IT AIN’T HAY
They moved into an old barn behind the main building and gathered around a long polished wooden table. Sunlight fell in long strips through the ramshackle roof, playing across the strained faces of the men inside.
Only Fateh Rashid appeared completely at ease, bathing in shifting patterns of light that washed across him like silent emanations of his unquestionable authority.
The inner tubes had been removed from the tires. Sixty kilos of finest Peshawar hashish lay in front of them. Four dark brown and oily lumps of raw opium completed the incredible scene. More dope than any of the travelers had ever seen.
Dan’s throat was dry, but their host did all the talking.
“We glue the packages to the inside of the rubber, then inflate them little bit. The glue is very strong. But
