On the Thursday a message comes from Mr Raouf. Our supplies are ready, which means it’s time to get the operation underway. We drive to the trust’s headquarters, where Mr Raouf is waiting for us, beaming mischieviously. He leads us to a storeroom and throws aside a dusty tarpaulin to reveal several metal trunks.
‘
Befarmaid
.’ He grins, stretching out his hand. ‘Be my guest.’
We unpack the trunks with a feeling of awe. There are several wooden boxes of plastic explosive, each containing half a dozen blocks the size of small bricks wrapped in brown waterproof paper to keep out moisture. I recognise the type. It’s Iranian Composition 4, C4 for short, made from the high explosive RDX with a small percentage of non-explosive plasticiser which allows it to be cut or shaped. It has a detonation velocity of nearly 30,000 feet per second, which makes it more powerful than dynamite and an ideal demolition charge.
There’s a long roll of waterproof blasting fuse resembling thin black rope, which H calls time fuse. The design hasn’t changed much since Guy Fawkes’ time. It’s a modified form of gunpowder, wrapped in a waterproof fabric sheath to enable it to burn underwater if necessary. It’s this that will give us our time delay, though we’ll have to test its burning rate to see what length we’ll eventually need.
H lifts out what look like two rolls of bright orange electrical extension lead. It’s detonating cord, filled with the high explosive PETN and sealed in plastic. There are different strengths of detcord but a six-inch length has about the same power as a military blasting cap and a few turns will sever a telephone pole when detonated. We’ll use it to link the charges so that they detonate simultaneously. Then there’s a further box of lesser but essential accessories: masking tape for securing detonators to the detcord, a pair of crimping tools, some old-fashioned time-delay explosive pencils and non-electric ignitors. H takes out a block of the plastic, sniffs and squeezes it, and fits it back into its box.
‘Let’s see the dets,’ he says to Mr Raouf.
For safety, detonators are always stored separately from the charges they will eventually initiate. Mr Raouf has put them in a safe in his office, from which he returns bearing a small red metal case with a black and yellow sticker on the front depicting a skull and crossbones. There are twelve cigarette-sized detonators inside, six in each half of the case, separated by individual clips. H nods approvingly.
‘We can blow up a small town with this lot,’ he says. ‘You need to thank your mate. What about the other stuff?’
Mr Raouf leads us across the storeroom to another pile of equipment. There are some camping supplies and tarpaulins, several military-looking sleeping bags, a length of steel towing cable and half a dozen jerrycans for our extra fuel.
‘
Khub ast?
’ Asks Mr Raouf. ‘Alright?’
He’s supplied everything we need for a minor expedition.
Very
khub
indeed, I’m thinking. From my map pocket I take out a fat packet of hundred-dollar bills and press it into Mr Raouf’s hand. He makes a brief effort to refuse it, saying the whole thing is a gift to me as a friend, but we both know this is a ritual. Then he tucks it away into his jacket because he’s too polite to count it in front of me, but I know what he’ll be doing a few minutes after we’ve left.
He sends three men to the house that afternoon so that we can meet and talk over the general plan. H and I like them all at once. The oldest is called Sher Del, and has worked as a mine clearer for several years. His name means Lion Heart. He’s in his forties but looks at least a decade older and served as a soldier in the Afghan army before defecting to the mujaheddin during the Soviet occupation. He has dark hair but his beard is nearly white, and he has the indestructible look of a seasoned warrior. His swift physical reactions are allied to a habit of directness which, tempered by long experience, lends him a quality of charm and worldly reassurance.
His colleagues are younger men, in their late twenties or early thirties, though they have the old-fashioned civility of an earlier generation. Aref is one of the trust’s managers and speaks passable English. He’s tall and thin, has a hawkish nose and a thick black beard, but his voice is soft and almost feminine. His mind enjoys details and concepts, and he translates for me, with both care and precision, into Pashtu for the others. Momen is another mine clearer, and reminds me of an Afghan version of Friar Tuck. He is stocky and always seems to be smiling, and his beard is dyed orange with henna. ‘I could have been a doctor,’ he complains with a rueful grin, ‘or an engineer. But in Afghanistan there is nothing but war. Afghans are all donkeys,’ he jokes, and the others laugh. ‘They are too stupid to stop fighting each other.’
We look at maps. Our destination is in the south-west of the country and most easily reached from the southern city of Kandahar. But there will be checkpoints along the way, around the city and beyond it, and our convoy will not escape attention. Sooner or later we’ll be searched and the purpose of our mission will fall under scrutiny. It’s a risk we can’t take. We’ll travel through the remote centre of the country, and although it will take much longer, we’ll be much lower on anyone’s radar.
All the men agree that, given the military situation, it’s probably a good idea to travel via Bamiyan and get onward permission from the local Taliban commander there. We’ll take the southern route from Kabul through Wardak province, because to the north there’s fighting and the environment is more dangerous. There’s some discussion about the famous Buddhas, which were destroyed earlier in the year.
‘It was wrong to destroy them,’ says Sher Del. I ask him why. ‘Because no other Afghan rulers destroyed them before, and before our time the people were better Muslims than now. So what right did the Taliban have to destroy them?’
‘All the rich countries were unhappy that the idols were destroyed,’ says Momen. ‘But they didn’t care about all the Afghans who were being killed.’
He has a point. Before their destruction, most outsiders didn’t even know the Buddhas existed, much less that their faces had been removed hundreds of years ago. Now nearly everyone has heard of the Buddhas of Bamiyan, but few know of the Taliban’s massacre of thousands of Hazaras at roughly the same time, of the levelling of southern Kabul by Hekmatyar a few years earlier along with the loss of perhaps 20,000 human lives, or the carnage unleashed on the Afghans by the Soviet army and its communist underlings.
‘The Buddhas were destroyed on the orders of al-Qaeda,’ says Aref, ‘to make the world angry. Afghanistan will be much better when the Arabs have gone.’
After everything I’ve heard of the Taliban it seems like a kind of madness to introduce ourselves to their commander in Bamiyan, but the men are all for it. I feel a twinge of guilt at having suspected Sattar of leading us into a trap because it sounds like his advice was sensible after all. It involves a longer route, but I agree to it.
From Bamiyan, we’ll head west to Yakawlang and then across the mountains to Panjab. This much everybody agrees on. But the route after that is a little confused, which is not surprising because there aren’t actually any roads, but dusty and unmaintained tracks instead. The men’s fingers trace over the approximate route, but only Aref is really interested in the details.
I’m not too worried because the Afghan way of moving cross-country is simply to ask the route from whoever’s coming in the opposite direction. The maps of the country are in people’s minds, not on paper, and trying to follow a map too closely in Afghanistan is an almost sure way to get lost.
The following day Mr Raouf approves our request to test the explosives. His team is clearing a minefield an hour’s drive east of Kabul, in the vicinity of an old Soviet military position. We drive there together two days later. Mr Raouf proudly introduces us to the men at the site, who are mapping the cleared areas and marking the perimeter of the danger zone with stones daubed in red paint. An unexploded mortar round has been found and Mr Raouf allows us to place a charge next to it. Explosives are generally arranged in the form of a chain, each successive part creating a larger explosion, so we want to use as many of the components as possible to see if they all function as they’re supposed to. So we take a slice of the plastic from one of the blocks, wrap it in a length of detcord, tape a detonator to the free end of the detcord, and finally attach a short length of blasting fuse to the detonator.
The area is cleared and from somewhere comes the wail of a siren. Our little team, along with a dozen other men from the local group, stare fixedly at the point where I lit the fuse several hundred yards away. Thirty seconds later a brown cloud of dust leaps from the ground and a moment later there’s a spectacular bang as the sound wave reaches us. There are grins all round. All the components of the chain have performed as they should. It’s as if our faith has been restored in the purpose of the op, and now at last it’s within our reach. Back at the trust’s HQ we load the explosives into the G and return it to the safety of the garage at the house.
We send a report to London and receive a signal from Macavity approving our forward passage. We’re nearly ready to move now, but I must try to make contact with Manny one last time before we go. On the Monday, once again, I change into my shalwar kameez so as to be relatively invisible, adjust my nylon belt and holster and slide home the loaded Browning. I put my phone in one pocket, one of the silk E & E maps in the other, and walk ten minutes from the house before hailing a taxi.
There is no one waiting for me at the palace, and once again I have to struggle with my disappointment. I have one more day to try, and then we’ll have to move because we can’t wait another week. Apart from anything else, I’m not happy about the risk of our meeting place having been compromised, which increases as more time passes.
For the final time I repeat the process the following day. The taxi driver asks if I’m Iranian, and I tell him I’ve grown up in Iran but come back recently. He gets talking about his life.
‘I fought with Massoud in Panjshir at the time of the jihad,’ he says, referring to the period of the Soviet occupation. ‘I was wounded and went to live with my cousin in Mazar. After he was killed I had to fight with Dostam. When we came to fight in Kabul I was captured by the government and my brother paid for my release with his house. Then the Taliban accused me of being a spy and tortured me. They put me in a freezing basement and beat me with cables. My uncle gave them his house, so they let me go. I was lucky. What is there to come back to?’ he asks cynically, waving a hand towards the destruction on either side of the road.
I reach the palace at exactly six o’ clock. There’s no one around. I walk across the central courtyard and marvel as I always do at the volume of gunfire that must have once filled the air. But it’s silent now, and nothing stirs but the light breeze that so often rises in the moments just before dusk. I observe my feelings of disappointment as if from afar. The first few times I came I was full of expectation, but the emotion’s gone now and I’m forced to admit that I’m merely a solitary spectator at a forgotten battlefield of which the world knows nothing.
I’m full of morbid thoughts about the uselessness of the destruction around me and the folly of the people who inflicted such misery on themselves, albeit with considerable help from abroad. I walk on impulse along the arcade of the eastern wing and enter one of the ruined rooms. The empty windows stare back at me, but then something catches my eye. It’s a tiny fire, burning at the far end of the building. It’s in the north-east corner of the building and corresponds exactly, I now realise, to the position of the pinprick I made in the note.
I hear the crunch of my footsteps amplified by the bare walls as I approach the flickering light, beside which a human shape is crouching. For a moment I allow myself to believe that at last Manny has made an appearance, then curse myself again because I know it can’t be him. The figure is wrapped in a dark
pattu
and doesn’t move as I approach. But the coincidence won’t let my mind rest, and I have to make sure.
‘Peace be to you,
watandar
. May this traveller warm his hands on your fire?’
In a slow gesture, as slow as a man on the point of death, a lean and dark-skinned arm emerges from the shadowy bundle as if to offer me the place opposite. A ripple of shock passes through me as I register how thin the arm is, like that of a starving man. There’s not enough light to make out the face, and a nightmarish train of thoughts suddenly spins across my mind. Perhaps it really is Manny, but he’s been disfigured or suffered some cruel affliction that’s left him withered and prematurely aged.
‘Manny?’ I say his name experimentally, because I’m not sure. I can just make out the grey bundle of beard that hangs from a chin and the vague contours of a face within the shadows. The outstretched hand looks horribly old, and repeats the beckoning motion for me to sit. I’m only a few feet from him, and the fire is between us. The stone floor is cold.
‘Manny? Say something, Manny. You’re scaring the shit out of me.’
Then with unexpected suddenness the face looks up at me. It’s not Manny. It’s a half-toothless old man, whose gaunt and almost fleshless face looks into mine as the flames bring to life a mad glint in his eyes, and from his ruined gums comes a wheezing cackle.
‘Oh Christ.’ I leap up in fright. ‘Oh
Christ
.’ My heart’s pounding and the spell is broken. I take several steps backwards, slipping on the rubble as the old man’s dreadful laughter subsides.