'Look at that,' he said lightly. 'Less than three pounds and perfectly drinkable. I shall have to talk to my wine merchant.' He smiled. Massinger felt unnerved by the casual remark.
Instead of simply dispelling their grave mood, its reminder of normality brought images of Margaret flooding back. His hands were weak as they gripped the pushbar of the trolley. The bottles rattled softly against one another. His eyes were misty as he stared at his damp-stained sleeves. Shelley gently placed the claret in the trolley. Alison was waiting for them, impatient and decisive.
'Helsinki, then,' Massinger murmured.
'Better than Afghanistan at this time of year,' Shelley chided, insensitive of the causes of Massinger's gloom.
Massinger pushed the trolley forward with an abrupt, noisy jerk. Ahead of him, beyond the checkouts, rain streaked the glass doors of the hypermarket. Ahead of him more clearly was Helsinki and a man called Phillipson. Projected upon those images, as if they were no more vivid than a blank white screen, was the sense of separation from Margaret, even her hatred. He could see no end to that, no conclusion.
The ancient, gleaming Lee Enfield rifle was inlaid with gold and filigree work. It was cradled in the Pathan's folded arms almost like the sceptre of a king. The weapon, a relic or museum piece in age, was only the final assertion to Hyde that he was seated opposite one of the few men he could be certain was capable of killing him. Not desirous, not even an enemy — though certainly no friend — but simply sufficiently skilled, sufficiently strong.
Mohammed Jan shook his head once more as Miandad translated yet another of Hyde's pleas for assistance. The scarf of his green turban fluttered, emphasising his refusal. His blue eyes were hard and expressionless, startling amid the kohl on his eyelids and beneath his eyes. It was almost as if he did not see the Australian and his Pakistani companion. His lips, within the greyed sable of his beard, were a thin line of refusal. Mohammed Jan and his Pathan mujahiddin were interested in Petrunin — indeed they hated him and devoutly wished his slow death — but they had no interest in any scheme that Hyde might propose. Hyde's interest in the Russian was no concern of theirs.
For two dozen SLR or NATO FN rifles, for three launchers and their accompanying missiles, they would have raided the central barracks in Kabul where Petrunin had his quarters. But Hyde had no bribes, and therefore no leverage.
Hyde was cold. They had not even been invited into the man's lean-to hut of wood and corrugated iron, but had been required to squat on the ground outside its door. The afternoon was wearing away and the temperature dropping. The shadows across the refugee camp were long and the mountains beyond Parachinar were tipped with gold. It had been a drive of four hours from Peshawar, and the journey had been completely in vain.
'He repeats that Kabul has become a much more dangerous place,' Miandad translated. Hyde tossed his head.
'I'm not asking him to go into Kabul,' he replied. 'You've already told him that. I want a plan of Petrunin's routine — I want to catch him away from Kabul, out in open country. God, you'd think these blokes had never set an ambush before!'
Mohammed Jan's eyes flickered at the angry frustration evident in Hyde's voice. His face, however, remained expressionless. He seemed to be patiently awaiting the departure of his uninvited guests. They had received tea, served by one of his daughters-in-law, he had listened to their arguments, and he had rejected them. Now only their departure was unaccomplished.
Hyde stood up and walked away. Miandad followed him, and the Australian turned on him.
'Can't that stubborn old bugger see—?' he began.
'You have given him no reason to help you.'
'Christ — he hates Petrunin! What more excuse does he need?'
'You offer neither weapons nor help. You only want something from him. Something he is not prepared to give — lives.'
'He's over there — the man with all the answers!' Hyde bellowed. He waved his arms. 'The man with my life in his hands,' he added more softly.
Miandad nodded. 'And Sir Kenneth Aubrey's life, perhaps, and that of my old university teacher. I understand. But Mohammed Jan does not. Your concerns are not his — this is his concern, here…'
Miandad gestured around the refugee camp. It dropped slowly away from them down the hillside, not unlike the slow slide of rubbish down the slope of a tip. It had long since lost its appearance of temporariness and become permanent; the kind of village expected amid that scenery and so close to the border with Afghanistan. Its tumbled lean-tos and tents and hovels contained the remnants of perhaps three or four different Pathan tribes, predominant among them the tribe whose chieftain was Mohammed Jan. This was his territory, this heap of refuse flung into a narrow valley which led towards the border town of Parachinar and the Kurram Pass into Afghanistan. He ruled the place and its inhabitants autocratically, and he lived to kill Russians and Afghan troops. He was an exile, more certainly and with far more purpose than Hyde himself.
'All right!' Hyde snapped, turning his back on the camp, now beginning to soften into shadow. Cooking fires were already strengthening their glows, and cloaked women moved around them. Children and goats grumbled and shouted. In places, bare, sharp rock thrust through the snow. Armed men moved as if their only purpose was to be carriers of weapons. 'All right — my life doesn't matter to him. But I can't help worrying about it, just a bit. If I can't do anything, then it's a question of sitting out the war — for the duration. Here, or somewhere like here.'
Miandad turned to look once more at Mohammed Jan.
'They are as fierce and cruel and proud as people say they are,' he murmured. 'Also immovable. They simply live in another world from you. Your dislike of Russians is — well, rather like moonlight at midday. Not to be noticed beside their feelings. They are very good at hating — but on their terms, for their reasons.'
'Let's get out of here.'
'Very well. We should be safe, driving back to Peshawar. It is always possible we may not be, of course.' Miandad smiled a small, grim smile. 'Mm? Just one moment, I wonder what is happening over there…?'
'What—?'
'Listen. The old man talking to Mohammed Jan. I want to hear what he says.'
Hyde moved away, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slumped, eyes hardly seeing the grim reality of the camp. It did not interest or move him. He felt only his own predicament, and frustrated rage that these Pathans would not help him. He heard shouts, and saw men moving up the slope towards Mohammed Jan's hut. They passed him without taking notice. They carried long, ancient rifles and modern Kalashnikovs. All of them wore bandoliers of cartridges. Miandad was right; it was a different world. Its priorities, the depth of its hatreds and revenges, all were alien to the encounters of Hyde's professional life. He began to wonder what changes had been wrought upon the urbane, intelligent, professional persona of Tamas Petrunin since his engagement in this kind of war. For his part, there was a hint of relief in Mohammed Jan's refusal; as if he had escaped some unforeseen, unnerving danger.
Yet Aubrey intruded on his thoughts even at that moment; old, distressed, impotent. Hyde almost hated the loyalty that welled up in him, knowing its power.
'One of Mohammed Jan's returning raiding parties is in trouble, I think,' Miandad said softly at his elbow, startling him. Men continued to brush past them, flitting like shadows towards their chieftain's hut. Hyde turned to watch them gather around Mohammed Jan. The man's voice was powerful as he began speaking.
'What did you say—?' Hyde asked absently.
'His eldest sons are leading a returning raiding party. The old man who arrived a few moments ago was a lookout, awaiting their return through part of the Kurram Pass. But they are pinned down and waiting for darkness — there are helicopters. And many of the party are dead, from the numbers the old man was able to see.'
Hyde shrugged. 'You told me,' he said, 'it's a different world. What can I do?'
Men were already moving off, towards the perimeter of the camp and the long shadows from the mountains. The snow-clad peaks gleamed in the setting sun. A sprinkling of lights showed the position of Parachinar. Mohammed Jan had disappeared.
'Come,' Miandad said. 'Perhaps you will see what this war is all about. Perhaps it will be a good lesson for you. We will follow Mohammed Jan and his men. You may see what your old acquaintance has learned of guerilla war.' Miandad's teeth flashed whitely, but not in a smile.
