I Am Pilgrim(89)

Once a nineteenth-century British fort, it had been turned into a home, a stronghold and a seat of regional power. The Saracen passed under the remains of a road bridge, climbed on to a pitted blacktop and headed towards it. Halfway along what had once been a major road, he walked between a jumble of giant boulders and – emerging on the other side – found himself face to face with two of the horsemen.

They commanded the road, their rifles levelled casually at his chest. The Saracen knew they would be more than happy to pull the trigger.

‘Who are you?’ the one with fine gold inlay along the stock of his weapon – the more senior of the pair – asked.

The Saracen started to answer but stopped, realizing the name he was using – the one on his passport – would mean nothing. Instead, he indicated the entrance to the fort.

‘Give him a message, please. Tell him the boy with the Blowpipe has returned.’





Chapter Thirty-two


IN THE YEARS that had passed since their last meeting, Lord Abdul Mohammad Khan had come to look more like a medieval painting than a warlord. His skin was the texture of tooled leather and he wore a chapin – the long traditional Afghan robe – of the finest cloth, a gold dagger as a symbol of his authority, and highly polished calfskin boots. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by a gold Rolex as big as a microwave.

The years hadn’t been kind to him – then again, the years are never kind to anyone in Afghanistan – but he could boast of one thing few of his contemporaries could: he was still alive. In his late sixties now, he was the warrior-father of his clan, and both soldiers and visitors stood aside in true deference as he limped through his stone-paved compound. All of them wondered who the muscular man was who had arrived at the gate and who Lord Khan had rushed to meet with such speed.

Some said he was a former comrade, a muj hero, while others claimed he was a doctor who had come to treat Khan for some terrible illness. Whatever the stranger’s background, he was being afforded an honour denied to any of them: the great Khan had his arm around the man’s shoulder, personally escorting him into his ornate audience chamber.

The room had once been the office of the British commander of the North-West Frontier and, as a result, featured high ceilings, a fireplace imported from England and a raised platform on which had stood the commander’s desk. This was now covered with antique carpets fit for a museum and silk cushions that had crossed the border from palaces in Iran and China. A gold brazier burned incense in the corner, the fireplace housed all the equipment for making tea, but, of all the exotic and beautiful things in the room, it was the wall opposite the fireplace that monopolized every visitor’s attention.

Khan watched from beneath hooded eyes as the Saracen caught sight of the massive concrete blocks set into it. The visitor stopped and stared at the bas-relief of the struggling limbs and screaming faces of the two men who had betrayed Khan, captured for ever – crystallized – in the moment of death. For some reason, he had always imagined the men were not much more than boys, but now he saw they were full-fledged warriors – tall and heavily armed – and that made their terror even more powerful.

The Saracen walked closer. Age and smoke had given the blocks a patina the glow of honey, and he was surprised at how much they resembled something cast in bronze. Lord Khan came to his side. ‘You like my sculpture, huh? You know what their names are?’

The Saracen shook his head. Even though he had been told the story many times, he had never heard that part.

‘Dumb and Dumber,’ the warlord said, and roared with laughter. ‘That’s what a CIA guy called ’em when he visited years ago – now it’s the name everyone uses.’

The Saracen stiffened slightly. ‘Does the CIA come here often?’

‘Every few years,’ Lord Khan said with a shrug. ‘Always trying to buy my support for whatever faction they’re backing that month.’ He walked towards the fireplace. ‘I’ve never taken their money but, I have to admit, I like their sense of humour.’

An old man sitting cross-legged in the gloom, his eyes misted with cataracts, unfurled himself, about to start preparing tea for his master and the guest. Lord Khan stopped him and turned to the Saracen, indicating the staff and a dozen bodyguards spread around the room. ‘You want them to leave?’

The Saracen nodded – privacy was exactly what he needed. Khan smiled. ‘I thought so. Nobody comes to Afghanistan on a social visit.’

As the room emptied, he began spooning leaves into a pot. ‘You remember the last time I served you tea?’