Padgett-Smith’s pulse spiked. She raised herself from the cramped position and waved both arms over her head. “Up here! Up here!”
From barely a klick away, the Americans heard three shots followed by three more. Steve Lee turned to Rustam Khan. “Oh, shit.” Both men took off at a dead run. The others pounded along behind them.
“Let them come to us,” Kassim said.
He deployed his men in a skirmish line, prepared to meet the strangers with numbers and firepower in his favor. Once the shooter or shooters emerged into the open he would have a much better idea of what he faced. Meanwhile, his men would have the advantage of cover. One or two of the fighters — new to the trade — showed an edgy mixture of eagerness and tension. They knew what had happened the previous evening and Kassim resolved to keep an eye on them.
One figure emerged from the outcrop near the crest. With irritating slowness it made its way downward in a cautious, tentative descent that piqued the Syrian. He realized that if this person belonged to the Americans — which seemed nearly certain — the others would be looking for him. They undoubtedly would have heard the gunshots and were likely to appear from any quarter. Kassim made an adjustment to his perimeter, turning his flankers to face outward.
Padgett-Smith reached a short stretch of almost level ground. She stopped a moment to get her bearings, as the easier way down took her angling away from the men below. She looked at them while inhaling, allowing her heart to settle down.
Something was odd.
The numbers were about right, but she could not identify anyone. From 180 meters faces were indistinguishable, but after weeks with SSI she knew the men’s stance; their tactical moves. She tried to pick out Steve Lee or Breezy Brezyinski. She could not.
There were no mules.
Chasing a runaway mule had got her stranded all night, but surely at least one of the animals would have been caught by now. Wouldn’t it want to rejoin its friends or masters?
She felt a coldness descending upon the original flush of hope.
Cupping both hands to her mouth, she carefully called out. “Who… are… you?” The words rebounded off the rock wall.
Kassim turned to Koali. “What did he say?”
The youngster shook his head. “I cannot tell.”
“Well, reply to him. Tell him to come down.”
Koali turned and shouted back. “Come to us. Quickly!”
Padgett-Smith heard the man’s tone better than his words. She looked to both sides, hoping for more familiar figures that did not appear. At least the people below spoke English. She proceeded slowly down the slope, keeping her Klimov slung around her neck; she would stay outside of easy shooting distance until she knew more about the armed men below.
Kassim was not pleased; the process was taking too long. He glanced at his men and noted more signs of nervousness. New recruits that they were, the youngest
Kassim gestured to Koali. “Take one man and go meet this infidel. Tell him you are looking for some missing Americans.”
The former engineering student called to a partner and took a quick pace uphill. He stopped occasionally to wave in friendly fashion to the stranger, calling generic greetings.
Padgett-Smith allowed the two men to get within eighty meters— she thought it one hundred.
Koali heard the words more clearly this time. It was odd: the voice was almost feminine. He raised his hands to his mouth. “Pakistani Army. Searching for the Americans.”
CPS was taken aback. The response made sense — surely Lee or Khan would have called for help. But the apparent rescuers were dressed like tribesmen. Why no uniforms? And they mostly carried Kalashnikovs instead of the Heckler-Kochs she had seen with Paki troops.
She backpedaled uphill, working behind the boulder while un-slinging her rifle and extending the folding stock. “One of you. Come closer!”
Koali spoke to his friend, who dropped into a shallow defile. Keeping his own weapon pointed low, the erstwhile engineer walked within fifty meters of the stranger.
“That’s far enough!” she shouted. Now he was certain.
The young Pakistani thought fast. “Please come. It is dangerous here.”
“Who… are… you… looking… for?”
“Americans. Missing from last night.”
“Who… are… their… leaders?”
Koali heard the question plainly. He shook his head, playing for time. “I do not understand.”
She knew this game could last indefinitely. If they were hostile, it would give the others time to get behind her. She called, “Drop your weapon and come closer.”
Koali looked back toward Kassim, who stood with obviously growing impatience. The young man laid down his AK and walked forward.
At thirty meters he could see her face. Quite an attractive face.
“Stop there/’ she said.
He raised his hands. “Lady please come. No time.”
“If you’re from the army, why don’t you wear uniforms?”
Koali was quick on his feet. “We are special unit. No uniforms.”
That seemed barely plausible. But if the searchers were looking for SSI people, some names would be known. “Who leads the Americans?”
“I do not know. My leader knows.”
“Then who is the Pakistani officer with them?”
Koali shook his head. “I do not know. But please. Come.” He gestured in a friendly manner.
With little option, Koali bowed politely, turned and walked downhill, retrieving his AK-47 along the way. His partner remained in place.
“What is happening?” Kassim asked.
“She wants to know the name of…”
“Yes, yes. A woman.”
“English?” Kassim demanded.
Koali thought for a moment. “Probably.”
Kassim looked uphill nearly 150 meters where the lone figure stood behind the rock. “Allah be praised. The doctor will have his wish.”
“She does not believe we are with the army. She wants me to tell the name of the infidel leaders we seek.”
The Syrian paid tacit tribute to the British woman’s caution. This was no trusting female to be cajoled or bullied. “Return to her. Say that headquarters knows the names but our radio is in a truck nearby. Say that al Qaeda fighters are in the area. We will escort her to safety or we must leave.”
