Struggling at first with the long oars, he gradually found a rhythm. The tide was going out, which helped, and he made rapid progress, pulling away from shore – when he allowed himself a glance back he was almost a hundred yards out. The men couldn’t have looked out to sea at first – they must have started by searching the huts – but now one of them appeared at the far end of the landing stage, shouting and gesturing to his comrades.
Soon there were three men running along the wooden planking, all armed, and as the first got to the end, he started firing. A bullet sang by Taban with the buzzing whine of an angry bee. He tried to row faster but almost lost an oar, so he forced himself to row calmly, rhythmically. The bullets were hitting the water well short of him now and the firing paused; then it resumed and they must have been using a different weapon, for he heard a sharp crack and realised that a bullet had found the side of the boat.
Another bullet struck, low down, near the keel. Water began to trickle in at first, then flow freely, like a tap gradually opening – soon it lay an inch deep in the bottom of the boat and it was rising fast. Taban was well out to sea now, at least two hundred yards from the beach. The firing was intensifying, though it seemed to be getting less accurate. But his progress was slowing as the boat grew heavier, with more and more water accumulating in the bottom. He was afraid that if the boat stopped moving he would be an easy target. The water was over his ankles now and he knew the boat would not stay afloat much longer. What should he do when it sank, as it soon would? Should he try to cling on and hope the timbers would be buoyant enough to support his weight? Or should he abandon it and try to swim back to shore further along the coast and hope to avoid the Arabs there? He was not a strong swimmer, and the thought frightened him.
Then he heard the noise of an outboard engine, and turning around he saw a bright yellow inflatable, a quarter of a mile further out, coming straight towards him. His heart sank – he hadn’t realised that the pirates had their own boats; he’d thought they relied entirely on Khalid’s skiffs to go out to sea.
He could see, in the bow of the approaching boat, a crouching figure, holding a weapon. As the boat drew closer the man in the bow began firing, and Taban saw bullets soaring above his head, making long trails against the sky.
He ducked instinctively, but the bullets were not for him, they were aimed at the men on the shore. Taban lifted his head cautiously – the dinghy was no more than a couple of hundred yards away from him now and he could make out the face of the man holding the weapon. He was a Westerner. And as the bow of the boat bumped up and down over the little waves, Taban could see painted along its side a familiar flag. The same flag that his friend the Captain had worn on his jacket. These men were British, and when Taban looked back at the shore, he saw that the Arabs had fled.
Chapter 51
Dave did not sleep. His head was throbbing after the blows from the Arab’s gun and his boot. The wind blew remorselessly, carrying sand up from the beach and filling his mouth and the cut on his face with grit. His nose was still bleeding on and off and he was trying to stop the blood by stanching it with what was left of his shirt. Guthrie had been suffering from the heat during the day, sweating profusely and complaining of dizziness. Now he seemed to be asleep but was shivering continuously.
The Somali pirates had fled the compound the previous evening after Khalid had been shot dead, and now only the Arabs remained. Dave reckoned at least three must have been captured on the Aristides, along with the four British Pakistanis meant to join them. But the ones who remained were well-armed, seemed well-trained and very determined.
Dave hoped Taban had got away safely. Ten minutes after the boy had left, having distracted the tall Arab by claiming troops were on the beach, the leader had returned, furious at the false alarm. Coming over to the pen he had motioned Guthrie to stay where he was, then forced Dave out at gunpoint. As he emerged, the Arab had hit him with his free arm, knocking him down. The punch had been followed by a kick to the back of Dave’s head, which had left him stunned.
He had not tried to get up again, and was lying there, curled into a ball, waiting for the Arab to hit him again, when someone shouted from the edge of the camp. Dave heard the name ‘Taban’ and realised the boy’s escape had been discovered. The tall Arab kicked Dave one more time, then dragged him back into the pen, before turning to give his men orders. He seemed to be telling them that the boy could not get far and they should wait till morning to go after him.
What a cock-up. Dave wanted to blame the French for the mess that had brought him here, but he knew the operation had been a joint Anglo-French one. The combination of mist and darkness and the surprise boarding of the Aristides via the bow as well as the stern had caused the disaster, allowing the leader of the hijackers to get away and take Dave and the Captain with him as hostages. The only consolation, he thought, was that none of the Pakistanis had escaped.
What was going to happen to him and Guthrie? He had assumed they would be held to ransom, and had pictured Geoffrey Fane receiving the demand then trying to buy time to mount a rescue operation. The Government would never agree to pay a ransom. He had hoped that Liz would be involved in any response. She knew the background to all of this and would have a pretty clear idea of the sort of people they were dealing with.
But now ransom seemed the least of the Arab leader’s priorities. If this were a group of Al Qaeda or one of its affiliates, they would be looking for something other than money in return for their hostages – if they were interested in negotiating at all. Dave’s main fear now, which he wasn’t going to share with Guthrie, was that since their leader seemed to know that Dave was a British intelligence officer, he would be keen to extract whatever useful information from him he could, doubtless using very unpleasant methods. How far would he go? From the egg-sized bump on his head, the bruise on his cheek, and the cut on his nose that kept dripping blood, Dave guessed that when the man really got to work he would show no mercy. He would enjoy inflicting pain on the West’s spy. And after that – well, he had shot the Somali without compunction so wouldn’t hesitate to kill a British agent, though Dave feared his death would not be so quick or easy.
He assumed an assault on the camp was being considered, and the helicopter he’d heard half an hour before flying overhead was probably pinpointing their location. Daylight was slowly breaking, the ideal time for such an assault. But would it be in time? And even if it were, it posed its own dangers – the men here in the compound wouldn’t stand a chance in a fire fight with the SAS, but that would be small solace if their first act, in the event of an assault, were to open fire on the pen holding him and Captain Guthrie.
As Dave lay sleepless, brooding about this, a jeep started up and drove away along the beach. There was silence after that and then the sound of desultory gunfire from a short distance away. Then, suddenly a fusillade much nearer, from the dunes towards the sea. Within seconds the men in the compound were running to the beach, holding their guns at the ready. A muffled explosion sent a cascade of sand blowing across the open compound into the pen. As it settled, Dave saw an object the size of an apple, just visible in the early light, land on the soft sand, short of the compound’s edge; whoof it went, and again sand flew through the air. Grenades – thrown from the other side of the dunes, where soldiers must be crouched, having landed on the shore. They would be safe from outgoing fire as long as they stayed on the other side of the dunes, but there was no way they could take the camp without directly assaulting it.
The Arab leader was barking orders as more gunfire came from the beach. Suddenly the men in the compound started shooting – one of the assault force must have put his head over the top of the dunes. The firing was disciplined; these guys are well-trained, thought Dave as he watched the men around him taking up cover positions, behind the big tables in the middle of the compound where they ate their food, and behind empty oil barrels and chairs. They would not be easy to dislodge, heavily armed and well-positione
d as they were.
But suddenly two of the Arabs fell to the ground, hit. Others followed. Their leader turned round and began firing back – towards Khalid’s house at the rear of the compound – and now Dave understood.
The firing and the grenades from the beach had been a diversionary tactic, designed to lure the pirates towards the dunes. As had the appearance of some brave soldier on them, intent on drawing enemy fire. But the main rescue force was firing at the terrorists from behind. They must have landed from that helicopter in scrubland, a mile or so away from the camp, and made their way silently overland on foot.
Pinned down, the Arabs fought tenaciously, but the assault from behind had caught them by surprise – within minutes most of them lay dead or wounded. Only the tall Arab, their leader, was still unharmed. Swivelling a round wooden table on to its side, he used its top as a shield, and from a kneeling position continued to fire towards Khalid’s house.
On the far side of the open sandy square a British soldier appeared, climbing over the low compound wall. He was checking the dead nearest him, his attention focused on the Arabs lying on the ground, making sure none was still capable of firing. He was so intent on the task that he didn’t see the leader, hidden by the table, who had turned towards him, ready to fire. Watching this with horror, Dave knew he had to act, but what could he do, locked in this pen? The next instant, as the tall Arab stood up to aim and fire, Dave shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Incoming!’
The soldier turned and jumped behind the low compound wall just as the Arab fired, and fired again, in vain. Then another soldier seemed to come out of nowhere, not ten feet from the pen. Standing directly in front of Dave, he shot the leader dead with a burst of automatic-weapon fire.
Turning to the pen, the soldier said nonchalantly, ‘All right, mate?’
‘We’re OK.’ Only then did Dave realise how frantically his heart was pounding.
‘Good thing you called out or Tony over there would have had it. Cheers!’
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Dave had saved someone’s life merely by raising his voice. Maybe I should audition for RADA, he thought. It’s got to be safer than this.
Chapter 52
Peggy had stayed in cobra all day with a small group from Thames House, working closely with the intelligence analysts from the other departments as they put together as much information as they could find to help the SAS plan their rescue mission. From time to time Liz had rung in for an update, and at six o’clock in the evening she had joined the substantial group of people from various departments who’d assembled to hear the SAS’s presentation to the Foreign Secretary of their operational plan for the rescue attempt the following morning.
In the pre-dawn darkness, Liz again climbed the few steps from Whitehall to the door of the Cabinet Office, to wait for news to come in of the progress of the operation. By the time she reached the windowless briefing room, reports had started to arrive of a fire fight at the camp; a little later she heard with relief that Dave Armstrong and Captain Guthrie had been successfully rescued. She was still there several hours later when medical reports came in that Guthrie was suffering from what appeared to be pneumonia and that Dave had been beaten badly but was not seriously injured.
Shortly afterwards, as she was watching a shaky hand-held video of the rescue on one of the screens, Peggy waved her over. A call had come in for her from Martin Seurat’s office in Paris. Liz took the phone, expecting to hear Martin congratulating her on Dave’s rescue, but it was one of his colleagues telling her that M. Seurat had gone over to the Santé prison with a colleague from the DCRI. Amir Khan had told his warders that he was prepared to talk.
Much later, after Liz was back at home, exhaustedly downing a glass of Sauvignon in celebration of Dave’s rescue, Martin himself rang. ‘I have heard that your colleague is free. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you. It’s a great relief,’ Liz said. Enough had gone wrong in the operation for her to feel that they were very fortunate things had turned out as well as they had.
‘It’s not the only reason I am calling. I hope you got my message that I went to see our friend in the Santé with Cassale. He says he’s willing to talk some more, but he’s scared – he knows there are Al Qaeda prisoners in there who would not hesitate to kill him if they thought he was talking to us. He wants reassurances about his safety before he gives out any more information.’
‘Can you or Cassale give those to him?’
‘I could try, but there’s a problem. He wants reassurances from you too. And in person – I’m afraid he was insistent on this point.’
So, this morning, Liz had dragged herself out of bed to catch an early Eurostar. It was clear when she arrived at the prison that something fairly dramatic had occurred to change the French attitude to Amir. She had been surprised to be told that the interview was not to take place in the high-security wing. She had instead been shown into a small, comfortably furnished office, where she settled into an armchair, with a cup of coffee to wait for Amir Khan.
The door opened and Amir walked in, followed by Martin. The armed guard had gone, as had the chains that had bound Amir’s arms and legs. Now he walked upright instead of shuffling, his head no longer bowed. Looking straight at Liz, he nodded and said ‘Good morning’ with a slight smile, then sat down on the chair that Martin indicated.
Martin said formally to Liz, ‘I have had a long talk with Amir and he says that he wants to tell us his story. There are some reassurances he is asking for that only the British can give, so I thought it best that you come in person to hear what he has to say.’
Amir looked at her and nodded. ‘I want to tell you what happened because I want you to stop it happening to anyone else. If I do this, then I want to see my sister so I can explain things to her. But you must guarantee she’ll be safe if she comes to see me here.’
Liz said nothing while she thought about this. What Amir was asking for was perfectly reasonable from his point of view, but it was not something she could immediately agree to. It would take a lot of sorting out. Liz couldn’t give him any reassurances about his own position, since it hadn’t been decided yet what if any charges he should face, or in which country he would face them: France or England.
Tahira, moreover, was now effectively a recruited agent and vital to the investigation. If she were suddenly brought over here, she would have to be pulled out of the operation, which would mean they’d lose their one means of contact with Malik. And what’s more, as Amir himself understood, just bringing her to the prison to talk to him might put her in serious danger. This would need careful thinking about.
Amir was watching her closely; Liz could see from his face that if she said the wrong thing he was going to refuse to speak. She had to take a risk.
She said, ‘Amir, I’m very glad that you have decided to help us. We also want to stop others getting involved in all this. I’m going to explain what I can do to meet your terms. First, about Tahira. I’ve met her and talked to her.’ Amir looked surprised, but Liz went on, ‘She is terribly worried about you. She wanted to come and see you but your father wouldn’t let her.’
He nodded as if that were no surprise.
‘I’m sure she would want you to know that she is helping us, and I’m equally sure that she would want you to help us too.’ Amir frowned and Liz went on quickly, before he could speak. ‘I can promise you that when this is over, we’ll look after her. But I don’t think it would be a good idea for her to come over to Paris to see you now. If she did, I could not guarantee to keep her safe, as we couldn’t be sure her trip would remain secret – not right now, at any rate. But I will ask her to write to you and I’ll either bring the letter myself or give it to my French colleagues to give to you.’
‘What is she doing to help you? Are you putting her in danger?’
‘She is only doing what she wants to do.’ Liz’s eyes were focused on Amir. ‘No one is putting any pressure on her. She’s helping us bec
ause she wants to help you. You are lucky to have such a sister.’
‘I know.’
‘Now about your position, Amir. As you know, it hasn’t yet been decided whether you should be charged, or even whether you should remain in France or return to the UK. I can’t give you any guarantees. But if you talk to us truthfully, that will certainly be taken into consideration, both by us in the UK and,’ she looked at Martin with raised eyebrows and he nodded, ‘by the French.’
‘But if I talk to you, they’ll kill me if they can.’
‘If you talk frankly to us, we and our French colleagues will have the responsibility of looking after you – and Tahira, of course. And if that meant you couldn’t go back to Birmingham, then we would help you go somewhere else.’
Amir had been staring at Liz as she explained all this. Now he was hesitating, clearly trying to make up his mind what to do.
Martin said gently, ‘My advice is that you should tell us your story.’
Amir nodded. ‘I haven’t got a choice really, have I?’
And he began to talk. He’d first gone to the New Springfield Mosque with Malik and had been fascinated by the preaching of Imam Bakri and his message of the duty of all true Muslims to wage war against the infidel. Amir described how he’d been asked to join an inner group of true believers which had met weekly for several months. Then they had all gone three times to a mosque in North London where they had met a woman – a white woman, who spoke beautiful Arabic and talked enthrallingly about jihad.
‘She was a witch. A blonde witch,’ he said. ‘She enchanted us and took away our souls. She told us we had been chosen to be on the front line of the fight and we would be blessed. No one told us where we would go, but we thought it would be Afghanistan.’
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