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Authors: Saul David
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to George. 'A word of advice, Feringhee,' he whispered. 'If anything happens to my son in your service, you will pay with your life.'
'Then I will do my best to deliver him back to you without a scratch.'
The main door to the hall swung open to reveal a tall, lean tribesman, his clothes streaked with dust.
'Ahmed Jan! At last!' exclaimed Abdulla. 'What news from Kabul?'
'Before strangers, Malik?' asked Ahmed Jan, motioning towards George and Ilderim.
'One is my son Ilderim, the other his companion. They leave for Kabul tomorrow and need to know what's afoot.'
'What's afoot, Malik, is mutiny.'
'In which regiments?'
'The six recently arrived from Herat. They haven't received pay for two months and are angry that Yakub Khan has signed the treaty with the Angrez. I heard one soldier abuse a fellow whose regiment had been defeated by the Angrez last year. He said that if the Herat regiments had fought, the outcome would have been very different.'
'What deluded fools they are to imagine they wouldn't scatter like sheep at the first sight of an Angrez bayonet. And now they plan mutiny, do they? How came you by this news?'
'My cousin serves with one of the Herat regiments. He told me not all are disaffected, but the leaders threaten those who waver with death. Their plan is to kill their officers and attack the compound inhabited by the Angrez envoy and his escort. None of the Feringhees will be spared.'
George felt a chill down his spine. The Foreign Office spy he was due to meet, his sole contact in Afghanistan, worked at the British Residency in Kabul as an interpreter for the envoy, Sir Louis Cavagnari. He had to get to him before the mutiny erupted or he would never discover the whereabouts of the cloak. 'Do you know when this will happen?' he asked Ahmed Jan.
'No, my cousin couldn't say. But it will be soon.'
'Then Ilderim and I must leave at first light.'
'As you wish, Feringhee,' said Abdulla. 'But first some entertainment.'
He clapped his hands and a light-skinned young dancing girl appeared, wearing satin trousers and a tight, transparent bodice that seemed too flimsy to restrain her ample bosom. Her face was partially obscured by a gauze veil, but above it shone a pair of green almond-shaped eyes, a legacy of Alexander's Greeks. As the flautists and drummers began to play, the girl's body writhed and quivered, her hands twirling before her.
George couldn't take his eyes off the undulating spectacle before him. Faster and faster the musicians played, with the dancer keeping pace, seemingly with ease, though her face glistened with perspiration. Suddenly the music stopped and the girl froze, then slumped to the floor, her chest heaving.
Abdulla turned to George. 'Isn't she magnificent?'
'She certainly is. What's her name?'
'Ishtar - it means "Star of Heaven". Her parents were killed in a tribal feud when she was just four. She has lived under my protection ever since. No Ghilzai dances better. Would you like to meet her?'
'Certainly.'
'Ishtar, come to me,' called Abdulla.
The girl walked over, her breasts swaying provocatively, and stood before the cushions, arms crossed and chin held high. She was very tall, with a tiny waist and full hips, and George could just detect a tiny diamond sparkling in her belly button.
'This Feringhee is my guest,' said Abdulla. 'Sit with him awhile and, if he likes you, he may choose to take you to his bedchamber.'
'No!' said George. 'That's not what I meant when I said I'd like to meet her.'
'You don't like her?' asked Abdulla, affronted.
'Of course I do. Who wouldn't? But does she like me?'
'Like you? What difference does it make? Ilderim!' he shouted, motioning for his son to come closer. 'You must hear this.'
Ilderim rose and walked over. 'What is it, Father?'
'The Feringhee won't accept my offer of Ishtar.'
Ilderim looked grave. 'You understand, huzoor , that to spurn an Afghan's hospitality is the greatest insult you can offer?'
'I know, and I would never do
'Then I will do my best to deliver him back to you without a scratch.'
The main door to the hall swung open to reveal a tall, lean tribesman, his clothes streaked with dust.
'Ahmed Jan! At last!' exclaimed Abdulla. 'What news from Kabul?'
'Before strangers, Malik?' asked Ahmed Jan, motioning towards George and Ilderim.
'One is my son Ilderim, the other his companion. They leave for Kabul tomorrow and need to know what's afoot.'
'What's afoot, Malik, is mutiny.'
'In which regiments?'
'The six recently arrived from Herat. They haven't received pay for two months and are angry that Yakub Khan has signed the treaty with the Angrez. I heard one soldier abuse a fellow whose regiment had been defeated by the Angrez last year. He said that if the Herat regiments had fought, the outcome would have been very different.'
'What deluded fools they are to imagine they wouldn't scatter like sheep at the first sight of an Angrez bayonet. And now they plan mutiny, do they? How came you by this news?'
'My cousin serves with one of the Herat regiments. He told me not all are disaffected, but the leaders threaten those who waver with death. Their plan is to kill their officers and attack the compound inhabited by the Angrez envoy and his escort. None of the Feringhees will be spared.'
George felt a chill down his spine. The Foreign Office spy he was due to meet, his sole contact in Afghanistan, worked at the British Residency in Kabul as an interpreter for the envoy, Sir Louis Cavagnari. He had to get to him before the mutiny erupted or he would never discover the whereabouts of the cloak. 'Do you know when this will happen?' he asked Ahmed Jan.
'No, my cousin couldn't say. But it will be soon.'
'Then Ilderim and I must leave at first light.'
'As you wish, Feringhee,' said Abdulla. 'But first some entertainment.'
He clapped his hands and a light-skinned young dancing girl appeared, wearing satin trousers and a tight, transparent bodice that seemed too flimsy to restrain her ample bosom. Her face was partially obscured by a gauze veil, but above it shone a pair of green almond-shaped eyes, a legacy of Alexander's Greeks. As the flautists and drummers began to play, the girl's body writhed and quivered, her hands twirling before her.
George couldn't take his eyes off the undulating spectacle before him. Faster and faster the musicians played, with the dancer keeping pace, seemingly with ease, though her face glistened with perspiration. Suddenly the music stopped and the girl froze, then slumped to the floor, her chest heaving.
Abdulla turned to George. 'Isn't she magnificent?'
'She certainly is. What's her name?'
'Ishtar - it means "Star of Heaven". Her parents were killed in a tribal feud when she was just four. She has lived under my protection ever since. No Ghilzai dances better. Would you like to meet her?'
'Certainly.'
'Ishtar, come to me,' called Abdulla.
The girl walked over, her breasts swaying provocatively, and stood before the cushions, arms crossed and chin held high. She was very tall, with a tiny waist and full hips, and George could just detect a tiny diamond sparkling in her belly button.
'This Feringhee is my guest,' said Abdulla. 'Sit with him awhile and, if he likes you, he may choose to take you to his bedchamber.'
'No!' said George. 'That's not what I meant when I said I'd like to meet her.'
'You don't like her?' asked Abdulla, affronted.
'Of course I do. Who wouldn't? But does she like me?'
'Like you? What difference does it make? Ilderim!' he shouted, motioning for his son to come closer. 'You must hear this.'
Ilderim rose and walked over. 'What is it, Father?'
'The Feringhee won't accept my offer of Ishtar.'
Ilderim looked grave. 'You understand, huzoor , that to spurn an Afghan's hospitality is the greatest insult you can offer?'
'I know, and I would never do
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