Sands of Redemption

21

Not long after breakfast, Georgia listened as Aashif and the others were conducted out of their room. It was quick and painless: no shouting, no aggression, all very orderly. But it did little to ease Georgia's mounting terror.

They were going to meet the Sheik: the leader of the Ittihad ul-Mujahideen, the plotter of the Red Chilli Club attack and ultimately Jasper's killer. She was going to meet Jasper's killer. Georgia shivered.

The usual two guards escorted her outside to join a group of gaunt and haggard prisoners chained together in a row just outside her "shack". Five pairs of frightened, haunted eyes flicked in her direction. For the first time she was able to match some of the faces to the names.

Mathew was easy. He was undoubtedly the tall bearded redhead towering over the others in the middle of the line, his dirty face pale but furious. Jamal stood at the front. Small, skinny and the youngest of the five, his right arm hung low in a bloody sling. As for the others Georgia wasn't given enough time to guess as they slapped her in a pair of slim, metal cuffs and chained her to the end of the line.

Moved along, Georgia wrinkled her nose as the breeze wafted the body odour of all five men back into her face. They descended a narrow, rocky corridor between a number of small, squat mud-brick buildings all of similar design and size to their little prison. Accompanying them were several Mujahideen. All looked prepped for war. Grasping Kalashnikovs or rifles, they wore militaristic dark clothes, their torsos lashed with shells, canisters and bullets, their faces wrapped tightly in shemaghs so that only their glittering eyes showed.

Watching her feet so she didn't stumble on the uneven path or accidentally catch a kidnapper's gaze, Georgia hardly noticed her surroundings. She heard a goat bleating. She felt the heat of the sun beating against her shoulders. Sunlight flashed off a steel trigger.

After a few minutes they were escorted inside one of the buildings. Unlike her tiny room the windows were open, allowing the light and air to circulate through.

At a shout they were directed to kneel on the hard earthen floor, not so easy when chained so closely together. A few of the militants sniggered as they watched them struggle.

Breathing hard, sweat trickling down her back and arms, Georgia waited. A rope of sweaty fringe had somehow managed to escape the confines of her hijab and hung over her face, tickling her nose. Hearing the hostage beside her pant as hard as she did, she risked a look at him. Catching her gaze, the man gave her the tiniest reassuring smile.

Keeping low, Georgia watched as a pair of combat boots with scuffs on the toes and partly concealed beneath the dusty ends of a pair of fatigues strode inside. At their heels trailed such a freakish chill that Georgia started to tremble violently and she was forced to bite down hard into her lip.

He stepped up to his men first. Addressing each in turn, he chatted idly and broke out into laughter as he shared a joke or two. He even embraced one of them. He was casual and relaxed and took his time. Georgia got the feeling he was doing it on purpose, playing with his hostages' terror.

Once he was done, silence followed. He was in front of them, pacing a slow, languid route up and down their line. He was speaking again, this time not so nicely. He spoke in Arabic and it seemed to boom around the room, echoing in Georgia's ears.

He fell quiet as he slowly worked his way up the line for what must have been the dozenth time. He spoke gruffly to two of the hostages before coming to a gut-wrenching halt before her own trembling figure.

His voice seemed as loud as thunder as he spoke with the militant behind her. A chill ran down Georgia's spine as the militant answered. She knew that voice. She knew it far too well. All dressed the same, all their faces concealed behind identical shemaghs, there was no way she could have picked Rabi Jalali from out of the bunch. Georgia pulled her head in close to her chest.