“Ellis, I
“Oh, God!” She closed her eyes. “Hold me tight.”
He gripped her shoulders and squeezed.
The troops encircled the little village. Only one house was outside their net: the home of the mullah, which was four or five hundred yards from the other houses, on the footpath that led up the mountainside. As Ellis noticed this, a man came scurrying out of the house. He was close enough for Ellis to see his henna-dyed beard: it was Abdullah. Three children of different sizes and a woman carrying a baby followed him out of the house and ran behind him up the mountain path.
The Russians saw him immediately. Ellis and Jane pulled the sleeping bag farther over their heads as the airborne helicopter veered away from the village and came to hover over the path. There was a burst from the machine gun low in the nose of the helicopter, and dust exploded in a neatly stitched line at Abdullah’s feet. He stopped short, looking almost comical as he nearly fell over; then he turned around and ran back, waving his hands and yelling at his family to return. When they approached the house another warning burst from the machine gun prevented them from entering, and after a moment the whole family headed downhill toward the village.
Occasional shots could be heard through the oppressive beat of the rotor blades, but the soldiers appeared to be firing into the air to subdue the villagers. They were entering houses and driving out the occupants. The Hind that had rounded up the mullah and his family now began to circle the village, very low, as if looking for more strays.
“What are they going to do?” said Jane in an unsteady voice.
“I’m not sure.”
“Is this a . . . reprisal?”
“God forbid.”
“What, then?” she persisted.
Ellis felt like saying
“But he never stays near the scene of a battle.”
“They may hope he’s getting careless, or lazy, or that he might be wounded. . . .” In truth Ellis did not know what was happening, but he feared a My Lai-style massacre. The villagers were being herded into the courtyard of the mosque by soldiers who seemed to be treating them roughly but not brutally.
Suddenly Jane cried: “Fara!”
“What is it?”
“What’s she doing?”
Ellis located the roof of Jane’s house. Fara was kneeling beside Chantal’s tiny mattress, and Ellis could just see a little pink head peeping out. Chantal appeared still to be asleep. Fara would have given her a bottle at some time in the middle of the night, but although Chantal was not yet hungry the noise of the helicopters could have wakened her. Ellis hoped she would stay asleep.
He saw Fara place a cushion beside Chantal’s head, then pull the sheet up over the baby’s face.
“She’s hiding her,” said Jane. “The cushion props open the cover to let air in.”
“She’s a clever girl.”
“I wish I was
Fara rumpled the sheet, then draped another sheet untidily over Chantal’s body. She paused for a moment, studying the effect. From a distance the baby looked exactly like a hastily abandoned pile of bedding. Fara seemed satisfied with the illusion, for she went to the edge of the roof and descended the steps into the courtyard.
“She’s leaving her,” said Jane.
“Chantal is as safe as she could possibly be in the circumstances—”
“I know, I know!”
Fara was pushed into the mosque with the others. She was one of the last to go in. “All the babies are with their mothers,” said Jane. “I think Fara should have taken Chantal. . . .”
“No,” said Ellis. “Wait. You’ll see.” He still did not know what would happen, but if there was going to be a massacre Chantal was safest where she was.
When everyone seemed to be within the walls of the mosque, the soldiers began to search the village again, running in and out of the houses, firing into the air.
One of the soldiers went into the courtyard of Jane’s house.
Ellis felt her go rigid. “It’ll be all right,” he said into her ear.
The soldier entered the building. Ellis and Jane stared fixedly at the door. A few seconds later he came out and quickly ran up the outside staircase.
“Oh, God, save her,” whispered Jane.
He stood on the roof, glanced at the rumpled bedding, looked around at the other nearby roofs, and returned his attention to Jane’s. Fara’s mattress was nearest to him. Chantal was just beyond it. He poked Fara’s mattress with his toe.
Suddenly he turned away and ran down the stairs.
Ellis breathed again and looked at Jane. She was ghastly white. “I told you it would be all right,” he said. She began to shake.
Ellis looked at the mosque. He could see only a part of the courtyard inside. The villagers appeared to be sitting down in rows, but there was some movement to and fro. He tried to guess what was going on in there. Were they being interrogated about Masud and his whereabouts? There were only three people down there who might know, three guerrillas who were from Banda and who had not melted into the hills with Masud yesterday: Shahazai Gul, the one with the scar; Alishan Karim, the brother of Abdullah, the mullah; and Sher Kador, the goat boy. Shahazai and Alishan were both in their forties, and could easily play the part of cowed old men. Sher Kador was only fourteen. All three could say plausibly that they knew nothing of Masud. It was fortunate that Mohammed was not here: the Russians would not have believed in his innocence so readily. The guerrillas’ weapons were skillfully hidden in places where the Russians would not look: in the roof of a privy, among the leaves of a mulberry tree, deep in a hole in the riverbank.
“Oh, look!” Jane gasped. “The man in front of the mosque!”
Ellis looked. “The Russian officer in the peaked hat?”
“Yes. I know who that is—I’ve seen him before. It’s the man who was in the stone hut with Jean-Pierre—it’s Anatoly.”
“His contact,” Ellis breathed. He looked hard, trying to make out the man’s features: at this distance he seemed somewhat Oriental. What was he like? He had ventured alone into rebel territory to meet with Jean-Pierre, so he must be brave. Today he was certainly angry, for he had led the Russians into a trap at Darg. He would want to strike back fast, to recover the initiative—
Ellis’s speculations were abruptly cut off as another figure emerged from the mosque, a bearded man in an open-neck white shirt and dark Western-style trousers. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” Ellis said. “It’s Jean-Pierre.”
“Oh!” Jane cried out.
“Now what the hell is going on?” muttered Ellis.
“I thought I’d never see him again,” said Jane. Ellis looked at her. Her face wore an odd expression. After a moment he realized it was a look of remorse.
He returned his attention to the scene in the village. Jean-Pierre was speaking to the Russian officer and gesticulating, pointing up the mountainside.
“He’s standing oddly,” said Jane. “I think he’s hurt himself.”
“Is he pointing toward us?” Ellis asked.
“He doesn’t know about this place—nobody does. Can he see us?”
“No.”
“We can see him,” she said dubiously.
“But he’s standing upright against a plain background. We’re lying flat, peeping out from under a blanket, against a mottled hillside. He couldn’t spot us unless he knew where to look.”
