generations. How do we know you’re not one of the bad guys?”
Katya cast him a baleful look. “Because they murdered my uncle. Because there are no others in my family. Because of a pledge my ancestors made more than two thousand years ago. And because the creed of Shang Yong has nothing to do with that history. It’s an abomination. And because he will try to kill me-and all of us-as soon as we lead him to the jewel. It’s as simple as that.”
“So this valley we’re heading to,” Costas said, looking at Jack. “Sounds like sniper alley. Do we get any ISAF protection?”
“You could have a battalion of special forces up there combing the slopes, rangers, SAS, and they still wouldn’t see a sniper that good,” Jack replied.
Pradesh had been listening quietly, and glanced at Costas. “Jack and I have talked about this. If we want ISAF help to hunt one man and a rifle, that’s a no go. Up here some of the local warlords are strong enough to confront the Taliban themselves. The ISAF commanders know that’s the way forward. Let the warlords get on with it themselves, and don’t make yourself their enemy too. The Taliban murdered and raped their way through here when they were in power, and Afghans have long memories. So we’ll only get limited reactive assistance or medevac. Once we pass through the air-base at Feyzabad, we’re on our own until we meet this former mujahideen chap Altamaty knows, the local warlord. Then we have to run the gauntlet of a couple of villages where there might be Taliban infiltrators, and there’s always the possibility of IEDs, suicide bombers. But if Altamaty really can get the warlord on our side, that’s a big step forward.”
“What’s our cover story?” Costas asked. “Aren’t they going to assume we’re CIA or something?”
“Film crew,” Jack said. “We’re following the exploration of John Wood in 1836 in search of the source of the river Oxus. We’ve even got the battered old book for authenticity.”
“Sounds like a dream project of yours, Jack,” Katya said.
“One day.” Jack flashed her a smile. “I’d love to. When the fighting’s over.”
Costas peered at the map. “What’s the place with the mines called again?”
“The Koran Valley,” Jack said.
The aircraft banked to port, and they heard the rumble of the undercarriage lowering. Altamaty had been staring out of the window, but turned as Jack spoke, hearing the word. He looked at Katya, and spoke softly:
“Agur janub doshukh na-kham buroZinaar Murrow ba janub tungee Koran”
Costas turned to her. “Meaning?”
She gave him a steely look. “It’s Pashtun. Something Altamaty learned when he was captured by the mujahideen up here. If you wish not to go to destruction, avoid the narrow valley of Koran”
The plane bounced on the runway. “Perfect,” Costas grumbled. “Another choice holiday hot spot.”
18
Afghanistan, 22 September 1908
The two men bounced and tumbled down the pile of rock chippings that half filled the entrance to the mine, desperately scrabbling for handholds and kicking against the scree to find some kind of purchase. They came to a halt side-by-side, lying near the bottom of the pile. They could still see the mine entrance, the gray sky outside, a slit of light at the top of the mound about a pistol shot away. Beyond them the shaft continued into pitch darkness. At more than twelve thousand feet of altitude the air was thin, and they panted and coughed in the pall of dust they had raised as they slid down the slope. John Howard turned his head toward the figure beside him, then blinked hard and peered at the wall of the mineshaft. He could see pick marks, all over the rock. A shaft of light from the entrance lit up the ceiling. There was no doubting it. Streaks of blue, speckled with gold. He began to laugh, or cry, he hardly knew which, then coughed painfully. “Robert,” he whispered. “Have you seen? It’s lazurite.”
“I’ve just collected a specimen.” Howard felt relief to hear Wauchope’s voice, the Irish accent with its American twang still strong despite all his years in British service. In the desperate fight outside, Howard had wondered whether he would ever hear it again. He blinked hard, and tried to take stock. He was lying on his front, limbs splayed out, hands forward, his right hand still holding the old Colt revolver, a wisp of smoke coming from the chamber he had fired a few moments before. His left hand was clasped tight around the ancient tube of bamboo, ten inches long, blackened and shiny with age. They had taken it out to read the papyrus inside just before they were attacked, after they had stowed their bags on the valley floor, and he had clutched it close to him through the desperate climb to this place, seeking paths that the horse of their pursuer could not negotiate.
Wauchope rolled onto his back beside him. Howard watched him break open his Webley revolver, eject the spent cartridges and reload from a pouch on his belt, glancing up at the tunnel entrance as he did so. He put down the revolver and picked up something in his left hand. It was a fragment of blue rock. He fumbled with his other hand for a little leather pouch hanging from his neck, raising himself on one elbow, wincing as it bit into the rock. He took out a scratched old monocle from the bag, placed it over his left eye and then craned his neck forward, inspecting the fragment closely. “When Lieutenant Wood came to this place seventy years ago, he said there were three grades.” Wauchope peered again. “This is the superior grade. That sparkle of gold is iron pyrites. It’s the nielo, just as Licinius described it.” He took off the monocle and slumped back. For a moment all Howard could hear was the sound of his own breathing, sharp, rasping. He watched his exhalation crystallize in the cold mountain air. Wauchope rolled his head over and looked at him. “You know what this means.”
“It means,” Howard said, “that by some act of divine providence those ghouls chased us into the right mine- shaft. Wood said there was only one shaft that produced the superior grade. And look at those pick marks on the rock above us-and the soot from fires used to crack the rock. This shaft has been mined for thousands of years.”
Howard closed his eyes. The rock chips he was lying on were jagged and unforgiving, but he seemed hardly to feel them at all. It was strange. He opened his eyes and peered at Wauchope. The two men were scarcely recognizable from three months before, when they had left Quetta one night and made their way toward the border, disappearing into the wilds of Afghanistan. And now here they were, thirty years after their escape from the jungle shrine, their faces sun-scorched and craggy like the mountain valleys, weather-beaten old men with matted gray beards. They both wore turbans, impregnated with dust, and heavy Afghan sheepskin overcoats tied around the middle, the matted wool turned inward as protection against the bitter cold that had begun to course through the mountains in their final treacherous approach to the mines. Beneath Wauchope’s upturned collar, Howard could see the leather Sam Browne belt and khaki of his uniform, the colonel’s pips and crown visible on one shoulder. They were both officially retired, but they knew they would be treated as spies by the Afghans if they went without uniform and would suffer a fate worse than death. It had been their profession for thirty-five years, as officers of the Corps of Royal Engineers, and it seemed the most natural thing to wear the uniforms they had worn all their adult lives, on their last and greatest adventure together.
Howard caught Wauchope’s eye. They both grinned, and then began to shake, laughing uncontrollably. They had made it. Howard suddenly coughed, and spat blood over the rocks.
“Good God, man,” Wauchope said, pushing himself upright and leaning over him. “You’re wounded!”
“I took a sword thrust.” Howard swallowed hard, tasting the tang of blood on his lips. “The horseman who came behind us on the trail. The one with the gauntlet sword. Just as we were scrambling up that rock on the way in here. In my back. Left side.”
Howard felt Wauchope untie his sheepskin coat. He eased the bamboo tube out of Howard’s left hand, placing it carefully on the rocks, and took his arm out of the sleeve. “Gently does it.” He lifted the coat up, and felt the dampness down Howard’s side. He let the coat back, tucking it carefully under him, and put his arm back in the sleeve, gently lying it on the rocks in its original position. He put his hand on Howard’s right shoulder. Howard could feel the tenseness in the other man’s fingers.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he said quietly.
“It missed the liver, that’s for certain. It may have gone into the pleural cavity, beneath the lung. I’ve seen men bounce back from a wound like that, up and about in no time.”
“It’s gone into the lung, Robert. The blood’s frothy. My breathing’s getting shorter.”
Howard saw Wauchope kneel up, stare hard at the entrance to the cave, take a deep breath then untie his waistband and shrug off his sheepskin. He adjusted his Sam Browne belt, slid his holster into the correct position
