Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [78]
He and Omar slept in five camps in as many nights. These were military encampments now, hidden in caves or tucked away in narrow ravines. The lean, ragged men carried with them AK-47s and watched the sky closely for aircraft.
“But we don’t always see them,” Omar explained when he asked what they were doing. “Often the American planes are so high they are invisible, like evil spirits, and their bombs are among us without warning.”
Yousef licked his dry lips. “Does it happen often?”
“Often enough. If you are here for long, you will see.”
With each camp the living conditions declined. It was colder, the men dirtier. But everywhere Yousef was moved by the extent of the commitment he saw, the willingness of fellow Muslims to fight the infidel.
They were so high in the stark mountains he lost his appetite and from time to time experienced nausea. Omar pressed him to eat the rice and goat meat that constituted their basic meal, but he could not. When Yousef believed he could go no farther, Omar took him aside. “You’ve done well. This is difficult even for me and I spend most of my time in these mountains. Just one more day. We will cross over the pass in the morning, then descend all day. Before nightfall, God willing, we will have reached our destination. So rest, my brother, you have earned it.”
Yousef was too tired to take it in. He lay on his side, his nearby meal untouched, and was at once in a deep sleep. The next morning they left while it was still dark. They had come so far, they were in the clouds, and the cloying mist turned his clothes wet and heavy, drawing the heat from his body. But the pass was less than two hours away, and as they descended, the clouds seemed to disperse and the sky overhead was that azure he’d become accustomed to in Peshawar.
They joined three others, young men who laughed uneasily and scanned the sky incessantly. Before noon the trail led them downward. With each passing hour, Yousef felt better. When they stopped for a midday meal and heated tea, he ate with vigor. Omar smiled.
It was nearly dark when they finally entered a narrow canyon. The three fighters who had come with them smiled warmly at seeing old comrades, exchanging embraces and news. Omar led Yousef to a fire set at the mouth of a nondescript cave, one like thousands they’d passed on his journey. Here, about the fire, were several women, the first Yousef had seen in two weeks, and two men, both a bit plump from lack of exercise and too much food. Omar squatted and spoke to one, gesturing toward Yousef. The man nodded and gave instructions.
When Omar returned, he said, “You will eat and rest tonight. Tomorrow you will bathe and prepare yourself.”
Yousef nodded. At last.
Following afternoon prayer the next day, Yousef was finally escorted deep within the largest cave he had seen since entering Tora Bora. He’d been bathed, then dressed entirely in clean clothes provided to him. His hair and beard had been barbered.
Outside he’d heard a generator running, and inside he spotted cables laid along the floor. Omar had explained that all of the fuel had to be carried in so the generator was only run an hour or so a day as needed.
Some two hundred feet into the cave, after several turns, they were stopped by two armed guards. Omar explained that he would leave now but would see Yousef outside afterward. A few minutes later, Yousef was led into the presence of Osama bin Laden.
The room was located at the far reaches of the cave and had been made larger over time. It was lit by bare bulbs, with a number of unlit lamps for when the power was off. There was a desk, carpets, and pillows. The room was heavy with the smell of incense and kerosene.
Bin Laden was reclining on pillows, his lanky body stretched out like that of a snake warming itself in the sun. Unlike the others outside, his clothes were immaculately clean. His beard was whiter than in photographs, and his eyes were deeply sunk within his skull. He looked tired but otherwise quite fit.