They climbed into their helicopter. Anatoly took the pilot's headset and spoke into the radio microphone at length in Russian. Jean-Pierre was very uneasy about what he was about to do. Suppose three guerrillas were to come over the mountain and catch him threatening Abdullah with the gun? He was known by literally everyone in the Valley. The news that he had visited Banda with the Russians would have spread rapidly. Without doubt most people now knew that he had been a spy. He must be Public Enemy Number One. They would tear him apart.
Perhaps we're being too clever, he thought. Maybe we should just land and pull Abdullah in and beat the truth out of him.
No, we tried that yesterday and it didn't work. This is the only way.
Anatoly gave the headset back to the pilot, who took his seat and began to warm up the helicopter. While they were waiting, Anatoly took out his gun and showed it to Jean-Pierre. "This is a nine-millimeter Makarov," he said over the noise of the rotors. He flipped a catch in the heel of the grip and drew out the magazine. It contained eight rounds. He pushed the magazine back in. He pointed to another catch on the left-hand side of the pistol. "This is the safety catch. When the red dot is covered, the catch is in the 'safe' position." Holding the gun in his left hand, he used his right hand to pull back the slide above the grip. "This is how the pistol is cocked." He released it and it sprang back into position. "When you fire, give a long pull on the trigger to recock the gun." He handed the weapon to Jean-Pierre.
He really trusts me, Jean-Pierre thought, and for a moment a glow of pleasure took the chill off his fear.
The helicopters took off. They followed the Five Lions River southwest, going down the Valley. Jean-Pierre was thinking that he and Anatoly made a good team. Anatoly reminded him of his father: a clever, determined, brave man with an unshakable commitment to world communism. If we succeed here, Jean-Pierre thought, we will probably be able to work together again, on some other battlefield. The thought pleased him inordinately.
At Dasht-i-Rewat, where the lower Valley began, the helicopter turned southeast, following the tributary Rewat upstream into the hills, in order to approach Banda from behind the mountain.
Anatoly used the pilot's headset again, then came over to shout in Jean-Pierre's ear. "They are all in the mosque already. How long will it take the wife to reach the mullah s house?"
"Five or ten minutes," Jean-Pierre yelled back.
"Where do you want to be dropped off?"
Jean-Pierre considered. "All the villagers are in the mosque, right?"
"Yes."
"Did they check the caves?"
Anatoly went back to the radio and asked. He returned and said: "They checked the caves."
"Okay. Drop me there."
"How long will it take you to reach your hiding place?"
"Give me ten minutes; then release the women and children, then wait another ten minutes and release the men."
"Right."
The helicopter descended into the shadow of the mountain. The afternoon was waning, but there was still an hour or so before nightfall. They landed behind the ridge, a few yards from the caves. Anatoly said to Jean-Pierre: "Don't go yet. Let us check the caves again."
Through the open door, Jean-Pierre saw another Hind land. Six men got out and ran over the ridge.
"How will I signal you to come down and pick me up afterward?" Jean-Pierre asked.
"We'll wait for you here."
"What will you do if some of the villagers come up here before I return?"
"Shoot them."
That was something else Anatoly had in common with Jean-Pierre's father: ruthlessness.
The reconnaissance party came back over the ridge and one of the men waved an all-clear sign.
"Go," said Anatoly.
Jean-Pierre opened the door and jumped out of the helicopter, still holding Anatoly's pistol in his hand. He hurried away from its beating blades with his head bent. When he reached the ridge he looked back: both aircraft were still there.
He crossed the familiar clearing in front of his old cave clinic and looked down into the village. He could just see into the courtyard of the mosque. He was unable to identify any of the figures he saw there, but it was just possible that one of them might glance up at the wrong moment and see him—their eyesight might be better than his—so he pulled the hood forward to obscure his face.
His heart beat faster as he got farther away from the safety of the Russian helicopters. He hurried down the hill and past the mullah's house. The Valley seemed oddly quiet despite the ever-present noise of the river and the distant whisper of helicopter blades. It was the absence of children's voices, he realized.
He turned a corner and found that he was out of sight of the mullah's house. Beside the footpath was a clump of camel grass and juniper bushes. He went behind it and crouched down. He was well hidden, but he had a clear view of the path. He settled down to wait.
He considered what he would say to Abdullah. The mullah was a hysterical woman-hater: maybe he could use that.
A sudden burst of high voices from far down in the village told him that Anatoly had given instructions for the women and children to be released from the mosque. The villagers would wonder what the whole exercise had been for, but they would attribute it to the notorious craziness of armies everywhere.
A few minutes later the mullah's wife came up the footpath, carrying her baby and followed by three older children. Jean-Pierre tensed: was he really well hidden here? Would the children run off the path and stumble into his bush? What a humiliation that would be—to be foiled by children. He remembered the gun in his hand. Could I shoot children? he wondered.
They went past and turned the corner toward their house.
Soon afterward the Russian helicopters began to take off from the wheatfield: that meant the men had been released. Right on schedule, Abdullah came puffing up the hill, a tubby figure in a turban and a pin-striped English jacket. There must be a huge trade in used clothes between Europe and the East, Jean-Pierre had decided, for so many of these people wore clothes which had undoubtedly been made in Paris or London and had been discarded, perhaps because they became unfashionable, long before they were worn out. This is it, thought Jean-Pierre, as the comical figure drew level; this clown in a stockbroker's jacket could hold the key to my future. He got to his feet and stepped out from the bushes.
The mullah started and gave a cry of shock. He looked at Jean-Pierre and recognized him. "You!" he said. His hand went to his belt. Jean-Pierre showed him the gun. Abdullah looked frightened.
"Don't be afraid," Jean-Pierre said in Dari. The unsteadiness of his voice betrayed his jumpiness, and he made an effort to bring it under control. "No one knows I am here. Your wife and children passed without seeing me. They are safe."
Abdullah looked suspicious. "What do you want?"
"My wife is an adulteress," said Jean-Pierre, and although he was deliberately playing on the mullah's prejudices, his anger was not entirely faked. "She has taken my child and left me. She has gone whoring after the American."
"I know," said Abdullah, and Jean-Pierre could see him beginning to swell with righteous indignation.
"I have been searching for her, in order to bring her back and punish her."
Abdullah nodded enthusiastically, and malice showed in his eyes: he liked the idea of punishing adulteresses.
"But the wicked couple have gone into hiding." Jean-Pierre spoke slowly and carefully: at this point every nuance counted. "You are a man of God. Tell me where they are. No one will ever know how I found out, except you and me and God."
"They have gone away," Abdullah spat, and saliva wetted his red-dyed beard.
"Where?" Jean-Pierre held his breath.