Afghan Bound Read Online Free PDF

his new colleague on the shoulder. ‘Eight-thirty, my quarters.’ He made off towards his own room without telling David where it was.
3.
    It was almost eight-thirty before David started to get ready, not thinking it would take long. He had the choice of his own trousers and shirt which hadn’t seen a wash in months, or the sandy coloured kit issued to him that morning which could, if need be, double as a three man tent. He went with the tent; at least it was clean. The evening was hot and dry, with little or no wind to offer a cooling respite from the constant glare of the sun. Suddenly the baggy clothes didn’t seem so ridiculous, the little currents of air moved refreshingly between his skin and the material.
    Ustinov’s quarters were quite easy to find, only a few yards from building eleven. Nikolai, the KGB officer, was standing outside the door shrouded in the pungent vapours from an aromatic and irregular shaped cigarette. In his other hand he had the staple drink of the Russian military machine, a large glass of vodka. David expected to hear some sarcastic comment from him as he neared the hut but Nikolai seemed to be studying the hills that loomed along the one side of the camp. Gunfire crackled and spat somewhere behind the ridge. Being ever present, its otherwise ominous sound seemed to have faded into insignificance. Nikolai prevented David getting past by cursing the rebels.
    â€˜We’ll never win this war as long as those bastards stay in the mountains. The Americans must be laughing their bollocks off. It’s our Vietnam.’
    David nodded his head in mock sincerity. ‘Take a tip from the Brits. Never pick a fight with someone who fights back. It ruins your profits.’ He left Nikolai pondering his wise words through a cloud of marijuana and entered Ustinov’s rooms. Inside the heat doubled, which was further compounded by the stifling blue haze from countless joints. Being an unknown no one came to welcome him. The only smiling face was that of Stalin, framed and hanging above the drinks table. David went across to join him, impressed by the selection of bottles on offer. Unfortunately all of them were vodka. Thankfully, though, there was some ice and he poured himself a long cold drink.
    â€˜Not a good idea, my friend.’ It was Petr Ustinov, vodka in one hand, and clitoris chain in the other. Attached to the chain was the Afghan with the nutmeg skin. ‘The ice – it cools down your insides, stops you sweating. I thought you were a doctor?’
    David looked at the beautiful Afghan standing obediently behind the Russian at the end of the chain. Dark eyes of jade, strangely vacant, peered through and beyond him. ‘And I thought you were finished for the day?’
    Petr gave a gentle tug on the chain. ‘This is strictly for pleasure – my pleasure,’ he said with a wicked grin on his face. Turning away he told David to enjoy himself. ‘Have a little hashish. Plenty of it here. Complements of the Muzzies.’
    David took his drink and sat in a wicker chair near the window. There was a tray of joints on a nearby table. He took one and lit it, drawing deeply on it’s root before adding his own smoke to that already clogging the air. Considering they were in the middle of a savage guerrilla war, the room was remarkably civilised. One could possibly think of it as decadent. The spoils of two years of fighting were on show; couches in purple and red, wonderful pottery from the four corners of Afghanistan, and intricate metalwork from the craftsmen of Kabul, all of it stolen and displayed by the invaders. Even their native women were exhibited. Dusky, sensuous females, all naked, smoothly shaven and paraded on the ends of light chains. Even Nikolai, who David thought held feelings for only Mother Russia, had now come inside and was guiding a teenager through the throngs of men. David felt inadequate. There was nothing he could do to help