The Circuit (25 page)

‘They won’t let you in,’ said Nic. ‘They’re saying the list they got from the PAO back in Kabul doesn’t have your name on it.’

‘How’s that possible?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know what’s going on here,’ Nic said. ‘I phoned the PAO last night with all of our names, yours included. I also emailed him the full manifest before we left this morning.’

Nic was obviously distressed by the situation but there was nothing he could do to fix it. I knew for a fact that he had submitted my name on the original manifest. It wasn’t his fault. The PAO in Kabul was the person responsible for making sure Nic’s full list was sent to Camp Solerno. Could it have been an innocent mistake? Anything is possible, but my immediate gut feeling was that my name had been left off intentionally.

I looked at the Guard Commander. He didn’t look the brightest of the bunch but surely he could figure out I wasn’t an al-Qaeda or Taliban operative.

‘There’s been a mistake here, mate,’ I said.

The Guard Commander didn’t care. ‘Sorry, man, but if your name ain’t on the list, you ain’t gettin’ in.’

So much for being reasonable. I explained to him that it had taken us twelve hours to get there and that driving back to Kabul wasn’t an option. I also told him about the US$25,000 bounty on the head of any westerner captured in Khost.

‘I feel for you,’ said the Guard Commander, ‘but it ain’t my problem.’

I demanded to see the operations officer, only to be told, ‘He’s in a meeting’. I persisted and eventually a Captain turned up. I tried appealing to his common sense. Obviously I posed no threat to the base. Moreover, I was British and the last time I checked the Brits were part of the US-led coalition in Afghanistan. The Captain, who also wore a uniform plastered in badges, was apologetic, but he refused to overrule his Guard Commander. They had their procedures, he explained, and if my name wasn’t on the list, they weren’t authorized to let me in.

There was no use arguing with them. When they looked at me they didn’t see a real person, let alone an ally. All they saw was a problem, one which they had no intention of rectifying even it meant sending me into the arms of the enemy.

The sun was setting and I had run out of options. I had to face facts. I had no choice but to spend the night in Khost town with a $25,000 bounty on my head.

CHAPTER 24

I was exhausted and angry. I’d delivered Nic and his crew safely to Camp Solerno only to be denied access myself due to a clerical error. After a gruelling twelve-hour journey negotiating icy mountain roads and armed bandits, I had to switch into overdrive when all I wanted to do was get my head down. That base was the only safe haven for westerners in all of Khost province. Driving back to Kabul with the rest of our group was a non-starter. If bandits didn’t get us then the hairpin turns through the mountain passes in the dark surely would. Overnighting in Khost town was my only option.

Nic was still standing by the main gate, intent on not budging until the Americans pulled their heads out of their arses and let me in. The US soldiers who’d refused me entry made no secret of the fact that they just wanted me to go away. By that point, I was happy to oblige them. I had to get moving if I was going to make Khost town before sundown. I told Nic not to worry and that I’d call him that evening and again in the morning to let him know I was OK.

I headed back to the car park where our Afghan drivers and guards were taking a well-deserved break. When Hamid saw me he asked if I’d forgotten something.

‘I haven’t forgotten anything,’ I told him. ‘I’d rather spend the night with you lot then spend one night with the Americans.’

Hamid laughed and translated what I’d said for the guards and drivers, who found it very amusing. He asked me what had happened and I told him about my exchange with the soldiers at the gate.

‘Do I look like a suicide bomber?’ I asked.

One of the guards who spoke English chimed in. ‘Yes, Bob, you do.’

Everyone laughed again. I’d be sleeping in a hornets’ nest that night but at least my bunk mates had a sense of humour.

Back in Kabul, Hamid had arranged for the Afghans in our party to overnight at a mothballed hotel in Khost town. I couldn’t just show up there with them and hope no one would notice me. I needed to know exactly what we were driving into so I could limit the risks for all of us.

If my presence in Khost town became public knowledge it would endanger me and the rest of the team. Hamid, the drivers and our guards would be labelled traitors for working with a westerner and treated as such. The fact that they were all Afghans wouldn’t help them a bit. Afghans vary tremendously in appearance, from their physical features to the way they dress. The people of Khost are ethnic Pashtoon and some of the Afghans on my team were ethnic Tajik and proud ex-Northern Alliance soldiers. The Northern Alliance had been locked in a bloody civil war with the Pashtoon of the south during the 1990s and people had long memories for the atrocities committed on both sides.

I needed Hamid to find out exactly where the hotel was located and who else was staying there. I asked him who his point of contact was. Luckily, it was the hotel’s co-owner and caretaker, so we could get the information quickly without having to run our request through a chain of people. I warned Hamid not to mention that there was a westerner with him. If word spread that there was an infidel in town, the scenario would be bleak; first the locals find out, then the police (most of who are corrupt as hell and play both sides) and next thing you know the Taliban and al-Qaeda are assaulting your position.

The caretaker told Hamid that the hotel was completely empty and that he should look for a four-storey building located in the town centre right next to a police station (a negative in my view).

I asked Hamid how long it would take to get there. He reckoned it would be about a twenty- to thirty-minute drive. We only had forty minutes of daylight remaining. I didn’t want to get caught out after sundown but I decided to stay back and send Hamid ahead with two vehicles to collect the keys and recce the hotel. We’d be cutting it close but it was the safest way to proceed.

I instructed Hamid to check each floor of the hotel including the roof to make sure there was absolutely no one else there. When he was certain the place was empty and there was no one hanging around outside asking questions, only then should he call me and I’d go join him.

Thirty minutes later, Hamid rang. Traffic was light and it had taken him only twenty minutes to get to the hotel. He said everything looked fine. The accommodation was very basic; there was no running water or electricity but there were beds to sleep on and padlocks on all the doors and windows for which the caretaker had given him keys. I told him to make sure that there were enough beds on the top floor for all of us and to stock it with enough additional furniture to barricade the stairwells.

With no time to spare, the remainder of our convoy headed into Khost town. The outskirts were sparsely populated with only the odd farmhouse and the setting sun cast a brilliant pink and orange glow over the grassy flatlands. Normally, I’m no fan of driving at dusk in hostile environments, but the low light did make it more difficult for anyone we passed to see inside our vehicle. Luckily, I had dressed in local gear before leaving Kabul that morning: baggy pants, a long khamis and turban. I’d also grown a beard a few weeks before the trip. Mind you, even with the clothes and beard, I’d never pass as an Afghan. But the local dress did break up my outline as we drove along, so at least I didn’t stick out to the casual observer.

By the time we reached Khost town, the residents were out in full force, either making their way home or going to evening prayers. The architecture of Khost was standard Afghan: boxlike mud and brick structures painted in washed-out colours. Many of the buildings had courtyards surrounded by perimeter walls with brightly decorated wood or metal doors. As with the rest of Afghanistan, open sewers stood in place of nonexistent pavements.

The road we were travelling was bumpy to the extreme and there were no rules to keep drivers in line, other than the threat of ending up in a ditch. I asked my driver to be very cautious. A minor fender-bender could easily blow up into a major incident if I was found out.

Each set of eyes we passed seemed to linger in our direction. Our vehicles may have been low profile but that didn’t stop us from being scrutinized by everyone on the street. The fact that we were driving together marked us as a convoy, something which by that time had become an increasingly rare sight in Khost town.

Eighteen months earlier, the streets of Khost had been busy with convoys ferrying western aid workers and their local entourages. They blew into town promising to build proper roads, schools, medical clinics; the usual projects financed by western governments and funnelled through ‘non-partisan’ NGOs. Our hotel, which now stood empty, had largely catered to international do-gooders travelling from Kabul or over the border from Pakistan. But as soon as the security situation turned sour the aid workers packed their bags, suspended their projects and left town. The handful of aid agencies that did stay were staffed exclusively by locals.

I looked at the faces we drove past wondering what they must think of westerners. First, western militaries drop bombs on their villages to drive out the Taliban. Then western do-gooders leave before delivering on their promises of better living conditions. Destruction and deceit – that’s what the west represented to these people. Enticing as a US $25,000 bounty must have been, I’m sure there was more than one person in Khost who would have been happy to deliver the head of a westerner to the Taliban and al-Qaeda free of charge.

The streets were still bustling with end-of-day activity when we reached our hotel; a concrete rectangle surrounded by a courtyard with a perimeter fence. It was smack in the middle of a bazaar. The shops had closed but plenty of people were walking around, drinking small glasses of tea and buying kebabs from street vendors. The smell of charcoal and grilled meat made me realize how hungry I was. I’d only had bread and water that day.

Hamid was waiting for us outside the hotel’s gate. As soon as we pulled up, he let us into the walled courtyard. I asked my driver to reverse in, but Hamid had parked his vehicles in nose first. I radioed Hamid and asked him to turn them around. I didn’t want to idle on the street for a second longer than necessary but I had to plan ahead. If trouble hit in the middle of the night, I wanted all the vehicles facing the street, ready to scream out at a moment’s notice.

Once inside the compound, I waited for Hamid to padlock the gate before dismounting my vehicle. I could just imagine some nosy busybody poking his head inside the courtyard to see who’d come to town.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, my legs stiffened like two lead weights. The journey from the base to the hotel had taken only twenty minutes but the added stress made it feel like twenty hours. I wanted to collapse into bed, but there was still a lot of work to do.

I walked inside the hotel and was immediately overcome by the smell of stagnant air. No one had lived there for several months and it looked as if time had stood still. Every surface including the floors was covered with a thick blanket of fine, talcum-like dust that lay undisturbed except for the freshly made footprints left by Hamid and the guards.

Everyone had assembled on the ground floor to await instructions for the night. I began by splitting the guards into groups and assigning shifts to each for patrolling the interior of the building and the courtyard where we’d parked the vehicles. I didn’t need to tell them how crucial it was for those on duty to stay awake; they knew the dangers of our situation. I did assure them, however, that the rotations would allow each man at least four hours of sleep. I urged them to do their best to get some rest. I didn’t want to attempt the return journey with a punchy, sleep-deprived team.

I asked Hamid if anyone had approached him when he first arrived. He said no one had stopped him, so he assumed that people thought we were a group of Afghans from Kabul just passing through.

‘Where’s the caretaker?’ I asked.

‘I sent him to get food and drinks for us,’ said Hamid.

‘If he finds out I’m here, will he tell anyone?’ I asked.

Hamid smiled. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said.

Unbeknown to me, Hamid had put something of an insurance policy in place back in Kabul. He’d found out about the hotel through friends of his; friends who knew the caretaker and how to find him. Hamid had warned the caretaker that if anything happened to any of us, his friends knew who to trace it to – and it would be dealt with.

I wanted to get up on the roof while there was still a few minutes of twilight remaining. I needed to know whether we were overlooked, if any buildings buttressed ours and whether an attack could be launched from a neighbouring rooftop.

I grabbed my camera with the 400 mm lens and headed upstairs with Hamid, stopping on each floor to have a look around. It was obvious that the owners had invested a lot of effort into securing the building. The windows of the hotel were metal framed with metal shutters, bars and padlocks. When we reached the top floor, I saw that Hamid had already prepared the furniture to barricade us in. The door opening onto the rooftop was secured in a similar fashion to the hotel’s windows: a metal frame with a bar and padlock which Hamid opened with the keys the caretaker had given him. The rooftop was uncluttered except for three old satellite dishes and surrounded by a five-foot-high barrier on all sides. I told Hamid to crouch down and stay level with the barrier to make sure no one saw us walking around.

My primary concern was whether anyone could access our hotel from a neighbouring building. At the back of the hotel, I spied one potential problem: a commercial structure about one hundred yards away that overlooked us. I used the long lens on my camera to look through the windows. It was quiet and no one seemed to have taken notice of us. Next, I checked the front of the hotel. There was a lot of noise and people were still walking around on the streets below. To the right of the hotel was a mosque. It was brightly lit and people were gathered in the courtyard. Between the mosque and our hotel, about eight yards away, was the police station; a bit too close for my comfort level but there was nothing I could do about it. I moved to the other side of the hotel; all was quiet.