He listened for a moment. The voices he had heard earlier were silent now. He lifted the bar noiselessly, opened the door, and stepped inside.
There was a smell of unwashed people living close together. The room had no windows and was dimly lit by a single candle. It had six rumpled beds, four of which were occupied by women. They were awake and sitting up – such women kept late hours, he guessed. Four unhappy faces looked at him with apprehension. At first they would assume he was a guard who had come here for sex, he supposed. Then one of them said: ‘Abdul.’
He made out Kiah’s face in the faint light. He spoke to her in French, hoping the other women would not understand. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘Quickly, quickly.’ He wanted to get her out before the others realized what was going on, otherwise they might want to escape too.
She leaped from the bed and crossed the room in a trice. She was wearing her clothes, as everyone did in the cold Saharan nights.
One of the women stood up and said: ‘Who are you? What’s happening?’
Abdul looked outside, saw that no one was stirring, and ushered Kiah out. As he did so he heard one of the others say: ‘Take me, too!’ Another said: ‘We can all go!’
He quickly closed the door and barred it. He would have liked to let the women escape but they might have awakened the guards and ruined everything. The door rattled as they tried to open it, but they were too late. He heard cries of despair and hoped they were not loud enough to wake anyone.
In the guards’ compound all was still. He looked into the mining area. There was no torchlight, but he made out the glow of a cigarette. The guard there appeared to be sitting down. Abdul could not tell which way he was looking. This was as safe as it would ever be, he thought. He said to Kiah: ‘Follow me.’
He walked quickly to the chain-link fence and climbed it to the top. He paused there in case she needed help. It was difficult to cling on, for the holes in the wire mesh were only a couple of inches square, and he was not sure he could maintain his grip and pull her up too. He need not have worried. She was agile and strong, and she climbed the fence faster than he had and jumped to the ground on the other side. He followed her down.
He led her into the slave quarters, where they would be less likely to be spotted by guards, and they hurried between the huts and tents towards their shelter.
Abdul wanted to know what had happened to her in the makhur. This was no time for questions, and they needed to remain quiet, but he had to ask. He whispered: ‘Did the tall man visit you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’
He was not satisfied. ‘Did anyone . . .?’
‘No one came, except the towel woman. The other girls said that happens sometimes. When no guards visit they call it a Friday, like a day of no work.’
A weight lifted from Abdul’s mind.
A minute later they reached the shelter.
Abdul whispered: ‘Get blankets and water, and pick up Naji. Settle him to sleep in your arms. Then wait, but be ready to run.’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. She showed no bewilderment or anxiety. She was cool and resolute. What a woman, he thought.
He heard someone speak to Kiah. The voice was that of a young woman, so it had to be Esma. Kiah shushed her and whispered a reply. The others slept on undisturbed.
Abdul looked around outside. There was no one in sight. He crossed to the vehicle park and peered through the fence. He saw no movement, no sign of the guard, who was undoubtedly in the hut. He climbed over the fence.
When he hit the ground, his left foot landed on something he had not seen, and it made a metallic noise. Kneeling down, he saw that it was an empty oil can. The sound had been the metal buckling under his weight.
He crouched low. He did not know whether the noise of the can could have been heard inside the hut. He waited. There was no sound from the hut, no sign of movement. He waited a minute then stood up.
He had to sneak up on the guard here as he had with Tahaan, and silence him before he could sound the alarm; but this time it would be more difficult. The man was inside the hut, so there was no way to creep up behind him.
The hut might even be locked from the inside. But he thought not. What would be the point?
He walked silently across the car park, zig-zagging between the vehicles. The one-room hut had a small window, so that the guard could watch the cars from the inside, but as Abdul drew nearer, he saw that there was no face in the window.
Approaching at an angle, he could see a rack of labelled keys on a wall: good organization, as he had come to expect. There was a table with a bottle of water and some thick glass tumblers, plus a full ashtray. Also on the table was the guard’s gun, a North Korean Type 68 assault rifle based on the famous Russian Kalashnikov.
Staying a couple of yards back, he moved sideways to widen his view. Right away he saw the guard, and his heart missed a beat. The man was sitting in an upholstered chair with his head thrown back and his mouth open. He was asleep. He had a bushy beard and a turban; Abdul recognized him. His name was Nasir.
Abdul took out the garotte, uncoiled it and made a loop. He calculated that he should be able to throw open the door, enter, and overpower Nasir before the man had time to pick up his weapon – unless Nasir was very quick.
Abdul was about to move to the door when Nasir woke up and looked straight at him.
With a shout of surprise Nasir rose from his chair.
Abdul suffered a moment of shocked paralysis, then he began to improvise. ‘Wake up, my brother!’ he called in Arabic, then he hurried to the door.
It was not locked.
He opened it, saying: ‘The Afghan wants a car.’ He stepped inside.
Nasir stood with his rifle in his hand, staring at Abdul, momentarily confused. ‘In the middle of the night?’ he said blearily. No one with any sense drove at night in the desert.
Abdul said: ‘Look lively, Nasir, you know how impatient he is. Does the Mercedes have a full tank?’
Nasir said: ‘Do I know you?’
That was when Abdul kicked him.
He jumped and then kicked out in mid-air, at the same time rolling over to land on all fours. His drop-kick had won him several contests in his fighting days. Nasir flinched back but he was too slow and, anyway, there was not enough room for him to dodge. Abdul’s heel smashed into Nasir’s nose and mouth.
Nasir gave a cry of shock and pain as he fell back, dropping his rifle. Abdul landed with both feet and both hands on the ground, spun around, and grabbed the gun.
He did not want to fire it. He was not sure how far away the shot might be heard, and he had to avoid waking the jihadis. As Nasir tried to get up, Abdul reversed the rifle and swung it, hitting the side of Nasir’s face, then he lifted it high and brought it down on top of the man’s head with all the strength he could muster. Nasir collapsed unconscious.
Abdul had let the garotte fall to the floor when he drop-kicked Nasir. Now he picked it up, looped it over the man’s head, and strangled him.
He listened as he waited for the silent Nasir to die. The man had cried out, but had anyone heard? It would not matter if a slave or two had been awakened: they would lie still and quiet in their beds, knowing that it was best to do nothing that brought them to the attention of the jihadis. The only other guard anywhere near was the man in the mining area, and Abdul reckoned he could not have heard. But perhaps a patrolling guard might have been within earshot, by bad luck. However, there was no sound of alarm, not yet.
Nasir did not regain consciousness.
Abdul kept up the pressure for five full minutes then removed the garotte and once more tied it around his waist.
Then he looked at the key rack.