Kabiri swallowed nervously. ‘He says he wants to know why an NGO worker has got a bloodied fist.’

  Carter glanced at his purpled hand. He’d been so busy focusing on the mission during the flight from Chile that he’d forgotten to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. A stupid mistake.

  Scar-Face waited impatiently.

  ‘I fell down the stairs coming off the plane,’ Carter said. ‘On the connecting flight. Wasn’t looking where I was going. Bloody typical.’

  Kabiri relayed the explanation to Scar-Face. The Taliban guard snorted and grooved his brow. The guy wasn’t buying it, Carter realised. The man shouted furiously at Kabiri, gesturing at him with the business end of his assault rifle. Kabiri gave a panicked response. The argument was getting heated. Carter realised the whole operation was about to turn to shit. If Scar-Face saw through the cover story, he was fucked.

  Just then he heard a commotion from the direction of the cargo trucks. Screaming voices. Shouting. Carter looked across the road. Towards the lead truck, fifteen metres away.

  So did Kabiri and Scar-Face.

  The two soldiers beside the truck were dragging out a pair of shrieking kids from the underside of the chassis. They pulled out two more boys from beneath the truck and forced them at gunpoint to stand next to the first pair. None of the kids looked a day older than eleven or twelve.

  Carter looked on through the dirt-flecked windscreen as the soldiers ripped the threadbare clothes from the four boys, revealing dozens of dark-coloured packs strapped with duct tape around their chests, arms and legs.

  Heroin.

  Black tar.

  The two soldiers tore the heroin packs free and started thrashing the half-naked kids with their long wooden sticks. Almost immediately the other guards hurried over to join in, kicking and punching faces and torsos while their mates stood around and laughed.

  Carter saw another trio of kids crawl out from beneath one of the rear transport trucks. They turned and began running back down the road in a desperate attempt to escape the same fate as their friends. One of the guards spotted them and shouted what sounded like an order at Shades and Scar-Face. Telling them to give chase, perhaps.

  Scar-Face glanced back at Kabiri and drew his eyebrows together, as if making a quick decision. Then he said a few words to the guide before he started after the fleeing kids.

  ‘He says we can go,’ Kabiri said. ‘We are free to continue our journey.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ Carter muttered.

  As they accelerated away, Carter glanced back at the checkpoint. Scar-Face and Shades had caught up with the kids. The soldiers yanked them to their feet while their mates marched the other boys at gunpoint towards a windowless concrete building at the side of the road.

  ‘Smuggling,’ Kabiri said. He lit a celebratory cigarette and sucked on it, exhaling with relief. ‘Very big problem on the border now. Lots of gangs use the children to try and get through. Most make it. Some do not.’

  Carter said, ‘But the Taliban run most of the smuggling operations in these parts, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why the fuck would they arrest some kids for trafficking heroin? Surely they’d want the gear to get through.’

  ‘Supply and demand,’ Kabiri said. ‘Today, there is too much opium on the global market. It is, as you say, saturated. Which makes it cheap. So now the Taliban cut the supply. Drive the price up. Make more money.’

  Sharza rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to emphasise his point.

  ‘What will happen to the kids?’ Carter asked.

  ‘They will be flogged and beaten. One or two may be used for bacha bazi.’

  Carter wrinkled his nose in disgust. During his time in the country as an embed he’d heard plenty of stories about the rural custom of bacha bazi. Boy play. Adolescent boys who dressed up as females and danced in front of groups of adult men. Many were sold or kidnapped and sexually abused by powerful Afghans.

  He said, ‘I thought the Taliban had outlawed all them dancing boys.’

  Kabiri said, ‘This is true. But the Taliban also use them for honeytraps sometimes. To get close to the warlords and commanders who are opposed to the rule of the Taliban. They force the boys to win the trust of their enemies, then poison or shoot them.’

  Carter shook his head in disbelief. ‘The drug gangs never used to use kids. Not for this shite.’

  ‘Times have changed,’ Kabiri said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Kabiri shrugged and said, ‘People are desperate. Families will do anything for a little food. Some sell their kidneys or other organs. Girls are sold into marriage with older men, sometimes when they are still just infants, so the father can receive a down payment on the dowry. Boys are forced into labour. Whatever work they can find. Some go to work for the smugglers. They pay money to the family if the children make it across the border.’

  Carter stared at him in disgust. ‘People are selling their kids now?’

  Kabiri said, flatly, ‘They have no choice. A bride can fetch two or three hundred dollars. Enough to put food on the table for a while. Many parents cannot afford to feed their children anyway. If they do not sell them to someone else, they will starve to death.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Like I told you. Only a crazy person would come back here.’

  Ten

  They headed east from the checkpoint, passing through the strategic border town at Hairatan. Carter looked out of his side window as they drove past a tableau of poverty and despair. Long lines of people queued up for handouts outside a food relief distribution centre. Others sat begging on the sides of the road, their malnourished children lying on blankets at their feet. There was a palpable sense of desperation in the air. Carter could see it in their faces. A people forced to the brink.

  Twenty years of war, and this is how we’ve left the country.

  He recalled that Afghanistan was in a different time zone and changed his G-Shock to the local time, thirty minutes behind Uzbekistan. After several kilometres the road curved south and they pushed deeper into the country. Carter saw groves of apricot trees, neglected farmsteads and impoverished villages. Columns of people trudged along the roadsides, many of them barefoot, the men dressed in a variety of waistcoats, tunics and trousers. Some walked alongside underfed donkeys weighed down with the family’s worldly possessions.

  They continued east on the main road, heading in the direction of Kunduz. Twenty minutes later, they hit a road junction with an abandoned truck stop at the side. In the distance, the rusted metal carcass of an Afghan light-armoured vehicle baked beneath the sun. From his study of the maps, Carter swiftly recognised this place as the prearranged RV point.

  Kabiri dropped the Land Cruiser to fifteen per and steered off the highway, then parked next to the derelict truck stop. Carter glanced round.

  ‘Where’s Omar?’ he asked.

  ‘We are too early,’ Kabiri said. ‘Omar will be here soon. Don’t worry, my friend. Patience. He will come.’

  They sat and waited. Kabiri chained his way through another rancid-smelling cigarette. Carter pulled out a plastic bottle of water from his rucksack and took a couple of sips.

  Eight minutes later, he descried a cloud of dust on the road further west. A white Toyota Hilux scudded towards them. Carter watched it turn off the metalled road before it pulled up next to the Land Cruiser. The Hilux was one of the four-door models, with a shortened rear bed. It looked several years old, with worn tyres, and the paintwork was coated in a patina of sand and grime. The perfect vehicle for blending in with the local environment.

  Kabiri tipped his head at the pickup and said, brusquely, ‘There. That is Omar. Go. I’m done here.’

  ‘Good luck, mate,’ Carter told him. ‘With your relatives.’

  Kabiri smiled. ‘I think, my friend, I do not need the luck as much as you.’

  Too fucking right, thought Carter as he climbed out of the Land Cruiser.

  He hooked round to the rear door, opened it and snatched up his rucksack from the back seat, pausing to tear off the NGO badges from his shirt, trousers and bag. He stowed the Velcro patches in his pockets: if they ran into any more Taliban checkpoints along the way, Carter would slap them back on and try to bluff his way through, sticking to the original story that he was here on official business.

  He slammed the door shut. Kabiri quickly accelerated away in a swirl of hot dust and churned dirt as he steered the Land Cruiser back onto the highway. At the same time Carter jogged over to the pickup. Omar Sharza hopped out and greeted him with a fierce handshake.

  ‘My brother,’ he said in faintly accented English. He stood back and gave a weary smile tinged with sadness. ‘I did not think I would see you here again.’

  ‘That makes two of us, mate,’ Carter replied.

  Sharza looked exactly the same as Carter remembered him. He was big all over, a great bear of a man with meaty paws and a full beard. But his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a strained look on his face. The constant stress of running people out of the country from under the noses of the Taliban.

  ‘You are ready?’ asked Sharza. He had a soft voice that seemed completely at odds with his grizzly-bear physique. Carter nodded, and Sharza said, ‘OK, then. Let’s go.’

  Carter bundled his rucksack into the back of the cab and jumped into the shotgun seat. Then Sharza punched the start-stop button on the dash, the Hilux engine fired up, and soon they were cannoning east on the highway.

  Towards Khordokan, and the last known location of David Vann.

  Every few minutes Sharza glanced in the rear-view mirror, as if he was worried that someone might be following him. But the road behind them remained clear of vehicles and after several kilometres the interpreter visibly relaxed.

  ‘I am sorry I couldn’t meet you in Uzbekistan,’ he said at last. ‘But you must understand. People are hunting for me. I could not take the risk.’

  ‘None of that, mate,’ Carter replied. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’

  Sharza smiled sadly. ‘It is a shame we must meet again.’

  Carter shot him a questioning look and said, ‘What are you still doing here, Omar? You should be out of the country by now, bedding down with your family in Kent, or wherever.’

  Carter surprised himself with the feeling in his voice. But he liked Sharza. Respected him. He had spent eighteen months living with the bloke while he’d served as an embed with Afghan SF. The two of them had taken meals together, shared jokes and fought against the Taliban. In that environment, you quickly learned who you could trust, and who wasn’t up for the job. Over time, Sharza had proven himself a man of dedication, loyalty and toughness.

  The guy had risked his life to serve alongside Carter. If anyone warranted a shot at a new life, it was him. He certainly deserved better than staying put in Afghanistan.

  ‘I couldn’t leave,’ Sharza explained quietly. ‘The British government offered to help get me out, but I could not accept.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Carter.

  ‘There are people here . . . people who need my help. I could not abandon them.’

  ‘You’ve got a wife and kids, Omar.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why stick around here? You’re putting your neck on the line every time you set foot outside your home.’

  Sharza stared dead ahead for several beats. Then he swallowed and said, ‘I have a nephew. My brother’s son. Amredin. Nineteen years old. He is still here, in Bazarak. Hiding.’ He glanced at Carter. ‘If the Taliban find him, they will kill him. This I know.’

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘He’s in Greece. In a refugee camp. With the rest of his family. Amredin was supposed to join them, but my brother received a warning from a friend that the Taliban planned to arrest him, so he had to flee in the middle of the night, without any notice. They did not even have time to pack their things.’ Sharza paused. ‘Amredin was staying with his grandparents at the time. My brother had to leave him behind.’

  Carter was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘That’s why you’re still in-country? Because of your nephew?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sharza said. He scratched his beard. ‘The Americans, they promised that they would get Amredin to safety if I agreed to help others escape.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Not yet. They are waiting for the right moment, they say.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘They are waiting for me in Britain,’ Sharza said. ‘At a place called Cardiff. You know it?’

  Carter laughed heartily, breaking the sombre mood. ‘Aye, I know it.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You might speak English better than some of our lads, but you won’t understand a word the locals are saying. They speak a whole different tongue in them parts.’

  ‘Then I shall learn,’ Sharza said, proudly. ‘I am keen to educate myself, learn many things. My children too. I will get out of here soon, I hope. Once we find your friend.’

  Carter said, seriously, ‘How much have they told you about the mission?’

  ‘Only that your friend is in danger.’ Sharza hesitated. ‘They said this friend of yours, Vann, he is close with Jabar Hakimi, the leader of the National Alliance. This is true?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Carter said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have contacts, in Kabul and elsewhere. They say the Taliban are planning to destroy the National Alliance while it is still weak. They have vowed to hunt down and kill anyone who is guilty of working with them.’ Sharza paused. ‘Including your friend.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to find him first,’ Carter said.

  Sharza nodded. He said, ‘I have done as the Americans have asked. I have spoken with people I trust about your friend. To see if any of them have seen or heard of such a man.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing. No one has seen him since Khordokan.’ He looked across at Carter. ‘Your friend, he is like a ghost.’

  Carter rubbed his jaw. ‘We’ll have to take a closer look at the maps later. Find out where he might have taken refuge. If Vann was in that area a few days ago he can’t have gone very far.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s the safe house?’

  ‘I have found a place for us in a village, fifteen kilometres from Khordokan. We will stay there tonight.’

  ‘Is it secure?’

  ‘I know the people who live there. They are good people,’ Sharza replied confidently. ‘They do not like the Taliban. They will shelter us. I would trust them with my life.’

  You already are, mate, Carter almost said.

  Carter consulted his G-Shock. A little past one o’clock in the afternoon. A two-hundred-mile journey on Afghan roads equated to a journey time of around four hours. They were looking at an ETA of around five o’clock. Two hours before nightfall. Plenty of time to start casting an eye over the maps before beginning their search the next morning.

  They continued east, through the major cities at Kunduz and Taloqan. Taliban-controlled territory, but Sharza had explained that there was no other way of reaching the safe house. But he knew the locations of the main police checkpoints, and the spots where Taliban were likely to be found in large numbers: guarding mosques, government buildings, food distribution centres.

  Besides, most of the police officers were former Taliban soldiers, Sharza added. Many of them came from tiny villages. They had never set foot in a city before in their life and knew nothing of the backstreets and the side roads in a place like Kunduz. Sharza expertly navigated his way through chaotic back roads crowded with beggars and packs of feral dogs. Women rooted through bags of rubbish while homeless people wrapped themselves in tattered blankets.

  East of Kunduz the situation looked even more desperate. They rolled past narrow strips of fertile land and meadows on either side of the river, hemmed in by forbidding mountain ranges. Small, dirt-poor villages clung to the riverside, many consisting of nothing more than a scattering of dismal hovels and poppy fields.

  Carter said, ‘Looks like this area hasn’t changed much.’

  Sharza smiled. ‘You mean the opium?’

  ‘That’s still the big trade, I’m guessing.’

  ‘For now,’ Sharza replied. ‘But not for much longer, maybe.’ He waved a hand at the surrounding mountains. ‘The people here are poor, but this land is very rich. Many minerals here. Coal too. The Chinese are opening mines now. All across this area. Many Chinese come here to work.’

  ‘Got to be a dicey place to operate,’ said Carter. ‘They’re at risk of getting caught up in the fighting.’

  Sharza said, ‘That is one of the reasons why the Taliban wish to crush the National Alliance as soon as possible. The Chinese want the government to guarantee the safety of their workers. Otherwise they have threatened to end their operations and leave. This the Taliban cannot afford.’

  Same old bloody story, thought Carter. One foreign power pulls out, and five minutes later another country moves in to take advantage of the situation. These people can’t catch a break.

  Sharza continued, ‘Things here are bad. But I fear they will get worse.’

  ‘Worse than this?’ Carter asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Sharza nodded. ‘The Taliban came to power because people believed they would not be as corrupt as the old regime, and they were willing to give them another chance. But if they cannot feed their own people then they will not stay in power for long. Already their enemies are gaining support.’

  ‘You mean the National Alliance?’

  ‘Some have joined their cause, yes. But others are siding with ISIS-K.’ He sighed wearily. ‘They are taking advantage of the misery of the people. They say that the Taliban is a puppet of the American government and cannot be trusted. Lots of disillusioned Taliban are joining them. Soldiers who thought victory over the Americans would bring peace. Every week, ISIS-K grows stronger.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll topple the Taliban?’

  ‘One day, who knows? Perhaps they will eventually grow strong enough to defeat the Taliban. But I hope not. That would be very bad for us.’