‘No. Thank you,’ Durrani said.
The mullah pocketed the packet, dug a lighter out and lit the cigarette. He blew a thick stream of strong smoke into the room as he turned the case over to check the other side. ‘It was British?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many dead?’
‘I don’t know. It was burning. One or two, perhaps, plus the crew.’
The mullah stared coldly into Durrani’s unwavering eyes. He had known the fighter for many years, having first encountered him during the Taliban’s capture of Kandahar. ‘You look tired, old friend. Are you well?’
‘I am well. You are kind to ask.’
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Not right now. But thank you.’
The door opened and Sena returned with the tools.
‘Open it,’ the mullah ordered briskly, impatient to know the briefcase’s contents.
Durrani placed the case on its side with the locks uppermost as Sena stepped beside him to assess the task.
‘Hit the lock,’ Durrani said. To the mullah, Durrani appeared to be as anxious as himself to see what was in the case. But in truth Durrani was merely irritated by Sena’s sluggishness.
Sena was the mullah’s clerical assistant and had been a servant of one type or another all his life. He was graceful, thoughtful and in no way technical and as he placed the tip of the screwdriver in the joint between the two locks every shred of self-confidence had drained from his expression.
‘The lock,’ Durrani said, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Put it against the lock.’
Sena moved the tip of the screwdriver closer to one of the locks, gritted his teeth and raised the hammer that looked a touch too heavy for him. Before he could bring it down Durrani snatched away the tools. ‘Hold the case,’ he snapped.
Sena gripped the briefcase, nervous in the presence of his master and this veteran fighter.
Durrani placed the end of the screwdriver on the mounting of the lock, raised the hammer and brought it down, splitting it.The case was not designed as a safe; its real security depended on its human escort. Another blow split the second lock as easily and the case popped, its top springing open slightly. Durrani would not be so forward as to open it completely himself and he turned it to face the mullah.
The mullah took hold of the briefcase and lifted the top fully to reveal the inside filled with a foam-rubber pad tailored to fit. He removed the top layer of foam to reveal a thin manila file and several letters. He moved them aside and studied the rest of the contents: a grey plastic box the size of a cigarette pack neatly placed in its own little cut-out space.
The mullah decided to open the file first. It contained several white pages with typed paragraphs in English, a language which he could not read. He put it to one side and looked at the letters, each with a name on it. He placed them on the file, his interest now focused entirely on the grey plastic box which he removed from its mould.
He rotated it, searching for a way to open it, and dug a dirty thumbnail under a tab. As he prised it up he fumbled, almost dropping the box as it opened. A grey sliver, part plastic, part metal and the size of a small coin, fell out onto the desk. The mullah put down the box to examine the object that appeared to be a tiny technological device. He picked it up and studied it, with a deep frown on his face.
Sena was unable to resist leaning forward to have a look for himself.
The mullah opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the object to examine it more closely. The device had several gold contact surfaces on one side, similar to those on a SIM card.
The mullah had no idea what it was but the security surrounding it was evidence enough that the device was of significant value. He placed it back inside its box and rested it on the desk.
Durrani looked between the box and the mullah, wondering what his leader planned to do with such a find.The potential value was not lost on him either but how to determine that value precisely was beyond him.
‘Leave,’ the mullah said to Durrani. ‘But do not go far.’
Durrani did not hesitate. The mullah was his boss and if he was to profit in any way from this find it would depend entirely on the mullah’s generosity. Durrani headed for the door. Sena sprang to life and beat him to it. They headed back up the stairs, along the corridor where they had to step over the lounging guards again, past the entrance and to a room at the opposite end.
Sena opened the door. ‘Make yourself comfortable, please,’ he said, stepping back. Durrani entered the small stone room that contained a rug, several cushions and a little cooker with everything required to prepare a cup of sweet tea. ‘Would you like some food?’ Sena asked.
Durrani considered the offer. He had not eaten since that morning, before the helicopter attack, and although he did not eat very much when he did, priding himself on his ability to operate for days without sustenance, it was also a rule of soldiering to take food when the opportunity presented itself. One never knew when the next meal would come. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Sena bowed slightly and left the room.
Durrani looked around the cramped space. It was no larger than the one he was given to use by the mullah in a run-down house on the outskirts of the city on the Jalalabad road. He preferred sleeping outside under the stars, except during the rains and when it was exceptionally cold. But when staying in the city he opted for the better security. This room was more comfortable. It had a stone floor whereas his own dwelling’s was earthen and always dusty. There were no windows, though; a naked bulb hung from the centre of the ceiling provided the only light.
Durrani crouched by the cooker to light it and make himself a cup of tea. He wondered why the mullah had asked him to wait but did not trouble himself with the question for long. Durrani took life very much day by day, hour by hour, and was as content sitting back and doing nothing as he was taking part in a battle. It seemed that while he was involved in one he looked forward to the other.
Sena soon returned with a metal plate of rice and chunks of succulent lamb placed on a large thin folded sheet of unleavened bread. After Durrani had eaten it he lay back on the rug, his head resting on a cushion, and within minutes had dozed off.
Durrani did not know how long he had been asleep when he heard the door open and saw Sena looking down at him. The servant immediately apologised for disturbing Durrani but explained that the mullah wanted to see him.
As Durrani followed Sena back down the corridor, stepping over the now sleeping guards and heading towards the staircase, he checked his watch to discover that it had stopped. Durrani shook it but the second hand did not move. He was dismayed and the malfunction was all he could think of as he followed Sena down the stairs. He tapped the timepiece several times and, as they reached the door, to his delight the second hand started to move again. He decided he should sell the watch at the first opportunity.
The door to the office was open and Sena stepped to one side to let Durrani in. The mullah was seated at his desk with another man leaning over it. They were talking in low voices as they inspected the device that was back out of its box and resting on a white china plate between them.The stranger, who looked the intelligent, well- educated type, was dressed in clean traditional Afghan garb made of expensive cloth. He was immaculate, his beard neatly cropped, and Durrani could smell his strong perfume even through the tobacco smoke.
As Durrani entered the room the man looked up at him through a pair of delicate wire-rimmed glasses. He said something to the mullah who glanced at Durrani, then back at him.
‘I need you to do it here, in this office,’ the mullah insisted.
The man’s expression remained one of reluctance but he argued no further.
‘Durrani,’ the mullah barked as he got to his feet, studying his most trusted fighter as if making a final confirmation of a decision he had come to. ‘You have been chosen for a special task. A most important task.’
Durrani looked at the stranger who was staring at him as if measuring him.
‘This man is a doctor,’ the mullah went on.‘He needs to examine you.’
Durrani could not begin to fathom what this was all about. A special and important task preceded by a medical examination was a bizarre combination, unlike any experience he’d ever had previously. ‘I don’t understand. ’
‘You will,’ the mullah said confidently.
‘Remove your robe,’ the doctor said.
