Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
He kept the gun on me as I got to my feet, bent my body left and right to stretch the spine. A vehicle pulled up outside and there were new voices: talk of firefights, low ammo, faulty radios.
Around 6 a.m. I was untied and marched out. They’d dug a shallow grave. Given the conditions, it was more trouble than I was worth. Eight men stood around and I scanned for the weapon intended to kill me. No one had a knife out; no camera ready to film. One of the new arrivals, arm in a bloody sling, came and looked at me. He wore the uniform of a Kazakh border guard.
The situation started to make hazy sense.
I was led to the edge of the grave, hands still bound. The sky was a washed-out blue. In its half-light you saw the spindly fence around the farm buildings, dividing a hazy, infinite pallor. Borders. One man controlled the roads all the way from Balkh in Afghanistan to Kazakhstan’s border with Russia. I had sat on a carpeted floor with him, toasting our friendship with fermented camel’s milk.
‘Kneel.’ My knees touched the cold ground. The Chechen raised his gun.
I said, ‘Akan Satayev.’
‘What?’
‘I know Akan Satayev. I’ve worked with him.’
The Iraqi boss came over. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I was at his wedding two years ago in Aktobe. Akan’s. I met him through General Abdul Dostum. I imagine you came here via Mingdon, on the Uzbek border, under Akan’s protection.’ I didn’t expect anyone to believe me; I just needed to make any potentially wrong decision too risky for them to make.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Tell Akan it’s Christopher Bohren. The British want to help.’
The safety catch eased down. Someone lifted me to my feet, and I found myself eyeball to eyeball with the boss.
‘You lie.’
‘You’ve got half the Russian army coming in,’ I said, switching to Arabic, which got his attention. ‘Low ammunition, bad radios. How long are you going to last? Let me speak to Akan.’
The senior men consulted. I was made to go through my story once more, before the buttons of a satellite phone were punched.
I don’t know what was said. After five minutes I was begrudgingly given a blanket, driven again.
FORTY-FIVE
I was spared the boot this time. We drove in a straight line east, by my estimation. After 20 miles or so there was a change of vehicles. I was blindfolded, passed over to someone with a different grip, led over broken branches for a couple of hundred metres to a car with good heating and leather seats. We drove for what felt like an hour. Then I was pulled out.