lower fortress, a veritable rabbit warren of dilapidated mud and brick buildings and squalid alleyways, hidden behind tumbledown walls, interspersed with patches of wasteground. Directly ahead, higher up the hill, stood the citadel.
'The insolent dog answered you in Persian, huzoor , though he speaks perfectly good Pashto.'
'Why?'
'Because he dislikes Feringhees.'
'Is he from one of the Herat regiments?'
'He is.'
'So Ahmed Jan was right. There is trouble brewing. What did he say?'
'He said that we should hurry if we wished to visit the resident because he wouldn't be here for much longer. When I asked him what he meant by that, he refused to say, but I think we know.'
'There's not a moment to lose. Which way?'
'The Residency stands against the southern wall of the Bala Hissar, and directly below the south-east wall of the citadel. To reach it we must pass by the amir's garden. It's not far.'
Using the citadel as a guide, they soon came to a small unkempt square that was being used as an artillery park: six field guns and as many mountain guns were parked in front of a dozen dirty tents, the gunners lounging and chaffing in the sun. Ilderim questioned one man, who was not wearing uniform and looked more like an unwashed coolie than a soldier, and was told they had come too far. They retraced their steps and eventually found the narrow lane that ran along the southern edge of the amir's garden. On their right was the high wall that marked the garden's boundary and on their left rude open-air stables, little more than simple enclosures in the mud wall, in which were tethered the horses of the royal household.
The lane brought them to the rear of an enclosed three-storey building that Ilderim explained was part of the Residency compound, but that to reach the main gate they had to work their way round to the right. They did so, and at last came to an open gateway guarded by two soldiers wearing large turbans, long khaki kurta s with red facings on the collar and cuffs, and riding boots. 'Rest easy, huzoor ,' said Ilderim, 'they're Indian soldiers from my old corps.'
'Guides?'
'Yes.'
'Do you know them?'
'Perhaps,' said Ilderim, as if he was speaking to a child. 'But I can't tell at this distance.'
As they got closer, George received his answer from one of the Guides, a burly naik , or corporal,with a hooked nose and a trim beard. 'Can it be true?' He took a step forward and peered intently at Ilderim. 'Why, it is. The hero of a thousand fights, Subadar Khan! What are you doing in Kabul, sir?'
'And salaams to you, too, Akbar Shah, as insolent as ever, I see. Whatever possessed your officer to raise you to naik ?'
Akbar Shah chuckled, showing a fine set of betel-stained teeth. 'He believes, like many, that it's better to guard sheep with a wolf.'
'And is he a wolf?' asked Ilderim.
'No, sir, but he is a lion. He saved my life when I was unhorsed in the charge at Futtehabad, in April, by cutting down my three assailants. We had already lost the commandant and Hamilton Sahib took charge. There is none braver and he deserves the Queen's Cross.'
'He has been recommended for the Victoria Cross?' asked George.
'I have indeed,' said a voice to their right, with a distinctly Irish accent. The speaker was a stocky officer of middle height with a pale, freckled face and a centre parting. He was dressed in a khaki patrol jacket and breeches, with a sword and pistol holster attached to his shiny leather Sam Browne cross-belt, and was holding a white sun helmet topped with a metal spike under his left arm. 'I'm Lieutenant Walter Hamilton, commanding the Resident's Escort. What can I do for you?'
George gave his cover story and said he had come to discuss business opportunities with the resident. His intention was to use the interview to warn Cavagnari of the impending attack and then to make contact with Pir Ali.
'The resident is very busy but if you follow me, Mr Harper, I'll see what I can do. Leave your horse here. Your