‘And your shirt,’ the doctor said.
Durrani unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off his shoulders and held it in his hand as the doctor studied him from where he stood. Durrani was sinewy, without an ounce of fat on him, his taut muscles and large veins well defined beneath his tight yellowy-brown skin. He was also covered in a collection of interesting scars.
The doctor slowly walked around him, pausing to study the marks of some of the old injuries. He had no doubt that each of them had some kind of horrifying story attached to it. He was not wrong.
A series of deep gouges on Durrani’s chest was the result of shrapnel from a missile fired from a Russian helicopter in the Jegay Valley in 1983. A round indentation on his right lat with a corresponding one on his back marked the entry and exit holes of a bullet that had struck him during his first assault on Kabul. A scar across the side of his stomach was from a cut given to him by a Pakistani fighter two days after the Yakaolang massacre when the man accused Durrani of cowardice. Durrani cared little for the man’s opinions and was content to ignore him but the man took the lack of reaction as proof of his accusation and drew his knife to kill him. Durrani was not easily riled but a threat of death was sufficient to get his blood up. The Pakistani’s thrust to Durrani’s side was his last attack. Durrani side-stepped, knocked the man’s arm away, closed the gap between them in the next instant, wrapped an arm around his assailant’s throat and, while others looked on, crushed his windpipe, letting go only when the man had been dead a good half-minute. His back bore the chequered scars of dozens of lashes that he had once received from a Saudi troop commander who had accused Durrani of stealing loot he was not entitled to. During the next battle a week later Durrani bided his time and in the thick of the fighting he pulled the pin from a grenade and stuffed it down the back of the man’s chest harness. No one suspected that the explosion and subsequent disintegration of the Saudi was Durrani’s way of taking revenge.
‘You have survived much,’ the doctor muttered.
‘He is my best,’ the mullah said with some pride.
‘Lie on the desk,’ the doctor said. ‘On your back.’
The mullah cleared the items off the desk and Durrani sat on the edge of it and lay back.
The doctor moved alongside Durrani, concentrating his examination on the fighter’s stomach area. He took hold of the top of Durrani’s trousers and pulled them down as far as his pubic hairs, prodding around his lower abdomen.‘It should not be a problem,’ the doctor finally acknowledged.
‘You must do it now,’ the mullah said. ‘Tonight.’
The doctor nodded and turned to get his bag from the floor in the corner of the room.
The mullah leaned over Durrani to look into his eyes. ‘He is going to perform a small operation on you.’
Durrani stared up at him, unsure how to respond. But whatever was going to happen would happen and, as the mullah had said, Durrani would find out the reason behind it soon enough.
The doctor placed his bag on the desk beside Durrani and removed a bottle of lidocaine, a hypodermic needle, a scalpel, some gauze and a pair of rubber gloves which he pulled on over his hands. Durrani stared at the cracked smoke-stained ceiling and concentrated on detaching his consciousness from whatever was happening to him.
The doctor filled the hypodermic needle with the lidocaine and wiped a small area of Durrani’s lower abdomen with an antiseptic swab. ‘I’m going to anaesthetise a small area of 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 of trouble to hide the device but he had to concede it was a smart way to ensure that it was not lost. If Durrani had a serious accident or was attacked and robbed, unless his body was completely destroyed the device could still be retrieved. ‘I leave right away?’
‘Sena will give you all you need. Money and food. You will travel with four of my men.’
‘Would it not be better if I travelled alone?’ Durrani asked, even though he knew the mullah would not agree.
‘I know you like to work alone, Durrani. And it is not that I don’t trust your abilities.You are the best of my mujah
ideen. But this time I need to know where you are every second of every hour. The men who travel with you will not know that you carry anything other than an important message inside your head. Not even those who you will meet in Chaman will know your true purpose.You will be taken to Quetta where you will meet great leaders of our cause who are expecting you. These men will know your purpose.’The mullah emphasised the gravity of his words with an intense stare. ‘Durrani. I believe that whatever this is inside you is of great importance to us and to our cause.’
‘It will be delivered,’ Durrani assured him. He was flattered, despite his concealed indifference to the so-called cause.
‘Sena,’ the mullah called out and the door opened.
Durrani pulled on his robe, a streak of pain flashing through his gut as he raised the garment over his shoulders.
‘Allah will watch over you,’ the mullah assured him.
Durrani nodded. As he turned to walk away the mullah grabbed his arm and held up the packet of pills. ‘Use these if you think there is infection,’ he said.
Durrani took the packet and left the room.
The mullah went back to his desk, glanced down at the charred briefcase on the floor, pulled out his packet of Woodbines and lit one.
Chapter 3
Sumners walked into the security-conference ‘bubble’ on the sixth floor of the Secret Intelligence Service’s London headquarters by the Thames and placed a file on a slender chrome podium standing to one side of a wide-screen monitor. Bubble was an obvious nickname for the multi-layered mesh-and-plastic module apparently suspended inside an ordinary room. It had insulated contact points with the floor, walls and ceiling and was protected by layers of various technical screens that prevented all forms of transmission, X-ray and vibration from escaping the module. In short, it was an anti-eavesdropping environment for top-security meetings.
While Sumners attached a memory stick to a USB port on the podium a man in a smart pinstripe suit who looked like a First World War general with his snow-white hair and matching handlebar moustache stepped up into the bubble. He paused in the entrance, planted the tip of his cane on the rubber floor and looked around as if unsure where he was.
‘Good morning, Sir Charles,’ Sumners said in a jaunty tone without pausing from setting up his presentation.
Sir Charles nodded grumpily. ‘Am I early?’
‘No, no, you’re right on time,’ Sumners said, producing the smile he reserved for his superiors.
Sir Charles looked at the four comfortable leather armchairs spread around in no particular pattern. ‘Anywhere?’
‘Oh, yes, anywhere you like.’
Sir Charles plonked himself into one of the chairs, exhaled heavily, rested his cane against the side of the armrest, put on a pair of spectacles and perused a thin file he had brought with him.
A moment later another man walked in, younger than Sir Charles, lanky, highly intelligent- and sophisticated-looking with his cold eyes and very white skin.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Sumners said, with distinct gravitas and no smile. This time he paused for the newcomer and there was a hint of a servile nod too.
Sir Charles looked up at the man. ‘Van der Seiff,’ he said casually before going back to his file.
‘Sir Charles,’ Van der Seiff replied, a surgical precision in his tone as he selected a chair and sat down in it, straightening the razor crease in his trousers and ignoring Sumners altogether. Van der Seiff ’s nickname within the lower echelons of the SIS was ‘The Spectre’ but it referred more to the coldly calculating way he talked and moved than to his actual personality. His pale complexion might also have contributed to the phantom-like impression.
Sumners arranged some papers on the podium and checked his watch as another man entered the bubble. This new arrival looked downright scruffy compared with the others. His suit was clearly off the peg, the knot of his tie was too small and his worn shirt lapels were askew. But if a stranger was to form a lowly opinion of the man based on his clothing he would be making a great miscalculation. His eyes alone threw any negative assessment into confusion. At first glance they appeared weasel-like but on closer inspection they more closely resembled those of a shark.
His name was Jervis and he scrutinised the backs of Sir Charles and Van der Seiff before looking coldly at Sumners. ‘This gonna take long?’ he asked in a distinct South London accent that was nonetheless far more refined than it had been in his younger days.
Sir Charles and Van der Seiff did not look around at the man although it was clear from their reactions that they knew who he was.
‘Hard to say, sir,’ Sumners said, trying to sound matter-of-fact but unable to disguise his grudging respect for the man.
Jervis’s gaze returned to the backs of the other two men. ‘Mornin’, gentlemen,’ he said as if it were a mild taunt.
‘Good morning,’ Van der Seiff replied without shifting the direction of his stare, which was fixed ahead at nothing in particular.
Sir Charles gave a grunt without looking up from his file.
Jervis sat down in the armchair furthest from the podium. ‘Don’t suppose you can smoke in ’ere?’ he asked.
Sir Charles frowned.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Sumners said.‘Apparently it can interfere with the bubble’s instrumentation,’ he added by way of an apology for denying his superior a chance to indulge his habit.
Jervis smiled thinly. He was well aware of the rules but liked to take every opportunity to rub the toffs up the wrong way.
Sumners busied himself checking various cable connections in order to distance himself from the tension-tainted atmosphere. The hostility sometimes displayed by certain department heads towards each other never ceased to perturb him. This was a particularly bad lot and he put it down to their extremely diverse pedigrees. Sir Charles was ex-army, Hussars, a retired general, very old school, tough as marching boots and a consultant to the Ministry of Defence and certain lords and monarchs. His brand of diplomacy and numerous highly placed contacts in Europe and America made him very useful in certain areas.
Unlike the other two,Van der Seiff had no military experience. On paper he was the classic brilliant Intelligence recruit: an Oxford graduate, fluent in French, Italian and Spanish with masters degrees in both classics and history.The abilities that placed him a notch above those with similar credentials were an extraordinary geopolitical vision, outstanding analytical skills and a cold, ruthlessly logical mind unhindered by emotion. Van der Seiff had been in MI for eight years and was currently with the Directorate of International Special Services. He was tipped to go all the way to the top of the intelligence ladder.
Jervis was more like a common urban fox but with some very uncommon qualities.The events of his earliest years were shrouded in rumours, one of which gave him gypsy origins and another a criminal record. Strangely, all documentation of his life before the age of nineteen no longer existed, the result of either catastrophic bureaucratic failure on several levels or the work of a very senior government official. Jervis had found his way into the Secret Service through the army, signing up to the Intelligence Corps, the first documented proof of his existence. After a year training as an analyst in a camp outside Dover he volunteered for and was accepted on a posting in Northern Ireland. This was during the heyday of the campaign against the IRA, in the late 1960s and during the 1970s, and after showing great promise he was trained and eventually operated as a tout maker, one of the most dangerous jobs in the MI field.
It was during this period of Jervis’s life that he began to display some extraordinary gifts. For example, he had a photographic memory and was able, after single and often fleeting observations, to quote countless vehicle registration numbers as well as each vehicle’s make and colour. But his greatest skill was an ability to piece together seemingly unrelated or only remotely connected pieces of information. The sum of these talents made him a most useful operative. He was posted to London where his skills developed further a
nd were applied to Cold War diplomatic counter-espionage with impressive results. After his success in piecing together a particularly complicated surveillance operation involving Russian mini-submarines and Eastern European diplomatic staff in Scandinavia he came under the gaze of the head of MI6.
Despite Jervis’s rough edges he began to make his way up through the ranks. He was unlikely to see promotion above his current post but as head of ‘special operations worldwide’ Jervis had reached far higher than he could ever have originally expected. He had earned his position despite his reputation for mischievousness which some of his peers interpreted as disrespect. His high proportion of successes, however, ensured a long career ahead of him despite the misgivings of his many detractors.
The last man to step into the bubble was Gerald Nevins, department head of the South-Eastern European Section and Sumners’s immediate boss. After a quick look around to see if everyone was present he closed the triple-skinned door and turned a locking lever until a green light appeared at one side, indicating the room was sealed.
Nevins ignored the remaining armchair and, looking quite solemn, chose to stand at the back of the room. Folding his arms across his chest he gave Sumners a nod.
‘Gentlemen,’ Sumners began and then took a moment to clear his throat, sipping from a plastic water-bottle he had brought with him. ‘Pardon me.’
Sumners was an experienced briefer but had never before addressed a group made up exclusively of such senior personnel.When he’d been walking up the stairs from his office on the floor below he hadn’t been able to help thinking how this was not just a briefing but a personal assessment.These sorts of things always were. They placed a person under the microscope, something which could be both a good and a bad thing. Giving a briefing not only put on display a person’s eloquence and ability to address their superiors comfortably. It also exposed organisational, analytical and presentation skills as well as conciseness of expression and general bearing. If a person made a hash of it, especially in front of such an eminent audience, it could have detrimental effects the next time their name came up for review. People always remembered bad briefings.
Undersea Prison s-4 Page 4
