The Network - Jason Elliot [136]
There’s a wiry jovial old man staying in the place, who’s walked with his donkey from a village about ten miles away called Daymalek. He sits among us as the owner of the place lights several oil lanterns and puts them on the floor near us, and tells the story of how he used to smuggle weapons on his donkey past a Soviet checkpoint in the days of the jihad.
‘He’s a big smuggler,’ Aref jokes with him, ‘famous across Afghanistan.’
The old man wheezes with delight.
‘What are you smuggling these days, Hajji?’ asks Sher Del teasingly. ‘Come on, we won’t tell.’
‘Donkeys!’ exclaims the old man, and a ripple of laughter spreads through the room. ‘Right under the noses of those cursed Arabs!’ He chuckles.
But at this we all fall silent, and the old man looks at our faces wondering what it is he’s said.
‘Hajji,’ says Aref, ‘there are no Arabs around here.’
‘Wallah,’ he says. ‘By God there are. Where the roads meet between Sharow and Dasht, not half a day’s walk from here. A cultureless people,’ he adds dismissively. ‘I’ve heard Arabic, and I know what it sounds like. They’re Arabs alright. They dress wrong too.’
And suddenly we all know it’s time to revise our plan because this means there’s an al-Qaeda checkpoint further down the valley.
In the morning when we’re alone, we gather over the maps. There’s no other way out of the valley except through the checkpoint, but we’re all agreed that if there really are al-Qaeda there, they won’t take kindly to the presence of foreigners.
We all move cautiously down the valley later in the morning, but when we’re beyond the village called Dasht, H and I climb a ridge that will give us enough height to OP the checkpoint. We keep our ascent hidden and stay below the skyline, settling after a half-hour climb between some boulders from which there’s a clear view of the valley floor.
H takes out the Kite sight and positions it carefully so that it’s shielded from the sun. He puts it to his eye and adjusts the focusing ring on the eyepiece.
‘Definitely a checkpoint,’ says H. ‘PK on the roof. Generator out the back. And it looks like they’ve got comms. Have a look at that antenna. We don’t want to get involved with them.’ He hands me the Kite. ‘What do you make of those blokes outside the building where the jeep’s parked?’
I put the sight to my eye and the world shoots forward, shimmering in the heat haze. They’re half a mile away but I can clearly make out a man leaning against the wall with one foot propped behind him. His hand rises and falls as he puts a cigarette to his mouth. Another man is talking to him, then turns and enters the building. As he turns I can see he’s wearing bulky webbing across his chest. They both have AKs over their shoulders. What distinguishes them from the others around them is that instead of the traditional shalwar kameez, they’re wearing desert combat trousers and nothing on their heads, which is almost unthinkable for an Afghan. And though it’s harder to define, they don’t move like Afghans either. I share these observations with H.
‘Time for a meeting,’ he says. He covers the end of the Kite before packing it away, then sinks down and away from the skyline.
The others are waiting for us below, where we agree on a plan. H and I, accompanied by Momen, will move on foot to the neighbouring valley to the north, cross the Kadj river, and rejoin the others at a village called Garendj. We’ll take the Kite and one of the radios, and wear the Brownings against our bodies. I’ll carry Mr Raouf’s AK-SU so that in the event of a search the others won’t be incriminated. And before we move we’ll watch the others from the ridge above as they negotiate the checkpoint, and wait until they’ve passed safely through.
‘Your equipment will be ruined if you have to cross the river,’ protests Sher Del.
‘Tell him not to worry about that,’ says H. ‘And don’t use the radio,’ he says to Aref. ‘Keep it switched on in your pocket and press transmit three