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skin,’ he said reassuringly.
    Durrani gave no response and did not flinch when the doctor pushed the needle deep into his flesh and squeezed out the contents of the syringe as he slowly withdrew it. The doctor then took a small plastic bag from his medical kit, placed the tiny device inside it, sealed it by winding thread tightly around the opening and dropped it into a bottle of Betadine antiseptic solution.
    There was a sudden flash of flame and Durrani’s eyes darted to the mullah who was lighting up a cigarette.
    The doctor picked up the scalpel and paused, the blade hovering over Durrani’s stomach. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked. ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘You will not bother Durrani with a small cut, doctor,’ the mullah said confidently.
    The doctor looked at the deep scars on Durrani’s torso and shrugged in agreement. ‘You should not feel much anyway,’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps a small burning as I cut into your muscle.’
    Durrani exhaled slowly, wishing the man would stop talking and get on with it.
    The doctor placed the scalpel against Durrani’s flesh. Durrani felt a sting as the blade cut him and the doctor began a slight sawing motion. He could feel his blood trickling down his side and the doctor swabbing him with a piece of gauze. He raised his head to take a look. The doctor pressed a gloved index finger on the cut and pushed it in until it disappeared inside Durrani’s body up to the second joint. Durrani decided it was too bizarre and went back to staring at the ceiling.
    The doctor withdrew his finger, wiped the blood off it and produced a pair of tweezers from his kit. He removed the small plastic bag with the device inside it from the betadine and, opening the incision, placed the bag in the hole, pushing it all the way in with his finger. He took a fresh piece of gauze, wiped the wound clean, pushed the sides together and nodded to himself.
    As he reached for a suture pack the mullah stopped him. ‘No,’ the mullah said. ‘No stitches. It must look like an untended wound.’
    ‘He must lie still for a while, then,’ the doctor said.
    ‘Tape it,’ the mullah said.
    The doctor suspected that the fighter would not have the luxury of resting at all. But it was none of his business anyway so he took a roll of tape from the bag, tore off several strips and placed them across the cut to hold it closed. He covered the wound with a large dressing which he taped firmly into place, returned his instruments to his bag and closed it. ‘It’s done.’
    The mullah nodded. ‘You can go.’
    The doctor was about to pick up his bag when he had a second thought. He reopened it and removed a packet of tablets in a strip of foil-covered plastic. ‘He should take these. Just in case there’s an infection.’
    The mullah took the pills and fixed his gaze on the doctor who read the clear message in his eyes. He left the room.
    ‘Sit up,’ the mullah said to Durrani when they were alone.
    Durrani started to sit up, pausing as he felt a sudden pain where the doctor had cut him. He took his weight on his hands and pushed himself up the rest of the way. He examined the dressing - a bloodstain was forming at the centre - and eased himself to his feet.
    ‘Get dressed,’ the mullah said. ‘It will stop bleeding soon. You’ve had far worse than that.’
    Durrani pulled on his shirt.
    ‘You are to go to Kandahar and then on to Chaman,’ the mullah told him.
    ‘Pakistan?’ Durrani asked, buttoning up his shirt. Chaman was a well-known pass out of southern Afghanistan.
    ‘You will be met at Spin Buldak and escorted across the border.’
    ‘And then what?’ Durrani asked.
    ‘There is no need to trouble yourself with more information.You will be in good hands.What you carry in your belly is of great importance.’
    All Durrani understood was that at the end of his journey someone else would cut him open once again, this time to remove what the doctor had placed inside him. The mullah was going to a lot