Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I’m in Bradford,’ he said. ‘I’m looking at the mosque as we speak.’

  ‘I need something soon, Lex,’ she said.

  ‘I know that,’ said Harper. ‘But he’s a hard man to pin down. You know he’s got three families?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It wasn’t in the file you gave me, I got the details from one of his jihadists. Three wives, three families, three houses. He’s got four kids with one wife, two with another and his latest wife – she’s a teenager by the look of her – is pregnant. He moves between all three homes so you can never be sure where he is.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘If I can nail down which house he’s staying in tonight, I can pick him up first thing when he leaves for pre-dawn prayers. Any news from Paki-land?’

  ‘I’ve a few irons in the fire, but any intel you can get would be a big help.’

  ‘I should have something for you tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Soon as you can, Lex. Spider’s clock is ticking.’

  Shepherd touched his feet gingerly, and winced. He was sitting with his back to the wall facing the cell door. He stretched his legs out slowly and wiggled his toes. So far as he could tell there was nothing broken. His feet hurt like hell but there wasn’t the searing pain of a fracture.

  He’d been back in the cell for several hours. They’d dragged him all the way because his feet couldn’t bear his weight. They’d let him keep his clothes and they’d given him a bowl of rancid water and a bowl of rice and some sort of vegetable. He’d eaten half the rice. At one point he’d crunched down on something hard. He had a horrible feeling it was an insect of some sort but he’d swallowed it anyway. Protein was protein, when all was said and done.

  He tried to calculate how many days he’d spent in the cell. Four? Five? There was no way of telling, he didn’t even know what time of day it was outside. The only point of reference he had was that when he was taken to see Al-Farouq it had been daylight, but he’d lost track of the time since then.

  Charlotte Button would be looking for him, he was sure of that. But looking and finding were two very different things. He had been unconscious when they’d taken him from the fort, probably for an hour or so. And he’d spent several more hours in the truck before they’d hauled him into his present cell. That meant he was as little as four hours’ drive from the fort. Assuming the truck managed forty miles an hour on the rough roads, that would put him a hundred and sixty miles from the fort. If the trip had taken six hours then he’d be two hundred and forty miles away. That was a lot of area to cover. The only thing that would narrow the search was that the area didn’t have much in the way of roads.

  They’d be using satellites and drones to search for him, but he doubted that his captors would be allowing him outside any time soon. He had to do something that would help them find him. But the only thing he could think of was the sat phone and he doubted that Al-Farouq would be stupid enough to let Shepherd get his hands on it.

  So far they hadn’t done any permanent damage, which was good of them. He assumed that his torturers had been told by Al-Farouq not to push it too hard, to cause him pain but not to break any bones or damage any vital organs. He’d been able to tolerate the pain, albeit with a lot of shouting and screaming. He wasn’t sure how brave he would be if they had threatened to cut out an eye or pull out a tooth, either of which were options available to them. There was no Human Rights Act, no rule book that al-Qaeda had to follow. They could do whatever they wanted with no comebacks. The fact that his torture had been bearable meant that they were effectively going easy on him.

  He rolled up some rice into a ball and slipped it between his lips, chewing it slowly to get the maximum nutritional value from it. He tried not to think about what the next stage of the process would be. If he was lucky, they’d take him back for another chat with Al-Farouq. If he wasn’t lucky … Shepherd shuddered and tried to think happier thoughts.

  Charlotte Button made herself a cheese omelette and a green salad, poured herself a glass of wine and carried it through to the living room, where her television was already tuned to Newsnight. She sat and toyed with her food as Jeremy Paxman grilled a Tory politician about the failure of the government to deal with the growing problem of illiterate school leavers. She didn’t have much of an appetite but knew that she had to eat to keep her strength up. She picked up the glass and smiled to herself. She hadn’t lost her taste for alcohol, and there was no doubt it did help her sleep at night.

  She had photographs of Saeed Al-Haznawi and Salma Jawanda on the coffee table and she stared at them as she chewed thoughtfully on a forkful of egg and cucumber. She swallowed and sipped some wine, then put down her fork and picked up her mobile. She had Yokely’s number on speed-dial but the moment she heard it ring out she remembered that he wasn’t in the States any more and Kabul was four and a half hours ahead of London. He answered on the fifth ring, and to her relief sounded wide awake. ‘Richard, I’m sorry, I’d already dialled when I remembered you’re in Afghanistan.’

  ‘That’s all right, Charlotte, I’m not a big one for sleeping these days. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m just looking at a photograph of the lovely Salma Jawanda.’

  ‘She is pretty, isn’t she? You can see how she would have turned your man’s head.’

  ‘There’s no doubt, is there? She passed the info on the raid to Al-Haznawi?’

  ‘She called him almost as soon as she’d finishing talking to your man.’

  ‘Please stop calling him that, Richard. He isn’t my man, never has been and never will be.’

  ‘No offence. I meant the MI6 kid. As soon as he spilled the beans she called Al-Haznawi. That’s can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Have you found out anything else about her?’

  ‘Not much more to add, I’m afraid. She keeps a very low profile. For obvious reasons.’

  ‘What about questioning her? Either get your people to do it, or hand her over to the ISI.’

  ‘We could do that, but as soon as we move against her, Al-Haznawi will know. He’ll go to ground. And probably tip off Al-Farouq.’

  ‘So why not pull in Al-Haznawi at the same time? Get them to tell us where Al-Farouq is?’

  ‘Again, if Al-Farouq realises that we’re questioning Al-Haznawi, there’s a possibility that he’ll just disappear. The last thing we need is him hiding in a Tora Bora cave. You sound worried, Charlotte.’

  ‘Of course I’m worried. I can only guess what hell they’re putting Spider through. And Raj is a rank amateur. He hasn’t been trained to withstand interrogation.’

  ‘What’s your worry? That they’ll kill him or that he’ll talk?’

  ‘There isn’t much Raj can tell them,’ said Button.

  ‘Just names, I assume. Including yours.’

  Button laughed. ‘In these days of open government, names of the MI5 big guns are easy enough to find. I just want my men home, Richard.’

  ‘How are things moving on that front?’

  ‘Slowly.’

  ‘Then there is one thing you might consider. It’d be risky, but it would be guaranteed to get things moving.’

  Button picked up her wine glass. ‘I’m listening.’

  Shepherd was sleeping when they came for him, dreaming fitfully about running through a wood, branches tearing at his face and arms, dogs barking somewhere behind him. He was being hunted but he didn’t know by whom or why, just that he was being chased. He wasn’t aware of the bolts being drawn back or of their footsteps crossing the floor; the first he knew was when they hauled him to his feet.

  They dragged him out of the cell and along the corridor. Shepherd’s feet were painful but he managed to stay upright. He was bracing himself for more torture when he realised that they were taking him back to the room where he had met Al-Farouq. He relaxed a little.

  Al-Farouq was standing looking out of the window at the tinkling fountain. He waited until the men had pushed
Shepherd down on to the chair before turning to look at him, a broad smile on his face. The brass teapot was on the table again, and this time there were plates of food – some chicken and what looked like lamb, some naan bread and yogurt, and fresh fruit. Shepherd couldn’t see the sun through the window so other than the fact it was daytime he had no clue as to the time. The men who had brought him to the room stood either side of the door, their arms folded. A third man stood in the far corner of the room, cradling an AK-47. He had a curved knife sticking out of a thick leather belt.

  Al-Farouq sat down and waved at the food. ‘Please, help yourself,’ he said. ‘I am sure you must be hungry.’

  Shepherd thought about ignoring the offer, but he knew that his body needed protein. He reached for a piece of chicken.

  ‘Good,’ said Al-Farouq. ‘You need your strength.’ He poured two cups of mint tea as Shepherd chewed on the meat. He pushed one cup towards Shepherd and then sipped from the other before smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘You are special forces, aren’t you?’ asked Al-Farouq. ‘SAS?’

  Shepherd said nothing as he continued to chew.

  ‘Or MI6? You do not look like a spy, though.’ He smiled. ‘Real spies are nothing like they are in the movies. They are generally overweight and bald. Too much time sitting at desks. Soldiers are fit and usually have their own hair. You look like a soldier to me. And I am told you fought well at Parachinar. You stormed the building, even though you knew you were outgunned.’ He nodded and sipped his tea again.

  Shepherd took another piece of chicken.

  ‘You cannot stay silent for ever, you know that?’ said Al-Farouq. ‘The pain you have suffered this far is nothing compared with what can be done to you. Have you ever had chilli rubbed into your eyes? Or your toenails removed with pliers? I know they have been beating your feet with canes, but can you imagine the pain if they were beating your testicles?’ He shrugged. ‘My people are expert at inflicting pain. They have spent a lifetime perfecting the art.’

  Shepherd swallowed and took another piece of chicken.

  ‘You are a Brit? At least tell me that.’

  Shepherd stared at Al-Farouq, weighing his options. He could get away without speaking only for so long. At some point they would hurt him so badly that he would have to talk, if only to stop the pain. He was on a downward slope health-wise; the chicken he was eating would give him a few hours of energy but his body was already breaking down its fat stores and before long would start work on his muscle. At least if he showed signs of cooperating, they would continue to feed him. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Al-Farouq beamed. ‘Excellent,’ he said. He nodded enthusiastically. ‘And why were you with the SSG?’

  ‘I was there as an adviser,’ said Shepherd. ‘The mission was to rescue a British citizen.’

  ‘Rafiq?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Yes. Rafiq Mahar.’

  Al-Farouq sipped his tea again. ‘You should try the tea,’ he said. ‘It is delicious.’

  ‘I am a prisoner of war, and I formally request that you inform the British embassy of my whereabouts,’ said Shepherd.

  Al-Farouq chuckled softly, his eyes as hard as flint. ‘I would be more than happy to do that,’ he said. ‘But I will need your name, first.’

  Shepherd chewed on his chicken but didn’t say anything.

  ‘His name isn’t Rafiq,’ said Al-Farouq eventually. ‘You know that, of course? So that was very clever of you, to call out his cover name.’ Al-Farouq nodded slowly. ‘Very clever indeed. Does he know you, I wonder? Does Manraj know you?’ He smiled, like a shark going in for the kill. ‘Why don’t we find out?’

  He clicked his fingers at the man standing to the left of the door and said something to him in Pashto or Arabic. The man left the room. Al-Farouq watched Shepherd eat in silence. Shepherd swallowed his chicken, then drank some tea before grabbing a chunk of lamb. Eventually there were footsteps in the corridor and the door opened. Shepherd looked over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of a warrior with an AK-47 peering in and then he stepped to the side and Shepherd saw Raj. He looked a lot older than the last time they’d met, even though only two years had passed. There were subtle changes in the structure of his face, the result of the plastic surgery he’d undergone, and he had a straggly, unkempt beard. But it was his eyes that worried Shepherd the most. There were blank, almost dead, as if all the life had been sucked from him.

  He walked with his shoulders slumped, his arms by his side, his plastic sandals scuffing across the floor. His escort closed the door and Raj stood there, swaying from side to side.

  ‘Tell me, Manraj,’ said Al-Farouk, waving a hand at Shepherd. ‘Do you know this man?’

  Raj looked up, his face a blank mask. He stared at Shepherd and tilted his head on one side.

  ‘He has come from England to see you,’ said Al-Farouq. ‘Do you know him?’

  Raj shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered.

  Richard Yokely sat in the operations room at Basra airfield, twenty-five miles to the north of Kabul. He had his feet up on the table as he munched on a club sandwich. By his side was a carton of Tropicana orange juice. He was wearing a headset and had three cellphones lined up by his feet. On the other side of the airfield, the Navy SEALs were all primed and ready to go. All they needed was a location.

  A call came in through his headset. Charlotte Button. ‘Are you good to go, Richard?’ she asked.

  ‘Locked and loaded,’ said Yokely. ‘I have her number being monitored. You’ll get a feed of her calls and text messages. I have two teams on foot and two teams in vehicles close to her as we speak.’

  ‘And the eye in the sky?’

  ‘Taking off at this very moment,’ said Yokely. ‘Should be over Islamabad in a little over two hours.’ He looked across at one of the blank screens and then looked at his wristwatch, a multi-dialled Breitling. He was expecting a live video feed from the RQ-170 Sentinel within the next ten minutes as it made its way to Islamabad. Yokely swung his feet off the table, stood up and looked out of the window. In the distance he could see the pristine white drone waiting for take-off.

  The Sentinel was one of the most secret airplanes in the world. It had never been photographed close up and its manufacturer, Lockheed Martin, remained tight lipped about its specifications. It was a tailless flying wing, some twenty metres across, with the upper surface of the wing kitted out with pods packed with sensors and communication equipment, and it had full motion video capability. It was powered by a single General Electric turbofan engine producing more than nine thousand pounds of thrust. Unlike the better-known Reapers and Predators, the Sentinel didn’t carry weapons. The Sentinel was all about surveillance and stealth. It was pretty much invisible to radar, which meant it could operate at a lower height than most drones, with a working altitude of about fifteen thousand metres.

  The Sentinel was being launched from Basra but once it had reached operation altitude control would be handed over to a three-man team from the 30th Reconnaissance Squadron, some 7,500 miles away in Nevada’s Tonopah Test Range Airport. Three years earlier a Sentinel flown by a team at Tonopah had beamed back live footage of the Navy SEAL attack that had led to the death of Bin Laden. Since then the Sentinels had made regular flights into Pakistan airspace, leading to protests by the Pakistan government and calls for the US to stop its spy flights. As always, the protests were ignored. Once the Nevada team had control of the drone they would fly it just under a hundred miles to the Pakistan border, and another hundred miles or so to Islamabad, where it would start beaming live video to Yokely’s operations room and to Charlotte Button in London. Yokely had set up lines of direct communication with the piloting team in Nevada, with Charlotte Button in Thames House in London, with Lieutenant Commander Dick Blanchard in Virginia Beach, and with his CIA technical expert, Eric Feinstein, in Langley, Virginia.

  ‘And the SEALs?’ asked Button.

  ‘Getting some shut-eye. Their plane is fuelled and all their gear is on board.
They can be in the air in thirty minutes.’

  ‘What plane are they using?’

  ‘They were thinking about using a converted Boeing 727 in case they get picked up on Pakistan’s radar, but they’re going to be so close to the border they’ve decided to stick with the Hercules C-130. The plane will be staying at thirty thousand feet so if they do get spotted they’ll just assume it’s an airliner that’s drifted across the border. How are things at your end?’

  ‘Getting all my ducks in a row,’ she said. ‘Two hours sounds about right. I’ll call you once we’re ready.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ said Yokely, swinging his feet back up on to the table and reaching for his orange juice.

  Lex Harper opened the rear doors of the Transit van and stretched. Mohammed Ullah had just shut his front door and was walking along the pavement, fingering a set of prayer beads in his right hand. He was wearing a dark green quilted jacket over a long flowing shirt and baggy trousers, and sandals over thick grey socks.

  Harper was wearing a parka with the hood down so that the imam couldn’t fail to notice the white-knitted Muslim skullcap he was wearing. ‘Good morning, brother,’ said Harper as the imam drew level with him.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Ullah.

  ‘Are you by any chance Mohammed Ullah?’

  ‘I am,’ said Ullah. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I’m your neighbour,’ said Harper. ‘I live at number fifty-four. Some of your mail was put into my letterbox by mistake.’ He took his left hand out of his coat pocket and held out three brown envelopes. ‘I was going to pop them round later.’

  ‘Thank you brother, that is good of you,’ said Ullah. He held out his hand for the letters.

  Harper took a step closer to the imam. As Ullah took the letters, Harper’s right hand emerged from his parka, holding the stun gun. He jammed the prongs against Ullah’s chest and pressed the trigger. There was a loud cracking sound and Ullah stiffened. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened wide and then he dropped to the ground. Harper caught him and dragged him to the rear of the Transit and rolled him inside. He looked around to reassure himself that no one was looking before jumping into the back and pulling the doors shut behind him. He used a roll of duct tape to bind the imam’s wrists and ankles, then shoved a piece of rag into the man’s mouth and used duct tape to hold it in place. Ullah was still unconscious when Harper slid into the driving seat and started the engine.