| General Fiction posted January 3, 2020 | Chapters: |
...103 104 -105- 106... 
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  |
Chapter 105: We meet Auntie Mozama
A chapter in the book The French Letter
The Road to Bumburet
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 104
The journey to Bumburet took well over the hour, and the road into the valley was diabolical. I would have had more bumps on me than a Jerusalem artichoke if I'd been in the boot.
As I had predicted, there was no problem getting a Kalash Valley permit at the checkpoint and we were on our way within minutes.
"Lucky you weren't here a few weeks ago," the police sergeant said. "You wouldn't have been allowed in without a police escort. Big trouble with bandits. My word, yes."
Chapter 105
A lifetime of shooting and fishing meant Bisto was used to driving Land Rovers over rough terrain. However, our black Rover sedan was as useless on these mountain roads as a city gent in a street brawl. Bisto cursed as he wrestled it around a series of hairpin bends.
"This bloody hearse is a death-trap," he said.
"They usually are." I meant the joke to lighten our mood, but no-one laughed.
As we rounded one corner, the back wheels slid sideways on the loose surface. Kayla gripped Ash's arm in terror. A crumbling verge was all that lay between us and a sheer drop of several hundred feet. Bisto had to steer straight for it as he accelerated gently out of the skid. Racking my brain for famous last words, the best I could muster was, "Oh, shit!"
Our tyres spat small stones over the edge before we regained traction, only to head into a bank of mist. Cloud wraiths swirled across our path; eerie, disorientating, and fraught with danger.
At length, the valley spread out before us in widening rows of neatly terraced fields. Quaint houses of wood, stone and mud clung to the mountainside. The river sparkled and the air was scented with freshly milled deodars. I felt as if we were entering a lost kingdom.
Kayla pointed to a single-storey dwelling with a rickety veranda. It was perched above a grove of pear trees, and the gnarled limbs of an ancient mulberry cast shade across its roof.
"There it is! Auntie Mozama's house. Just as I remember." A girlish enthusiasm infected Kayla's voice.
As we drew up, her aunt came out to greet us. She threw her arms around Kayla and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she turned to us and said something in what I took to be the local dialect, Kalasha-mun. "She is bidding you welcome," said Kayla, "and inviting you to enter her home."
Mozama had the assured poise of a strong woman as she looked us squarely in the eye. There was nothing of the veiled half-life of the Muslim in her demeanour. She had sharply defined features and must have been a great beauty in her youth. Her crows' feet eyes twinkled when she smiled, and laugh lines played around the corners of her mouth. I felt a sharp pang; the expression on her face and her fine bone structure reminded me painfully of Helen.
Bisto nudged me and nodded towards two young girls sitting on the far side of the veranda, a yellow dog at their feet. Aware of our attention, they wrapped their arms around each other's shoulders and giggled. Like their mother, they were adorned with bright scarves and strings of brightly coloured beads. They also wore beaded caps patterned in orange and yellow, and their hair was braided and hung to the waist. I smiled at them, and they waved shyly back. Kayla went across and placed one hand on each of their heads. "These are my young cousins," she said.
The dog got up and stretched before wandering across to sniff our ankles. His tail wagged as Bisto bent to stroke him, and he looked up in adoration, sensing the heart of a dog lover. I had no doubt Bisto was missing Biggles as much as I missed Helen.
Mozama motioned us into a dimly lit room with an earthen floor, where we sat in a half-circle on ornately carved wooden stools upholstered with goatskin. A hurricane lamp stood on a low table and threw our shadows against the walls. They reared up, surrounding us like silent sentinels. Kayla's two cousins offered pottery cups filled with a rough homemade wine, but Ash held out the flat of his hand and declined. He remained taciturn and aloof. However, Bisto and I were made of sterner stuff. We raised our cups in a toast to our hostess and took a deep draught. The wine tasted like distilled grape juice and made us suck our cheeks in sharply. It was an acquired taste.
Since Mozama spoke no English, Kayla translated for us. It seemed that Helen had sought refuge with her aunt for a short while but soon became restless. The last she'd heard of her was more than a week ago. She had been sitting in a café in Bumburet when a jeep pulled up outside, and three bearded Afghans came in and started creating a disturbance. The proprietor was a friend of Mozama's. He told her that Helen had tried to calm them down, flirting with them provocatively to divert their attention. After a while, all four drove off together laughing and headed up the valley towards the Afghan border. She hadn't been seen since.
Apparently, it wasn't uncommon for Islamic jihadists to come into the villages, stirring up trouble. Many of the Kalasha had undergone forced conversion. Murder had been committed when they resisted. Only a few months earlier, a young goatherd had his throat slit from ear to ear. Mozama became more and more morose as she told the story.
Kayla turned to us. "There aren't many left who remain true to the old ways," she said.
We didn't tell Mozama about the photograph and the ransom note. There was no need to add to her worries. When we asked about The Lion, she became guarded and shrugged. "No, she doesn't know where he is," Kayla said. There was a glance between them that told me she was lying.
I knew the only thing delaying the French airstrike was intelligence of the exact location of Abdul Jaleel Zemar's hideout. International diplomacy dictated a precision strike with no collateral damage. While we were able to keep this information from Ash, Helen would be safe. Surely, Kayla understood that. Her feelings for her sister would have to outweigh any other consideration.
Safe? What was I thinking? The photograph of Helen with a knife at her throat loomed large in my consciousness. Being suddenly blown to kingdom come would be a kinder fate than the one The Lion had in mind for her.
Two million euros? Out of the question. I knew the current British government would never accede to a ransom demand. Even Alain would baulk at that figure. Besides, we had no way of contacting him.
The journey to Bumburet took well over the hour, and the road into the valley was diabolical. I would have had more bumps on me than a Jerusalem artichoke if I'd been in the boot.
As I had predicted, there was no problem getting a Kalash Valley permit at the checkpoint and we were on our way within minutes.
"Lucky you weren't here a few weeks ago," the police sergeant said. "You wouldn't have been allowed in without a police escort. Big trouble with bandits. My word, yes."
Chapter 105
A lifetime of shooting and fishing meant Bisto was used to driving Land Rovers over rough terrain. However, our black Rover sedan was as useless on these mountain roads as a city gent in a street brawl. Bisto cursed as he wrestled it around a series of hairpin bends.
"This bloody hearse is a death-trap," he said.
"They usually are." I meant the joke to lighten our mood, but no-one laughed.
As we rounded one corner, the back wheels slid sideways on the loose surface. Kayla gripped Ash's arm in terror. A crumbling verge was all that lay between us and a sheer drop of several hundred feet. Bisto had to steer straight for it as he accelerated gently out of the skid. Racking my brain for famous last words, the best I could muster was, "Oh, shit!"
Our tyres spat small stones over the edge before we regained traction, only to head into a bank of mist. Cloud wraiths swirled across our path; eerie, disorientating, and fraught with danger.
At length, the valley spread out before us in widening rows of neatly terraced fields. Quaint houses of wood, stone and mud clung to the mountainside. The river sparkled and the air was scented with freshly milled deodars. I felt as if we were entering a lost kingdom.
Kayla pointed to a single-storey dwelling with a rickety veranda. It was perched above a grove of pear trees, and the gnarled limbs of an ancient mulberry cast shade across its roof.
"There it is! Auntie Mozama's house. Just as I remember." A girlish enthusiasm infected Kayla's voice.
As we drew up, her aunt came out to greet us. She threw her arms around Kayla and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she turned to us and said something in what I took to be the local dialect, Kalasha-mun. "She is bidding you welcome," said Kayla, "and inviting you to enter her home."
Mozama had the assured poise of a strong woman as she looked us squarely in the eye. There was nothing of the veiled half-life of the Muslim in her demeanour. She had sharply defined features and must have been a great beauty in her youth. Her crows' feet eyes twinkled when she smiled, and laugh lines played around the corners of her mouth. I felt a sharp pang; the expression on her face and her fine bone structure reminded me painfully of Helen.
Bisto nudged me and nodded towards two young girls sitting on the far side of the veranda, a yellow dog at their feet. Aware of our attention, they wrapped their arms around each other's shoulders and giggled. Like their mother, they were adorned with bright scarves and strings of brightly coloured beads. They also wore beaded caps patterned in orange and yellow, and their hair was braided and hung to the waist. I smiled at them, and they waved shyly back. Kayla went across and placed one hand on each of their heads. "These are my young cousins," she said.
The dog got up and stretched before wandering across to sniff our ankles. His tail wagged as Bisto bent to stroke him, and he looked up in adoration, sensing the heart of a dog lover. I had no doubt Bisto was missing Biggles as much as I missed Helen.
Mozama motioned us into a dimly lit room with an earthen floor, where we sat in a half-circle on ornately carved wooden stools upholstered with goatskin. A hurricane lamp stood on a low table and threw our shadows against the walls. They reared up, surrounding us like silent sentinels. Kayla's two cousins offered pottery cups filled with a rough homemade wine, but Ash held out the flat of his hand and declined. He remained taciturn and aloof. However, Bisto and I were made of sterner stuff. We raised our cups in a toast to our hostess and took a deep draught. The wine tasted like distilled grape juice and made us suck our cheeks in sharply. It was an acquired taste.
Since Mozama spoke no English, Kayla translated for us. It seemed that Helen had sought refuge with her aunt for a short while but soon became restless. The last she'd heard of her was more than a week ago. She had been sitting in a café in Bumburet when a jeep pulled up outside, and three bearded Afghans came in and started creating a disturbance. The proprietor was a friend of Mozama's. He told her that Helen had tried to calm them down, flirting with them provocatively to divert their attention. After a while, all four drove off together laughing and headed up the valley towards the Afghan border. She hadn't been seen since.
Apparently, it wasn't uncommon for Islamic jihadists to come into the villages, stirring up trouble. Many of the Kalasha had undergone forced conversion. Murder had been committed when they resisted. Only a few months earlier, a young goatherd had his throat slit from ear to ear. Mozama became more and more morose as she told the story.
Kayla turned to us. "There aren't many left who remain true to the old ways," she said.
We didn't tell Mozama about the photograph and the ransom note. There was no need to add to her worries. When we asked about The Lion, she became guarded and shrugged. "No, she doesn't know where he is," Kayla said. There was a glance between them that told me she was lying.
I knew the only thing delaying the French airstrike was intelligence of the exact location of Abdul Jaleel Zemar's hideout. International diplomacy dictated a precision strike with no collateral damage. While we were able to keep this information from Ash, Helen would be safe. Surely, Kayla understood that. Her feelings for her sister would have to outweigh any other consideration.
Safe? What was I thinking? The photograph of Helen with a knife at her throat loomed large in my consciousness. Being suddenly blown to kingdom come would be a kinder fate than the one The Lion had in mind for her.
Two million euros? Out of the question. I knew the current British government would never accede to a ransom demand. Even Alain would baulk at that figure. Besides, we had no way of contacting him.
 Recognized |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Helen Culverson - A Kalasha woman,
Kayla Culverson - her older sister
Auntie Mozama - their aunt
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
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.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Rasheed - a taxi driver in Lahore, radicalised by ISIS
Abdul - a taxi driver in Islamabad, working undercover for the British High Commission
Hassim - a tour operator
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)
Tariq Habeeb - the Senior Superintendent of Police in Chitral
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
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.
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.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Helen Culverson - A Kalasha woman,
Kayla Culverson - her older sister
Auntie Mozama - their aunt
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
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.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Rasheed - a taxi driver in Lahore, radicalised by ISIS
Abdul - a taxi driver in Islamabad, working undercover for the British High Commission
Hassim - a tour operator
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)
Tariq Habeeb - the Senior Superintendent of Police in Chitral
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
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.
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
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