It was cold, colder than he could ever remember. Heavy snow had fallen, and all the signs were it would only get worse. He wondered where Stoner and the others were. It had been a long time, and he'd listened for the sound of their Jeep returning, but there was nothing. Silence had descended on the countryside, as the blanket of snow covered everything and became thicker with each passing minute.
He was shivering inside the bar. The fire had gone out, and he didn't know if he should put more logs on it.
Would the enemy see the smoke and come for me?
He no idea, he was new to this. He looked at Archer. The dog had found himself a comfortable spot on a threadbare piece of carpet and curled up to sleep. He sensed the glance, and his eyes flicked open.
"What do you think, boy? What should we do? They said for us to wait, but they've been gone a long time."
The dog looked back at him with mournful eyes. He didn't know either. Then the satphone rang. He’d forgotten he'd taken from the boy on the motorcycle. Almost by instinct, he answered. He remembered it could only be the enemy who was calling, and he cautioned himself to be careful.
"Yes?"
"Jabar?"
He grunted a reply.
"I can't get through to Massoud, so you'll have to take him a message. Tell him we've arrested Faria Blum, and she goes on trial for blasphemy in two days. The sentence will be death. I've told them to carry it out immediately after the trial. I want Massoud to look out for the husband, Greg Blum. I believe he's with Stoner, and when you find him, keep him alive. I want him to sign over his farm to me before we stone him to death. It's very important. I want him alive. Do you understand?"
"Yes." The voice sounded familiar, and it only took several seconds for him to identify Sheik Habib Daud.
"Good. Take that message to him immediately. It's important."
Before he could acknowledge, Sheikh Daud ended the call. His mind whirled with what he'd just heard. Faria Blum was his friend, a woman who'd shown him nothing but kindness. Now the Sheikh had thrown her into a prison cell, and she would be executed. Ahmed was an Afghan and had no illusions about the punishment for blasphemy. She'd be bound, unable to move, and men would throw heavy stones at her until she was dead. He'd never witnessed such a killing but had heard plenty of tales.
Somehow, I have to reach Mr. Blum and warn him, but how?
They'd made it clear it was important he stayed at his post, and wasn't to leave it for any reason.
He was still trying to make a decision when he heard an engine. They were coming, at last. He could talk them, and the two men would find a way to rescue Faria. He was about to race out of the door to greet them, when something stopped him. Archer. The dog knew the sound of the Wrangler's engine, and when he heard it, he would bark and wag his tail. Instead, the hackles on the back of his neck rose, and he emitted a low growl.
Ahmed stayed inside the bar, peering out of the corner of the window. When the vehicle came nearer, he saw it was a British SUV, a Range Rover. He didn't recognize the driver or the passenger, which meant they could only be the enemy. He held his breath, preparing to run, but the vehicle drove past at speed. He felt an agony of despair.
Does this mean my friends are dead? There’s only one way to find out.
He looked at the dog.
"We have to go into the valley and find out what's happened to our friends, Archer. It's time to start up the tractor."
He'd been out into the snow an hour before to start the engine and keep it warm, and when he put his hand on the cold block, there was still some residual warmth. He went through the start-up procedure. First, prime the carburetor, operate the choke, and retard the timing, then press the starter button. The engine came to life and quickly warmed. He called the dog.
"Up here, Archer. Let's go get them."
The dog barked twice and jumped up to sprawl next to him. There was one thing more. He found a set of welding goggles in small locker behind the engine and pulled them on. He knew it would be difficult to steer through the heavy snowfall, and he would be able to wipe the lenses every few moments. With the last glance around, he stomped on the clutch, slammed the lever into gear, released the brake, and the ungainly machinery started forward. The snow was no obstacle to a Fordson model F, and he plowed along at almost maximum speed. In his head, he muttered a continual prayer.
"Let them be alive. Please God, let them be alive."