with its gold inlay cradled in his arms. Hyde avoided looking at him, avoided too the circle of faces around the fire; Mohammed Jan's council of elders. Nevertheless, as soon as Miandad had finished his translation and given his warning, Hyde had replied.
'Tell him yes. I promise he will have Petrunin for his justice.' There had been no other way. He had not dared to even hesitate.
To be trusted, to gain their help, he had had to commit himself at once. He wanted them to endanger themselves on his behalf. He had had to agree.
'I agree,' Miandad said. 'There was nothing else you could do. But, you have no idea of how to lay hands upon the Russian?'
Hyde turned to the Pakistani. 'Look,' he said, 'there's you and me and a gang of brave nutters. They're prepared to stay inside Afghanistan until the job's done. For the moment I've managed to stall them with the idea of an ambush.' He grinned mirthlessly. 'They'll get some new guns and who knows — we might get some hard news of Petrunin.'
'You're an optimist, Mr Hyde.'
'Am I? I'm bloody trapped, that's what I am, sport.'
'Perhaps.'
'At least they'll wait. Wait until Petrunin comes out to play.'
'I know much about your Russian. He is unlikely to allow himself to be captured. By helicopter, he has at least two heavily-armed gunship escorts, by road he travels in a heavy convoy. He is virtually impregnable. He spends a great deal of his time at Soviet army headquarters when he is in Kabul, and the rest of the time at the embassy — very little time at the embassy, actually. You see, he knows how much he is hated, how deep the desire to punish him is.'
'All right, all right…' Hyde sighed. 'I know we're in the shit. Thanks for jumping in with me.'
'There are obligations.'
'To Aubrey you mean?'
'And to men who served with me. It is not only Pathans who have been burned by your Russian's napalm.' Miandad's face was grim. Hyde lowered his head, looking at the baggy trousers and sheepskin jacket that were part of his disguise. He rubbed his unshaven skin and sighed.
'I realise now how you knew what would happen.' He looked at Miandad again. The Pakistani, similarly disguised as a Pathan warrior, was softly rubbing his chest and shoulders. Hyde remembered that the man had been discreet, almost coy, when they had changed into their Pathan costumes. Burned—? Hyde left the subject of Miandad's experiences in Afghanistan, but he could not ignore Petrunin. 'How has it happened?'
'The Russian?' Miandad shrugged. 'It is not a nice war here. Not cricket — not even ice hockey.' Miandad smiled. 'Your Russian was sent here in disgrace, was he not?' Hyde nodded. 'He is a very bitter man. This is a war of bitterness. It was easy for him, I suspect. It is always easy to degenerate.' Miandad shivered and stretched out his hands to the small fire around which they crouched.
They were alone in the ruin of the Afghan fort. They had crossed the border before daybreak, a party of thirty picked men, all well-armed and provisioned. After miles of high, snowbound passes they had come down, before midday, to this abandoned fort, trudging through a pine forest to reach its shelter. A bitter wind had searched their clothing throughout the journey. Hyde had reached the fort exhausted and chilled to the bone. He had eaten ravenously, then slowly thawed in front of a small fire. The wind moaned and shrieked around the partially-ruined walls and barracks and stables. Mohammed Jan had seemed to find some source of satisfaction in the Australian's weariness. Then the Pathans had left, to scout the road between Kabul and Jalalabad.
'I'm getting stiff,' Hyde announced. 'Let's walk.'
They left, passing through other rooms that might once have been offices — a broken chair, sagging wooden shelves — until they stood in the main courtyard of the fort. The snow-laden pines stretched away up the mountain slope until they petered out at the treeline. The scene was almost colourless; hostile and lonely.
They paced the courtyard of hardened earth, ridged by old cartwheels or the ancient wheels of gun carriages. Hyde flapped his arms against his sides for warmth.
'It is a deadly game, my friend,' Miandad said after a long silence filled only by the wind and their stamping footsteps.
'I know that.'
'He will hold you responsible if you do not—'
'I know that!' Hyde snapped. He halted, turning to Miandad. 'My life isn't worth a spit anywhere in the world unless I get hold of Petrunin and get the truth from him. In those circumstances, mate, it's easy to make extravagant promises and put your balls in the scales!'
'Very well. But, how will you prevent Mohammed Jan from putting your Russian to death immediately he is captured — always supposing he is captured alive in the first place.'
'Shoot the bugger, if I have to — Christ, I don't know! Just hope, I suppose. Or threaten to kill Petrunin myself unless they let me talk to him.'
'And how will you get Petrunin to talk?'
'Christ knows! Offer him a way out? Let's face it, some bugger's going to be disappointed with the outcome — let's just hope it isn't us!'
'Very well.'
'You'll be safe?'
Miandad nodded. 'Oh, yes. Mohammed Jan will not harm me. You see, I represent the possibility of guns and ammunition, and shelter.'
'God, I wish I knew what the hell to do!'
'Perhaps you should ask Allah for inspiration? Or your own god?'
'Who? Janus of the two faces? Some hope.'
'My friend, do not despair. If we find a patrol, and we can capture some of the Russian soldiers, they will talk easily enough. They will know Petrunin — he is a legend among them, one of the few they have. They will know, perhaps, his movements and his timetable. Then an idea may come to you.'
Hyde looked up at the climbing pines and the white mountains against the pale sky. He could not shake off his abiding sense of the alienness of this country. His mission was doomed to failure. Had he not been desperate himself, he would never have considered it. He would never have crossed the border.
A voice called out in Pushtu. They turned swiftly, Hyde bringing the Russian Kalashnikov to bear. A turbanned Pathan waved urgently to them from the main gate.
Miandad said, 'They've found a patrol. We are ordered to make haste.' He looked at the sky. 'No more than two hours of daylight left. The patrol ought to be returning to Jalalabad or Kabul very soon. Come, my friend. Let's hope there are plenty of new guns, even a rocket launcher. Mohammed Jan will be mollified if the haul is a good one.'
'Then there is nothing else you can do — you must get out of it.' Shelley's face was grim as Massinger looked up. He had been staring at Hyde's telephone ever since he had replaced the receiver. He could still hear, more stridently and more affectingly than any of Shelley's prognostications and fears, Margaret's almost hysterical refusal to see him, to believe him, to care what happened to him. He was numbed by the fact that she could abandon him.
'How can I?' he asked bleakly.
'How can you? Drop it — drop the whole thing, man!' It was evident that Shelley was pleading with him for their mutual safety. The tortoiseshell cat roused itself, as if the electricity of their fears disturbed and shocked its fur. Then it settled back into its hollow in the sofa next to Massinger. 'You'll have to bluff your way out.'
'You've already thought this through, haven't you?' Massinger asked. He made it sound like an accusation, and Shelley lowered his eyes as he replied.
'Yes, I have.' He looked up again, defiantly. Massinger thought perhaps his eyes had caught the front page of The Sunday Times and he had been reminded that he was abandoning Aubrey. His old chiefs fate seemed settled, inexorable. Perhaps there was nothing that could be done.
He squashed the thought like an irritating insect, half-afraid of it as of some exotic, corrupt sexual temptation. He could not simply abandon Aubrey. He shook his head. 'I can't.'
