Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [80]
Moving quickly, he put everything back in his medical bag and replaced the items he had used at Astana. He took a handful of diamorphine tablets and put them in his shirt pocket. Finally he wrapped the POISON! box in a threadbare towel.
He left the house. “I’m going to the river to wash,” he called up to Jane.
“Okay.”
He walked quickly through the village, nodding curtly to one or two people, and headed out through the fields. He was full of optimism. All sorts of risks attended his plans, but he could once again hope for a great triumph. He skirted a clover field that belonged to the mullah and climbed down a series of terraces. A mile or so from the village, on a rocky outcrop of the mountain, was a solitary cottage that had been bombed. It was getting dark when Jean-Pierre came within sight of it. He walked slowly toward it, picking his way gingerly across the uneven ground, regretting that he had not brought a lamp.
He stopped at the pile of rubble that had once been the front of the house. He thought of going in, but the smell as well as the darkness dissuaded him. He called out: “Hey!”
A shapeless form rose from the ground at his feet and scared him. He jumped back, cursing.
The malang stood up.
Jean-Pierre peered at the skeletal face and matted beard of the mad fellow. Recovering his composure, he said in Dari: “God be with you, holy man.”
“And with you, Doctor.”
Jean-Pierre had caught him in a coherent phase. Good. “How is your belly?”
The man mimed a stomachache: as always, he wanted drugs. Jean-Pierre gave him one diamorphine pill, letting him see the others, then putting them back in his pocket. The malang ate his heroin and said: “I want more.”
“You can have more,” Jean-Pierre told him. “A lot more.”
The man held out his hand.
“But you have to do something for me,” said Jean-Pierre.
The malang nodded eagerly.
“You have to go to Charikar and give this to a Russian soldier.” Jean-Pierre had decided on Charikar, despite the extra day’s journey it involved, because he feared that Rokha, being a rebel town temporarily occupied by the Russians, might be in a state of confusion, and the package could get lost, whereas Charikar was permanently in Russian territory. And he had decided on a soldier, rather than a post office, as the destination because the malang might not be able to deal with the business of buying a stamp and mailing something.
He looked carefully at the man’s unwashed face. He had been wondering whether the fellow would comprehend even these simple instructions, but the look of fear on his face at the mention of a Russian soldier indicated that he had understood perfectly.
Now, was there any way Jean-Pierre could ensure that the malang actually followed these orders? He, too, could throw the package away and come back swearing that he had carried out the task, for if he was intelligent enough to understand what he had to do, he might be capable of lying about it.
Jean-Pierre was inspired with an idea. “And buy a pack of Russian cigarettes,” he said.
The malang held out empty hands. “No money.”
Jean-Pierre knew he had no money. He gave him one hundred afghanis. That should ensure he actually went to Charikar. Was there a way to compel him to deliver the package?
Jean-Pierre said: “If you do this, I’ll give you all the pills you want. But do not cheat me—for if you do, I shall know, and I will never give you pills again, and your bellyache will grow worse and worse and you will swell up and then your guts will burst like a grenade and you will die in agony. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Jean-Pierre stared at him in the