‘You’ve made a big mistake,’ she says, putting her hands on his knees. ‘But you can make things right.’
He gulps, on the verge of tears.
‘I thought she was one of yours.’
One of hers?
He shrugs his shoulders impatiently.
‘Yes, one of your colleagues,’ he says. ‘She said she knew you. That you worked together. I thought . . .’
Then it is as if he hears how silly it sounds and falls silent with a resigned sigh.
The British are good, she thinks. They saw something that was true and used it. A calculated risk: claiming to know his wife. And then they could tempt him with the closeness she could never give him.
He sobs.
‘I was curious,’ he says quietly. ‘I didn’t think . . .’
‘I understand, Fredrik.’
She strokes his knees.
‘Just do it,’ she says. ‘If you care about me and the boys, then do exactly as my boss says.’
And finally there seems to be a little resolve in him. She gets up and hurries into the corridor and knocks on the next door, calling out that they should get some coffee. Returning, she takes one of the whisky miniatures from the minibar and hands it to Fredrik.
‘Drink.’
The tearful fear is gone – he has accepted that he must play his role. He obediently knocks back the spirit. Then she tells him to wash his face with ice-cold water, lots of water, it mustn’t be visible that he has been crying.
20
Robert has sent a compilation of questions that his department needs answers to. Does Pathfinder really have answers to all of these? Are they within him? But there is no use in adopting the man’s fear as one’s own – he is annoyed that the thought even crossed his mind. The man is a terrorist, he tells himself, or at least a man who cooperates with terrorists. He gets up and goes to the doorway. The courtyard is desolate beneath the scorching grey sky.
He must get the prisoner to focus and regard questioning as a shared effort that leads them both out of this basement, he thinks.
The soldiers fall silent when he comes down the stairs. The man’s torso is bare and he is wearing the hood. He is facing the wall with his legs spread wide apart. His body is leaning forward and his hands are resting against the wall, as if he were performing a peculiar balancing act. He can now see that the man isn’t even holding his hands against the wall, he is in fact leaning with his fingers stretched out so that only his fingertips brush the coarse cement. Two of the soldiers are sitting on chairs beside the man’s body and smoking. When he comes in they stand up and stub out their cigarettes with their boots.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’
They look like they’ve been interrupted.
‘We’ve just been warming him up a little.’
‘How long has he been standing like that?’
The soldier shrugs his soldiers.
‘Sit him down.’
Together, the soldiers take hold of the man’s arms and as soon as they let go, he collapses, his knees giving way as he tumbles to the floor. The soldiers groan at the effort of heaving him up.
‘Stand up,’ one of them hisses.
The man struggles to get onto his feet.
‘Take the hood off him.’
They seat him on the chair and pull the hood off. The man blinks, squinting at him, his lips are dry. It is clear he is dehydrated.
‘Give him water,’ he says to the soldiers. He has to make an effort not to raise his voice.
Idiots, he thinks. This is really not in line with the procedures for questioning, but he says nothing. The soldiers pull out a bottle and pass it to the man, who struggles to open the twist cap as his fingers are stiff. He finally manages to open the bottle and drinks quietly until it is empty.
He waits while the soldiers go through their procedures with the man. They photograph him with a mobile, pull out an iPad and press his hands against the screen and take his fingerprints. It is obvious that this is a well-worn ritual, and he lets them do it.
He says to the man in Arabic:
‘Listen carefully, Khaled, because this is important. I want you to answer my questions truthfully and in as much detail as possible.’
Does the man understand what he is saying? Fear is making him nod at everything. He tells Khaled to calm down.
‘I just want to talk with you.’
The man nods.
‘Not hurt you.’
The man nods.
‘Say your name and where you come from.’
He answers in a low, hoarse voice.
His name is Khaled and he was born and lives in Raqqa. He points out where he lives. So that intelligence is correct. It is also true that the man runs a taxi company, but was recruited to drive Islamic State leaders when they occupied the city. But the man simply stares at him when asked why he collaborates with terrorists.
‘I drive a taxi,’ he says.
Jonathan asks the man to point out the routes he used to drive, using a map on the screen being held up by the soldiers. The man looks confused. He would drive all sorts of routes around the city, he said. He shows them, but he moves his trembling finger back and forth over around a dozen or so streets, in no particular order. The man says he owned a taxi that was commandeered by the new city administration – the new masters.
‘Daesh?’
‘Yes, Daesh.’
He has also driven further afield towards the Iraqi border. He points.
‘Who did you drive?’
He isn’t sure. Lots of people.
‘Who was in your car, Khaled? You need to tell me.’
He looks anxiously down at his hands, at the bright-red marks left on his wrists by the ties.
‘I can’t remember who was in my car,’ he says. ‘All sorts of people. Sometimes there were members of the morality police, sometimes it would be someone who seemed important – some leader.’
‘What were they called?’
‘I didn’t know them. I didn’t want to ask.’
‘Try to remember. I think you know.’
He hesitantly says a few names.
‘Can you show me where you drove those passengers?’
He gets the screen out again, and once again pulls up the map of Raqqa. Were there addresses he would go to more often than others? he asks. Any houses or neighbourhoods he returned to that he can point out?
The man replies vaguely.
‘Here,’ says the man. ‘Here. Here. And here, I think.’
The man’s trembling fingers move irresolutely across the retina screen. If favourably disposed towards him, one might agree there was a pattern discernible from him pointing at the map. He takes notes. They sit like that for over an hour, him asking a question and Khaled pointing. But the man isn’t specific enough, he seems to confuse things. Finally, Jonathan decides they should take a break.
He gets up from his chair and tells the soldiers to provide the man with food.
‘We’ll speak again in a little while, Khaled,’ he says. ‘Then you can tell me more about your work.’
The man is still sitting on the chair when he returns to the basement. The soldiers are standing around him, even the sergeant is there now. He ignores them. He sits down on the chair opposite the man and leans forward. What is that red mark on his forehead? A swelling. He looks at the soldiers, but they just look bored.
They start again. He asks the man to point out his routes and the man runs his index finger over the screen. Perhaps this will work, he thinks. If Pathfinder just keeps answering his questions, everything will be okay.
He asks a question about one of the most senior leaders in IS. Khaled has said he recognises the name. Now he hesitates, his answer delayed – he is taking too long.
‘You need to ans
wer,’ he says.
Khaled looks perplexed.
‘It’s very important that you answer.’
He searches the screen with his finger. Eventually, he stops with his finger on a location on the edge of the map. He doesn’t seem certain.
Doesn’t he understand what is at stake? Perhaps he just wants to give an answer, any answer; he looks frightened. They will need to verify his answers back home, compare them with other data, and then ask new questions, even more detailed; this is just the beginning.
‘Good,’ he says encouragingly.
Next question. An address; he asks him to say who lives there. London apparently has vague intelligence to suggest a commander, but needs this confirmed.
‘What is he called?’
‘I don’t know. I think he is a commander.’
He rocks gently back and forth on the chair until one of the soldiers bellows at him to sit still and he stops as if turned to stone.
‘Tell us about the commander. What is he called?’
The prisoner looks unhappy, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know the man. It continues like this for a few minutes. A name, but he doesn’t know who it is. An address, and he hesitates, changing his mind. The soldiers move restlessly around the room. It is like balancing on a narrow, swaying plank of wood above an abyss, but he wants to succeed. If only he can do it his way, he knows he will be able to lead the man through the questions, step by step, and get answers.
He pulls out a series of photos. He points.
‘Do you recognise him?’
The prisoner shakes his head.
‘And him? Do you recognise him?’
He hesitates. Then shakes his head again.
‘You have to answer, Khaled.’
It is as if the soldiers can no longer contain themselves. One them lunges forward, quick and heavy, and delivers a stinging blow with the palm of his hand straight across the prisoner’s face.
The force of the blow throws the man sideways in his chair. He tips over. And, as if a new order came into force when the man fell to the floor, the others throw themselves forward. He can’t stop their blunt, heavy bodies. Bent over the prisoner they hit his face and head with their hands.
He claws at their broad shoulders, scratching with his hands to get rid of them, his mouth dry with anger. He shouts:
‘Stop, stop!’
He senses how the very smallest movement by the man on the floor might unleash fresh desire in the soldiers to hit him. They are exhilarated like children finally released from uncomfortable clothes.
‘Get out,’ he snaps.
One of them pats him on the shoulder as if it is a rugby match and they have just scored. Then they leave.
He helps the prisoner to get up. The man’s nose and mouth are bleeding. He slumps down onto the chair.
‘I’m very sorry. That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he says.
He passes him a bottle of water.
‘I can’t keep those soldiers away if you won’t talk to me.’
He says nothing.
‘Do you understand? I want this to end as much as you do.’
He finds the sergeant on a chair in the sunny courtyard.
‘Keep your men away. I’m trying to have a conversation. How do you think that will go if you do this?’
The sergeant gives him a measured look.
‘But what results are you obtaining?’ he answers with an indolent smile.
‘Good results,’ he says. ‘I would be getting them quicker if I was left to work in peace.’
The sergeant stands up and shrugs his shoulders.
‘I’m in charge of questioning. You are under my command,’ Jonathan says.
‘We don’t follow your orders.’
‘You will do as I say,’ he says.
He can’t get through to the soldier. There is nothing in the calm, contemptuous face to indicate any degree of uncertainty. He has never experienced anything like it.
Then the sergeant nods, as if tired of dealing with this irascible bureaucrat.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But we don’t have much time.’
He certainly agrees with that. He feels at once relieved, because now there is some order. He hasn’t lost control, not yet. The work ahead of him will be done by evening – of that he is certain.
He leaves the basement door ajar and feels the fresh air flooding in. The sergeant seems to be keeping up his end of the agreement because no soldiers appear. They talk about the prisoner’s work again, about who travelled in his car, from which addresses. Once again, he shows him pictures of IS leaders and asks him for their names and where they live.
Everything that the man says will be turned into coordinates for bombing targets and into intelligence for small teams like Sergeant Pepper and his men. They need to kill Hydra.
As the light from the doorway becomes weaker and deepens, they continue talking, and over time they find the rhythm he had hoped to achieve, with the prisoner eagerly awaiting the next question, aware that this is his salvation.
Evening comes. He gets up and thanks Khaled. They are on the verge of shaking hands, there is a mutual satisfaction over how well this has gone. The questions have been answered. He fetches bread, hummus and more water and then leaves him to eat.
The heat has dissolved into mild coolness. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts in through the open kitchen door while he is sitting at the table writing his report. A few hours later, when he closes the computer, he is satisfied. He is tempted to go and find the sergeant and his men and say, ‘What did I tell you?’
21
She leans forward and watches the screen over Gustav’s shoulder. There is the lobby. And there is Fredrik visible at an angle from above through the hotel’s CCTV, which they have discreetly hacked into.
Gustav turns to her. Is she sure she wants to stay?
She nods, of course she does.
He probably wants her to leave, she thinks. Perhaps it’s a bad conscience that prevents him from simply shooing her out.
She notices that the other men are embarrassed, focusing on the screen to avoid thinking about her, the betrayed woman, standing behind them.
It is three o’clock on the dot.
Fredrik is wandering about, it looks suspicious. Then he looks up to the camera. ‘Stop it,’ she wants to say to him. ‘Pull yourself together.’
He is hidden by a group of guests filling the lobby with their bodies and loud, lively voices. Conference delegates, to judge by the large plastic wallets dangling off colourful lanyards around their necks. Gustav mutters that they should switch cameras. Perhaps they aren’t conference delegates at all but actually British intelligence operatives causing a distraction – it is impossible to tell.
They wait.
It happens so quickly that at first she doesn’t understand what she is seeing. A short woman, petite, wearing a dark suit appears. Fredrik catches up with her and catches her from behind in a small dancing movement with his hands around her waist. For one merciful, floating moment it is as if she doesn’t feel the pain.
They kiss each other.
She wants to look away in an attempt to obliterate what she is seeing, but she can’t because it is so horrible and simultaneously deeply fascinating to see her husband kissing another woman.
And now she recognises Heather Ashford.
Fredrik shapes his mouth into a warm smile. He used to smile like that at me, she thinks. Perhaps he isn’t playing a role at that moment, perhaps he is smiling at Heather simply because he is pleased to see her, in spite of everything.
Gustav asks her to sit down.
The couple soon appear on another monitor, as seen through the camera in the lift. There they are, standing next to each other while the lift carries them up.
‘Now the third camera,�
�� says one of the agents.
They wait.
Something is wrong. They ought to appear in the hotel corridor, but the lift is stopping on the wrong floor. Heather quickly exits the lift and disappears from sight. Fredrik tries to stop her, then the lift doors close.
‘Bloody hell!’
Gustav is shouting. The men are already throwing themselves out of the door into the corridor. She is close behind them as they rush towards the lifts. Perhaps it’s my fault, she thinks, snarling at her own stupidity and lack of self-control. Or perhaps Fredrik was too obvious; it doesn’t matter now.
Fredrik is standing by the lifts like a pale and terrified creature in the soft light of the hotel corridor. He raises his hands in resignation.
‘Where is she?’
Over the course of a few thumping heartbeats she sees the person she loved. She smells the scent of his fresh aftershave. She wishes she could just hate him, it would be easier.
‘Where is she?’ roars one of the men.
‘Fourth floor. She knew.’
His face trembles.
‘Sorry.’
The metallic slam of a fire door hitting a wall echoes up to her in the emergency stairwell. She tears down the stairs.
Her enemy is escaping two floors below her.
She knows there is only a minute or two before the woman disappears and leaves them in uncertainty; they will never know what really happened. She has to know, she thinks as she rushes downwards.
Heather is still running, she can hear her rapid paces as she passes the second and first floors on her way down.
Bente bursts through the door at the bottom. Two operatives standing on the magenta carpet in the lobby turn to face her, ready for battle, before recognising her. They shake their heads: not here.
The car park is deserted. She casts her gaze over the expanse but can’t see Heather anywhere, only two operatives from counter-espionage who are spying out between rows of cars. ‘Where is she?’ she shouts over the car roofs. They are going to lose the enemy, Heather is getting away, she cannot accept it.
She spots a movement in the corner of her eye. There, in a black car ten metres away. Instinctively, she crouches and hurries closer.
The Silent War Page 19
