Extracts from the Novella
Please read some extracts of The Afghan Coat from pages 9, 17, 29 and 72, which is the first page of an epilogue set in London 1971. Page 9 is the first text page, page numbers refer to the 80-pages illustrated paper book available at the Blurb book store.
The pages of the ebook version available as an Amazon Single is numbered differently.
Page 9:
Fort St. Angelo, Malta, late May 1916
ABDUL HAQ lay rolled in like a pill bug on the stone floor of his cell. Since dawn he had been watching warships through a breathing hole in the wall almost at sea level. Centuries ago, the dungeon had been dug into the sandstone rock that formed the massive base of Fort St. Angelo. Its stone prow protruded far into the Grand Harbour of Valetta. Armored cruisers and troopships passed by Abdul’s cell, further on to the repair docks and piers. Seagulls circled the British ship’s smoke-blackened chimneys and house martins dashed down the walls of the fortress.
Will the English let me croak down here? Is this Allah’s punishment for my mistake? the young Indian asked himself. In early delirium of hunger Abdul believed seeing pale mustached faces in the rows of side scuttles of the ships being tugged by dead slow.
The battered hulk of a Lord Nelson class battleship was maneuvered into a dock just yards away from Abdul’s peephole. It cast a deep shadow...
Page 17:
Kabul, Afghanistan, three month earlier
OBAIDULLAH SINDHI treated Abdul all evening long as if he had accomplished his mission already. Now the white bearded leader of the Army of Allah seemed to be tired of the sham. It was chilly in the courtyard of the sprawling, two-storied mansion in the downtown Murad Khane district. Its entire facade was made of intricately carved wood, balconies ran all along the courtyard. Still the grey Rolls Royce limousine parked its center made no sound. The smug royal driver who had come with the car was not able to start it. He swore and cranked ferociously at its front below the radiator grill. All three passengers were already seated. Obaidullah spoke to Abdul on the front passenger seat. He appeared midget next to the imposing limousine and had to look up to his protégé.
“You know these two talibs well back from your days in India. They will accompany you to the border. Then you have to go on alone. You will need all your strength, so pace yourself. Do not forget any of the daily prayers and do not confide in anybody on the way except the brothers whose names and meeting places you learned by heart. Once again: Do not take off the coat...
Page 29:
Office of the Criminal Investigation Department (CID), Lahore, Punjab province, British India
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Liaqat Hayat Khan read the sports pages in the Times of India. Two fans turned leisurely at the ceiling, distributing cool morning air in his lavish office. The walls were covered with certificates, group pictures and crossed hockey bats. A young Sikh came rushing in with a long strip of paper in his hand.
“Sahib, this just came in...”
Khan knocked the Morse code for O U T on his heavy desk without looking up from the newspaper. His personal assistant moved back three steps and stood at attention in the doorframe. He kept his eyes cast down.
“What’s the news, Manjit?”
“Inspector Sahib, this message just came in: CODE NAME MERCHANT – (STOP) – COURIER BYPASS KHYBER ROUTE ARACHI VILLAGE TO ASPOGHAR HEIGHTS – (STOP) – SINGLE MAN UNARMED – (STOP) – WEARING FUR COAT – (STOP) – CROSSING BORDER IN FORTY EIGHT HOURS – (STOP),” Manjit Singh read from the strip of paper. Khan slowly raised his head, a stern look on his face. “Where did that come from?” ...
Epilogue
London, 1971
CLAIRE FELT PROUD about her hippie shop on Portobello Road. For a year now she could live quite well from selling Indian vintage clothing and pieces of tarnished silver jewelry. On this Saturday in spring the tall hippie woman roamed the flea market around Brick Lane. She wore radiating green ribbons in her henna-red hair. A mirror spangled Rajasthan vest added to her flashy appearance in the gloomy backstreets of the East End. Claire scanned the ramshackle stands and stained woolen blankets spread out on the pavements for merchandise for her shop. Business was good because in fashionable Notting Hill she could charge nearly four times the price paid at the flea market to poor immigrants from the former colonies.
A haggard man of about sixty-five had unfurled an embroidered Afghan Coat on a blanket in front of his feet. Corroded brass ship fittings surrounded it. Claire could not say if the man was Indian, Italian or Arab.
“The coat is from Malta, like me,” he said, reading her gaze and thoughts, then asked for twenty pound sterling straightaway. Claire raised the lambskin coat with outstretched arms. She looked at it feigning disgust, ...
