Assignment Afghan Dragon by Unknown Author Page B

Helmand and Khash Rivers. The office was empty. The last time he had seen Mr. Chadraqi was when he had left the man outside the government post office, followed by the subsequent attack by Zhirnov and Kokin.
    “I have a torch,” the girl said.
    “Let me take it.”
    He thumbed the button and carefully swept the dim little office with the beam. Everything seemed normal. There was a curtained doorway in the rear, and he headed for it, hearing the camel cough and snore in the courtyard. The curtain parted with a jingling noise of small bells. It made little difference. He smelled sleeping bodies, heard a quick rustle of clothing, and thumbed the flash again.
    “It’s me, Mr. Chadraqi. Durell.”
    “Oh. Very good. Allah is merciful.”
    “Come out here, please.”
    A woman’s voice queried them sleepily. Chadraqi made soothing sounds and struggled into an old gray robe, put on slippers, and limped into the outer office. He first went to the door and sniffed at the warm dawn air, considered the caravan men in the courtyard, and then turned back to Durell and Anya Talinova.
    “You are well, sir? This is most fortunate. I saw those three young countrymen of yours coming after you—” 
    “They were not my countrymen,” Durell said. “I may need more help from you, Chadraqi.”
    “No, sir, I have done all I could, I have taken great risks that could leave my poor family, my wife and my daughters impoverished and perhaps in prison, at great risk and cost—”
    “You will be paid for it,” Durell said.
    “Ah. Ah, yes. Allah is most generous to the poor, indeed.”
    “It’s not a case of Allah, this time,” Durell took money from his pocket, rial notes, and separated a thousand-rial note from his funds. Chadraqi’s dark, liquid eyes gleamed with sudden interest, and he bobbed his head.
    “Yes, sir. It is not often I have the blessing of opportunity here in this small village—”
    “Do you know my Toyota?” Durell asked.
    “Yes, of course. Mahmud guards it.”
    “Mahmud sleeps and dreams of paradise, perhaps. No matter. Can you drive such a car?”
    “Yes, sir.” Chadraqi was instantly proud. “Yes, I can.”
    “And you have a daughter, approximately this young woman’s age and size?”
    Chadraqi stared at Anya curiously. “Indeed, yes. By the blessed hand of Fatima—”
    “I would like you and your daughter to take the Toyota and drive it north, through Hormakabad toward Zabul. I will give you some of my clothes, and your daughter can wear an outfit of Miss Talinova’s. Got that?”
    Chadraqi nodded, his eyes intelligent. “We are to pretend that we are you, sir?”
    “Exactly.”
    “Through Hormakabad, toward Zabul. Yes. And we go all the way? It is a bad road, sir. Very bad country. Very unfriendly people, who do not respect the teachings of Allah. My daughter is the blessing of my heart, the rose of my eye, the breath in my lungs. I assume there is danger, sir?”
    “Yes, there may be danger.”
    “For myself, the thousand rials is plenty. But for my daughter, perhaps another thousand—”
    “Two hundred,” Durell said.
    “Sir, perhaps more. Eighteen hundred, altogether.” “Fifteen.”
    “It is agreed. And when do you wish us to go?”
    “At once. When you are dressed as I am, and your daughter, the rose of your eye, is dressed like Miss Talinova, you must depart as loudly and as obviously as possible.”
    “I understand.”
    “If you are stopped,” Durell suggested, “do not argue and do not struggle. Simply come back.”
    “And who will try to stop us, sir?”
    “I do not know.”
    “And you, sir? Where do you go?”
    Durell touched the man’s arms. “It is really not necessary for you to know, is it?”
    “They will ask,” Chadraqi said.
    “And you will not know.”
    “Yes, sir.”

    Durell led the girl quickly back to the little room. The Baluchi people were already astir in the courtyard in the dim light, although the sun had not yet come up. The air smelled more