Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [77]
When prayer was concluded, he returned to the tea shop, rolling his prayer rug. The lean man he’d seen earlier approached and in a quiet voice of command said, “Follow me.” Yousef looked after the man a moment, then tossed a few coins on the wooden table and followed. He was led to the poorest quarter of Peshawar, then up an alley and into a small house. The man led him through the first room, through the second, then across a small courtyard. There he paused before a doorway and gestured for Yousef to enter. When he did, he found his effects from his room. “Wait,” the man said, then turned on his heel and left.
That night Yousef was brought bread, dates, and hot, sweet tea by an aged woman dressed in black. Almost before he’d finished the meager meal he was overcome with fatigue. He lay on a goatskin and slept as if he were dead.
Before dawn the next morning the young man returned. “Bring just the rucksack. Leave the rest,” he ordered.
Yousef quickly finished his morning tea. “Where are we going?” he asked, when he really meant, Am I being moved again? Or is this it?
“To the mountains. No more questions.”
Outside were four young men. The air was bracing. Yousef fell in behind the young men and was led off with the others. By midday they were out of the city and well into the countryside. They walked in silence, with the leader, who told Yousef his name was Omar, calling a short break every two hours. Two of the others were, like Yousef, from Saudi Arabia. A third was Egyptian, while the fourth was from Syria. Omar instructed them to tell the others nothing more about themselves and to use a name other than their own.
Omar rarely spoke. When he did, he selected his words carefully. His eyes were a startling light blue and his teeth were bright and even. That first night the men rested at a farmer’s house and were served by his wife and young daughters. They slept on one side of the small house while the family slept on the other. They were up before dawn; after a quick breakfast of sweet tea and flat bread, they were on their way again. That night, then the next two, they slept at campsites. The nights were frigid. The men huddled together for warmth.
The farther from Peshawar they traveled, the more traffic fell off. By the third day, they no longer saw military vehicles. By the fourth they were well into the foothills of the mountains, climbing higher with each step. Yousef’s feet were covered with blisters, but he said nothing. The young Syrian was bleeding through his tattered canvas shoes. No one complained.
That night, their fifth, Omar led them to a camp well off the trail they’d been following. Here they were welcomed, their feet were treated, and they were given a full meal. “We will rest here a few days,” Omar told them. “Remain to yourselves.”
“A few days” turned into ten. Each day was colder than the previous. On the fourth, heavy clouds filled the sky, threatening rain or early snow. About thirty were in the camp, herdsmen with only a few women to prepare meals and clean. One of the locals told Yousef their winter settlement was down in the valley and they would leave for it at the first sign of snow. He was the only one who spoke to any of them.
On the tenth night, after the evening meal, Omar gathered the five and introduced them to a stern newcomer named Muhammad. “We will divide into two groups tomorrow. You four,” Muhammad said, gesturing at the others, “will go with me. Yousef will remain with Omar.”
Omar and Yousef left with the others at first light, but soon split away. They went to the right, while the others took the left fork of the trail. “Go with Allah,” Omar told the men as he took the hand of each. Yousef said and did the same. That day the trail wound ever upward, snaking back and forth, often running along rocky walls rather than out in the open. It was exhausting, and for the first time Yousef was concerned that he was not physically up to his pilgrimage.