"A hundred."
Jean-Pierre did not believe him: there were not a hundred inhabitants in Skabun. "How many wounded?"
"Two hundred."
That was ludicrous. Did the man not know? Jean-Pierre wondered. Or was he exaggerating for fear that if he gave small numbers the doctor would turn around and go back? Perhaps it was just that he could not count beyond ten. "What kind of wounds?" Jean-Pierre asked him.
"Holes and cuts and bleeding."
Those sounded more like battle injuries. Bombing produced concussion, burns and compression damage from falling buildings. This man was obviously a poor witness. There was no point in questioning him further.
A couple of miles outside Banda they turned off the cliff path and headed north on a track unfamiliar to Jean-Pierre. "Is this the way to Skabun?" he asked.
"Yes."
It was obviously a shortcut he had never discovered. They were certainly heading in the right general direction.
A few minutes later they saw one of the little stone huts in which travelers could rest or spend the night. To Jean-Pierre's surprise, the messengers headed for its doorless entrance. "We haven't time to rest," he told them irritably. "Sick people are waiting for me."
Then Anatoly stepped out of the hut.
Jean-Pierre was dumbfounded. He did not know whether to be exultant because now he could tell Anatoly about the conference, or terrified that the Afghans would kill Anatoly.
"Don't worry," Anatoly said, reading his expression. "They're soldiers of the Afghan regular army. I sent them to fetch you."
"My God!" It was brilliant. There had been no bombing at Skabun—that had been a ruse, dreamed up by Anatoly for getting Jean-Pierre to come. "Tomorrow," Jean-Pierre said excitedly, "tomorrow something terribly important is happening—"
"I know, I know—I got your message. That's why I'm here."
"So you will get Masud . . . ?"
Anatoly smiled mirthlessly, showing his tobacco-stained teeth. "We will get Masud. Calm down."
Jean-Pierre realized he was behaving like an excited child at Christmastime. He suppressed his enthusiasm with an effort. "When the malang failed to come back, I thought ..."
"He arrived in Charikar yesterday," said Anatoly. "God knows what happened to him on the way. Why didn't you use your radio?"
"It broke," said Jean-Pierre. He did not want to explain about Jane right now. "The malang will do anything for me because I supply him with heroin, to which he is addicted."
Anatoly looked hard at Jean-Pierre for a moment, and in his eyes there was something like admiration. "I'm glad you're on my side," he said.
Jean-Pierre smiled.
"I want to know more," said Anatoly. He put an arm around Jean-Pierre's shoulders and led him into the hut. They sat on the earth floor and Anatoly lit a cigarette. "How do you know about this conference?" he began.
Jean-Pierre told him about Ellis, about the bullet wound, about Masud talking to Ellis when Jean-Pierre was about
to inject him, about the bars of gold and the training scheme and the promised weapons.
"This is fantastic," said Anatoly. "Where is Masud now?"
"I don't know. But he will arrive in Darg today, probably. Tomorrow at the latest."
"How do you know?"
"He called the meeting—how can he fail to come?"
Anatoly nodded. "Describe the CIA man."
"Well, five foot ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, blond hair and blue eyes, age thirty-four but looks a little older, college-educated.''
"I'll put all that through the computer." Anatoly stood up. He went outside and Jean-Pierre followed him.
Anatoly took from his pocket a small radio transmitter. He extended its telescopic aerial, pressed a button and muttered into it in Russian. Then he turned back to Jean-Pierre. "My friend, you have succeeded in your mission," he said.
It's true, Jean-Pierre thought. I succeeded.
He said: "When will you strike?"
''Tomorrow, of course.''
Tomorrow. Jean-Pierre felt a wave of savage glee. Tomorrow.
The others were looking up. He followed their gaze and saw a helicopter descending: Anatoly had presumably summoned it with his transmitter. The Russian was throwing caution to the wind now: the game was almost over, this was the last hand, and stealth and disguise were to be replaced by boldness and speed. The machine came down and landed, with difficulty, on a small patch of level ground a hundred yards away.
Jean-Pierre walked over to the helicopter with the other three men. He wondered where to go when they had departed. There was nothing for him to do at Skabun, but he could not return to Banda immediately without revealing that there had been no bombing victims for him to take care of. He decided he had better sit in the stone hut for a few hours then return home.
He held out his hand to shake with Anatoly. ''Au revoir.'' Anatoly did not take his hand. "Get in."
"What?"
"Get in the helicopter."
Jean-Pierre was flabbergasted. "Why?"
"You're coming with us."
"Where? To Bagram? To Russian territory?"
"Yes."
"But I can't—"
"Stop blustering and listen," Anatoly said patiently. "Firstly, your work is done. Your assignment in Afghanistan is over. You have achieved your goal. Tomorrow we will capture Masud. You can go home. Secondly, you are now a security risk. You know what we plan to do tomorrow. So for the sake of secrecy you cannot remain in rebel territory."
"But I wouldn't tell anyone!"
"Suppose they tortured you? Suppose they tortured your wife in front of your eyes? Suppose they were to tear your baby daughter limb from limb in front of your wife?"
"But what will happen to them if I go with you?"
"Tomorrow, in the raid, we will capture them and bring them to you."
"I can't believe this." Jean-Pierre knew that Anatoly was right, but the idea of not returning to Banda was so unexpected that it disoriented him. Would Jane and Chantal be safe? Would the Russians really pick them up? Would Anatoly let the three of them go back to Paris? How soon could they leave?
"Get in," Anatoly repeated.
The two Afghan messengers were standing either side of Jean-Pierre, and he realized that he had no choice: if he refused to get in they would pick him up and put him in.
He climbed into the helicopter.
Anatoly and the Afghans jumped in after him, and the chopper lifted. Nobody closed the door.
As the helicopter rose, Jean-Pierre got his first aerial view of the Five Lions Valley. The white river zigzagging through the dun-colored land reminded him of the scar of an old knife wound on the brown forehead of Shahazai Gul, the brother of the midwife. He could see the village of Banda with its yellow-and-green patchwork fields. He looked hard at the hilltop where the caves were, but he saw no signs of occupation: the villagers had chosen their hiding place well. The helicopter went higher and turned, and he could no longer see Banda. He looked for other landmarks. I spent a year of my life there, he thought, and now I'll never see it again. He identified the
