A degree of order descended upon many parts of the country, Kabul in particular, but this time Durrani could not go back to being a taxi driver or live a normal life in any Afghan city. It would not take long before questions about his past were asked and so his only chance of survival was to stay among those like himself.
He often wondered what his life would have been like if he’d married the Tajik girl. It might have kept him from joining the Taliban, for one thing. But such speculation was pointless.The Durrani who had wanted to marry and settle down was very different from the one who always went to war and there was little left of the former one anyway. Durrani was under no illusions as to how it would all end for him. Thousands of men he had known had died, and all he could remember of them were blurred images of their faces over the years. One day he knew he would join them. He could not look forward to paradise either for he was not a devout Muslim. Deep down he did not believe in such myths. It did not make sense to him that a life devoted to death and destruction could be rewarded with everlasting beauty. He could imagine nothing after life, only dark emptiness.
Durrani drove along a dark narrow street with dilapidated single-storey homes on either side, the rooms illuminated by kerosene lamps or lonely bare bulbs. Grey water trickled from waste pipes onto sodden, crumbling concrete pavements strewn with decaying rubbish. His eyes glanced everywhere as he reached the rear entrance of a sturdy mosque in the midst of the squalor, the largest building in the neighbourhood. The side streets he had used for much of the way after entering the city were unlit and quiet but traffic was busy along the main road that passed in front of the holy building.
He pulled to a stop in a wet and muddy gutter, turned off the pick-up’s lights and engine and sat still, his window open, waiting for his senses to grow accustomed to the sounds and shadows.
Durrani looked down at his wrist and the Rolex watch, now clean and shining, more to appreciate his treasure than to note the time. He had few possessions, only those he could carry. The watch was the prettiest trinket he had found in years and he hoped he would not have to sell it, for a while at least. He was curious about the engraving on the back. The next time he met an educated man who could read the language of the enemy he might ask what it said.
He lifted the Tajik scarf off the passenger seat to reveal his AK and the charred briefcase with the chain attached. He placed the case on his lap, the weapon on the floor and the scarf back over it. He wound up the window, checked that the passenger door was locked and looked up and down the street to ensure it was empty. He climbed out of the cab, locked the door, crossed the narrow road, stepped carefully between two parked cars to avoid the muddy gutter, crossed the pavement and passed through a small brick archway.
He entered a stone courtyard, immediately turned the corner towards a large wooden door and on reaching it he knocked on it. He turned his back on the door and studied the dark, silent courtyard that was surrounded by shadowy alcoves. A gust of wind blew a collection of leaves in a circle in the middle of the courtyard before scattering them into a corner. A bolt was loudly thrown back behind the door and Durrani turned around as it opened wide enough for a man with a gun in his hand to look through and examine him.
The man’s name was Sena and Durrani had seen him before in the service of the mullah. He was tall and gaunt and, despite the gun, looked unthreatening. Durrani suspected the man had never fired a shot in his life and would probably drop the weapon and run if he were to kick the door open. Sena stepped back to allow Durrani inside, secured the door again, and led him along a corridor, holding the gun at his side as if it was a tiresome appendage. Two Taliban fighters lounged on the floor, staring up at Durrani. They were dressed in grubby black and brown robes and wore long black beards. Two AK47 rifles were leaning against the wall between them. Neither man made any attempt to shift his dirty sandalled feet out of the way as the other men stepped over them.
Sena opened a door at the end of the corridor and led the way down a short flight of stairs to the bottom where two more fighters stood smoking strong cigarettes - the small space stank of tobacco. Sena knocked on the only door on the landing and waited patiently. A voice eventually summoned them and Sena pushed the door open and stepped to one side, indicating that Durrani should enter.
Durrani stepped inside a long narrow windowless room illuminated by a lamp on a desk at the far end. The door closed behind him. Sena remained in the corridor outside.
The room was sparsely furnished: a chair behind the desk, two more against a wall and several cushions on a worn rug. A mullah, dressed completely in black, was replacing a book on a shelf behind his desk. He turned to face Durrani as the door was closed and he studied his guest solemnly. A moment later his face cracked into a thin, devilish smile. ‘That was a good job you did today,’ he said.
‘It was my duty,’ Durrani replied courteously.
The mullah’s gaze dropped to the case in Durrani’s hands.
Durrani stepped forward and placed it on the desk. ‘You have not opened it?’ the mullah asked as he put on a pair of expensive spectacles.
‘Of course not.’
The mullah took hold of the chain, raised it to its full length, released it and turned the case around so the locks were facing him. A brief test proved that they were locked as he suspected. ‘Sena!’ he called out.
The door opened and Sena looked in.
‘A hammer and screwdriver,’ the mullah ordered.
Sena closed the door.
The mullah took a packet of cheap African Woodbines from a pocket, removed one, placed it in his mouth and offered the pack to Durrani.
‘No. Thank you,’ Durrani said.
The mullah pocketed the packet, dug a lighter out and lit the cigarette. He blew a thick stream of strong smoke into the room as he turned the case over to check the other side. ‘It was British?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many dead?’
‘I don’t know. It was burning. One or two, perhaps, plus the crew.’
The mullah stared coldly into Durrani’s unwavering eyes. He had known the fighter for many years, having first encountered him during the Taliban’s capture of Kandahar. ‘You look tired, old friend. Are you well?’
‘I am well. You are kind to ask.’
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Not right now. But thank you.’
The door opened and Sena returned with the tools.
‘Open it,’ the mullah ordered briskly, impatient to know the briefcase’s contents.
Durrani placed the case on its side with the locks uppermost as Sena stepped beside him to assess the task.
‘Hit the lock,’ Durrani said. To the mullah, Durrani appeared to be as anxious as himself to see what was in the case. But in truth Durrani was merely irritated by Sena’s sluggishness.
Sena was the mullah’s clerical assistant and had been a servant of one type or another all his life. He was graceful, thoughtful and in no way technical and as he placed the tip of the screwdriver in the joint between the two locks every shred of self-confidence had drained from his expression.
‘The lock,’ Durrani said, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Put it against the lock.’
Sena moved the tip of the screwdriver closer to one of the locks, gritted his teeth and raised the hammer that looked a touch too heavy for him. Before he could bring it down Durrani snatched away the tools. ‘Hold the case,’ he snapped.