Abdul drove the minibus with all the skill and assurance of a man who had been doing it for years. It was a kind of disguise for him; because his presence outside his own fiefdom would mean grave danger if he was recognised. He had discarded the Shalwar Kadiz dress of long shirt and baggy pants, or pantaloons that were de rigeur for all Taliban converts, even though he wasn’t one. Now he was wearing a traditional Afghan pakol hat, a chapan jacket and loose fitting pantaloons.
Beside Abdul in the front seat was his right hand man, Habib and behind him, sitting next to David was his third in command, Kareem. Abdul went nowhere without these two men, and it was a testament to them that he was prepared to trust them with his life this far away from the relative safety of his own people.
The three men had travelled with Abdul from the northern province of Zabor beyond Kandahar. They were now driving through the hills approaching Jalalabad, about one hundred miles or so east of the capital, Kabul.
David understood that this strange, new treatment of him by Abdul did not mean he was now considered a ‘trusty’, or whatever the equivalent was in this troubled country. No, David was still bound, although discreetly, and there was no way in which he could flee from his captors.
Abdul had made it clear to David that he was something of an investment now, but it had not been made too clear exactly what he had meant by that. Shortly after being told that he wanted him to write a letter, Abdul had appeared with pen and paper and instructed David to write to his sister, Susan.
David was staggered at the request; he thought the letter he was going to write was to have been to his old boss, Sir Giles Cavendish. He was also surprised when Abdul mentioned Susan, and when David asked what he should write, Abdul simply shrugged and told him to write the kind of things he would normally write to a member of his family. Once the letter had been written, and David had put as much in as he felt would be allowed, one of Abdul’s men took it away.
The minibus pulled off the main highway leading away from Jalalabad and turned on to a dirt road that wound its way towards the foothills and eventually the Mission orphanage.
David recognised much of the countryside and immediately began to feel a hurt deep inside. He recalled fond memories; memories he no longer wanted to have, but the lush green vegetation, the old road and the backdrop of the mountains were dragging him back to that moment when his heart died with Shakira.
The minibus bumped and groaned its way up the dirt road until the Mission came into view. It was a single story building with other, smaller outbuildings scattered around it. There was a fenced compound and a set of gates that were now closed. David remembered they had always been open.
He glanced up towards that place in the hill above the Mission where Shakira had died and, metaphorically speaking, so had he. He turned away and looked at the back of Abdul’s head and wondered what part he had played in the massacre.
Abdul pulled up at the gates and a turbaned Afghan walked over to the minibus. He was carrying a machine gun over his shoulder. Abdul put the window down and jabbered away at the man. David understood much of what was said. Eventually the man sauntered over to the gates and pulled them open. Abdul shoved the minibus into gear and accelerated through the opening, throwing up clouds of dust.
It was all very bewildering and not making a lot of sense to David. He couldn’t for the life of him think why Abdul had taken all this trouble to drive some distance from his own province down to Jalalabad. Whatever it was, it must have been important and probably worth a lot of money to the warlord.
Abdul pulled up outside the front doors of the Mission. Above the doors was the legend; The First Chapter. David glanced at it and remembered Shakira telling him that it meant the first chapter of a journey that deprived and orphaned children would embark upon to a new life in the West. He could see the bullet holes, unrepaired still in the woodwork.
David was ordered out and scrambled down from the minibus, helped by Abdul’s two minders. The four men walked into the Mission, but once inside, Abdul gestured to his men to take David along the passageway to another room. He then made his way to the office.
It crossed David’s mind that he might be recognised by one of the staff there, but considering it was a year ago that the attack happened, plus the fact that David was now wearing a full beard and was also dressed like Abdul and his men; it meant that he was literally unrecognisable.
After about ten minutes, and also having been escorted to the toilet, David was pleased to see some food and drink brought in. The man who brought it in said nothing. He even avoided eye contact, which didn’t surprise David either. He ate a good meal, which also included English tea much to his delight and surprise.
It was about an hour later when Abdul appeared and signalled that they were leaving. Once again David was herded like the prisoner he was by the two minders to the minibus. Still not sure why all this was happening, David began to adopt a kind of philosophical attitude, and had been ruminating on all kinds of theories when Abdul suddenly appeared with three, young children. A woman, dressed in the Catholic style nun’s outfit, accompanied the children. She spoke warmly to Abdul and then bobbed courteously before turning and going back into the mission.
The children had a very small bag each. Abdul took the bags from them and shepherded them into the minibus. Without any words spoken between them, the three children were settled into the empty seats. Abdul gunned the motor into life and roared out of the mission gates. And just as he cleared the gates he turned and said to David, ‘Your letter is on its way.’ Then he looked back at the road ahead and up at a darkening sky. ‘We stay in a safe house tonight and tomorrow we return home.’
Marcus checked his watch for the about the tenth time that morning. He had only looked at it a few minutes earlier. He was getting fidgety, waiting for a client who had been very close mouthed about what it was he wanted Guard Right Security to do for him. But Marcus had little or no option when asked for an appointment; after all, he was supposed to be in the security business.
It was past mid-day and the appointment and been made for twelve o’clock. Marcus wasn’t the best time keeper in the world, but he did expect others to be; one of his failings probably.
It was twelve thirty when Marcus heard the door at the bottom of the stairs creak open. He then heard the familiar tread of someone on the stairs as the steps creaked and groaned beneath the person’s weight. His mind went back to a few days earlier when it had been Susan Ellis who had trod that path to his office, and found himself wishing he had a good reason to call her and offer to take her out to dinner again. But after the incident with the two muggers, Susan seemed quite reluctant to want to see him again. He decided to phone Cavendish as soon as he had finished dealing with the next appointee and then maybe he would have a good reason to call Susan.
A figure appeared behind the opaque glass and Marcus got to his feet as the sound of a knock came at the door. He walked across to the door and pulled it open. The man standing there was a lot older than Marcus had expected, recalling the sound of the person’s voice that had made the appointment. He did a swift mental appraisal of the man and put his age at about sixty. He was about the same height as Marcus and looked in reasonably good condition for his age. All that took Marcus about two seconds as recognition clicked in.