Lie Down with Lions (1985)

“Okay. Drop me there.”

“How long will it take you to reach your hiding place?”

“Give me ten minutes; then release the women and children, then wait another ten minutes and release the men.”

“Right.”

The helicopter descended into the shadow of the mountain. The afternoon was waning, but there was still an hour or so before nightfall. They landed behind the ridge, a few yards from the caves. Anatoly said to Jean-Pierre: “Don’t go yet. Let us check the caves again.”

Through the open door, Jean-Pierre saw another Hind land. Six men got out and ran over the ridge.

“How will I signal you to come down and pick me up afterward?” Jean-Pierre asked.

“We’ll wait for you here.”

“What will you do if some of the villagers come up here before I return?”

“Shoot them.”

That was something else Anatoly had in common with Jean-Pierre’s father: ruthlessness.

The reconnaissance party came back over the ridge and one of the men waved an all-clear sign.

“Go,” said Anatoly.

Jean-Pierre opened the door and jumped out of the helicopter, still holding Anatoly’s pistol in his hand. He hurried away from its beating blades with his head bent. When he reached the ridge he looked back: both aircraft were still there.

He crossed the familiar clearing in front of his old cave clinic and looked down into the village. He could just see into the courtyard of the mosque. He was unable to identify any of the figures he saw there, but it was just possible that one of them might glance up at the wrong moment and see him—their eyesight might be better than his—so he pulled the hood forward to obscure his face.

His heart beat faster as he got farther away from the safety of the Russian helicopters. He hurried down the hill and past the mullah’s house. The Valley seemed oddly quiet despite the ever-present noise of the river and the distant whisper of helicopter blades. It was the absence of children’s voices, he realized.

He turned a corner and found that he was out of sight of the mullah’s house. Beside the footpath was a clump of camel grass and juniper bushes. He went behind it and crouched down. He was well hidden, but he had a clear view of the path. He settled down to wait.

He considered what he would say to Abdullah. The mullah was a hysterical woman hater: maybe he could use that.

A sudden burst of high voices from far down in the village told him that Anatoly had given instructions for the women and children to be released from the mosque. The villagers would wonder what the whole exercise had been for, but they would attribute it to the notorious craziness of armies everywhere.

A few minutes later the mullah’s wife came up the footpath, carrying her baby and followed by three older children. Jean-Pierre tensed: was he really well hidden here? Would the children run off the path and stumble into his bush? What a humiliation that would be—to be foiled by children. He remembered the gun in his hand. Could I shoot children? he wondered.

They went past and turned the corner toward their house.

Soon afterward the Russian helicopters began to take off from the wheatfield: that meant the men had been released. Right on schedule, Abdullah came puffing up the hill, a tubby figure in a turban and a pin-striped English jacket. There must be a huge trade in used clothes between Europe and the East, Jean-Pierre had decided, for so many of these people wore clothes which had undoubtedly been made in Paris or London and had been discarded, perhaps because they became unfashionable, long before they were worn out. This is it, thought Jean-Pierre, as the comical figure drew level; this clown in a stockbroker’s jacket could hold the key to my future. He got to his feet and stepped out from the bushes.

The mullah started and gave a cry of shock. He looked at Jean-Pierre and recognized him. “You!” he said. His hand went to his belt. Jean-Pierre showed him the gun. Abdullah looked frightened.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jean-Pierre said in Dari. The unsteadiness of his voice betrayed his jumpiness, and he made an effort to bring it under control. “No one knows I am here. Your wife and children passed without seeing me. They are safe.”

Abdullah looked suspicious. “What do you want?”

“My wife is an adulteress,” said Jean-Pierre, and although he was deliberately playing on the mullah’s prejudices, his anger was not entirely faked. “She has taken my child and left me. She has gone whoring after the American.”

“I know,” said Abdullah, and Jean-Pierre could see him beginning to swell with righteous indignation.

“I have been searching for her, in order to bring her back and punish her.”

Abdullah nodded enthusiastically, and malice showed in his eyes: he liked the idea of punishing adulteresses.

“But the wicked couple have gone into hiding.” Jean-Pierre spoke slowly and carefully: at this point every nuance counted. “You are a man of God. Tell me where they are. No one will ever know how I found out, except you and me and God.”

“They have gone away,” Abdullah spat, and saliva wetted his red-dyed beard.

“Where?” Jean-Pierre held his breath.

“They have left the Valley.”

“But where did they go?”

“To Pakistan.”

To Pakistan! What was the old fool talking about? “The routes are closed!” Jean-Pierre yelled in exasperation.

“Not the Butter Trail.”

“Mon Dieu,” Jean-Pierre whispered in his native tongue. “The Butter Trail.” He was awestruck by their courage, and at the same time bitterly disappointed, for it would be impossible to find them now. “Did they take the baby?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll never see my daughter again.”

“They will all die in Nuristan,” Abdullah said with satisfaction. “A Western woman with a baby will never survive those high passes, and the American will die trying to save her. Thus God punishes those who escape man’s justice.”

Jean-Pierre realized he should get back to the helicopter as quickly as possible. “Go back to your house now,” he told Abdullah.

“The treaty will die with them, for Ellis has the paper,” Abdullah added. “This is a good thing. Although we need the American weapons, it is dangerous to make pacts with infidels.”

“Go!” said Jean-Pierre. “If you don’t want your family to see me, make them stay inside for a few minutes.”

Abdullah looked momentarily indignant at being given orders, but he seemed to realize he was at the wrong end of the gun for protests, and he hurried away.

Jean-Pierre wondered whether they would all die in Nuristan, as Abdullah had gloatingly predicted. That was not what he wanted. It would not give him revenge or satisfaction. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted Jane alive and in his power. He wanted Ellis to suffer pain and humiliation.

He gave Abdullah time to get inside his house, then drew the hood over his face and set off disconsolately up the hill. He kept his face averted as he passed the house in case one of the children should look out.

Anatoly was waiting for him in the clearing in front of the caves. He held out his hand for the pistol and said: “Well?”

Jean-Pierre gave him back his gun. “They’ve escaped us,” he said. “They’ve left the Valley.”

“They can’t have escaped us,” said Anatoly angrily. “Where have they gone?”

“To Nuristan.” Jean-Pierre pointed in the direction of the helicopters. “Shouldn’t we leave?”

“We can’t talk in the helicopter.”

“But if the villagers come—”

“To hell with the villagers! Stop acting defeated! What are they doing in Nuristan?”