Page 77 of What Remains

“She talks too much. Besides, why would I want more?” Amu’s features were flat and expressionless. “You would only steal them.”

“Only if they’re boys,” Sarbaz said easily. “And only after a certain age, when they are stronger.”

Although the light was bad, Poya saw the muscles in Amu’s jaw twitch and jump. “I do not want her.” He tilted his head toward the woman. “So, I give her and the dead one to you. I will give the money they had on them as well.”

“Money?” Sarbaz’s eyebrows arched. “They had money.”

“A lot.” Then, Amu added, “Don’t shoot me. I’m going to show you one of the packs.” Turning, he pulled a large black case from a pannier. Unzipping the case, he held the edges apart so Sarbaz could see inside. “Money. Lots of it. American dollars, too, not Afghani.”

“If you don’t mind.” Sarbaz gestured to one of his men, who trotted over, relieved Amu of the bag, then trotted back. “All hundreds.” He pulled out what look to Poya like one of those bricks they showed in movies. “How much?”

“I don’t know.” Amu shrugged. “All I know are sheep. I am offering all this. I don’t care what you do with her or the body or the others, all I ask is for my son. You give me Hamzad, I give you all…”

“Flowers!” Straining, Shahida shrilled, “Meeks,Meeks! Where are you?”

“Khwla banda ka!” Cursing, Sarbaz covered the distance to Shahida in two strides then backhanded her across her mouth so hard her head whipped round. “Will you close your mouth? I can’t even hear myself think.”

“Gashti ka bacha!”Screeching, Shahida reared back then flung a wad of bloody spittle. This time, her aim was perfect and caught Sarbaz on a cheek. “Harami!”

Livid, Sarbaz drew his hand back for another slap then checked himself, turned on his heel, and jerked his head at one of his men. “Go,” he grated. “Go and fetch the doctor. Bring more of that medicine. Oh, and bring candles. The light’s getting bad.” Then as the man turned to go, he added, “And fetch the other two Americans.” To Amu: “A precaution. Better to have them verify the identity of this one.”

“If you want. He’s probably worth more than all those American dollars. Besides, how many different dead Americans do you think there can be?” Amu asked.

“Oh,” Sarbaz said, mopping Shahida’s spittle with a sleeve, though a gobbet still clung to his beard, like a squashed rust-colored tarantula. “I have learned to take nothing on faith, especially when it comes to Americans.”

John hadn’t beenthis cold since he was a fifteen-year-old kid, scared to death, his mouth dry as a desert and his heart knocking so hard that his pulse pounded like a timpani. Breaking into the school’s gun safe had been easy, given that he was the team’s junior varsity captain. It was the getting into position, slipping down the school’s dark basement corridors, listening to the chaos overhead.

He heard everything, too. Even muted, a scream was still a scream—and a gunshot still a gunshot.

The journey up the path had been not only frosty but uncomfortable because he’d had to ride behind Shahida so no one watching might spot him. This meant hours spent bouncing up and down on the bony rear end of a yak and hoping his muscles wouldn’t seize up when it was time to move.

Hisonlysolace: the certain knowledge that Driver would probably end up just as sore, if not more so.

Slipping off the yak’s behind when the small caravan reached that rockfall had been a relief, but he’d had no time to work out the kinks. Instead, he’d ducked behind the rocks and waited, gritting his teeth against the pins and needles and pain as his muscles twitched and cramped and the feeling returned. His back, he thought, might never be the same.

Of course, if they all ended up dead, his back would be the least of his problems.

What they were all banking on was Sarbaz’s guards attention remaining focused on the caravan. So, he had waited, motionless, eating a bit of snow every now and again as Dare had taught him so as to remain about as invisible as a sniper could be under the circumstances. He was relatively warm, though, having slipped into white sheepskin trousers, shirt, hat and coat. His balaclava was black, but he’d wound white cloth over his face. Top it off with a pair of sheepskin mittens, and he was virtually invisible.

The two bugaboos had been his binoculars and his rifle. At the Dushanbe Airport—and given everything that had happened in between now felt like centuries ago—Ustinov provided him with an Mk22. A great rifle…if you’d like brown. Against all this snow, the weapon would be easily spotted against a white background. Which mean he’d had to improvise. A lucky thing, actually, that he’d appropriated Harvey’s kit, because there were several rolls of white surgical tape. Amu’s people had plenty more white cloth, too, which he tore into strips and then taped to his weapons muzzle. He did the same to his binoculars and decided it would have to do because there was no other choice.

When he finally did move, the day was sliding into twilight which made the going a hundred times more difficult. He went as quickly as he could, climbing an alternative path to a higher ridge, praying that, as the day waned, he wouldn’t misjudge and put his foot down on thin air. They hadn’t thought about that enough and the going was slow. Chipped from rock by centuries of Markhor goats, as narrow as a straw in places, the trail was narrow and discontinuous. Goats being goats, the animals could leap across breaks and gaps or onto boulders. He couldn’t, which meant slithering around, trying to find a detour that would get him into position ahead of Amu’s arrival. He would need time to set up, time to settle down.

Time to plan his shots.

He had managed, barely, making it to a shallow saddle where he set up and waited. So far, luck was with him and his view was good. He’d actually counted on that because, thanks to him finally ending up as John Worthy from Wisconsin and within spitting distance of the Rust Belt, he knew a lot about mines: how what was being mined and where determinedhowthe mine was constructed.

Sarbaz’s was a drift mine operation. In other words, the mine had a horizontal entry, one into which people could simply walk instead of descending down a vertical shaft. There could be any number of tunnels in there, but this mine was exactly like the aqueduct: a single, very wide entrance. Again, standard because there would have to be a large staging area for men and equipment.

The one thing he had not factored in quite as well, though, was the time of day. As in, no light when it counted.

You’re an idiot.Sheltered beneath a white sheepskin, John watched the show through his binos: the men leveling their rifles, Shahida’s hysterics. Poya, hanging back behind Amu—and he studied that strip of white cloth Amu had tied to a willow pole very, very carefully. The way it snapped. The way it curved. The moments when it went limp.

The white flag had been his idea. With no spotter, there was no other way to truly judge the wind, how it might swirl and eddy in that space. The staging area in front of the mine also faced east, which meant that by this time of day, the entrance was sheltered and the shadows growing thick. Everything gathered there wore clothes that were brown or green or black. In fact, the light was growing so dim, John was surprised no one had a flashlight or a torch or even a candle. Although Amu said that in winter, the mine was down to a skeleton crew, he’d assumed there would be generators. Maybe this was Sarbaz’s idea ofeconomy? He wished now that he’d thought to ask for a night vision riflescope, but if wishes were fishes…

Nothing at that staging area stood out, except that flag. Still, he had a good idea of where people were in relationship to one another. If the staging area was a bandshell or half a clock, then the entrance was at ten, two of Sarbaz’s men were at eleven and two at one, with Sarbaz at noon. Or midnight, if he was lucky. Amu and Kur, that yak with Shahida and the body lashed to it were bunched together at about four, which is where the trail emptied into the staging area.

So far, so good.

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