The Network - Jason Elliot [129]
‘I know you,’ she says quizzically. She’s squatting beside me. ‘Don’t I know you?’
I want to shake my head, but I mustn’t show that I’ve understood.
‘Zekriya,’ she calls to her driver, who’s been sensible enough to stay clear of the fray, ‘ask him if he’s alright, can you?’
‘Khub ast,’ I repeat, disguising my voice with a wince of pain.
‘That is so weird,’ I hear her say with a sigh as she stands up and walks back towards the Land Rover. ‘He looks just like someone I know. Zek?’ she calls with her hands on her hips. ‘Ask him if he’ll agree to an interview. Honestly, these poor bloody people.’
14
I’m not good for much the following day. But while my body’s been immobile, my mind’s been careering back and forth over the events of the previous twenty-four hours. The mind hungers naturally for certainty, but I can’t be as sure as I want to be about any of the things that are troubling me. All that is possible is an interpretation, and the one I’ve come up with has a dark side and a light side.
The dark side is that, as the Baroness indicated, someone is attempting to sabotage the operation and wants us to fail. I have accepted the cynical possibility that, somewhere along the line, there’s an agenda in favour of the survival of the Stingers. I must accept, possibly, that the Talib who accosted me yesterday was perhaps expecting me, and had been paid or persuaded to disable or kill me. Perhaps he wasn’t really a Talib at all. Perhaps Sattar, on whom my suspicion has largely fallen, has been watching the house, seen me leaving on Mondays and Tuesdays, and arranged for the Talib to intercept me on my return. The planning and effort involved in this, as well as the fact that a much simpler method could have been found to make me disappear, render it unlikely. But not impossible.
The trouble with small conspiracies is that they lead contagiously to larger ones. When I dwell on the notion that there really is a plan for the Stingers to fall into the wrong hands, I can’t help remembering Grace’s solemn prediction that there are people in America just waiting for the excuse to invade Afghanistan. All they need, she said, is to trace an act of terrorism on US soil back to Afghanistan. The Stingers could certainly provide the means. Yet the chances of planned American military involvement in Afghanistan seem so utterly remote, I have to mentally dismiss this possibility.
The light side is that if my encounter with the turbanned cable-wielder really was a devious attempt to stop us, it has failed. And if someone is still going to try to stop us, he’ll have to come up with another plan. If we leave quickly, the chances of another attempt will be much reduced. I share this idea with H when he looks in on me the next morning, because it feels right that we should move without delay.
‘Let’s leave now,’ I say.
‘What, today? What’s the hurry? You need to rest.’
‘No. We pick up the men and leave without warning them. That way no one has time to talk.’
‘Are you serious? Let’s have a look at you.’
I sit on the edge of the bed and H inspects the deep-red welts that run across my back and stomach. Dark bruises are beginning to extend along them. The skin isn’t broken, but it looks as though I’ve had an unusual accident with a very large barbecue. I wonder if they’ll leave scars.
‘Give it another day,’ he suggests.
Then we make a new discovery. I ask H to retrieve the first aid kit for me, which is with our stash of equipment in the roof space. I remember at the last minute to give him my phone so that he can check the markings I’ve left on the bags and cases with the ultraviolet light. He returns with the first aid kit, but there’s a new expression on his face.
‘How did you mark the stuff?’ he asks.
‘Vertical lines across the front that join up with the floor.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘either there’s a bloody great Afghan rat in that attic or someone’s been poking around in there. None of the lines match up.’
We’ve both been out of the house over the past few days. It’s possible that a determined visitor could have taken an interest