The Arabic word for pit was hufra, which was more usually translated hole. What was the significance of the hole?
When the answer came to him, he was so startled that he sat upright, staring at nothing.
The hideout of al-Farabi, ‘the Afghan’， the leader by general agreement of ISGS, was a place called Hufra. It was a hole. It was a pit. It was a mine.
This was it.
He had found what he was looking for. Now he had to report this to Tamara and the CIA as soon as possible. But, maddeningly, there was no phone connectivity here.
How long would it be before the bus reached civilization?
It was an excellent arrangement for ISGS: a hideout in the middle of the vast desert, with gold in the ground just waiting to be picked up. No wonder al-Farabi made it his main base. This was a hugely important discovery for the anti-terrorism forces – or it would be, as soon as Abdul could report it.
He wondered whether al-Farabi might be here right now.
The migrants were stirring. They got up, folded their blankets, and washed. Naji asked for leben but made do with breast milk. The women who had brought porridge last night now arrived with breakfast, which was flatbread and domiati, a brined cheese. Then the migrants sat around waiting for Hakim to arrive with the bus.
He did not come.
Abdul began to have a very bad feeling.
After an hour they decided to look for Hakim. They split up into groups. Abdul said he would check out the farthest quarter, where the guards’ compound was, and Kiah went with him, carrying Naji. The sun was rising, and most of the men were already at work in the pit, so there were only a few women and children in the camp; Hakim would have stood out. Hamza and Tareq would have been even more conspicuous. None of the three was in sight.
Abdul and Kiah reached the guards’ compound and stared through the fence. ‘Last night the bus was parked just there,’ Abdul said, pointing. It was not there now. Several men were in sight, but not Hakim or Tareq or Hamza.
Abdul optimistically looked for a tall man with grey hair and a black beard, a man with a piercing gaze and an air of authority, who might be al-Farabi. He saw no one of that description.
A voice said: ‘You again.’
Abdul turned to see Mohammed.
The man said: ‘I told you to stay away from here.’ His lack of front teeth gave him a slight lisp.
Abdul said: ‘Where is the Mercedes bus that was parked here last night?’
Mohammed looked startled to be questioned so vehemently. He was probably used to being treated with terrified deference. He recovered quickly and said: ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Get away from the fence.’
Abdul said: ‘Three men called Hakim, Tareq and Hamza spent the night in that compound, where you live. You must have seen them.’
Mohammed touched the pistol at his belt. ‘Don’t ask me questions.’
‘What time did they leave? Where did they go?’
Mohammed drew his gun, a semi-automatic 9mm pistol, and stuck the end of the barrel into Abdul’s belly. Abdul looked down. Mohammed was holding the gun sideways, and Abdul could see the five-pointed star in a circle stamped on the grip. The gun was a Paektusan, a North Korean copy of the Czech CZ-75.
Mohammed said: ‘Shut your mouth.’
Kiah said: ‘Abdul, let’s go, please.’
Abdul could have taken the gun away from Mohammed in a heartbeat, but he could not overcome a whole camp of guards, and he was not going to get any information either way. He took Kiah’s arm and walked away.
They circled around, still looking for Hakim. Kiah said: ‘Where do you think the bus has gone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will it come back?’
‘That’s the big question.’
Abdul would find out as soon as he got a chance to look at the tracking device in the sole of his boot. He decided to do that as soon as he and Kiah had reported back to the others at the shelter. He would walk into the desert on the pretence of answering a call of nature, and there surreptitiously check the device.
But it was not to be. When they reached the shelter they found Mohammed there, sitting on a wooden packing case turned upside-down. He pointed at Abdul then at a place on the ground where Abdul should sit. Abdul decided not to argue. They might be about to learn what had happened to their bus.
The last of the search parties arrived back and joined those sitting on the ground. Mohammed counted them and found thirty-six people, not including Naji. Then he spoke.
‘Your driver has left with the bus,’ he said.
The oldest man among the migrants was Wahed, and he automatically became their spokesman. ‘Where has Hakim gone?’ he said.