I Am Pilgrim (33 page)

Similarly, although a vast number of people had been routinely vaccinated against smallpox –

primarily children in the Western world – the Saracen also knew that the vaccine started to wear off after five years and, as a result, virtually nobody on earth had any immunity.

That was ideal for his purposes – except for one problem. The United States, the target of his assault, had become increasingly concerned about a bio-terror attack and in the wake of 9/11 had decided to produce and warehouse over three hundred million doses of vaccine, one for every person

in the country. When the Saracen had first read about it, the information had cast him into despair.

Sitting up for an entire night researching vaccination, he learned that anything up to 20 per cent of a population would remain unprotected: the vaccine didn’t take in a significant number of people and it can’t be given to pregnant women, newborn babies, elderly citizens or anyone with a damaged immune system.

Even so, the existence of the vaccine stockpile shook him badly and, just before dawn on that long

night, he had considered abandoning his plan and looking for a different weapon. But, once again, the ongoing explosion of scientific knowledge – or Allah – came to his rescue.

Delving deeper into the literature, he found a research report from a group of Australian scientists.

Working at a facility in Canberra, the nation’s capital, the scientists had been trying to find a way to control the breeding cycle of mice. Working with mousepox, a disease closely related to smallpox, they had spliced a gene from the immune system known as IL-4 into the virus. What they found was

startling: the virus crashed through any vaccine that had been given to the mice and wiped them out.

The addition of one gene – just one gene – had made the virus into a vaccine-buster.

The Saracen, with hope renewed, started following the obscure research trail. In rarely visited corners of the Web – frequently following nothing more than casual leads mentioned in scientific forums – he found that a number of researchers throughout the world had tried, with varying degrees

of success, to duplicate the Australians’ result.

With daylight flooding into the world outside his cocoon, he worked on and stumbled across a newly posted report from several Dutch agricultural scientists working with cowpox. They had decided to splice a slightly different gene into the virus and had not only succeeded in evading the vaccine but had managed to repeat the process every time.

The Saracen knew that the gene in question was readily available from the same companies that had

supplied him with the nucleic acid base pairs. He ordered it immediately, opened the tiny package two days later and took science into uncharted waters.

He knew that the massive dose of vaccine that he had used on himself would provide no protection if he was successful in constructing a weapons-grade smallpox virus: he would be as good as naked

in the hot zone. As a result, he stole a complete bio-hazard suit from the hospital to protect himself against infection and then drove to the coast. He travelled slowly along the road that ran parallel to the sea until he found a diving shop. Inside, he paid cash for four scuba tanks of oxygen and an air regulator, loaded them into the back of his car and returned to his cocoon.

Every time he worked on his vaccine-resistant virus it took him twenty minutes to put on the pilfered bio-hazard suit and attach his specially modified breathing apparatus, but the scientific work was easy. Partly as a result of the expertise he had gained and partly because the new gene contained only three hundred or so letters, he finished splicing it into the virus less than a month later.

It was this potential cataclysm that was contained in the two glass vials with the extra zero, and there was a simple reason why the Saracen had brought them to Afghanistan: all his remarkable work would have been for nothing if he had made a mistake and the virus didn’t work. He was well aware

that smallpox occurred only in humans – not even our closest relatives, chimpanzees and monkeys,

were capable of catching it. That meant the only way for him to be certain it was as deadly as the original and to discover if it could crash through the vaccine was to conduct a human trial.

It was deep in the mountains of the Hindu Kush that he planned to find the three subjects necessary

for his dark experiment.

Leaving Kunar Province and its US patrols far behind, he found a dry riverbed which, due to the

decay of the country’s infrastructure, now served as a road. For days on end he walked along it, sprayed with dust by passing trucks and the ubiquitous Toyota 4-WDs, but, finally, on a blazingly hot morning, he realized he was getting close to his destination: ahead, silhouetted against the sky, he saw four men on horseback with AK-47s, standing guard.

The Saracen led his small caravan forward, turned a bend in the river and saw, some distance ahead, a town of mud and stone that appeared little changed since the Middle Ages. On the opposite

bank, commanding a pass deeper into the mountains, stood a heavily fortified group of buildings built into a cliff face.

Once a nineteenth-century British fort, it had been turned into a home, a stronghold and a seat of

regional power. The Saracen passed under the remains of a road bridge, climbed on to a pitted blacktop and headed towards it. Halfway along what had once been a major road, he walked between a

jumble of giant boulders and – emerging on the other side – found himself face to face with two of

the horsemen.

They commanded the road, their rifles levelled casually at his chest. The Saracen knew they would

be more than happy to pull the trigger.

‘Who are you?’ the one with fine gold inlay along the stock of his weapon – the more senior of the

pair – asked.

The Saracen started to answer but stopped, realizing the name he was using – the one on his passport – would mean nothing. Instead, he indicated the entrance to the fort.

‘Give him a message, please. Tell him the boy with the Blowpipe has returned.’

Chapter Thirty-two

IN THE YEARS that had passed since their last meeting, Lord Abdul Mohammad Khan had come to look

more like a medieval painting than a warlord. His skin was the texture of tooled leather and he wore a
chapin
– the long traditional Afghan robe – of the finest cloth, a gold dagger as a symbol of his authority, and highly polished calfskin boots. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by a gold Rolex as big as a microwave.

The years hadn’t been kind to him – then again, the years are never kind to anyone in Afghanistan –

but he could boast of one thing few of his contemporaries could: he was still alive. In his late sixties now, he was the warrior-father of his clan, and both soldiers and visitors stood aside in true deference as he limped through his stone-paved compound. All of them wondered who the muscular man was

who had arrived at the gate and who Lord Khan had rushed to meet with such speed.

Some said he was a former comrade, a muj hero, while others claimed he was a doctor who had

come to treat Khan for some terrible illness. Whatever the stranger ’s background, he was being afforded an honour denied to any of them: the great Khan had his arm around the man’s shoulder, personally escorting him into his ornate audience chamber.

The room had once been the office of the British commander of the North-West Frontier and, as a

result, featured high ceilings, a fireplace imported from England and a raised platform on which had stood the commander ’s desk. This was now covered with antique carpets fit for a museum and silk cushions that had crossed the border from palaces in Iran and China. A gold brazier burned incense in the corner, the fireplace housed all the equipment for making tea, but, of all the exotic and beautiful things in the room, it was the wall opposite the fireplace that monopolized every visitor ’s attention.

Khan watched from beneath hooded eyes as the Saracen caught sight of the massive concrete blocks set into it. The visitor stopped and stared at the bas-relief of the struggling limbs and screaming faces of the two men who had betrayed Khan, captured for ever – crystallized – in the moment of death. For some reason, he had always imagined the men were not much more than boys,

but now he saw they were full-fledged warriors – tall and heavily armed – and that made their terror even more powerful.

The Saracen walked closer. Age and smoke had given the blocks a patina the glow of honey, and he

was surprised at how much they resembled something cast in bronze. Lord Khan came to his side.

‘You like my sculpture, huh? You know what their names are?’

The Saracen shook his head. Even though he had been told the story many times, he had never heard that part.

‘Dumb and Dumber,’ the warlord said, and roared with laughter. ‘That’s what a CIA guy called ’em

when he visited years ago – now it’s the name everyone uses.’

The Saracen stiffened slightly. ‘Does the CIA come here often?’

‘Every few years,’ Lord Khan said with a shrug. ‘Always trying to buy my support for whatever faction they’re backing that month.’ He walked towards the fireplace. ‘I’ve never taken their money but, I have to admit, I like their sense of humour.’

An old man sitting cross-legged in the gloom, his eyes misted with cataracts, unfurled himself, about to start preparing tea for his master and the guest. Lord Khan stopped him and turned to the Saracen, indicating the staff and a dozen bodyguards spread around the room. ‘You want them to leave?’

The Saracen nodded – privacy was exactly what he needed. Khan smiled. ‘I thought so. Nobody comes to Afghanistan on a social visit.’

As the room emptied, he began spooning leaves into a pot. ‘You remember the last time I served

you tea?’

‘The war was over,’ the Saracen replied. ‘We were striking camp; you and I sat in the kitchen smoking cigarettes.’

Lord Khan’s face softened – they had been good times, full of comradeship and courage, and he liked to recall them. ‘I was heading home, you were starting on a much longer road.’

The Saracen said nothing, taking two delicate cups out of a rack, placing them next to the fire to

warm.

‘The last time I looked,’ Lord Khan continued quietly, ‘the House of Saud still had its palaces and

power.’

‘For how much longer?’ the Saracen asked, equally softly. ‘Maybe we’ll learn soon enough if they

can survive without the help of the far enemy.’

The two men looked at one another. ‘When I heard you were a travelling doctor,’ Lord Khan said,

‘I wondered if you had changed, mellowed as you got older …’ His voice trailed off. ‘So you are still doing God’s work, then?’

‘Always. I need three people, Abdul Mohammad Khan, three dispensable people. If you can help, I

am sure God will be well acquainted with what you do.’

‘What do you mean exactly – how dispensable?’

The Saracen made no reply; he just turned and looked at Dumb and Dumber.

‘Oh,’ said Lord Khan, ‘that dispensable.’ He needed time to think, so he walked to a balcony overlooking the compound and started yelling orders to the soldiers gathered below. Whatever the risks, he realized, he had little choice: the Saracen had been willing to lay down his life for Khan and his people, and that was a debt which could never be repaid. He returned to finish making the tea. ‘Any preference regarding the prisoners?’ he asked.

‘Jews would be perfect,’ the Saracen said.

Lord Khan laughed at the joke. ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘I’ll check the local synagogue.’

The Saracen grinned back. They both knew there hadn’t been a Jew in Afghanistan in decades, not

since the last of the once-flourishing community had been forced to run for their lives.

‘Seriously,’ the Saracen continued, ‘they have to be young and healthy – and no Muslims.’

‘Or Americans,’ Lord Khan added. ‘Abduct one of them and it brings down a world of grief on everyone.’

The Saracen nodded: ‘If Muslims are excluded, it means it has to be foreigners – so I guess there

will be trouble enough without asking for more.’

The proposal had one huge chance of success, Lord Khan thought. Afghanistan was awash with potential victims: European aid workers, Christian missionaries, English reconstruction workers, international journalists.

Though he said nothing, he also knew men who had been in the kidnapping-for-ransom business

for years. They were a gang of a dozen brothers and cousins who had once fought under his command and now lived across the border in Iran. Just as importantly, they would die for Abdul Mohammad Khan if he asked – he had once saved their mother ’s life.

‘One final criterion,’ the Saracen said. ‘The prisoners don’t have to be men.’

That pleased Lord Khan – women made it a lot easier. They were more difficult to abduct but easier

to control and conceal: no foreign soldier would ever dare look beneath a black veil and full-length

robe.

‘Can you give me three weeks?’ Khan asked. The Saracen couldn’t believe it – he would have waited three months if he’d had to. Not trusting words to express his gratitude, he reached out and warmly embraced the old warrior.

Their business concluded, Lord Khan pulled a bell rope, summoning his staff back into the room.