| General Fiction posted October 31, 2019 | Chapters: |
...90 91 -92- 93... 
|
  |
Chapter 92: A Plan of Action
A chapter in the book The French Letter
Dawn in the Hindu Kush
by tfawcus
| Background Seconded to MI6, Charles and Helen are in Pakistan on a mission in the Hindu Kush to neutralise Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion), leader of an international terrorist network. |
The final paragraphs of Chapter 91...
The last thing I passed in was the stick. "What on earth ...? Is that to beat off the bandits?" She looked at me as though I had slipped a cog.
"No. Actually to poke a hole through the roof for ventilation so we don't suffocate. I've left the shovels close at hand in the entrance tunnel - in case it gets blocked."
Before long, I had a candle lit and started melting snow in a billycan. In the flickering light, I fancied I saw a look of admiration on her face, but I may have been wrong.
Chapter 92
The following morning, a dull thud on my forehead shattered my dreams. Damp spread from the bullet hole. Expecting to wake up dead, I lay still before attempting to open my eyes. An ethereal translucence filtered up from the entrance tunnel to illuminate glistening surfaces and the soft outline of shadows. In the opaque light, more moisture gathered around a point above my head. A second drop fell.
I sat up to wipe away the wet but was overcome with dizziness. I felt a rapid pulse in my temple and was aware of an incipient headache, warning signs that something was amiss. I realised that the ventilation was blocked. Helen was still sleeping, curled like a pupating caterpillar. I leant over her and started reaming out the air hole with the stick, causing a small avalanche to fall on her head.
"What's happening?" she said, shaking snow from her hair and staring around, confused.
"The sky is falling in! Quick! Quick! We must rush and tell the king."
My weak attempt at humour fell flat. The next thing I knew, she was on top of me, pinning my shoulders down. However, a mistress of The Art of the Eight Limbs is at a disadvantage when partially encased in a sleeping bag. I wriggled out from under her, but not before she had knelt on my bladder. This, combined with the cold and the damp, produced a sudden urgency, and I wriggled out of my cocoon.
"Wait here a moment," I said. "I'll be back soon."
I struggled into trousers, laced up my boots, and crawled down the tunnel. The entrance was partly blocked with drifted snow. The blizzard had blown itself out overnight, leaving orange flames of cloud above the sombre mountains, and I paused to breathe in the stark beauty before shovelling loose snow away and heading towards the trees.
The winding ribbon of road lay a couple of hundred yards below. Yellow and black tape cordoned off the verge where the minivan had plunged into the river, but there was no sign of activity. At five thousand feet, the crisp mountain air cut through the last strands of sleep, leaving me alert and cautious.
When I returned, I found Helen standing by an outcrop of rock above our cave, still as a sentinel. She held a pair of binoculars to her eyes and was looking out towards an escarpment to the east of the river. Something seemed to have caught her attention.
As I approached, she motioned with the flat of her hand for me to keep low and to keep quiet. She handed me the binoculars and pointed, indicating the line of sight. At first, I saw nothing but a stand of pine trees about half a mile away, beyond a dazzling slope of virgin snow. Then the markhor moved. It raised its head and seemed to be staring directly at us. Perhaps there had been a glint of sunlight reflected from the eyeglass. Judging from the majestic twist of its horns, it was a male in its prime. I could just make out a curl of vapour rising from its flared nostril like a genie escaping from a magic lamp.
My mind flashed back to the leather-bound journal of Bisto's grandfather, Sir Robert Kidman. I began to understand his fanciful description of the peri; the fragile winged spirit borne upon the dying breath of his trophy all those years ago; the guardian spirit that floated like a firefly across the void before entering his body and driving him mad.
"What a truly magnificent beast," I said. "Just like the trophy hanging above Bisto's mantelpiece."
"You mean the stuffed head your friend discarded in his garden shed?"
I was taken aback. "Steady on, old girl. It wasn't Bisto who shot it."
"It would have been, if he was here with a licence to hunt. But, in those days, the only licence needed was membership of the British Raj."
"You're being a bit unfair, aren't you?"
"Am I? Because of the likes of him, markhors are an endangered species."
I turned to have one last look, but the beast had disappeared.
"Invisibility is their only hope," she said, "and ours, too, come to that. The world believes we are dead, and for all intents and purposes, we must remain dead."
"Easier said than done."
"Not really. You see those mountains?" She pointed to the west, beyond the river. "Their outline is written in my heart. Deep in their cleft lie the three valleys of the Kalash. The sacred valleys of my mother's people. I have an aunt in Batrik, a mile south of the Bumburet Valley Police Checkpoint. As the crow flies, we are probably less than three miles from her house."
"As the crow flies?"
"In a straight line, across the river and over the mountains."
I looked at the raging torrent below and the snow-covered peaks beyond. "I see - but there's one small thing you seem to have missed - we're not crows."
She looked at me as if I were simple. "No, but under cover of darkness, we can follow the main road north and cross the river a couple of miles upstream, via the Kalash Valley Road. From there, we can make our way back south, skirting around the police checkpoint."
"You, me, and your twisted ankle."
"It's not that bad. I've strapped it, and we have the remainder of the day to rest up. My aunt will offer us sanctuary. She will do everything in her power to help us bring down Abdul Jaleel, the man who murdered her sister. The Kalash people have no love for The Lion."
It seemed to me a hare-brained scheme, but I was at a loss to suggest a better alternative. "All right," I said. "We'll see how you are come nightfall, though I doubt we can follow the road without being spotted."
As if to reinforce my point, a police van drew up below. Several men got out, and two of them abseiled down the rockface to the burnt-out wreck of the minibus. A few minutes later, a tow truck with a winch appeared. Helen and I crouched low and retreated to the safety of our shelter.
The last thing I passed in was the stick. "What on earth ...? Is that to beat off the bandits?" She looked at me as though I had slipped a cog.
"No. Actually to poke a hole through the roof for ventilation so we don't suffocate. I've left the shovels close at hand in the entrance tunnel - in case it gets blocked."
Before long, I had a candle lit and started melting snow in a billycan. In the flickering light, I fancied I saw a look of admiration on her face, but I may have been wrong.
Chapter 92
The following morning, a dull thud on my forehead shattered my dreams. Damp spread from the bullet hole. Expecting to wake up dead, I lay still before attempting to open my eyes. An ethereal translucence filtered up from the entrance tunnel to illuminate glistening surfaces and the soft outline of shadows. In the opaque light, more moisture gathered around a point above my head. A second drop fell.
I sat up to wipe away the wet but was overcome with dizziness. I felt a rapid pulse in my temple and was aware of an incipient headache, warning signs that something was amiss. I realised that the ventilation was blocked. Helen was still sleeping, curled like a pupating caterpillar. I leant over her and started reaming out the air hole with the stick, causing a small avalanche to fall on her head.
"What's happening?" she said, shaking snow from her hair and staring around, confused.
"The sky is falling in! Quick! Quick! We must rush and tell the king."
My weak attempt at humour fell flat. The next thing I knew, she was on top of me, pinning my shoulders down. However, a mistress of The Art of the Eight Limbs is at a disadvantage when partially encased in a sleeping bag. I wriggled out from under her, but not before she had knelt on my bladder. This, combined with the cold and the damp, produced a sudden urgency, and I wriggled out of my cocoon.
"Wait here a moment," I said. "I'll be back soon."
I struggled into trousers, laced up my boots, and crawled down the tunnel. The entrance was partly blocked with drifted snow. The blizzard had blown itself out overnight, leaving orange flames of cloud above the sombre mountains, and I paused to breathe in the stark beauty before shovelling loose snow away and heading towards the trees.
The winding ribbon of road lay a couple of hundred yards below. Yellow and black tape cordoned off the verge where the minivan had plunged into the river, but there was no sign of activity. At five thousand feet, the crisp mountain air cut through the last strands of sleep, leaving me alert and cautious.
When I returned, I found Helen standing by an outcrop of rock above our cave, still as a sentinel. She held a pair of binoculars to her eyes and was looking out towards an escarpment to the east of the river. Something seemed to have caught her attention.
As I approached, she motioned with the flat of her hand for me to keep low and to keep quiet. She handed me the binoculars and pointed, indicating the line of sight. At first, I saw nothing but a stand of pine trees about half a mile away, beyond a dazzling slope of virgin snow. Then the markhor moved. It raised its head and seemed to be staring directly at us. Perhaps there had been a glint of sunlight reflected from the eyeglass. Judging from the majestic twist of its horns, it was a male in its prime. I could just make out a curl of vapour rising from its flared nostril like a genie escaping from a magic lamp.
My mind flashed back to the leather-bound journal of Bisto's grandfather, Sir Robert Kidman. I began to understand his fanciful description of the peri; the fragile winged spirit borne upon the dying breath of his trophy all those years ago; the guardian spirit that floated like a firefly across the void before entering his body and driving him mad.
"What a truly magnificent beast," I said. "Just like the trophy hanging above Bisto's mantelpiece."
"You mean the stuffed head your friend discarded in his garden shed?"
I was taken aback. "Steady on, old girl. It wasn't Bisto who shot it."
"It would have been, if he was here with a licence to hunt. But, in those days, the only licence needed was membership of the British Raj."
"You're being a bit unfair, aren't you?"
"Am I? Because of the likes of him, markhors are an endangered species."
I turned to have one last look, but the beast had disappeared.
"Invisibility is their only hope," she said, "and ours, too, come to that. The world believes we are dead, and for all intents and purposes, we must remain dead."
"Easier said than done."
"Not really. You see those mountains?" She pointed to the west, beyond the river. "Their outline is written in my heart. Deep in their cleft lie the three valleys of the Kalash. The sacred valleys of my mother's people. I have an aunt in Batrik, a mile south of the Bumburet Valley Police Checkpoint. As the crow flies, we are probably less than three miles from her house."
"As the crow flies?"
"In a straight line, across the river and over the mountains."
I looked at the raging torrent below and the snow-covered peaks beyond. "I see - but there's one small thing you seem to have missed - we're not crows."
She looked at me as if I were simple. "No, but under cover of darkness, we can follow the main road north and cross the river a couple of miles upstream, via the Kalash Valley Road. From there, we can make our way back south, skirting around the police checkpoint."
"You, me, and your twisted ankle."
"It's not that bad. I've strapped it, and we have the remainder of the day to rest up. My aunt will offer us sanctuary. She will do everything in her power to help us bring down Abdul Jaleel, the man who murdered her sister. The Kalash people have no love for The Lion."
It seemed to me a hare-brained scheme, but I was at a loss to suggest a better alternative. "All right," I said. "We'll see how you are come nightfall, though I doubt we can follow the road without being spotted."
As if to reinforce my point, a police van drew up below. Several men got out, and two of them abseiled down the rockface to the burnt-out wreck of the minibus. A few minutes later, a tow truck with a winch appeared. Helen and I crouched low and retreated to the safety of our shelter.
 Recognized |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Rasheed - a Sikh taxi driver in Lahore, radicalised by ISIS
Abdul - a taxi driver in Islamabad, working under cover for the British High Commission
Hassim - a tour operator
Ash - a French liaison officer attached to the British High Commission in Islamabad. Also a member of the French anti-drug squad (la Brigade des stupefiants), whose operations are directed by Jeanne Durand.
Montague (Monty) - a member of staff at the British High Commission in Islamabad.
Sir Robert - the Deputy High Commissioner at the British High Commission in Islamabad (a personal friend and confidante of Group Captain David Bamforth, the British Air Attache in Paris)
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Helen Culverson - a woman of increasing mystery
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious 'French letter' of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A triple agent, who infiltrated the ISIS network in France and fed information to MI6, but who is now providing information to Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion).
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Rasheed - a Sikh taxi driver in Lahore, radicalised by ISIS
Abdul - a taxi driver in Islamabad, working under cover for the British High Commission
Hassim - a tour operator
Ash - a French liaison officer attached to the British High Commission in Islamabad. Also a member of the French anti-drug squad (la Brigade des stupefiants), whose operations are directed by Jeanne Durand.
Montague (Monty) - a member of staff at the British High Commission in Islamabad.
Sir Robert - the Deputy High Commissioner at the British High Commission in Islamabad (a personal friend and confidante of Group Captain David Bamforth, the British Air Attache in Paris)
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Helen Culverson - a woman of increasing mystery
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious 'French letter' of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A triple agent, who infiltrated the ISIS network in France and fed information to MI6, but who is now providing information to Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion).
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. tfawcus All rights reserved.
tfawcus has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
