buttress, dragging Jones after him. A ledge, barely wide enough to support both of them, appeared to their right and Bitov manoeuvred towards it. As soon as they reached it, they collapsed, shoulder to shoulder, panting for breath. Their bodies shimmered and their chests heaved. They looked like two fish washed onto the rocks.
‘Was Afghanistan ever like this?’ Jones asked.
Bitov’s head and arm dangled over the precipice. His voice was almost lost to the abyss. ‘I died a hundred times in Afghanistan, Jones.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Jones gasped. ‘Talking helps.’
Bitov transported Jones’s mind to a mountain fortress called Karagar, where, on a single day thirteen years before, he witnessed the comprehensive destruction of his company. While one group of commandos, a Spetsnaz unit attached to troops of the Soviet Army’s 105th Division, had stormed the Darulaman Palace of President Hafizullah Amin in Kabul, an elite unit under Captain Shabanov, in which he, Bitov, had been a lowly yefreytor, a corporal, undertook an altogether more formidable mission. They had been ordered to take Karagar — and one very special occupant — at all costs.
By the time the battle was over, Shabanov and he were the only Russians left alive. What Bitov omitted to say, was that they never found the man who had provided the reason for the mission in the first place. He had disappeared into thin air, just like all the other times.
‘It was mountainous country, much like this,’ Bitov said, his voice hard to hear, half swallowed by the chasm below. ‘Except for the snow and ice. It was so cold it froze your breath solid, so cold your bones felt brittle enough to snap. It was Christmas, so they told me. But what did Opnaz care about Christmas?’
‘What the fuck’s Opnaz? I thought you were a Spetsnaz unit.’
Bitov heaved himself round till he faced the American. ‘What are you mumbling about, Jones?’
‘I thought-’
‘Your mind is playing tricks, Jones.’
Jones rubbed the back of his head. Talking with Bitov had made him feel better, helped him focus his mind, or so he thought. Now he wasn’t so sure.
‘Come,’ Bitov said. ‘We talk while we climb.’
Summoning the last of his strength, Jones began to haul himself up the last leg of the cliff.
‘We were a Spetsnaz unit,’ Bitov continued, ‘much like the one here, at Wadi Qena. Only the faces were different.’ Bitov began edging along another narrow ridge. He held Jones tightly by the sleeve, gently but forcefully urging him to follow.
Jones kept his eyes on the back of Bitov’s head. He did not look down. ‘What happened to them?’
‘All gone.’
‘And you blame yourself?’
‘Many of them looked to me.’
It took them an hour to complete the climb. During that time, Bitov captivated Jones with a tale of courage, the like of which the American had never heard before. The ferocity of the Afghan tribesmen was described in a vivid, awesome way that Jones would hardly have believed possible from one as ponderous as Bitov. Then again, their very circumstances helped to colour in any gaps in the Russian’s narrative. Jones heard how the Soviets fought hand to hand with the tribesmen on ledges overlooking drops of a thousand feet or more. During the course of their journey back from the summit, Bitov’s entire platoon fell into the abyss one by one, many of them still locked in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy as they tumbled to their deaths.
As Jones pulled himself over the lip of the rock face and looked down at the gentle gradient that would take them into Wadi Qena, Bitov offered him his hand one last time. Jones hesitated. His head hurt, but the dizziness had gone. He didn’t need Bitov’s support any more, but he took the hand all the same.
There was no hint of a breeze to dissipate the smoke from the great open fire in the centre of the restaurant. It hung in thin layers a few feet above the ground, mingling with the smell from the spiced meats, chickens, and small wild birds roasting on the spits above the grill.
Girling watched a wisp of smoke wind its way lazily past one of the palm tree trunks supporting the thatched roof. Andrea’s seemed a favourite place for Egyptian families and foreigners alike. And on that evening, they had gathered en masse. Girling sat at the bar. Beyond the tables, the still waters of one of the Nile’s many tributaries reflected the gaudy lights strung across the rear of the restaurant. A child’s laughter pealed across the open room. Somewhere in the distance, a water buffalo lowed mournfully. Girling took another sip of beer. It was cold enough to sting his throat, cold enough to turn the taste of the warm Coke into a distant memory.
When the barman asked him if he’d like another Stella, Girling nodded and reached for his wallet. He produced a passport-sized picture of Stansell and placed it on the counter next to the money for the beer.
‘Do you know this man?’ Girling asked.
The barman looked between him and the photo-graph. He was middle-aged, with greying hair and large, understanding eyes. Girling thought he saw a flash of recognition pass across them before the photograph was slid back across the counter, accompanied by a shake of the head.
‘Are you sure?’ Girling pressed.
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘What about the other staff?’
‘They have not seen him, nor do they know him.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I know everything that happens here.’
Girling looked at him across the top of his glass. ‘Mind if I ask them myself?’
‘I don’t want any trouble here.’
‘There won’t be any trouble. I just-’
‘If you ask questions you will have to leave.’ The large, doleful eyes briefly registered menace.
Girling held the stare until the barman moved away. He replaced the photograph in his wallet and swore lightly under his breath.
The barstool creaked behind him. ‘Why does his reaction surprise you, Tom Girling? Can’t you see he is afraid?’
Girling turned, his mind still working on the voice even as he faced the man who had addressed him.
The black, silver-topped cane tapped the leg of his stool. ‘I am surprised it should take you so long to recognize me.’
‘I know who you are,’ Girling said. ‘I’m more than a little surprised, though, that you should know me.’
Lazan was perhaps five years older than him, but the scars of war had added another ten to his looks.
‘Stansell told me much about you,’ the Israeli said.
‘Yes, but-’
‘And my secretary filled in the gaps.’
Girling floundered for a moment. ‘The woman in the taxi?’
Lazan shrugged. ‘As I said, I know a lot about you.’
‘And you? Who are you, Lazan?’
‘You don’t know? I thought…’ Lazan smiled. ‘A lowly military attache. I hope you weren’t expecting more.’ He held his hand out. ‘And it’s Zvi, Tom Girling. Colonel Zvi Lazan. Is there anything else you would like to know?’
In Ibn Zanki Street, Girling had seen a flamboyant man. But the cane and the clothes had distracted him. Close to, Girling saw that Lazan had suffered terrible injuries at some point in his life. The lumps of skin tissue on his face and the peppered holes in his cheeks and neck allowed only the barest glimpse of the good-looking man that had once been.
Girling tried to keep his voice even, free of surprise. ‘Why is he afraid to talk to me, the waiter?’
‘Because you are being watched by the Mukhabarat. Did you know that?’
Girling twisted instinctively.
‘Oh no, you won’t see them,’ Lazan said. ‘They’re outside. In the blue Fiat. Quite obvious when you know what you’re looking for.’ He gestured to the barman. ‘He has a good idea that it’s you they’re interested in. Egyptians are very resourceful people, very intuitive.’