Assignment - Karachi (17 page)

The language here was Pushtu, and the populace followed the Sunni, or orthodox Moslem creed. There was a stone hotel run by a lean, dour Swati in a beaded skullcap, and Ajjar servants. Beyond the village, the road diminished between the rock walls of a canyon shaded with blue spruce, silver fir and walnut trees. The running water made a constant murmur in the background.

Durell went with Colonel K’Ayub to the military station at one end of the village. It was a low, fort-like building of gray stone, with an immaculate white floor in the large common room. Rock pigeons and roosters made a steady burbling on the roof. K’Ayub spoke to the officer in command, Lieutenant Mungial Ali Khan, a thin man with a fierce mustache. In the radio room, K’Ayub considered several coded transmissions. It was evident to Durell that K’Ayub was a man who received much respect here.

“There is a report of early snow in one of the passes,” K’Ayub said. “But it is only a few inches. We should get through easily.”

“Any Chinese troop movements?” Durell asked.

“Some activity, but we are not sure of the direction of the probe. Some refugees rioted over in Kashmir, and there is always a trickle of Tibetans out of the east. Perhaps the people spotted were these groups. The border patrols have nothing else to report. Conditions on S-5 are normal, they say.” K’Ayub flicked another of the radio reports. “There was a small rockslide north of Lake Mohseri. The road will end there for us. We will have to walk in from that point.”

“How far?”

K’Ayub shrugged. “Almost thirty miles. My men and I could do it in a day and night, but the women—let us count on three days. It is a difficult climb at the end. The altitude is fifteen thousand feet. We have oxygen masks, of course, but we will have to carry everything—food, equipment, radios, tents. I am mainly concerned about the snow reports. And there is no radio check from our patrol near Mirandhabad. The Pakhusti radio, which is really only a hobby of the Emir’s, has also been silent.”

The next morning was gray, with a slight drizzle seeping down from the overcast sky. They started early. Sarah rode in the lead jeep with K’Ayub and Hans. Durell remained with Alessa and Rudi. The road climbed steadily through rocky gorges and across small plateaus where creaking bullock carts made way for them. The land grew wilder and more desolate, and the cold rain and mist blotted out the distant Karakorum range. Before noon the road degenerated into rutted tracks that made the vehicles jolt and groan. Low gear was almost in constant use, and the whine of the engines echoed back and forth from limestone cliffs. There was another military checkpoint in a Sujjer village, one more at an aerie-like settlement of Kohistanis. The air was thin and sharp, and the rain had an icy sting.

At the top of the pass marking the frontier of the Pakhusti emirate, the convoy halted for an hour to save one of the trucks that had broken down. K’Ayub’s men levered the rear wheels out from between the jumbled rocks that pinned the truck. They ate here, cooking on gasoline stoves that sputtered erratically at the high altitude. The rain stopped, and the scudding clouds suddenly shredded away and revealed the valley ahead, between the looming high peaks.

Durell walked ahead with Sarah to look down at Lake Mohseri. A cold north wind blew, and the visibility became sharp and crystalline. The valley was long and narrow, the lake nestling in grayish light between long arms of the mountains. Even from here it was possible to see a few fishing boats at the near end, and a faint, jewel-like glitter on the far shore indicating the town of Mirandhabad.

Beyond, the valley lifted in a narrow gorge and vanished in a twisted jumble of hogbacks and peaks.

Sarah pointed. “There, that’s the Crown of Alexander, S-5.”

The twin peaks floated majestically, two enormous upthrusts of rock capped by snow on the higher slopes, with vast battlements of cliffs that lifted in sheer splendor for thousands of feet, into the clouds. It was too far to make out details, but its size was awesome for its clarity.

“Rudi showed me pictures from Alessa’s collection,” Sarah said.

“You haven’t talked much to Rudi since we left ’Pindi, have you, Sarah?” he asked.

“No. We’ve all been so busy.”

“You said you wanted to discuss something with me, the night before we left.”

“Did I? I’ve forgotten,” she said shortly.

“If there’s something I should know, let me have it.”

But she was silent, staring at the vista of valley, lake, and distant provincial town. She wore riding breeches and boots, a fleece-lined jacket with a hood that covered her hair. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. Her costume made her look younger, somehow more vulnerable. He realized with some surprise that with a little effort, Sarah could make herself into an extraordinarily attractive young woman. The chill wind colored her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted, her eyes unguarded as she considered the majestic view. She moved a little closer to him. From the road behind them came the grunting chant of the troopers trying to get the truck back on the path.

“I can’t get Jane out of my mind,” she said suddenly. “I feel that what happened in Karachi was really all my fault.” “You were tough enough about it when it happened.”

“I know. But it was habit, from the responsibilities I’d like to be rid of. Don’t you think I’d like to live like everybody else?” she demanded fiercely. “Just to be anonymous, without everyone staring, or flattering me, or thinking what they can get out of me? I’ve had that all my life. It’s made me defensive, and I hoped that Rudi—”

Durell said, when she broke off, “Was Rudi with you all the time, that last afternoon and evening in Rawalpindi?”

“It’s not fair to ask me that.”

“Because you love him and feel loyal and should protect him?”

“I’ve never been in love before. In Switzerland, it was like a dream. He treated me—well, just like any other girl.” 

“Smart fellow,” Durell said.

“Do you think his technique was deliberate?”

“You have to decide about that. But was he with you all that day in ‘Pindi,”

“No,” she whispered. “Not all the time. I’m sick about it.”

“Where did he go?”

“In the afternoon he said he would take a nap. But when I knocked on his door an hour later, he wasn’t there. The servants said he’d gone into the city.”

“Did he tell you where he’d been when he came back?” “I didn’t ask. I had no right. I mean, I didn’t want him to feel I was putting a leash on him even before we were married. I mean, I want Rudi to know that my money leaves him a free man in all respects, and I wouldn’t make any selfish demands about anything.”

“Do you still play to marry him when you return to Europe?”

“I don’t know.”

“What makes you uncertain?”

But she couldn’t reply. There were footsteps behind them, and it turned out to be Rudi, tall and handsome and blond, with the cold mountain wind blowing his long strands of hair across his flat forehead. He carried a rifle, borrowed from one of the troopers, in the crook of his arm.

“My dear, it is best if you do not wander away from everyone like this. I know Herr Durell is supposed to watch out for you, but that is my job, too, is it not? And I think I may be more devoted to the task.” His smile never touched his eyes. “In any case, one of the forward troopers reports a party coming up out of the valley to meet us in this pass. It is a military group, believed to be Pakhustis.”

Behind Rudi was the big figure of Hans. When they moved back to the convoy, Rudi and Hans turned aside, talking quietly. Hans shot Durell a malevolent glance as Rudi spoke earnestly to him. Sarah went back to Alessa, and Durell joined Colonel K’Ayub.

“About one hundred men, I think,” K’Ayub said, lowering his glasses. “They may dispute our passage. Mirandha-bad is under our national control, but these mountain people guard their freedoms fanatically. They can be quite unpredictable.”

In a few moments Durell spotted the thin line of men coming up the crest of the pass where they waited. They were mounted on tough, shaggy, little Mongolian ponies. Their sheepskin coats and caps were green, and all had rifles resting across their saddle pommels.

“I shall meet with their commander,” K’Ayub decided. “You come with me, Durell. The rest stay here with the trucks.”

They rode down the slope in one of the jeeps, with a dozen troopers trotting alongside. The long line of dark figures came to a halt, and a smaller group spurred their shaggy ponies up the pass toward K’Ayub.

The commander of the Pakhustis was a man with a scarred and weathered face, a drooping mustache and beard. He wore a karakul cap and bandoliers of cartridges across his massive chest. He saluted K’Ayub, dismounted, and spoke too rapidly in Pakhusti for Durell to follow. K’Ayub’s voice was no longer soft. He was a different man in these mountains.

There was a brief exchange, and K’Ayub turned to Durell. “The Emir has directed these men to escort us across the valley to S-5,” he said in English. “He does this as a friendly, co-operative gesture.”

“Do you trust him?”

“No.”

“There are a hundred of them, and only thirty of us.”

“Yes. It makes me uneasy to have them riding our flanks. But rejection of their offer will mean no assistance thereafter from the Pakhustis. They have always been difficult. It would be tiresome to have to campaign against them, in these mountains—and they are all brother Moslems, in any event.”

“Can you make some excuse to refuse the offer?” Durell asked.

“Yes, but then we will not be permitted in Mirandhabad.” “Can we go around the town?”

“It will mean another eight hours of marching.”

“Fair enough. Make your excuses, then,” Durell said. K’Ayub went back to the Pakhusti commander and spoke briefly. The Pakhusti made sounds of objection, gestures toward his mounted men massed in the roadway below. K’Ayub pointed upward. The troopers from the trucks had taken up positions among the rocks and sunlight glinted on their gun barrels. The man in the karakul cap looked angry, scrubbed at his long mustache, and began to shout. K’Ayub spoke even more softly, but his voice was like polished steel. He turned back to Durell.

“He says there are certainly Chinese patrols to the north.” 

“Across the border?”

“No man knows where the border is precisely. The Emir’s excuse for offering an escort is to protect us from the Chinese. But it is difficult to tell one snake from another. We could be massacred in the night.”

Durell nodded. “Tell him we’ll go around Mirandhabad.” There was some more discussion. The Pakhusti’s face was angry, but he wheeled his pony around, shouted to his men, and they galloped away down the pass toward the shining lake in the valley, far below.

“From now on,” K’Ayub said quietly, “we must be on the lookout for snipers.”

BY NIGHTFALL they had circled the lake and gone as far as the vehicles could take them. The twin peaks of S-5 seemed no nearer in the sunset light. The trucks and jeeps were parked in a level area below sheer cliffs, tents were pitched, equipment distributed, and the evening meal cooked. K’Ayub was busy on the field radio for a time, then came to where Durell sat alone with his back against a large gray boulder.

“I have requested aerial reconnaissance,” K’Ayub said briefly, “But only if it can appear as routine patrolling. Planes are not much good in this rugged territory.” He looked sharply at Durell. “You are still convinced that someone among us has Bergmann’s chart?”

“I’m sure of it. But we’ll soon know the truth,” Durell said, “unless we’re ambushed. We’ve been watched all the way, today. There are watchers on that ridge right now.” He pointed to the east. “I’ve caught some flashes of light up there—probably off gun barrels.”

“It is to be expected,” K’Ayub nodded. “They are the Emir’s men. They may try to delay us, since Mirandhabad is uncertain of its political affiliation. The Chinese have been flattering the Emir into moving for autonomy, making great promises for the future.”

“If every hour counts,” Durell said, “we should make a night march tonight. Is that possible?”

Again K’Ayub nodded. “A good idea. But we must be careful.”

They told no one of the plan, to keep the camp looking normal in the swift mountain nightfall. Pickets were posted, lamps were lighted. The surrounding dark seemed vast and empty. At midnight, when everyone was rested, K’Ayub said, they would quietly break camp and march to the north. A six-hour lead before sunrise might prove decisive.

Durell turned in, but he could not sleep. The pressure of time slipping away made tension slide along his nerves. There was more danger from within the camp than from the Pakhustis watching from the higher ridges. The air was cold, breathing a warning of the snow they might reach by dawn at the higher altitudes. There was no moon, and the stars reeled overhead in a crisp black sky. He smoked a cigarette, watching the camp sleep, and thought of Sarah’s loneliness. She was not so different from Alessa there—Alessa, whose preoccupation with the past was a cover for her desire to belong somewhere, to restore her aristocratic family name to one of importance. How strong was this drive in her? He did not know. He knew only that he could trust no one.

At ten o’clock, everyone seemed to be asleep. He smoked one more cigarette, then slid from his sleeping bag and stood up in the shadow of the nearest tent. Alessa and Sarah slept in the next one. Hans was a long mound of shadow rolled in his bag across the campfire. He looked for Rudi von Buhlen, saw him sleeping about ten feet from the mountain guide.

Their rucksacks and gear stood near their individual sleeping areas. Durell moved softly around the tent, careful of the loose shale underfoot. Rudi’s rucksack was not far away. He paused, watching the man. There was a sharp report from a piece of wood in the dying campfire, and sparks flew; but Rudi did not stir.

Durell knelt beside his bag and swiftly undid the straps to explore the canvas compartments. Aside from rations, an oxygen mask that fitted two small cylinders beside the rucksack, and changes of socks and linen, he found nothing. There was a compass, a flashlight, a small transistor receiving radio, a heavy envelope containing Rudi’s passport and identification papers. Durell took the envelope and held it so he could examine its contents in the firelight.