Rain steam and speed, p.39
Rain, Steam and Speed, page 39
Tofan concealed himself behind the trunk of a tree and watched as the group came to a stop in the middle of a grassed area. There was no one else to be seen. No doubt, everyone was at the kite-flying competition. The four of them spread out a little, one at each point of the compass, with Ewan in the middle. “Did I say I wouldn’t torture you, Owen? I think Katya would be very disappointed if we threw you straight in the River Helmand.”
Beyond the park, was the River Helmand. Nikolai nodded at Atal who took his Kalashnikov from his shoulder and rammed the butt into Ewan’s stomach. He sank to his knees. Katya moved over to him and slapped him in the face.
“That’s for screwing my cousin.”
She slapped him on the other cheek.
“And that is for lying.”
Atal hit him in the face with the butt of his Kalashnikov.
“That’s for pretending you didn’t speak Russian.”
Bahrawar stood watching, silently.
Tofan was unsure how much of a beating Ewan could take. He could not leave it too long in case Ewan was not able to draw and fire his weapon. He was sure that if he took out two of them, Ewan could take out the other two. The priority was the man with the Kalashnikov, followed by one of the others who had not drawn their weapon. He stepped out from behind his tree and walked over to the group, shouting.
“Hey! Does it take three men and one woman to beat up one man? Leave him alone.”
“I suggest you mind your own business,” Atal shouted back.
“What has he done that you want to hurt him?”
“I’ll give you one final warning. Leave now,” insisted Atal.
“I can’t stand by and watch you and this woman beating up this man,” retorted Tofan, hoping that Ewan would catch on. Bahrawar and Nikolai stood to Ewan’s left. Tofan intended them to be Ewan’s targets.
Drawing his gun from beneath his waistcoat, Tofan fired one shot into Atal’s chest and another into Katya’s forehead. Even though he was feeling nauseous and dazed, Ewan had enough presence of mind, as soon as Tofan fired, to draw his own gun from the leg holster and shoot Nikolai in the chest before he had a chance to draw a weapon. Bahrawar, stunned by what was going on around him, was rooted to the spot, which gave Tofan a window of opportunity to fire a third shot. Bahrawar crumpled to the ground.
“Can you walk, my brother?” Tofan asked Ewan, holding out his hand to pull him up from the ground.
“I think so. They didn’t touch me legs.”
“Come then. As fast as you can. Let’s get to the car.”
“What about them?”
“No time,” responded Tofan.
He could see that Atal and Katya were dead and quickly felt for a pulse on Nikolai’s neck.
“Dead,” he declared, moving over to Bahrawar. “Also, dead. Now, let’s go. Our priority is to get you safe. The local police will do what the local police will do.”
They reached the car and Tofan sped off down the next side street.
“We will swing by the bookshop. You can grab your belongings and then we must go.”
“Go where?”
“Kandahar. The field office and then the safehouse. I must contact MI6 as soon as I can. It is vital that Operation Beluga is brought to completion before the end of the night. Hopefully, we will make it to Kandahar before local police discover the bodies and make any response.”
“Thank you. I probably owe you my life.”
“Think nothing of it, my brother.”
“By the way, the woman was Katya. I knew her in London and more recently, in Canada. The man was Nikolai Krukov. I knew him in London, as Nikolai. I never knew he was Nikolai Krukov. We thought Krukov was a different person. Katya is his daughter. Now we have linked Krukov to the drugs network.”
They arrived at the bookshop and went inside. Neither Salar nor Faridun had gone to the kite-flying competition.
“Peace be upon you my brothers,” Tofan greeted Salar and Faridun, with a hug. “I am sorry, but Ewan has to leave.”
Ewan had already gone to his bed and was gathering his belongings. He nipped to the toilet.
“What happened to you?” asked Salar when Ewan came back into the front of the shop.
“Long story. The special work hit a problem,” offered Tofan, by way of limited explanation. “We have to get Ewan to safety. Right now.”
“Thank you for your hospitality and friendship,” said Ewan. “I don’t think I will be coming back.”
“You are always welcome,” affirmed Salar, “If things change.”
“Yes. Perhaps one day, you will visit us,” added Faridun.
Ewan hugged each of them, which caused pain to shoot through his body. He winced.
“Come. We have no time to waste.”
Ewan left with Tofan, who had taken hold of the holdall. They took the back streets out of the city and drove at speed to Kandahar. To both their relief, there were no roadblocks along the way. Tofan drove them straight to the field office, where he made a secure phone call. Ewan sat listening to Tofan’s words, as he spoke in English.
“Time to wrap up Operation Beluga. Canada, London, Paris and Amsterdam, plus all known operatives. Nikolai Krukov and Katya Krukov are both dead. It was them or us. Atal and Bahrawar are dead, but the farm needs shutting down. Do you want to speak to Ewan? ….. OK. Debrief in London, Wednesday. Go to HQ on arrival. Catch up soon. ….. He’s done an amazing job. He’s been pretty badly beaten up. ….. Yes. Bye.”
“That was Grant Waterstone. He doesn’t want to speak to you on the phone, but he said you’ve done incredibly well. He’ll see you in London, on Wednesday. All we have to do now, is get you there in one piece. Right now, let’s get you to the safe house and cleaned up.”
“It’s starting to hurt a lot. I need some more of your miracle medicine,” laughed Ewan.
“Glad you can laugh about it.”
“But not too much.”
They left the field office in a different car and drove to the safehouse.
“Here’s the cannabis oil.”
“Thanks.”
Ewan started to apply some to his face and stomach. Reflecting on the incident, he thought of Houdini, who died from a punch in the stomach he was not ready for, and he was so glad he had tensed his six-pack as he saw Atal swing the Kalashnikov back, otherwise it might have been far worse. He lay down on a bed and closed his eyes. The cannabis oil started to sooth his pain. Tofan came into the bedroom.
“You will need to use your Ian Elton-Craig passport again, as soon as we get you across the border. I want to try and take you to Quetta, leaving right now. I am worried about being stopped by the Soviets, though. If Krukov had state-backing, and the bodies have been identified, it is very possible the authorities here won’t be happy.”
“What happens if we are stopped?”
“I’m not sure I want to find that out. If we leave now, we might make it before they find out. If not, we can try the longer route through the mountains. Ready?”
“Ready.”
They left for Quetta. Tofan drove at the speed limit out of the city and then added a few miles per hour on the open road.
“Once we get across the border, we’ll stay overnight, in Quetta. In the morning, we’ll change into suits, back to your Ian Elton-Craig passport, and I’ll drive you to Karachi. From there, you can fly to Heathrow. The Pakistanis are our allies, remember, in the fight against the Soviets.”
“What will you do?”
“Hopefully, make my way safely back to Kandahar. Although I may have to hang out in Pakistan for a while, until the dust settles.”
The drive was hot and dusty. As they approached the border crossing, a queue of traffic had formed.
“I don’t drive through here that often,” remarked Tofan, “so I don’t know if this is normal.”
“Well, we don’t have a choice.”
“I don’t know. Better to turn around now, than when they check our passports. Here, we might just be avoiding the traffic. Later, we could be seen as trying to hide something.”
“Stay in the queue,” insisted Ewan-Ian. “We can say we have a friend in hospital in Quetta. He drives fruit and vegetables across the border and fell from his lorry.”
“Very good.”
The queue edged forward until Tofan and Ewan-Ian were at the barrier.
“Passports, please.”
Tofan handed over their passports.
“Where are you going?”
“Quetta.”
“Where have you come from?”
“Kandahar.”
“Please get out of the car.
They both got out.
“Now open the boot, please.”
Ewan-Ian suddenly remembered he had two small packets of heroin in the bottom of his holdall. He started to panic, as Tofan opened the boot. The border guard looked at the luggage.
“Please open this bag,” he instructed Tofan.
“It’s his,” replied Tofan.
Ewan-Ian stepped forward and unzipped the bag. The border guard looked inside and ran his hand round the sides of the clothes, feeling for items considerably larger than Ewan-Ian’s two tiny plastic packets.
“All OK. Thank you.”
The two men got back in the car and the border guard raised the barrier.
“That was close,” reflected Ian-Ewan.
“How so?”
“I have two small packets of heroin at the bottom of my holdall, evidence from Atal’s farm. I was sweating.”
As soon as they were beyond the immediate vicinity of the crossing, Tofan accelerated away.
“I guess that’s the hardest part, getting across the border,” surmised Ian-Ewan.
“I’m just happy that we’re in Pakistan. Are you hungry?”
“Very.”
“Let’s check in at the hotel and find somewhere to eat.”
“Good plan.”
They checked into a three-star hotel. The room was clean, the sheets crisp, and there was a fan. The shower and toilet were also more modern than Ian-Ewan’s experience from the last few weeks, and he spent far longer in the shower than he would normally have spent.
“Sorry,” apologised Ian-Ewan when he came out of the bathroom. “It wasn’t just that I am stiff all over. I haven’t had the opportunity of a shower like that for a while.”
“No matter,” responded Tofan heading into the bathroom.
Once showered and changed into their clean clothes, they left the hotel in search of a place to eat.
Ian-Ewan was a simple guy who generally fed himself, at home, on something and toast, with the occasional steak, but the monotony of his diet, over the last few weeks, left him hankering after something more interesting. Not that he was ungrateful for any of the hospitality he had experienced. They wandered into a restaurant and ordered a Balochi dish made from lamb and okra. It was spicier and richer than the stews he had eaten in Afghanistan, and it went straight through him. Thankfully, by morning, and the long journey to Karachi, he had washed it all through his system.
They left at six-thirty in the morning and drove for two hours before stopping for coffee, breakfast, and use of a toilet. It was nice not to wonder if there would be a roadblock or feel the need to look over his shoulder all the time. Back in the car, they continued on the long drive south.
“You will be flying on a private jet from Karachi to Dubai. From there you fly to London.”
“Wow. Who owns the private jet?”
“The CIA.”
“The CIA?”
“Yes. They have been working alongside the British and the Pakistanis to ensure the Mujahideen are trained and supplied with arms. The head of the agency has been here for a couple of days.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I know you wanted a trip on the Orient Express, but this has to be second best.”
“Great.”
Tofan remembered there was a radio in the car. He switched it on, and a man’s voice came on. He turned the tuning button a little and caught some bursts of music, looked at Ian-Ewan and shook his head.
“Wait you have cassettes, don’t you?”
“They’re in the boot.”
“Well, next time we stop, we’ll play some music. Assuming the cassette player isn’t broken.”
“Do you like rock music?”
“I don’t know.”
“What music do you like?”
“Pop music.”
“Seventies?”
“Motown! Currently, I like A-ha ‘Take on Me’. George Michael ‘Careless Whisper’. Billy Joel ‘Uptown Girl’.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“I used to. Since my wife died, I haven’t been anywhere to dance. I don’t think I want to dance without her.”
“I’m sorry.”
They drove on for a while, in silence, until they reached Khuzdar, where Tofan filled up with petrol, and Ian-Ewan sorted out two of his cassettes. They got back in the car and Ian-Ewan put his Wish You Were Here cassette into the player.
“It’s broken,” observed Tofan.
“No. The first part is a bit quiet. It will get louder soon.”
The intro got louder.
“Does it have any words?” asked Tofan.
“Wait!”
“Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun. Shine on you crazy diamond.”
Ian-Ewan lost himself mouthing the words and moving his head in time with the music. After a bit, the lyrics gave way to instrumentals, again. Ian-Ewan was in his element. Eventually the album came to an end.
“What do you think?”
“I think I’d like to listen to it again before I decide. But not immediately.”
Ian-Ewan replaced the cassette with Dark Side of the Moon.
“I’ve been mad, I know I’ve been mad, like the most of us ….”
It was difficult to hear the first part of the lyrics, but Ian-Ewan knew them by heart. The music got louder and then came the opening line to ‘Breathe.’ When ‘Time’ came on, Tofan jumped at the clocks chiming.
“So, what do you think the dark side of the moon is like?” asked Tofan, at the end of the album.
“There’s no dark side of the moon. As a matter of fact, it’s all dark,” laughed Ian-Ewan.
“That was in the song.”
“Yes.”
“It’s true. The moon has no light of its own.”
“I would love to go to the moon,” mused Ian-Ewan. “Actually, no. Not necessarily to the moon. I would love to see the earth from space.”
“I watched the moon landing.”
“Me too. My dad woke us up. We had to go next door. Me and my sister, with my mum and dad. We didn’t have a television.”
“I was in America, learning the language, when it happened.”
“Amazing. I love the film footage of the Apollo rocket taking off.”
“Yes. It moves so slowly, at first. Then it goes ridiculously fast. More than twenty thousand miles per hour.”
“I know.”
There was a town coming up, Bela.
“We should stop,” proposed Tofan.
“Agreed.”
“We need to eat something,” suggested Tofan. “I need energy. I’ll drive round until we find a café.”
He turned off the main road and entered the town where they soon came upon somewhere that looked like it sold food.
“Is that roast chicken I can smell?” wondered Tofan out loud.
There was a spit, over a fire, with a chicken on it.
“Peace be upon you,” said the proprietor.
“And upon you. Are you serving food?” inquired Tofan.
“We have roast chicken.”
“Perfect.”
“Take a seat, please.”
He brought them over two bottles of Pakola and a plate of naan bread, and returned to the counter, where he removed the chicken from the spit and took it over to Tofan and Ian-Ewan. He replaced the chicken with an uncooked one and pushed the spit back over the fire. Tofan cut the chicken in half and placed one half in front of Ian-Ewan. When he had pulled every last piece from the carcass, Tofan lent back and sighed.
“That was just what was needed.”
“Yes, it was good,” replied Ian-Ewan, licking his fingers, and wiping them on a towel.
Tofan paid and they each used the toilet.
“Let’s see if we can make it to Karachi without stopping,” remarked Tofan.
“Are you feeling full of energy, again?”
“I am. Tonight we are guests of the CIA. I’m sure they will have heard what you did, by now.”
“What we did. I would be dead, without you.”
“True, but you put yourself on the line and uncovered the supply chain. Don’t forget, it’s because of the work you did in Ottawa, that we were able to take out both Nikolai and Katya Krukov. The CIA might offer you a job.”
“MI6 offered me a job. I don’t want it. I want to live to see my grandchildren. I don’t have children yet, of course. I want to meet someone. Someone who doesn’t lie to me or use me.”
Somewhere between Bela and Karachi, Ian-Ewan fell asleep. He was woken abruptly, by Tofan doing an emergency stop, to let a chicken cross the road, and realised he had been dribbling. Wiping away the saliva with his sleeve, he looked at the chicken and thought better of cracking a joke. Jokes never translate well across cultures. The chicken reached the other side of the road and Tofan set off, again. The roads became increasingly busy, the further into the city they drove. At several points, Tofan had to bring the car to a complete standstill, as market traders and impatient taxi drivers criss-crossed the road. Eventually, they pulled up in front of a building guarded by soldiers.
Tofan wound down the window, held out his passport and spoke to one of them, who approached the car. The soldier made a phone call and allowed Tofan to proceed. He parked the car, and the two men went inside. A man in a suit met them.
“Come this way, gentlemen.”
He led them up to the first floor where they were directed to wait in a room. A few minutes later, the door opened, and in walked William Casey, Director of the CIA.
