Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies

by Stephen Leather

  ‘We’re checking flight manifests to and from Pakistan and comparing them with MI5 watch lists, we’ve increased surveillance at troublesome mosques, we’re listening to internet chatter …’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws is what you’re doing,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is bad, right? For all you know the MANPADS could be here already, and so could the operators. You could be behind the curve in every way possible.’

  ‘It’s not good, no. I’m under no illusions. But the one thing we have in our favour is that they don’t know how much we know.’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that. They don’t know whether we know who their people are or if we know the location of the missiles.’

  ‘So they’ll be torturing Raj, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘They’ll be trying to find out how much he’s told us. How much we already know.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘The good news is that they won’t be in a rush to kill him,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘And the bad news is that they’ll be torturing him? You’re a piece of work, you really are.’

  ‘I’m just telling you the way it is,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘Raj isn’t a professional, he’s not been trained in interrogation resistance techniques.’

  ‘He’s young, he’s fit, he can take pain.’

  ‘Have you ever been tortured?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Then maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself on that score,’ said Shepherd.

  Willoughby-Brown shrugged and flicked away what was left of his cigar. ‘The sooner you’re in Pakistan, the sooner we can get him out of there,’ he said.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘Come on, let’s eat.’

  Willoughby-Brown took Shepherd down to the third floor to a canteen, where they picked up trays and joined a queue mainly composed of young men and women in suits. Shepherd loaded his plate with bacon, eggs and mushrooms while Willoughby-Brown took two croissants and a bowl of fruit. ‘Trying to get my cholesterol down,’ he said. He patted his ample stomach. ‘I’ve put on a few pounds since Sierra Leone.’

  ‘I guess sitting at a desk every day doesn’t help,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You work out?’ asked Willoughby-Brown, helping himself to tea while Shepherd poured himself a coffee.

  ‘I run,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Never fancied running,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Feet pounding on pavements, never been my thing.’

  They carried their trays over to a table by a window overlooking the Thames. ‘I always knew you’d end up with one of the agencies,’ said Willoughby-Brown as they sat down.

  ‘It was more by accident than design,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You were perfect. You always thought like a spook, even back in Sierra Leone, and that trick memory of yours is one hell of an asset.’

  ‘I didn’t plan it this way,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Oh, I know exactly how it happened,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘In fact we almost made an approach when you left the cops, but it was felt it would be bad form stealing you away from the lovely Charlotte.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘You were watching me?’

  ‘Monitoring your progress,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We were a tad worried that the Yanks might steal you away, but that turned out for the best.’

  ‘You know Richard Yokely?’

  ‘Tricky Dicky? I know of him. And there were big sighs of relief all around when you didn’t go and work for him.’ He took a bite of croissant and washed it down with tea. ‘How do you find Five?’

  ‘It has its ups and downs.’

  ‘And the lovely Charlotte?’

  ‘She’s OK. We’ve got a history.’

  ‘SOCA? What a fiasco that was.’

  ‘We had our successes.’

  ‘Precious few. You wonder whoever thought that you could put together cops, customs officers and tax inspectors and end up with a cohesive unit. It was doomed to failure and its replacement isn’t going to do any better.’

  ‘Five is a more professional set-up, that’s for sure,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And what about job satisfaction?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘It has its moments.’

  ‘You could always move to Six.’

  ‘And work for you?’ Shepherd chuckled. ‘I’ll pass.’

  ‘Not necessarily for me,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘There are plenty of options. And the work’s challenging. Plenty of travel, too.’

  ‘I’m a single parent, travel’s not high on my agenda these days.’

  ‘Yes, but Liam’s at boarding school now, you don’t have to be home at night to tuck him in.’

  Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re still looking at my files, then?’

  Willoughby-Brown grinned with no trace of embarrassment. ‘I’m a spook, old lad. It’s what I do. Look, you have a good life at Five, I can see that. But that’s because Charlotte shields you from a lot of the crap that goes on. And she’s not going to be there for ever.’

  ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘I know lots of things, Shepherd.’

  ‘About Charlie?’

  ‘Let’s just say she’s not going to be in her current position for ever and the time might come when you’re not as happy there as you are at the moment. If the situation changes, I’d just like you to bear Six in mind. I said it back in Sierra Leone and I’ll say it again – you’re a perfect fit. If you’d been with Six and not Five it would have been you handling Raj and not Taz and maybe we wouldn’t be in the position we’re in.’

  ‘Is that you admitting that Taz was a mistake?’

  Willoughby-Brown smiled amicably. ‘I’m just saying that things might have worked out differently,’ he said. ‘Look, the beauty of Six is that our mandate is overseas so we don’t get caught up in all the domestic politics here. We make a real difference. Yes, we’ve got a problem with home-grown terrorists, but the major threats are overseas. They’re the ones pulling the strings and they’re the ones we need to take down.’ He ripped into his second croissant. ‘Anyway, I won’t press it,’ he said. ‘The offer stands and you know where to find me.’

  Shepherd pushed a forkful of egg and bacon into his mouth. There would be more chance of Hell freezing over than taking a job with Willoughby-Brown, but he thought it best not to say as much.

  Rafiq had no idea what time it was when he was taken from his cell. The door had been thrown open and two of his captors had stood for a moment in the doorway with savage grins on their faces. Rafiq had curled up into a foetal ball and waited for the beating, but it never came. They grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the cell and down a dusty corridor. Rafiq was sure that they were going to kill him and he tried to focus on the people he loved. His mother and father and his sister. If he was going to die, he wanted to be thinking about them. He tried to block out the horror of what was happening to him. Death would be painful but it wouldn’t take long. A few seconds. A minute at most. He had been beaten and tortured for hours, he was sure he could get through a few seconds of pain.

  He heard a door opening and he was dragged through to another room. There was a table and man sitting behind it. A bearded man in a long cotton dishdasha, with a white knitted skullcap atop a mop of curly black hair. Rafiq blinked, trying to focus. There was a brass teapot on the table, and plates of food: some fruit, some cubes of meat, slices of cheese and a stack of naan bread. There was a window behind the man and there was a halo of light around him, making it hard to make out his features. His two captors pushed him down on the chair. Rafiq slumped forward, his head in his hands.

  ‘You may eat,’ said the man.

  Rafiq didn’t react, wondering whether he had misheard the man.

  ‘There is food for you. Please, eat.’

  Rafiq heard tea being poured. He looked up. The man was holdi
ng the teapot.

  Rafiq closed his eyes and hugged himself. It was a trap. He was sure it was a trap.

  ‘Rafiq, you will need your strength if you are to get through this,’ said the man quietly.

  Rafiq opened his eyes. He blinked and focused on the plate of fruit. There were slices of orange, chunks of pineapple, and green grapes. He slowly reached out with his right hand, picked up a grape and pushed it between his cracked and bleeding lips. He bit down on it and the grape popped and his mouth was filled with sweetness. He swallowed and felt the soft flesh slide down his throat. He grabbed a handful of the grapes and began pushing them between his lips, biting once and swallowing.

  ‘Take your time,’ said the man. ‘Don’t eat too quickly.’ He had a hooked nose and his eyes were deep set, giving him the look of a bird of prey.

  Rafiq’s hands were shaking as he reached for a piece of goat’s cheese. He slotted it into his mouth and sighed as the rich creaminess of the cheese mixed with the sweetness of the grapes. He was certain that he had never tasted anything so delicious in his entire life.

  He reached for a chunk of lamb, knowing that it would be hard to digest but also knowing that he needed protein. His jaw ached as he chewed. He tried to eat quickly, fearful that the platter would be taken away from him, but his mouth had gone dry and he almost gagged.

  The man seemed to sense his discomfort and pushed a beaker of tea across the table towards Rafiq. Rafiq pushed the rest of the lamb into his mouth and then took a swallow of tea. It was sweet and minty, lukewarm rather than hot. He drained the beaker and the man refilled it for him.

  ‘My name is Mahmud,’ said the man. ‘And yours is Manraj Chaudhry.’ He smiled. ‘You see, Raj, I do not insult you by pretending not to know who you are. You are a man and I am a man, and men should be known by their true names.’

  Raj took another piece of lamb and began to chew on it. It wasn’t as tasty as the grapes or the cheese but long-term it would do him more good. And eating gave him time to think, and to get his thoughts in order. Mahmud knew who he was. There had been no doubt, it hadn’t been a question and he wasn’t asking for confirmation. He knew who Raj was, but did he know everything? Raj could feel his stomach churning and it wasn’t the food causing it. He had no choice; he had to continue with the lie. He had no choice because if he told the truth he’d be dead.

  Mahmud sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Raj swallowed the meat, then washed it down with more of the lukewarm mint tea.

  Mahmud continued to stare at Raj with featureless brown eyes, his face impassive.

  Raj picked up another piece of goat’s cheese.

  ‘The food is to your liking?’ asked Mahmud.

  Raj nodded but said nothing.

  Mahmud refilled Raj’s beaker. ‘You know your Qur’an?’ he asked softly.

  Raj swallowed and nodded. ‘Of course,’ said Raj.

  ‘Then you know what the Qur’an says about those who wage war against Allah?’

  ‘I am not waging war against Allah,’ said Raj. ‘I am a jihadist, that’s why I’m here, to train …’

  Mahmud put up his hand to silence Raj and smiled sadly. ‘The Qur’an says the punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger and strive to make mischief in the land is only this, that they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or they should be imprisoned.’ The man put his hands palms down on the table. ‘The punishment is harsh, but deserved,’ he said. ‘Those Muslims who side with the infidel are the lowest of the low.’

  Raj found it difficult to swallow and he gulped down some more tea.

  ‘But it is never too late to return to the fold, brother,’ said Mahmud. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You have made bad choices, Raj. But you have the opportunity now to put that right.’

  ‘What do you think I’ve done?’ asked Raj. ‘Someone is lying to you, Mahmud. I am here to learn how to fight the infidel. I have given up everything to be here. I have left my family, I have given up my studies, I have put my life on hold to fight the good fight.’

  Mahmud nodded. ‘I understand your desire to lie, Raj,’ he said. ‘You are clinging to the hope that you can lie your way out of this. I have no doubt that your handler said that there was no way you would be caught. But he was wrong, Raj. Your handler lied to you.’ He poured more tea into the beaker and placed the pot on the table. ‘What is his name, Raj? This man who lied to you?’

  Raj tried to fake a look of confusion, as if he didn’t know what Mahmud was talking about. ‘Mahmud, there has been a mistake. I’m not what you think I am. I am here to learn, that’s all.’ He lifted the beaker to his lips but his hand shook and tea spilled on to the table.

  ‘He cannot help you, your handler,’ said Mahmud. ‘In fact he will have already given up on you. He will be protecting himself, that will be his first concern. He will be removing all evidence that you ever worked for MI6. And he will be doing whatever he can to protect his other agents.’

  Raj took a handful of grapes and put one in his mouth.

  ‘The one thing that he won’t be doing is trying to rescue you, Raj. You must put any thoughts of rescue out of your mind. He has thrown you to the wolves. Now that you are no longer any use to him, you have been discarded.’

  Raj put the grapes down on the table. His stomach was churning and while he knew that he needed the nourishment, he no longer felt like eating. ‘Mahmud, please, you have to believe me. I don’t work for MI6. I don’t work for anybody. I gave up everything to come here. I am prepared to die for Allah. If you truly believe that I am a traitor to Islam, then you must kill me.’

  ‘Is that what you want, brother? You want me to kill you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t want that,’ said Raj. ‘But I don’t know what else to say.’

  ‘The truth,’ said Mahmud. ‘You need to tell me the truth, because that is the only thing that will save you.’

  ‘I am telling you the truth!’ protested Raj.

  Mahmud shook his head sadly. ‘No, brother, you are not.’ He sighed. ‘And if you do not tell the truth, there is nothing I can do to help you.’

  ‘Mahmud, please, you must listen to me.’

  ‘I am listening to you, Raj. That’s why I’m here. To listen.’

  Raj swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again and he reached for his tea. Mahmud’s hand flashed out like a striking snake and gripped his wrist. His nails dug into Raj’s flesh, making him wince.

  ‘But there is no point in me listening if you are going to lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ said Raj. ‘I’m not.’

  Mahmud released his grip on Raj’s wrist. ‘Do you have any idea what they will do to you if you don’t tell the truth?’ he said.

  Raj massaged his wrist. He looked down at the table, unable to meet the man’s gaze. There was no point in protesting his innocence. Mahmud clearly knew that he was working for MI6.

  ‘They will take off your head, Raj. While you are alive. Have you ever witnessed a beheading?’

  Raj shook his head.

  ‘What, never? You have never looked at YouTube? Curiosity never got the better of you?’

  Raj closed his eyes. His chest felt tight as if it were in the grip of a vice and he could barely breathe.

  ‘The brain continues to function after the head is severed,’ said Mahmud. ‘Sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for as long as half a minute. The eyes can blink and move. The mouth opens and closes. The body also continues to move. The chest heaves. Arms and legs thrash about.’

  Raj shuddered but continued to stare at the table.

  ‘Think how your mother and father will feel, seeing you die like that,’ said Mahmud. ‘And Jamila. Think of the effect it would have on her. You are planning to marry her, aren’t you?’

  Raj looked up, his heart racing. Mahmud was watching him with amused eyes. ‘You think I don’t know everything there is to know about you? And your family?
’ He leant back in his chair. ‘You don’t seriously want to die, do you, Raj? You want to marry Jamila and have children and you want to watch them grow up and when you’ve lived a full and happy life then you’d want to die peacefully in your own bed surrounded by your family.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘It is time for you to tell me everything, Raj.’

  Raj stared into Mahmud’s brown eyes. The man was smiling but there was no warmth in his gaze. He was studying Raj as if he were a specimen on a microscope slide. Raj’s mind raced. Mahmud seemed to know everything. But if he knew everything, why even bother with a conversation? What was it that he wanted from him? And whatever the information was that he wanted, what would happen if and when Raj gave it to him?

  ‘Your handler has abandoned you, Raj. There is no ransom to be paid, you will not be exchanged for another prisoner. You are on your own. The only friend you have is the man sitting across from you. Let me be your friend, Raj. Let me help you get out of the hole you have dug for yourself.’

  Raj blinked back tears.

  ‘This is your chance to help me help you. I beg you, please take it.’

  Raj took a deep breath, then slowly shook his head. ‘I’m a loyal servant of Allah, here to learn how to become a jihadist,’ he said. ‘Allahu akbar. God is great.’

  Mahmud pushed back his chair and slowly stood up, then walked around the table. He patted Raj on the shoulder and left the room. A few seconds later the two big bearded men burst in, grabbed Raj and pulled him off the chair. They began to kick him, all the time screaming insults at him. Raj curled up in a ball and begged for mercy even though he knew that there would be none forthcoming.

  The AgustaWestland AW109 banked to the left and came in for a perfect landing on the square helipad to the south of the Credenhill barracks, home to the SAS. Major Allan Gannon was standing next to a green open-top Land Rover at the edge of the helipad, wearing a black tracksuit and black Nike trainers. As soon as the wheels of the helicopter touched the tarmac, Shepherd pulled open the side door and climbed out, then jogged over to the Major, bent at the waist even though he knew that the whirling rotor blades were well above his head.