To leave Afghanistan they were following the Silk Road, one of the world’s oldest trading routes, fought over for thousands of years. With mountains on either side impassable to any except the most experienced climbers, the Khyber Pass was a strategic gateway for armies, rogues, merchants and exiles. With a young girl among their number the pass was their only option, they could not brave the mountains. There were two roads, one for the traditional caravans and wagons, and another for trucks. Both were in the hands of the Soviet forces and the pass was heavily fortified with patrols and checkpoints. Fahad’s plan was to shadow the road, guiding them through the slopes on either side. In some places the landscape would pose no problem but in others the cliffs were precipitous. Their journey depended upon striking a balance between distance from the Soviet forces and the perils of the landscape. The further away from the pass the more treacherous the climb. The closer to the pass the more likely they would be discovered.

There was no moonlight, no stars – the night sky was obscured by a violent storm that had swept in unexpectedly, angry clouds twisted and coiled not far above them, moving at speed. Flashes of lightning were the only moments of brightness, like sparks from a flint failing to catch. The wind was cold and strong, opposing their journey, and they walked bent against its force. Progress was slow. Close to the Soviet positions, they had to make the journey by the cover of darkness. Attack helicopters had been circling the mountain paths during the day, firing bursts from their machine-guns at men on the trails. Fahad claimed that not since the early days of the invasion had he seen so many Soviet forces preoccupied with the border. Leo wondered if the helicopters were hunting for them. Captain Vashchenko might have guessed their intention. With such intense military pressure it was essential they make the crossing before daylight.

After several hours of walking and climbing, scrambling on their hands and knees, they were crossing a flat hilltop spotted with thin scrub. To the right the landscape dropped sharply, falling down to the Soviet-controlled road, and they could see the lights of troops. Fortunately the wind concealed any noise they made. But for fear of being seen they could not use a torch – even the flame of a match would be visible. Fahad was in front, seeming to sense the path instinctively, and they were entirely dependent on his knowledge of the terrain. Abruptly he stopped walking, looking up at the unsettled sky.

—The storm is getting worse.

Leo asked:

—Do we have enough time to reach shelter?

—There is no shelter until we’re inside Pakistan.

—Should we go bak?

Accustomed to the mujahedin’s stoicism, Leo expected the idea to be rebuffed immediately. Yet Fahad gave the idea serious thought: