Drake counted down with his fingers. On five, Croft kicked in the door and then immediately moved to the left. Henderson, Morales and Sanders moved into the building in single file, so close that they were touching. They all moved to the right like some three-headed six-legged animal, the barrels of their carbines covering the room. It was empty.
Croft followed them, covering the staircase, then Drake led in the rest, moving to the left.
A target appeared at the top of the stairs and Croft shot it twice, in the chest.
Henderson, Morales and Sanders moved into the next room and Drake heard all three men fire, taking out the targets at the rear of the house, followed a few seconds later by shouts of ‘clear!’
Drake stepped to the side, covering the stairs with Croft, and waved for Wood, Garcia and Peterson to go ahead. They moved as a well-coordinated unit, slightly crouched and their carbines constantly moving. As they entered the room at the top of the stairs there were several bursts of fire and a shout of ‘Clear! Hostage rescued!’
‘Well done, guys, that was textbook!’ shouted Drake. ‘We’ll reset and go again in five minutes.’
There were choruses of ‘hooyah’ from the team as they headed outside. Drake stretched and looked up at the roof, where a network of metal catwalks criss-crossed the mock rooms. Officers often observed from the gantries and there were facilities for recording practice sessions so that they could be analysed later. There were two figures standing looking down at them. Lieutenant Commander Villiers was casually dressed in a blue polo shirt and black jeans, leaning forward with his elbows on the railing. He nodded at Drake and Drake nodded back. Standing next to the LC was a civilian, a grey-haired man in his fifties who had been watching all the rehearsals. The LC hadn’t introduced the man but from his bearing and quiet air of confidence, Drake assumed he was former military now working for the CIA or DIA or any one of the plethora of initials that made up the country’s intelligence services.
The LC had asked Drake to run through a series of close-quarter battle scenarios to give the team a chance to get to know each other. They still didn’t know what envir-onment they would be operating in when they got to Pakistan, but at some point they would almost certainly be charging into a building occupied by al-Qaeda fighters.
Croft appeared at Drake’s shoulder. ‘Nice work,’ said Drake.
‘It’s good to be doing it rather than instructing,’ said Croft. ‘You know Tiger Woods was here, a few years ago?’
‘You’re shitting me,’ said Drake.
‘Nah, it was in the old House of Horrors, before they allowed live rounds. He always wanted to be a SEAL – his dad was a Green Beret, remember? Anyway, one of the commanders was a big golfing fan so he had him in here a few times.’
‘Taking part?’ They walked together back to the door.
‘Hell, yeah. Back then it was pop-up targets and rubber bullets so it was safe enough. Except he got shot in the leg. There was hell to pay. He was lucky it was rubber rounds back then, could have ended his whole career right there.’
‘That’s what they get for taking tourists around,’ said Drake. He looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got time for one more run-through,’ he said. ‘Then we’re off to Kabul.’
‘Do we have a target yet?’ asked Croft. He followed Drake through the door. The rest of the team were gathered some distance away, checking their weapons.
‘They’re working on it,’ said Drake.
‘It’s all a bit rushed, isn’t it?’
‘They want us primed and ready to go,’ said Drake. ‘That way as soon as they get a location we can be in the air.’ He called the rest of the SEALs over and they gathered around him. ‘Right, guys, just so you know, we’re looking to pull two hostages out. I’ll have photographs for you after this session and I need you to familiarise yourself with them. They’re both Brits. One is white, and Guy and Adam are familiar with him. Just under six feet, brown hair. The other guy is also a Brit but of Pakistani heritage so we’re going to have to be very careful about who we shoot. Any friendly fire is going to be more than embarrassing. We’re going to have to be very, very careful out there because Raj will look like one of the bad guys. That’s his name, Raj or Manraj, and he lives in London. He supports Arsenal so that’s a good check question to ask him for confirmation.’
‘Arsenal?’ asked Morales frowning. ‘What’s an Arsenal?’
‘It’s a London soccer team,’ said Drake. ‘Seriously, guys, the whole point of this mission is to get these guys out in one piece so no SNAFUs.’ He checked to see that his message had been received and understood.
‘And there’s one other thing. I’ll be giving you a photograph of an Arab by the name of Akram Al-Farouq. He’s an al-Qaeda heavy hitter believed to be on the premises. Our ancillary mission is to bring him back alive. If not, he’s a valid target. He is a major intel source so we’ll look good if we can turn him in.’
The men nodded.
‘Right, let’s go to it,’ said Drake.
There was another chorus of ‘hooyah’ from the SEALs before they moved into position for the next assault.
Usmani closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘That’s everything, man,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Let me ask you a question, mate,’ said Harper. ‘You were born here, right? You’re British. You’re not a Pakistani, right?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Because I don’t understand why you’re doing what you’re doing. This is your country. It’s your home. Why are you so hell bent on destroying it?’
Usmani looked up at him, blinking. ‘Are you stupid, man? I’m a Muslim. They want to kill us. It’s a war.’
‘Who wants to kill you?’
‘The government. They invaded Afghanistan, they invaded Iraq. They’re killing our brothers and sisters around the world. Someone has to make a stand.’
‘By doing what? Blowing up Tube trains? Shooting down planes? You’ve been training to attack civilians. If you went off to try to assassinate Blair or Bush then maybe I’d say good luck to you, but killing civilians is just plain evil.’
Usmani spat at the floor. ‘Evil? The kafirs are evil, not us.’ He cleared his throat and spat again. ‘I’m a Muslim first. That’s all that matters to me.’
‘And that’s fine, mate. You’re free to believe whatever you want. That’s the beauty of living in Britain, right? You want to believe the world is flat or the moon is made of green cheese, that’s up to you. Nobody forces you to believe something you don’t want to.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Usmani.
Harper walked slowly around the man. ‘I do understand, that’s the problem,’ he said. ‘You don’t want people to make their own choices. You want to force your religion down the throat of every man, woman and child in the country.’
‘Islam is the only true religion,’ said Usmani. ‘Allahu akbar. God is great.’
‘Allahu akbar,’ said Harper, taking his gun out. He pointed the barrel at the back of Usmani’s head. ‘God is great.’ He turned the gun around in his hand and brought the butt smashing down on the back of Usmani’s head.
Shepherd woke as soon as he heard the bolts being drawn back and he was sitting up as the door was flung open. Hands grabbed him and dragged him out into the corridor. Two big men with AK-47s kept their distance and watched him with sullen eyes. They took him to the end of the corridor and through a door into a large room with a window overlooking a small courtyard where water sprayed from a small fountain. There was a man standing looking out of the window and he turned to look at Shepherd as he was pushed into the room. He had a beaked nose and dark patches under his eyes and was wearing a long grey dishdasha robe and a small woollen skullcap atop a mop of curly hair. ‘My name is Mahmud,’ said the man. ‘May I know your name?’ He stroked his beard as he waited for Shepherd to answer.
Shepherd looked at the man but said nothing. He knew his name wasn’t Mahmud. She
pherd’s memory was near-infallible at the best of times but he had seen the man’s photographs only a few days earlier. It was Akram Al-Farouq. The al-Qaeda paymaster.
‘You can tell me your name, surely?’ said Al-Farouq. ‘If you tell me your name and where you are from, we can contact your embassy.’
Shepherd stared at him in silence.
Al-Farouq smiled. ‘Never mind,’ he said. He pointed at a chair. ‘There are clothes there you can wear,’ he said. There was a grey cotton tunic and a pair of beige cotton pants. Shepherd pulled on the pants and tied them with a drawstring, then he pulled on the tunic. ‘It’s not a perfect fit, but I suppose it is better than nothing,’ said Al-Farouq. ‘Now please sit.’
Shepherd sat down on a wooden chair facing a small table on which there was a brass teapot and two cups. Al-Farouq said something to the two men in a language that he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t Arabic or Urdu so he figured it was probably Pashto, one of the two official languages of Afghanistan that was also widely spoken in north-western Pakistan. The men went to stand by the door and folded their arms.
Al-Farouq sat down and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘You’re not helping yourself with your silence, you realise that? You are clearly not a Pakistani so I doubt that they will help you. If you don’t tell us where you are from, you will stay here and rot. Is that what you want? To die far from home, surrounded by strangers?’
Shepherd said nothing.
‘Do you have a wife? Children? Don’t you want them to know that you are safe?’ He smiled. ‘Yes, you have a family, I think. You look like a family man. Think how they must be feeling, not knowing if you are alive or dead.’
Shepherd felt his jaw tense involuntarily. He saw a small smile of satisfaction flit across the man’s face and knew that he had seen the muscle twitch. He continued to sit in silence.
‘You are American?’ asked Al-Farouq. He shook his head slowly. ‘No. Not American. Americans are bigger, with squarer jaws. You are not American.’ He frowned. ‘British? Are you British? But why would a Brit be with Pakistani Special Forces?’
Shepherd fought to keep his face blank as he stared at Al-Farouq.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Al-Farouq. ‘Thirsty? All you have to do is ask.’ He smiled and waited, then waved at the teapot. ‘There is tea. Would you like tea?’
Shepherd looked down at the table.
‘I can get you some water. Or some fruit. Would you like some fruit?’
Shepherd said nothing.
‘You have nothing to say to me?’
Shepherd kept his eyes averted.
‘I know you are British, of course. So if you are refusing to speak because you are worried that I will recognise your accent, you are wasting your time.’ Al-Farouq folded his arms. ‘The satellite phone you were carrying. You had called a London number on it. Who did you call?’
Shepherd tensed but he didn’t look up. Had they brought the phone with them? If they had, and he could switch it on, it would notify Button of his location. He had to find out where the sat phone was.
‘You are here for Rafiq, aren’t you? This is also how I know you are British. He is your man, isn’t he?’
Shepherd folded his arms and stared at the teapot. It was too soon to be talking. He had to make the man work for it.
‘You shouted his name. Remember?’
Shepherd stayed silent.
‘Would you like to see him? That could easily be arranged.’
Shepherd said nothing.
Al-Farouq sighed. ‘Very well, then.’ He clicked his fingers and made a flicking motion with his two hands. The two men standing by the door walked towards Shepherd. Al-Farouq spoke to them in Pashto and they grabbed Shepherd by the arms and hauled him out of the chair. ‘Next time you are back in this room, you will be more forthcoming, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘The pain you are about to experience is the result of your own intransigence, remember that.’
The two men hauled Shepherd out of the room. The men with Kalashnikovs were waiting for him in the corridor.
Charlotte Button’s mobile rang as she was opening a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the kitchen. She put down the bottle and took the call. The number was blocked but she recognised Richard Yokely as soon as he spoke. ‘Not calling at a bad time, am I?’ he said. ‘I can never get the hang of time differences.’
‘It’s nine o’clock in the evening,’ she said. ‘I’m just opening a bottle of wine. Where are you?’
‘I’m just leaving Virginia Beach,’ said Yokely. ‘Heading for the sandbox. I just wanted to touch base with you about the lovely Salma. Have you seen a photograph, by the way?’
‘I haven’t, no.’
‘Well, I’m looking at her photograph right now and I can tell you she’s a little cutie. Long black hair, almond eyes, soft silky skin, fit body, I can see how she managed to entrance your agent.’
‘He’s not an agent, he’s an officer, and he’s not mine, he’s MI6.’
‘Well, her name is Salma Jawanda, and a cursory look suggests that she’s a typical young Pakistani girl, middle-class family, university educated, Muslim but not fundamentalist, covers her head on family occasions but happy to knock back the odd glass of wine. But when I dug a little deeper all sorts of alarm bells started to ring, especially that phone number you gave me. I’ve checked the phone records and over the past year she’s talked to a lot of people on our watch list. When she was at university she was a leading light in the student wing of Jamiat Ulema Islam and the Imamia Students Organisation. When she left university she went very quiet politically. She works for a public relations company with some big American clients. I’m told she’s gotten quite close to some of those clients, too.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think someone is using her. Someone who spotted her potential at university and who taught her how to stay below the radar. Do you know how she met your man?’
‘I’ll find out,’ said Button.
‘One of the numbers she called belongs to a guy we’re definitely interested in. A Saudi by the name of Saeed al-Haznawi who’s been on our no-fly list for the last five years. And she was calling him several times a day just before the SSG went in.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think you know what I think, Charlotte. The question is, what we’re going to do next.’
The technique had many names, including bastinado, falanga and falak. The Germans used to call it Sohlenstreich. It was one of the most efficient – and painful – torture techniques, with the added advantage that it left few physical marks. Most people knew it as foot-whipping.
They had tied Shepherd to a wooden chair and fixed his legs in a set of stocks. There were two of them administering the punishment. They were either Afghans or Pakistanis – Shepherd didn’t know for sure because they never spoke. The taller of the two administered the blows with a long, flexible cane. The shorter man’s weapon of choice was a short flexible club made of hard rubber.
The pain was intense, and after the first few blows Shepherd had screamed at the top of his voice. The reason foot-whipping was so effective was because of the cluster of nerve endings in the foot, along with lots of small bones that were easily fractured. The excruciating pain was temporary; Shepherd could bear it because he knew it would pass, but what worried him was the damage that they were doing, short-term and long-term.
The pain wasn’t as bad as when they had suspended him from the ceiling. The suspension torture had been unrelenting, and every movement had sent searing bolts of agony through his arms and shoulders, but at least he had kept passing out, which meant there had been a break until he recovered. With foot-whipping there was no passing out. Just pain. And screaming.
The two men took it in turns to beat the soles of his feet. They said nothing to him, but every now and again they spoke to each other in their own language. The one with the cane had taken h
is shirt off and his upper body was bathed in sweat from the exertion. He had a large gut that wobbled with every blow, and flabby bits of skin under his arms that swung to and fro. When he tired he had leant against the wall, breathing heavily, while his colleague continued the torture.
The cane and the rubber club produced completely different sensations. The cane was like an electric shock, it stung rather than burned. The club produced a duller pain that affected the whole foot.
The men weren’t there to question him, they were there only to inflict pain. It wasn’t personal, they weren’t doing it because they hated him or because they took pleasure from his suffering. They did it because they were following orders. It was part of the process, and eventually it would end. So Shepherd screamed and shouted and tried to get free, even though he knew everything he did was futile. They would stop when they stopped and not before.
In between the blows and the pain, Shepherd tried to get his thoughts together. They must have switched the sat phone on to have known that he had called a UK number. The crucial question was where the phone had been when it was switched on, because if Charlie had been looking for it she would have seen its location. And Al-Farouq knew that Shepherd knew Raj. It had been a risk shouting out for Raj but he’d had no choice. Now he knew that Raj was in the building. But when Al-Farouq started asking questions again, Raj would be high up on his list. Shepherd had to make sure that he had his story straight. He wouldn’t be able to stay silent for ever. At some point he would have to talk, and that meant he would have to lie.
Lex Harper lit a cigarette and blew smoke out through the open window of his van. His mobile phone rang and he answered it. It was Charlotte Button. ‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.
Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies Page 26
