The Afghan by Frederick Forsyth

Author:Frederick Forsyth
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2007-08-12T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

With a good wind from the south, the Rasha hoisted sail, closed down her engine and the rumbling below was replaced by the calm sounds of the sea: the lapping of the water under the bow, the sigh of the wind in the sail, the creak of block and tackle.

The dhow, shadowed by the invisible Predator four miles above her, crept along the coast of southern Iran and into the Gulf of Oman. Here she bore away to starboard, reset her sail as the wind took her full astern and headed for the narrow gap between Iran and Arabia called the Strait of Hormuz.

Through this narrow gap, where the tip of Oman’s Musandam Peninsula is only eight miles from the Persian shore, a constant stream of mighty tankers went past; some low in the water, full of crude oil for the energy-hungry West, others riding high, going up-Gulf to fill with Saudi or Kuwaiti crude.

The smaller boats like the dhow stayed closer to the shore to allow the leviathans the freedom of the deep channel. Supertankers, if there is something in their way, simply cannot stop.

The Rasha, being in no hurry, spent one night hove-to amid the islands east of the Omani naval base at Kumzar. Sitting on the raised poop deck in the balmy night, still clearly visible on a plasma screen in a Scottish air base, Martin caught sight of two ‘cigarette boats’ by the light of the moon and heard the roar of their huge outboards as they sped out of Omani waters to make the crossing to south Iran.

These were the smugglers he had heard about; owing allegiance to no country, their operators ran the smuggling trade. On some empty Iranian or Baluchi beach they would make rendezvous at dawn with the receivers, offload their cargo of cheap cigarettes and take on board, surprisingly, angora goats so valued in Oman.

On a flat sea their pencil-slim aluminium boats, with the cargo lashed midships and the crew clinging on for dear life, would be powered by two immense 250-hp outboards to over fifty knots. They are virtually uncatchable, know every creek and inlet, and are accustomed to driving without lights and in complete darkness right across the paths of the tankers to the shelter of the other side.

Faisal bin Selim smiled tolerantly. He too was a smuggler, but rather more dignified than these vagabonds of the Gulf whom he could hear in the distance.

‘And when I have brought you to Arabia, my friend, what will you do?’ he asked quietly. The Omani deck hand was at the bow, handline over the side, trying for a fine fish for breakfast. He had joined the other two for evening prayers. Now was the hour of pleasant conversation.

‘I do not know,’ admitted the Afghan. ‘I know only that I am a dead man in my own country; Pakistan is closed to me for they are running-dogs of the Yankees. I hope to find other True Believers and ask to fight with them.

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