"Increasing desperation." It occurred to Jean-Pierre, as he spoke, that another advantage of meeting his contact in person was that he could give this kind of background information, feelings and impressions, stuff which was not concrete enough to be sent by radio in code. "They're constantly running out of ammunition now."
"And the next convoy—when will it depart?"
"It left yesterday."
"They are desperate. Good." Anatoly reached inside his shirt and brought out a map. He unfolded it on the floor. It showed the area between the Five Lions Valley and the Pakistan border.
Jean-Pierre concentrated hard, recalling the details he had memorized during his conversation with Mohammed, and began to trace for Anatoly the route the convoy would follow on its way back from Pakistan. He did not know exactly when they would return, for Mohammed did not know how long they would spend in Peshawar buying what they needed. However, Anatoly had people in Peshawar who would let him know when the Five Lions convoy departed, and from that he would be able to work out their timetable.
Anatoly made no notes, but memorized every word Jean-Pierre said. When they had finished they went over the whole thing again, with Anatoly repeating it to Jean-Pierre as a check.
The Russian folded the map and put it back inside his shirt. "And what of Masud?" he said quietly.
"We haven't seen him since last I spoke to you," said Jean-Pierre. "I've only seen Mohammed—and he is never quite sure where Masud is or when he will appear.''
"Masud is a fox," said Anatoly with a rare flash of emotion.
"We will catch him," said Jean-Pierre.
"Oh, we will catch him. He knows the hunt is in full cry, so he covers his tracks. But the hounds have his scent, and he cannot elude us forever—we are so many, and so strong, and our blood is up." He suddenly became conscious that he was revealing his feelings. He smiled and became practical again. "Batteries," he said, and he brought a battery pack out of his shirt.
Jean-Pierre took the little radio transceiver from the concealed compartment in the bottom of his medical bag, extracted the old batteries and exchanged them for new ones. They did this every time they met, to be sure that Jean-Pierre should not lose contact simply by running out of power. Anatoly would carry the old ones all the way back to Bagram, for there was no point in taking the risk of throwing away Russian-made batteries here in the Five Lions Valley where there were no electrical appliances,
As Jean-Pierre was putting the radio back into his medical bag, Anatoly said: "Have you got anything in there for blisters? My feet—" Then he stopped suddenly, frowned and cocked his head, listening.
Jean-Pierre tensed. So far they had never been observed together. It was bound to happen sooner or later, they knew, and they had planned what they would do, how they would act like strangers sharing a resting place and continue their conversation when the intruder had left—or, if the intruder showed signs of staying long, they would leave together, as if by chance they happened to be heading in the same direction. All that had been previously agreed, but nevertheless Jean-Pierre now felt his guilt must be written all over his face.
In the next instant he heard a footfall outside, and the sound of someone breathing hard; and then a shadow darkened the sunlit entrance, and Jane walked in.
"Jane!" he said.
Both men sprang to their feet.
Jean-Pierre said: "What is it? Why are you here?"
"Thank God I caught up with you," she said breathlessly.
Out of the comer of his eye, Jean-Pierre saw Anatoly turn away, as an Afghan would turn away from a brazen woman. The gesture helped Jean-Pierre recover from the
shock of seeing Jane. He looked around quickly. Anatoly had put away the maps several minutes earlier, fortunately. But the radio—the radio was sticking out an inch or two from the medical bag. However, Jane had not seen it—yet.
"Sit down," said Jean-Pierre. "Catch your breath." He sat down at the same time and used the movement as an excuse to shift his bag so that the radio poked out from the side facing him and away from Jane. "What's the matter?" he said.
"A medical problem I can't solve."
Jean-Pierre's tension eased a fraction: he had been afraid she might have followed him because she suspected something. "Have some water," he said. He reached into his bag with one hand, and with the other pushed the radio in while he rummaged. When the radio was concealed he drew out his flask of purified water and handed it to her. His heartbeat began to return to normal. He was recovering his presence of mind. The evidence was now out of sight. What else was there to make her suspicious? She might have heard Anatoly speaking French—but that was not uncommon: if an Afghan had a second language it was often French, and an Uzbak might speak French better than he spoke Dari. What had Anatoly been saying when she walked in? Jean-Pierre remembered: he had been asking for blister ointment. That was perfect. Afghans always asked for medicine when they met a doctor, even if they were in perfect health.
Jane drank from the flask and began to speak. "A few minutes after you left, they brought in a boy of eighteen with a very bad thigh wound." She took another sip. She was ignoring Anatoly, and Jean-Pierre realized she was so concerned about the medical emergency that she had hardly noticed the other man. "He was hurt in the fighting near Rokha, and his father had carried him all the way up the Valley—it took him two days. The wound was badly gangrenous by the time they arrived. I gave him six hundred milligrams of crystalline penicillin, injected into the buttock, then I cleaned out the wound."
"Exactly correct," said Jean-Pierre.
"A few minutes later he broke out in a cold sweat and became confused. I took his pulse: it was rapid but weak."
"Did he go pale or gray, and have difficulty breathing?"
"Yes."
"What did you do?"
"I treated him for shock—raised his feet, covered him with a blanket and gave him tea—then I came after you." She was close to tears. "His father carried him for two days—I can't let him die."
"He needn't," said Jean-Pierre. "Allergic shock is a rare but quite well-known reaction to penicillin injections. The treatment is half a milliliter of adrenaline, injected into a muscle, followed by an antihistamine—say, six milliliters of diphenhydramine. Would you like me to come back with you?" As he made the offer he glanced at Anatoly, but the Russian showed no reaction.
Jane sighed. "No," she said. "There will be someone else dying on the far side of the hill. You go to Cobak."
"If you're sure."
"Yes."
A match flared as Anatoly lit a cigarette. Jane glanced at him, then looked at Jean-Pierre again. "Half a milliliter of adrenaline and then six milliliters of diphenhydramine." She stood up.
"Yes." Jean-Pierre stood up with her and kissed her. "Are you sure you can manage?"
"Of course."
"You must hurry."
"Yes."
"Would you like to take Maggie?"
Jane considered. "I don't think so. On that path, walking is faster."
"Whatever you think best."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Jane."
Jean-Pierre watched her go out. He stood still for a while. Neither he nor Anatoly said anything. After a minute or two he went to the doorway and looked out. He could see Jane, two or three hundred yards away, a small, slight figure in a thin cotton dress, striding determinedly up the valley, alone in the dusty brown landscape. He watched her until she disappeared into a fold in the hills.
He came back inside and sat down with his back to the wall. He and Anatoly looked at one another. "Jesus Christ Almighty," said Jean-Pierre. "That was close."
