The Devil's Road To Kathmandu

By Tom Vater

In 1976, four friends - Dan, Fred, Tim and Thierry - are on a bus along the hippie trail from London to Kathmandu. But everything is not going according to plan.

After a drug deal goes wrong, the boys barely escape with their lives. Thousands of kilometers, numerous acid trips, accidents, nightclubs and a pair of beautiful Siamese twins later, they finally reach the counter-culture capital of the world, Kathmandu, and Fred disappears with the drug money.

A quarter-century later, mysterious emails invite the other three to pick up their share of the money, and they decide to reunite in Kathmandu. Soon, a trail of kidnapping and murder leads them across the Roof of the World.

With the help of Dan's backpacking son, a tattooed lady and a Buddhist angel, the ageing hippies try to solve a 25-year old mystery that takes them amongst Himalayan peaks, and towards the inevitable showdown with their past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 486747780X

Book preview

PART I

PAKISTAN, NORTH WEST FRONTIER PROVINCE

SEPT. 1976

THE GATE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

This is it, guys. Bin your roaches, button your filthy shirts and wear your most respectable smiles. We’re only here for the views. We’re tourists, the first this year.

With a hard turn, Dan drove the battered old Bedford bus off the main road and stopped beneath an austere, solitary gate in the desolate Hindu Kush foothills. He was exhausted. The drive from Peshawar had taken longer than expected. He knew the road; they had already passed here on the way from Kabul. But the Bedford hadn’t really pulled today. The engine had responded sluggishly to his demands, even though they carried no more weight than usual. He wanted a break from driving.

Not yet.

Beyond the gate, the landscape, shorn largely of vegetation, stony, dusty, with patches of tough grasses, spread beneath a monochromatic gunmetal sky.

Dan thought it absolutely hopeless, abandoned to the point of unearthly beauty.

It was hot as hell. He didn’t mind. They were used to it. Being alone was all these hills were capable of. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, he caught his thin, wasted and sunburned face, crowned by black curly hair, black bags like small, crumpled bin-liners under his dark eyes, rough stubble, the razor several days overdue. Here and there, family homes, surrounded by high, solid mud and brick walls, sat in the dust like withered crumbling castles overlooking a worthless, tired realm. There wasn’t another soul in sight.

The Agency guard, a tall man with weathered olive skin, blondish unkempt hair and piercing blue eyes, was as stylishly handsome as darkness itself. Dressed in dark blue paramilitary fatigues, a Kalashnikov slung casually across his broad shoulders, he looked dangerous. He shot Dan a black stare and waved the bus through the checkpoint.

Are they Pathan here, like? Fred’s voice was a tad hoarse.

Tim slapped him on the back and answered for all of them, Yeah. Pathan, Baluchi, Afghani, what the fuck does it matter? We’re in one of the truly free places in the world, mate. Don’t worry Fred, it‘ll all be okay, we’re outside government control now.

Fred didn’t appear convinced. God, I’m far too straight for this reality flash. Better grab a couple of pills.

Tim laughed, I reckon the heavy in blue waved us through because we’re welcome and look so non-threatening. Otherwise we would’ve been turned away. As long as we don’t piss them off, we can do what we want here, buy what we need and get the fuck out again by nightfall. So, chill. It’s all in the script, man.

Then why the fuck did you buy a gun in Kabul? If they see it, these guys will wipe us off this wasteland so fast no one would get here in time to count the bones, man.

Dan hit the brakes hard as the bullet whizzed past the driver’s window, narrowly missing the already cracked mirror. Fred and Thierry dropped to the deck of the Bedford. Tim slid deep into the seat next to Dan, dropping the map and a half-rolled joint onto the floor, saying nothing more. In the rear-view mirror, the guardsman slowly and deliberately re-shouldered his gun and stepped cautiously towards them through dust raised by the abrupt braking of the Bedford.

Is this in the script? Dan mumbled to his co-pilot.

He felt his hands slide off the steering wheel. Liquid fear, another word for sick sweat, flushed out of his pores and slicked his skin.

You’ve sunglasses? Give me sunglasses?

Dan did his best to look composed as he leaned out the window, his eyes immediately filling with the miniature sandstorm their abrupt halt had generated.

Salaam aleikum! he shouted brightly.

The guardsman answered, surprised, Wa aleikum salaam, you are Muslim?

No, English. But good friends of Muslims.

The man spat onto the ground before addressing Dan and Tim.

You have gun? No gun, no rifle allowed inside Agency. I look the bus.

He motioned for Dan to open the driver’s window further.

You have sunglasses?

Thierry threw his battered, steel-frame shades onto Dan’s lap as the door swung open.

Ah, was all the man said, grabbing the sunglasses and stepping back from the vehicle to scan the travelers for signs of imminent resistance.

You go. Market is five kilometer. Stay on main road. Go, go. Ask Mr. Khan. Welcome, welcome.

He waved them away, turning back towards his post beside the gate.

Dan shouted Salaam, as he pulled away briskly towards the featureless hills.

What do you think he’ll do when he finds out that they’re Thierry’s prescription specs, like? He’ll go completely off his fucking head if he wears them for more than two minutes.

Fred’s anxious comment elicited no response.

Thierry pulled himself up on one of the seats behind Dan and smiled sardonically. That was in your script, mon ami?

ONCE UPON A TIME

The Bedford drew up at the 5 kilometer-stone, in front of a sprawling single-storey fortress. The building looked forbidding, more daunting close-up than from a distance. Like, serious business.

Dark mud walls were crumbling in places, a few bullet holes tattooed a wide circle across the front door, the only door, heavy and faded, reinforced by wide and thick strips of rusted steel nailed across the rough wood.

No one spoke. No one made an effort to leave the bus.

There were no windows or openings of any kind along the wall, which seemed to absorb and consume the grey daylight. Easy on the eyes. A small squat watchtower leaned drunkenly out into the street. The structure was almost too decayed to be in use.

Dan had the distinct feeling they were being watched. Round here, the hills had eyes.

Well, we’ve come this far…, his voice trailed off as he tied his long curly hair into a bundle and wiped dark smears of old sweat from his narrow face.

The wind quietly bled around the building’s worn corners. With a hard tug, metal grinding on stone, invisible hands threw the door open to the inside.

Let’s go. Just remember we’re all pros. We know what we’re doing, don’t we?

He didn’t wait for an answer.

The four companions marched across the road, tucking shirts into trousers and pulling back straggly, wayward hair from their faces. Tim and Thierry were suited up, clean, tatty but smooth. Fred was just Fred. He wouldn’t do any negotiating. The downers he’d popped dulled his eyes but he appeared happy enough. He’d be able to spot quality in any state.

Dan looked himself up and down and felt reassured that style ruled over shabbiness regarding his appearance. He’d managed pants, long sleeves and even shoes.

The light was just right. They even had a gun between them. The wind blew dust around, not in any direction, just around. Dan felt like whistling. The road; the building; and the quartet, trying to stay cool in the heat, ambling across the street. A Morricone moment. The hot tarmac on both sides was deserted and didn’t appear to be leading anywhere good. Nowhere to go, but ahead, into darkness.

MR. KHAN

Salaam aleikum.

A deep voice echoed from the door.

Dan, in front, squinted into the dim room beyond, just able to make out a colossal white shape moving towards them, hovering, not quite emerging into daylight.

Welcome, welcome to Landi Kotal. My name is Mr. Khan, welcome.

Mr. Khan was a huge Pathan, dressed in a spotless white Shalwar Kameez and perfectly polished sandals. His deeply lined, hard face was softened by a full white beard and the huge belly that stretched his spotless shirt afforded him a weird uncle vibe. To his side, two pale-faced boys stood with Kalashnikovs, barrels pointing towards the ground.

Dan could hear Fred swallow hard behind him, as they nodded greetings all around.

Mr. Khan beckoned. Breaking into a wide smile, his face was open and welcoming. His eyes were something different – entirely removed, as if made of stone, all-seeing yet blind, somewhere ahead of and behind their meeting. In short, Mr. Khan was tremendously scary, a proper gangster, entrepreneur, whatever.

My sons, Ahmed and Yusuf. Good boys. You will do business with Yusuf to organize Peshawar side.

One of the boys was so cross-eyed, Dan couldn’t be sure whom he was looking at. Perhaps, he speculated, all of them simultaneously, his vision resembling a wide-angle lens focusing on the entire room. But Dan liked the face of the young man; it was kinder than his father’s, not yet subjugated by the certain cruelty of the surrounding hills. What would he be like during an ambush of any kind? Probably unpredictable. This was Yusuf.

They followed their hosts down a long bare passageway into a spacious guestroom.

The walls of the chamber they entered were draped with rich swirling patterns of cloth, lit by two naked bulbs on the rough ceiling.

Wow, it’s like Christmas in here.

Fred was immensely impressed by the colours. Tim cased the room, the idea of escape clearly written across his too serious face.

The rich cloth, printed with squares, hexagons, octagons and other geometric shapes, lightened by interlacing plant motifs, drew the guests deeper into the windowless space. Two long rows of deep cushions faced each other across low tables. A ceiling fan rotated slowly like a weary, trapped bird above their heads.

The four companions left their shoes at the door, carefully stepping across gleaming, painted tiles covering the floor. Mr. Khan and Yusuf sat first, motioning their guests to follow. Ahmed remained by the door; his gun propped against the wall. They would have to pass him to regain their freedom.

Mr. Khan nodded to Ahmed, who disappeared back down the corridor, the only exit.

You come from Kabul?

Yeah, but right now we’re coming from Peshawar.

Tim took the lead, smiled at their host, more confident now, his pale face gleaming with sweat.

Mr. Khan extracted a pouch of tobacco from his shirt folds as Ahmed returned with a hookah and a basket of smoldering charcoal.

You smoke? He grinned.

The travelers nodded in unison.

A girl could be heard laughing elsewhere in the building.

Tim asked, Your whole family lives here, Mr. Khan?

The old man nodded into his beard, filling the pipe bowl with sweet-smelling tobacco before placing a piece of charcoal on top. The hookah had several mouthpieces lying like the limp tendrils of an alien, potentially fuming creature across the polished tabletop.

Yes, Ahmed here is married already. I have two daughters also, unmarried. And two wives, he added with a proud smile.

But Yusuf has not married yet. He is in love, the old man laughed.

Yusuf, sitting cross-legged next to his father, seemed to stare straight past the visitors, his expression melancholic, elsewhere.

Very sad story, Mr. Khan continued, She is nice girl. I have no objection. She is a distant cousin. But she is already promised to another relative. Her father is a… a competitor, his voice trailed off, then resumed its thread. And Yusuf is my youngest son, very sad. We will find a solution, Inshallah.

The visitors nodded silently.

Mr. Khan filled the room with his brooding, imposing presence. Mr. Khan was making conversation. He wasn’t a man to make small talk. Not here in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of unwashed, road-ripped Europeans. Everything was proceeding according to the script.

Ahmed had left and returned a second time, bearing a large tray, set with tiny, garishly painted metal teapots and small cups, which he now placed in front of the guests. Pouring the hot, sweet-smelling liquid into the cups, he deftly raised the pot high above the table, the tea cascading neatly into each receptacle.

You want to take something in your bus? Hashish, opium, some heroin maybe?

Tim shook his head, Only hashish, Mr. Khan, only hashish. And maybe a little opium, but really not very much. We’re not interested in taking anything else.

The old man took another hit on the pipe. Come, smoke, my friends, is only tobacco.

The room fell silent but for the steady bubbling of the hookah and the clinking of cups.

Everyone smoked and drank. Everyone was trying to gauge the situation, edging slowly, inevitably towards the serious business for which they’d come together.

You are all from England?

Tim made the introductions, No, Fred, Dan and myself come from England. We drive the bus. In Isfahan we met Thierry. He’s from France, Paris in fact.

Oh, Paris, very nice city.

You have been to Paris? Thierry asked.

No, but very nice place, I am sure. Good people, French people, I like.

I agree. Thierry said.

The room fell silent again. No one wanted to push the old man.

Dan felt the less information they volunteered about themselves, the better.

You go back Iran or continue to India?

Tim looked at Dan, searching his friend’s face for a clue to the best answer.

You must tell me, because we have different arrangements for each route. India is very easy. Iran is little dangerous now.

Dan said, Yes, Mr. Khan, we’re planning to carry on eastwards to Lahore, then across to India.

You have some spare tires, no?

Tim answered, ‘Yeah, we’ve got four."

Ah, the old man smiled broadly, confidently. You can take fifteen kilograms of Grade One hashish, very strong hashish, in one tire. And maybe one kilo of opium in each tire, too. We can pack very well. No need to pick up in Peshawar, you will meet Yusuf in Swat Valley. I have one cousin living there who will supply and pack.

What price, Mr. Khan? Dan asked.

Not very expensive, number one quality, Peshawar Police quality. Yes, yes, police in Peshawar only smoke the best hashish and opium. You try.

He waved again at his oldest son, who produced a small plastic bag from his shalwar and dropped it on the table.

Thierry lent forward and opened the bag, Mon dieu, ça bouge.

Yusuf grinned across at Dan and Tim. He nodded imperceptibly. His father stared straight ahead at his guests.

Fred pulled some loose papers from his pants and crumbled a Marlboro onto the table. With an almost steady hand he extracted a sizeable lump of hashish from the bag. The dope was soft, brown and oily. Very pungent. The others passed the bag around while he rolled up, bits of tobacco and hashish getting caught in his long unkempt beard. He was bestowing an initial seal of approval on the merchandise.

Looks good, smells great, let’s see how it flares up and winds down.

Make sure you put enough in. No point in being tight here, Tim said.

Fred lit up, thick smoke billowing from the small joint into the room, mixing with the heavy tobacco from the hookah, wafting along the wall-coverings like a delirious ghost moving through the old building.

The big Scouser took a second hit and passed the joint to Dan.

Is good.

So, you can get us sixty kilos of this, no problem, all the same quality?

Tim scrutinised their host’s face.

Dan brushed some loose strands of hair from his forehead and offered the joint to Mr. Khan. The old man waved it away but Yusuf leant forward to take a drag.

One kilo, one hundred kilos, no problem. Packed good, no one can find. Very safe to go India.

How much, Mr. Khan?

The old man glanced at his sons, smiling all the while at the young westerners in front of him.

You have US dollars, yes? Fifty dollars one kilogram, four hundred extra for four kilos opium. You try in Swat valley. Madyan. My brother-in-law, Fateh Rashid, he will supply everything. He is a good man.

Yusuf turned his head suddenly to his father, interjected sharply in Urdu.

What does he say? Thierry demanded.

Mr. Khan glanced briefly at his son, who looked irritated.

It is only the son of Rashid. My son does not like. He is the man to marry the girl. The son is no good, I agree.

He raised his hands and eyes to the ceiling.

But what to do? Her father makes the contract with Fateh Rashid. I can do nothing.

He laughed drily, But don’t worry, this is business. We do all the time. You are foreigner, we are family. You pay in Swat, nothing now.

The joint lay finished on a saucer. The room had suddenly gone stale.

It is a deal?

The travelers looked at each other.

Bon, ca c’est la raison pour venir ici, non?

Thierry glanced at his companions. Dan’s and Tim’s eyes met, it seemed okay. They’d leave here clean. No risk at all. Yet.

Where’s this place where we pick everything up? Fred asked.

He was trying to be professional now, but Dan was sure that Mr. Khan would know any answer could only penetrate so far into the Scouser’s drug-addled mind.

Swat Valley is a very beautiful place. Many foreigners like you visit there. Is Switzerland of Pakistan. Very beautiful. East of Peshawar, not so long. And Madyan is only small village. My brother-in-law owns all the land there. No police. Easy to come, no one checking when you go. My personal guarantee. Free of charge.

The travelers nodded, stoned, smiling.

Mr. Khan rose and shook hands.

Inshallah, we will meet again. I will make all arrangements. Salaam.

Ahmed had picked up his gun and followed his father into the dark corridor. Their audience was over.

Yusuf smiled at the young travelers uncertainly as they picked themselves up unsteadily.

I take you to the bus. Tomorrow we meet in Peshawar and you drive to Madyan. Okay?

Blasted and consequently inarticulate, the boys could do no more than nod and follow the young man to the front door.

Outside, the world had shrunk a little. The mid-day sun was blinding. A pair of large birds hovered high above them, scanning the bus, the road and the desert beyond for any sign of compromised life, no matter how insignificant or devious.

BUG TRANSIT

Peshawar lay behind them. The road led east, towards their rendezvous. There was no need for a map, in fact there were no maps. The route was clear and for Dan, at least, the morning had passed quickly behind the wheel. He could see Fred and Tim scratching in the rear-view mirror. Traffic was light but mad enough. Several times he’d had to dodge heavily laden camels floating out into the street, their drivers waving at the bus t rough clouds of choking dust. A flock of stubborn sheep brought the bus to an abrupt halt just as Damo Suzuki launched into Peking O.

Told you that room looked really dodgy. Full of fucking bugs. You’re going to contaminate the entire bus.

Fred moaned, How are we going to get rid of the fucking things? My scalp and my balls are on fire, man.

Smoke some more dope, mon ami, Thierry suggested from the back seat. Like Dan he’d been lucky and picked a bug-free bed.

When we get to Madyan, we’ll boil all our clothes, wash ourselves in Dettol or something. That should do the trick.

Tim was in a good mood despite the infestation that had left a small, neat strip of red dots running in two parallel rows across his narrow face, like a half-finished application of tribal war paint.

Turning to Fred, he said, You might have to cut your beard and hair. Could be a good move before we cross into India, anyway. I don’t believe they’ve got such a beard fixation there. And it might mellow out that mad stare that you’ve had ever since you started dropping acid in Germany. Jesus, that seems like fucking ages ago.

Fred sat sulking. He pulled up his shirt to reveal two diagonal lines of bites, crossing his chest like bandoleers.

There’re whole civilisations starting up here, colonising us. These guys are organised, like.

Dan laughed, They look like they know where they’re going. I’m sure they read a map better than you.

Once off the main road, they passed several more Agency gates, standing solitary amongst low hills. The landscape was dull, unsullied by trees, as if transient locust clouds had devoured all signs of growth. Yet its desolate beauty completely captivated the partially attentive travelers. Here and there family homes – more fortresses – dotted the hills, invariably in strategic spots, overlooking the void. It was hard to creep up on anyone or anything in North West Pakistan.

Roadside shops sold sweet tea and stringy goat meat swimming in fat and orange lentils. Soaked up in fresh oven-baked bread it tasted just fine. The road led gently upwards, following the broad Swat River into ever-more looming hills, overgrown with green brush. Apricot trees lined the riverbanks. Women, their heads wrapped in bright scarves, sat on flat stones above the churning water, washing clothes, while kids splashed around in the freezing shallows.

This was all Buddhist once.

Thierry had moved to the front, carefully avoiding physical contact with his contaminated companions. The wiry Frenchman winced out the window.

What happened? Fred asked.

The Hindus came, and then the Muslims. And until a few years ago, this was a truly independent Islamic kingdom, nothing to do with Pakistan. A fine example of hundreds of years of concentrated carnage in a small place. Oh, and of course, you British were here too, and who knows who might snow through here in the future, thinking they can get a slice of the action…. merde, he gasped as Dan hit the brakes hard yet again.

Two brightly painted buses had stopped on a blind corner in the middle of the road. Male passengers stepped briskly from the vehicles, across the ditch onto a wooden platform. Men were rolling out their prayer mats and kneeling to face Mecca.

Thierry turned the music down as they passed slowly, admiring the spectacularly garish paint jobs on the buses, trying to catch a glimpse of the women who remained on the bus or had quickly taken to the shrub on the