SEVENTEEN
Susan arrived in Kabul with her nerves in shreds, despite the fact that Marcus had been with her since leaving England. It had been Cavendish’s idea that they travel together. He thought Marcus would provide some kind of inner strength and support for Susan, but privately and uncharacteristically, he was hoping that Marcus’s penchant for invention when things got out of hand might just help win the day for them.
The flight from Heathrow by Air India had stopped at Dubai and Delhi before arriving in Kabul almost twenty four hours after leaving London. All Susan could think of during her flight was the way in which she had been persuaded by Cavendish that this was well within her capabilities and that she had nothing to be afraid of. And with Marcus with her, she should feel relaxed.
The security chief had explained how she could literally walk freely around Kabul and make it known to the local press and radio stations that she was in Afghanistan to look for her brother. He convinced her that the men who were holding her brother would come looking for her and would probably be prepared to do a deal.
When Susan pointed out that she was not a trained negotiator, neither did she carry any clout in the same way a British politician might, Cavendish said that intellect often gets in the way of a good cause, and that she was perfect for the role of appeaser, negotiator and rescuer. He said she had it in her heart to find her brother for no other reason than he was of her blood and she loved him as any sister would. A politician would never be able to speak from the heart because the only goal on the horizon that a politician could see was personal kudos and elevation amongst his or her peers.
As for a negotiator, he or she would be conducting a business deal, and would do that in a particularly mercenary fashion, putting his countries politics and aims first rather than the welfare of the hostage. Cavendish insisted that Susan was perfect for the task, and at no risk to herself.
During the flight Susan kept thinking of Terry Waite, the Christian minister who had been taken hostage in the Lebanon and kept captive for five years. His only crime was to go openly to Beirut and try to win the freedom of the hostage John McCarthy who was subsequently held for five years in the Lebanon. Ironically it was the selfless effort of McCarthy’s friend, Jill Morrell who campaigned tirelessly for his release that finally got McCarthy free. Could Cavendish see another Jill Morrell in Susan Ellis, she wondered?
That thought teased at her for some considerable time, but did little in effect to calm her nerves and stop her from seeing all kinds of demons waiting for her in Afghanistan. From time to time she would take hold of Marcus’s hand, squeeze it and just sit there, taking some kind of comfort from the contact.
Marcus said very little during the trip because he could see that Susan was walking a mental tightrope. He understood that there was nothing he could do or say that would make things easier for her.
Susan would keep thinking of David and telling herself that it was for him that she was doing this, not for herself or for Cavendish, whatever the security man’s ulterior motives were. And she thought how badly David must be suffering, shackled as he almost certainly would be in some insufferable, dark hole somewhere in the distant hills in that sad country.
She pledged to keep control of herself and fight to regain David’s freedom as the plane touched down on to a steaming hot evening in the city of Kabul.
David threw his head back and roared with laughter, the wine in his glass spilling on to the table as his hand jerked with the sudden movement. Abdul Khaliq was beaming at David through his beard which was stained red from the copious amounts of wine he had drunk. His bodyguards were in the room, enjoying the ribald jokes that Abdul was telling them all, but for them not the luxury of wine because of their dedication to serving their boss.
David had been fluent in Farsi for some time, but now he was fluent in the garbled dialect of Abdul’s countrymen because of the amount of time he had spent in Abdul’s company. He was now treated almost like one of the family, hence the ribald humour being bandied about in that room. But if David felt like he was accepted now, he knew the reality was totally different.
They were in a farmhouse many miles from the nearest town, and probably one hundred miles or so from Kabul. He might just as well have been on the moon. He was allowed the freedom to move about as he wished and hadn’t been shackled for some weeks now. And from time to time, Abdul would hint that his freedom was not too far away. But all this meant to David was that he was still a hostage, but being kept in an open prison that ranged from one border to another.
There were also times, in amongst the humour and good natured behaviour shown by Abdul and his men that the warlord would confess to David that all was not well. It had taken Abdul many months to figure it out, but now he could state with some certainty that he was being edged aside by the influence of the Americans and the British in Afghanistan. By that he meant there were factions within the occupying forces, his words, who were trying to gain control of Abdul’s side of the operation.
At first David told Abdul he was imagining things; that he was probably getting paranoid. But as a result of the previous few weeks, David was beginning to see a pattern emerging; one of almost open hostility to Abdul from the same farmers who used to show almost reverential respect.
There had also been some seemingly, opportunistic attacks from wandering bands of Taliban. Abdul had always kept a small group of men with him, and they had shown they were particularly competent in dealing with the attacks. But as time went by, Abdul’s band of men began to dwindle in numbers.
That evening, before Abdul let the wine get to him, and he was drinking a lot more David noticed, David asked him if he had any idea who was responsible for the attacks, and why.
Abdul muttered something about the Americans, which didn’t make sense to David, but he also mentioned Milan Janov.
David recalled that the last meeting between the two men had been very tense, but both men had brought a small army with them at that time, and it was this that had almost certainly prevented any bloodshed. But now, Abdul was travelling fairly light, and this worried David. He wasn’t concerned for Abdul’s safety but his own.
When David had asked why Abdul was not travelling with his usual band of warriors, Abdul had not been able to answer immediately, and it was obvious to David that some things were beginning to come to light. Abdul’s armed group was crumbling slowly. Men were leaving him, citing all manner of reasons for doing so. And in the customary manner that seemed to linger within even the most savage breast, the men would return to their families.
Abdul’s strength had always been in the number of his static followers, namely the farmers, and in the knowledge he possessed of others involved in the drugs and arms traffic. But that strength seemed to be diminishing, and with the news of the disaster that had struck in England, Abdul knew his power was ebbing away fast. And that was why he kept hinting that David might one day be free. What David couldn’t see was exactly how Abdul could give David his freedom without exposing the two of them to further danger.
The conversation, the subjective arguments and collective reasoning of the four men in that room began to wane as the late evening wore on. Eventually David declared that he was going to bed and left Abdul with his lieutenants still talking.
The wine had taken its toll on David and he fell on to his bed, fully clothed. Within minutes he was fast asleep, the noise from the three men no longer audible in David’s sub consciousness.
About two hours after falling asleep, David was woken by a full bladder. He clambered out of bed and wandered out into the yard where he relieved himself. When he had finished he went back into the house and into the kitchen to get a drink of water from the jug that was always filled.
It was there that he noticed a mobile phone lying on the kitchen table. The moonlight funnelling through the small, open window glinted off the bright metal that decorated the phone.
He stood looking at it for several seconds before picking it up. He flipped it open and stared at the keypad. How long, he wondered, was it since he had used that number; eight or nine months, a year perhaps? He wasn’t sure but he hoped the injury to his head would not stop him from recalling it.
He walked out into the courtyard to find more light from the moon. He then entered in a short text message followed by the number he hoped was correct and pressed the ‘send’ key. Then he went back into the kitchen, put the phone back on the table and finished his drink. Ten minutes after waking because of a full bladder, David was
