Afghan Bound (8 page)

Yasmin shrugged her shoulders. ‘An hour, or two maybe. Who knows?'

David gathered up his belongings, careful not to show anyone the gold-filled socks, and made to catch the bus. Before leaving he handed Yasmin's mother the ten rupees she had stipulated for the rent, in the other hand he gave her fifty rupees and the same for Yasmin. They hadn't asked for the money the night before, but David knew their motives. It was a service he gladly paid for, and if it helped to bring a little happiness to the household and ease their burden a little then all the better. It was a long time since a hundred rupees had entered that house, and their smiles assured him it would be well, if not wisely, spent.

No sooner had he started his journey to the bus stop than he was surrounded by what seemed like the entire population of the village children. It was as if they had been waiting to ambush him when he came out of the house. Taking a handful of coins from his pocket he threw the lot in the air, and while the kids ran after them in one direction, he fled in the other. Thankfully the Karachi bus was already waiting when he rounded the corner because some of the kids had anticipated his plan and were in hot pursuit. He dived almost headlong into the bus, providing great amusement for his fellow travellers who smiled and jabbered and made silly gestures as if they were cliff divers from Acapulco.

The journey was long and hot, with air conditioning coming with the complements of those who had smashed every window on the vehicle. As well as allowing a breeze to blow through the bus, the missing windows also made it easier for char-sellers to pass up cups of tea whenever they stopped – which was frequently. On the road between Jalpuri and Karachi David was offered everything from tea, to marijuana, to young girls. He refrained from all bar the tea. The money he made from the sale of the Russian motorcycle was diminishing with alarming speed, and he would need some for a hotel when he arrived – if he arrived.

About twenty miles north of Karachi, on a rough and bumpy road with lush vegetation on both sides, the bus came to a sudden and grinding halt. David was unperturbed until the driver turned in his seat and shouted very loudly in Urdu, sending the bus into sudden pandemonium. A split second later the door of the bus was flung open and shots rang out. Panic was replaced with a strange calm as everyone ducked back into their seats to await instructions from the two men who had climbed onboard. They brandished guns that David had become all too familiar with these past weeks – they were AK47's. The calm was broken as the men barked their orders and people began leaving their seats, some receiving the butt of a rifle to the side of the head for no reason other than they had not moved fast enough for the bandits' liking. As if recent events had desensitised him, David was able to remain if not relaxed, then quite self-possessed. He noticed a third bandit was lining the passengers up on the roadside and signalling for them to put their arms above their heads. The first man who had entered the vehicle was now making his way along the bus shouting at anybody left to join the others, while his friend searched frantically in their belongings for any valuables. As he neared, David felt his stomach knot with fear. Recognition was slow in coming to the gunman. He shouted several times at David and raised his gun in readiness to strike, before realising he was a foreigner. He called to his partner and signalled quite clearly that David was to open his bag. He wisely did as he was told. The two men looked into the small holdall, but saw nothing but socks and some food that Yasmin's mother had kindly packed for the journey. One of the men dipped into the bag, and David thought his gold was about to change ownership. The smile on the bandit's face appeared to confirm David's fears, but when his hand lifted from the bag it held not the gold but a chapatti. The bandit took a large bite and signalled for David to empty his pockets. Both gunmen grinned broadly as David revealed over four hundred rupees. They snatched the money from him and finished emptying the bus, leaving him in his seat. He didn't know why they left him there, but liked to think it was preferential treatment for being a foreigner.

Once the terrified passengers had left the vehicle and lined up as ordered, two bandits went amongst them while the third covered them with his gun. They took everything the passengers had, most of which was worthless. In fact the money they had taken from David alone was more than they would accrue from the rest put together. Certainly the young woman who decided to make a run for it had little to offer in the way of financial assets. What she did have, however, was a very pretty face and a perfectly formed body. Despite her mother's warning screams she began her run. Suddenly the atmosphere changed. One of the bandits made after her while the other two cheered and encouraged. The girl had little chance, and was caught almost immediately. She put up a surprisingly spirited fight as she was dragged, screaming and crying, in front of the other passengers. Her mother ran forward, pleading with the men to let her go. During the struggle clothes were torn and the daughter's breasts fell into view. The mother protested all the more, and was silenced by the butt of a gun to the head. A few male passengers inched forward as if contemplating a rescue attempt, but the sudden crack of gunfire sent them scurrying back into line.

On the ground the older woman stirred. She rolled onto her back, too weak to struggle to her feet, and watched helplessly as two of the men stripped her daughter naked. When they were ready, the gunman who seemed to be in charge frog-marched her over to the bus and pressed her against the hot metal. David looked down from his seat, directly into her pleading eyes. As the gunman released the canvas rifle strap from his shoulder he caught sight of David watching, and let forth a torrent of abuse and jabbed the weapon up at him with clear intent. David reluctantly looked away, and left the girl to her fate. Even the slap of the rifle strap on her pepper-coloured buttocks would not make him risk looking down again – nor would her whimpering during the invasion of three bandit cocks.

Eventually the noise abated and David chanced to glance outside in time to see the three men vanishing into the thick undergrowth. They had the poor girl with them. One rifle strap had been used to tie her hands behind her back, and another was wrapped around her slender neck. No one made any attempt to follow them – David included.

The last person back on the bus was the girl's mother. David avoided her eyes. He felt ashamed at his lack of valour, but what could he really have done against three armed thugs? He knew the only hope for the girl was the police in Karachi, but the city was still a good hour away on these roads, and those bandits would be long gone by then.

The engine spluttered into life. The rest of the trip was endured in silence.

Karachi loomed ominously in the distance. The bright skies that had followed them for the last two hundred miles stopped short of the bustling port. Fumes and smoke from factory chimneys draped the city in smog and effluvium, clogging the lungs of the population teeming in the streets.

The bus clattered and lurched its way to the final stop deep in the heart of the city, where it disgorged its passengers into the clammy heat of the afternoon. At last feeling a little safer, all the passengers began screaming and making wild gestures with their hands, no doubt broadcasting the attack they had suffered earlier. Soon their actions attracted the attention of several policemen who made a beeline for the distraught group.

David's conscience told him to stay and help in any way he could, but his need for secrecy urged caution. He would have great difficulty in explaining his sudden reappearance in the country with several gold bars. Trying to look as comfortable as he could, he strode confidently away in no particular direction. For half an hour he padded aimlessly along streets stuffed with all human life; beggars, barterers, sailors and businessmen, all rubbing shoulders in one seething exciting mass. It was essential now for him to rid himself of the gold before someone did that for him. Somehow he had to get it out of Pakistan and back to England. He couldn't sell it openly without arousing unwelcome interest, and anyway, he didn't know how to. The only option seemed to be a bank; somewhere to get advice.

He chose the Karachi branch of the International Bank of Credit and Trade. It boasted branches worldwide, but most importantly it had one in London.

The manager, Mr Ulhaq, admitted it was the first time someone had opened an account with the contents of two old socks. Not that he minded, the sight of six gleaming gold bars sent him into raptures.

‘Would you be able to sell them for me?' asked David.

Mr Ulhaq pulled a large key from his desk drawer. David assumed it was for the safe, but it turned out to be for the drinks cabinet, which contained an impressive display of spirits. He poured them each a glass of scotch and water.

‘There will be a handling fee,' he said. ‘The bank's charge is ten per cent of the gross value.'

‘That's a large commission.'

‘Alternatively,' the bank manager added after a nervous sip of his drink. ‘Alternatively, I could act on your behalf.'

‘Is that illegal?'

‘Not at all,' answered Mr Ulhaq. ‘You will still be a customer of the bank. You are using your own agent for the sale, that's all.'

‘How much?'

‘Five per cent.'

David was anxious to convert the metal into a currency he could spend. ‘When will the money come through?'

‘That depends. If you want to watch the market and sell at the highest price it could take a while. Otherwise I could simply sell for tomorrow's price – whatever it is.'

‘That's good enough for me,' said David. ‘Do that.'

More scotch was poured while the two discussed the security of the gold until it was sold. Not surprisingly, David was anxious that he should keep control of it until the transaction took place.

They agreed on the details, and then David telephoned the British Consulate in Islamabad to inform them – in those famous words – that the reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated. His call was met first with disbelief and then excitement, the consul telling him to stay in Karachi until he had been interviewed by someone from his office. The man would also bring David his new passport. They also agreed to transfer immediate funds into the bank so that he could pay his way. Before signing off, David assured them of his health and of his desire for no publicity to be attached to his reappearance. He also informed them that he would be staying with the manager of the Bank of Credit and Trade – as his guest.

He'd been in the city for only three hours and already had a bank account containing no small sum – complements of the British consular. He had also been invited to stay with the bank manager, and was now on his way to kit himself out in the latest in Pakistani fashion. Life had taken a distinctive upturn.

Karachi Haute Couture did not extend to Yves St Laurent, but David was happy with his purchases and could hardly wait to get to Mr Ulhaq's home to shower and change.

The address brought him to an old part of the city overlooking the thriving port. It was a large colonial property with lots of wrought ironwork, both practical and decorative, a reminder of the not so distant past. A servant met him at the gate and led him into the sitting room, where he found Mr Ulhaq taking tea with his wife.

‘David,' welcomed the manager with unexpected warmth. ‘So glad you're here. Please meet my wife, Salim.'

David had seen that type of heavy veil before. ‘Nice to meet you,' he said. ‘I hope I'm not imposing. It was very kind of your husband to invite me to stay.'

‘Nonsense,' beamed Mr Ulhaq. ‘It is the least I could offer the man who has brought such good fortune into this house. Now please, sit down.'

As David lowered himself into a chair Salim got up and left.

‘She has many things to do,' said Mr Ulhaq by way of an explanation. ‘She is not being rude, I assure you.'

David shook his head, dismissing any suggestion of offence, but said, ‘I thought Moslem women wore their veils in public only.'

Mr Ulhaq was unperturbed by the question. ‘Normally yes, but Salim and myself belong to a strict sect that prohibits women from showing their face to anyone other than their husbands. We are devout believers.' He handed David a cup of tea, then changed the subject. ‘Your gold will be sold tomorrow; I have already made all the necessary arrangements. It is a straightforward transaction. At today's prices it will realise over one hundred and ninety-seven thousand pounds – with my commission deducted, of course. A tidy sum, I'm sure you will agree.'

David whistled softly and grinned. ‘Bloody hell, I never dreamt it would be so much. Let's celebrate. Can we go somewhere for a meal? Or to a club perhaps?'

‘I am one step ahead of you,' said Mr Ulhaq. ‘I have reserved a table at the Mountbatten Hotel. I hope you are in agreement?'

‘Wonderful. What time?'

Mr Ulhaq rose and motioned to the door. ‘It is not until nine-thirty. I considered you would like to wash and rest before we left. Come this way and I will show you to your room.'

They travelled to dinner in Mr Ulhaq's large black chauffeur-driven Wolesley. If it had flown a flag on the front, David would have felt like the mayor.

The meal was very pleasant, as was the conversation, which centred mainly around David's adventures since his arrival in Quetta all those months ago. By the time they had finished the sun had gone down, although Karachi was anything but in darkness. The city still buzzed with activity, and life continued its hectic pace on a twenty-four hour basis.