Jack heard the slow throbbing of the drum as he rode to the Jirga. He did not know if the drums were part of the proceedings or purely coincidental. He only knew that the sound added to his tension as he left the village for the knoll outside, where the elders of the Rahmut Khel gathered around a gnarled group of pine trees.
The men sat cross-legged in a great circle, some chewing betel-nuts, others smoking from hookahs or merely listening to the speeches. They looked dignified and serious, as befitted men who had survived many years in Pakhtunkhwa, men accustomed to making decisions for the benefit of their community. Jack stood some way apart with one hand on the butt of his revolver, aware that his life was being decided. In one way this seemed a very primitive method of determining wh
