I don’t know, Mohammed.
Then what makes you so sure?
I can’t tell you. I overheard a conversation. I got a message from the British Secret Service. I have a hunch. I saw it in the cards. I had a dream.
That was it: a dream.
She saw him. He stepped from his cave, tall and handsome, wearing traveling clothes: the round Chitrali cap, like Masud’s, the type most of the guerrillas sported; the mud-colored pattu, which served as cloak, towel, blanket and camouflage; and the calf-length leather boots he had taken from the corpse of a Russian soldier. He walked across the clearing with the stride of one who has a long way to go before sundown. He took the footpath down the mountainside, toward the deserted village.
Jane watched his tall figure disappear. It’s now or never, she thought; and she followed him. At first