On the Afghan side of the Panj, just like on the Tajik side, there was a small settlement near the bridge. To avoid being seen, I didn't approach it but immediately headed towards the road. Of the main roads, only one led south from the bridge—first to Kunduz, and then on to Kabul. I ran alongside this road, not getting too close, but not losing sight of it either.
After a couple of kilometers, the smells of the river and the settlement began to fade. The scents of all the people who had traveled the road sorted themselves out, and the wolf caught the distinct scent of the jondor in the airborne stream. It would be good to catch up with him on the road—in the city, I'd most likely lose him again. Besides, running around Kabul as a wolf wasn't an option.
I circled around every small settlement I encountered. I did the same with Kunduz, after which I was finally convinced the jondor was indeed heading to Kabul. But no matter how much I sped up, I obviously didn't manage to catch the car with the jondor before the city. I had to run all night. Just before morning, I reached the outskirts of Kabul.
In the faintly lit dawn, I hid in the deep shadow of some shed and began to study my surroundings. It was too early, no one was visible yet, but I had to hurry—the call to morning prayer would sound soon. Unnoticed, I carefully moved among the buildings. By scent, I identified a house where the owners were currently absent, slipped inside, and only then transformed back into a human.
Inside the house, after resting a bit, I found a nook with the owners' belongings. Among them, I selected a relatively fresh, well-fitting *perahan*—a long shirt—with matching light-beige shalwar pants, which the locals amusingly call *shalwars*. To complete the outfit, I picked out a traditional dark *waskat* vest worn by Afghans. Without delay, I put it all on right over my own clothes. It would be hot, of course, but sweating is better than freezing. I could endure it. I'm tanned and unshaven myself, but even so, I probably wouldn't pass for a local. But at least I wouldn't stand out. A slight misdirection of attention—and voilà—I'm practically invisible. Time to head into the city.
While still sitting by the road near Dusti, I had, just in case, googled and downloaded various maps of Afghanistan, including one of Kabul, onto my phone. On this map, I had already marked the location of the British Embassy. I had to move through the city on foot to avoid close contact—like in transport, where people could scrutinize me closely. This way, I was just a passerby—and nobody pays attention to a passerby.
Finally, I reached the embassy quarter, which formed the Green Zone—a guarded area where most of the embassies were clustered. Yeah... I hadn't accounted for this—the guarded perimeter. Basically, getting past it wasn't the problem, but it was surely bristling with surveillance cameras everywhere. Unlike people, I was highly visible to cameras. Consequently, loitering around guarded territories under video surveillance without a clear purpose was the height of recklessness.
After lingering not far from this Green Zone, I dialed old man Khoshim. He, a long time ago, back during the presence of the Soviet Limited Contingent, and for a long time after their withdrawal, had worked undercover in these parts, posing as a local. True, he was quite old now, but he could still readily give sound advice.
"Hello, respected one. How is your health? Do you recognize me?"
"Of course I do," the old man truly had a solid memory, a professional deformation, so to speak. "And good health to you. What do you need? Or are you just calling to shoot the breeze?"
"Well, I find myself in the places of your military glory and immediately remembered you. Thought I'd give you a call."
"Places of my military glory?" The old man instantly became alert, you could feel it even over the phone. "What did you lose there?"
"Well, I've lost a client. Maybe you could advise me on how to find him?"
"Hmm. So that's why you need me? Don't expect you youngsters to just call and ask how an old man is doing. Oh, this youth..." he started grumbling. I didn't interrupt him, let him get it out of his system. But he stopped immediately and clarified in a businesslike manner: "And this client, what is he? Local? Or one of ours, maybe? Or what kind altogether?" "Not ours, not local. Came from the Queen, the one who lives by the tower with the big clock."
"Understood. Where are you now?"
"Just wandering near the Green Zone."
"Well then, not far from that very zone, there's a street, popular with foreigners. Called Chicken Street. I mean, it's actually called something else, but everyone calls it Chicken Street."
"Yes, I've heard of it."
"Well, it's located right next to the embassy quarter."
"Understood."
"Stop interrupting me! Listen up. So, right. Among the shops on this street, there's one that was run by Azamat in my time. They sold carpets, lapis lazuli items, all sorts of things, like national souvenirs. Probably one of his sons runs it now. But ask for Azamat anyway. I don't think they'll have changed anything. Say it's from me. If Azamat himself is there, give him my warm regards. Their main business is information, of course, only for their own. If they recognize you and believe you're from me, they'll help. But you'll need to pay. Do you have money?"
"Yes."
"Good. But don't pay too much, no need to spoil them. Pay depending on the value of the information."
He then explained in detail the landmarks by which I would find this shop. It turned out they might even move along this street, relocating from time to time. Oh well, I'd figure it out on the spot. I also asked old man Khoshim:
"And who are they, I mean, nationality? What language do they speak?"
"Azamat is Tajik, like his children, naturally. So you'll understand each other."
"Excellent! Thank you very much. I'm off to find them."
"When you finish your business and return, be sure to visit me. Tell me how it all went."
This was the mandatory payment. Whenever I turned to him, the old man usually later questioned me about every last detail. And that was understandable, given how many years he'd spent in operational work. He was probably bored out of his mind now.
After milling about the shops, I finally found the right one. And from the outside, nothing gave it away. I identified it only by the landmarks old man Khoshim had told me about. I went inside, asked the middle-aged seller who was languidly sorting souvenirs on the counter if I could see Azamat, and said I'd come to pass on greetings from an old acquaintance. The seller exchanged glances with a guy sitting in the back of the room. That guy stood up, pushed aside the curtain hiding a door, and gestured for me to follow him.
As I walked down the corridor, I realized someone else was following me. It wasn't far. The guy in front pushed aside another curtain, held it, and stood to the side. In the room, an old man sat in the place of honor. Apparently, this was Azamat. Two other middle-aged men sat next to him. They all sat silently and looked at us, the newcomers. The guy who had led the way went up to Azamat and whispered something in his ear. The old man nodded gravely. The guy turned and left the room. But I could feel he was standing behind the curtain. At that moment, my life literally hung by a thread. I was sure that guide was now aiming a rifle at me from behind the curtain. I wouldn't be surprised if others were also aiming at me from other, invisible spots in the room. One careless word—and I'd be instantly filled with lead. Afghans have been fighting for a very long time and are excellent at it. I doubted even my transformation tricks would help in this situation.
"So, you say you want to pass on greetings from an old acquaintance? Interesting to know from which one exactly."
"From Khoshim-the-Machine-Gun. He had a stall... um... it used to be Brezhnev-market, now it's like Bush-market, where they sell military surplus, well, his stall was there near the entrance."
Yes, that was Khoshim's amusing nickname here. Not because he carried a machine gun, but because he could talk anyone's ear off—like a machine gun, non-stop.
"Ah, from that Khoshim?" Something fleeting passed over Azamat's face. Apparently, they knew each other well and, most likely, had collaborated.
And then began a long conversation with various, sometimes seemingly completely insignificant, questions. But this was precisely how they were checking me—where I was from, whether I really knew Khoshim, and if it was the right Khoshim. And all of this, several times over.
Finally, the old man decided I could be trusted and said, as if to the air:
"And why is there only tea on the dastarkhan? Is that how we greet dear guests?"
Instantly, everything sprang into action, and within minutes the table was set.
"Go on, fortify yourself after your journey and tell us how old Khoshim-the-Machine-Gun is doing. Still the same chatterbox, I suppose?"
He wasn't the least bit bothered that he had just, literally, been interrogating me, and now was speaking like a friend. But those were the rules of the game here—they'd only talk to you normally if they trusted you. We sat for a long time, and I had already told everything I considered possible about Khoshim, but the old man wouldn't let up, kept asking questions. You shouldn't rush Afghans, or any Eastern people for that matter—or it would take even longer. I was almost losing patience when the old man finally asked what, exactly, had brought me to him. I told him I was tracking the red-haired Englishman, sharing everything I knew that could help.
"An Englishman?" the master of the house repeated. Then he turned and said to the curtain: "Call Bek."
The curtain didn't answer, but movement was felt behind it. After a while, a young guy appeared, apparently this Bek. Azamat explained that Bek dealt specifically with the English, and I needed to tell him what I wanted. I had to tell Bek the whole story from the beginning. When I finished, silence fell. Not understanding its reason, I remained silent too. But everyone was looking at me, and then it dawned on me—they were waiting for money. I pulled out a bill and placed it on the dastarkhan.
Azamat nodded gravely—apparently, I'd guessed the right denomination—and Bek spoke: "Yes, such an Englishman arrived from Tajikistan. But he's already left. Took security, a guide, and a jeep from the embassy." "And where did he go?"
"If necessary, I can find out."
I understood this was a simple way to extract more money from me. But I had no choice—I had to play by their rules.
"Yes, I need that. And I'll pay extra if the information is interesting."
Azamat, in response to my words, nodded gravely again. And Bek instantly vanished behind the curtain.
"You're not eating anything? Go on, go on, help yourself," Azamat chided me.
"Yes, I am eating," I said, taking a piece of flatbread so as not to offend the hosts, and moved a dish of salad closer to me. "It's all very tasty, thank you very much."
Azamat just nodded in response—apparently, it was his favorite gesture.
About half an hour later, Bek appeared. Waiting for Azamat's nod, he began to report:
"They went to Badakhshan in the embassy jeep. Took a guide from those parts, mountain equipment, and a week's worth of provisions."
"Where could they be going there?"
"Most likely, they plan to cross over to the Tajik side. And if, for example, one knows where exactly the guide is from, one could assume where they will cross the border."
He fell silent and looked at Azamat. The latter nodded, and they both looked at me.
"I understand. And I'll add to what was already promised," I said and laid out not one bill, as I had thought, but two. Khoshim would crucify me for such extravagance! Although, you'd think, what's it to him—it's my money.
"The guide was from Khandud," said Bek.
This name meant nothing to me, but I'd check the map later.
"And what's that? Do they just have guides sitting around the embassy like that?"
"No, this one came on his own personal business. But they made a deal with him and left immediately."
By all appearances, the jondor didn't have a clear plan—just improvising on the fly.
"And which exit from the city would they take? Do you know?"
"Khandud is located near Ishkashim. So, they'll go north and at Jabal turn towards Panjshir."
Aha, so through the same entrance they used to arrive. Just need to turn at the fork in Jabal. Excellent! From there, it's basically one road—easier to catch up with them. But they had a solid head start; I needed to hurry, which I mentioned to the master of the house. We said our goodbyes. Azamat offered me to contact him anytime, saying we were now friends. I thanked him—such connections shouldn't be neglected. You never know when and what you might need.
As I walked back through the city along the now-familiar route, I kept pondering the illogicality of this Englishman's actions. He calmly crosses the border in an embassy vehicle, then gathers a group and plans to cross back—now illegally. Very strange. Apparently, this redhead is actually some kind of intelligence agent. And the jondor, under whose influence the Englishman is now acting, is using his capabilities for its own purposes. Also unclear what those are, for now.
Although doubts began to creep in—was everything happening as I saw it? I was losing and finding this jondor far too easily. And we were moving somehow in sync—meaning I wasn't catching up, but he wasn't pulling away either. Was he leading me on purpose, not just running away as I had assumed? But no matter how you looked at it, the best I could do for now was to keep pursuing him. Maybe I'd figure out who was leading whom by the nose here. Truly, it's the wolf's legs that feed him.
On my way out of the city, I passed by the house where I had changed clothes again. I sniffed, listened—the owners still seemed to be absent. Carefully, I slipped into the house again, took off all the clothes, and put them back in place. Among the items, I left some money—I'm no thief. And who knows how these people live? Maybe they're barely making ends meet. And it wouldn't hurt to thank them—they did help me, even without knowing it. Then, right there in the house, I shifted into the wolf and slipped out unnoticed.
Making sure no one was watching me, I got my bearings and ran along the road at a considerable distance to avoid being seen. The farther I ran from the city, the clearer the scents of all those who had passed here earlier became. Soon, the familiar scent of the jondor was found. See, it's like he's leaving it on purpose, my paranoia grumbled. That's right, I agreed with it and picked up the pace.
