A Covert War

NINETEEN

‘Where are we going?’ Marcus asked after a brief silence.

‘I am taking you to see someone who can help you find your brother,’ Seema told him.

‘David?’ Susan’s voice sounded harsh and breathless; gushing out of her mouth.

Seema nodded. ‘Yes, but please, we must be cautious.’ He turned round and faced Susan. ‘There could be many problems ahead.’

Susan shook her head gently. ‘Why are we acting like fugitives?’ she asked.

He smiled. It was almost condescending. The car lurched in the darkness and threw Susan sideways into Marcus’s arms. He pushed her gently upright as the driver apologised after letting out a stream of Afghan abuse.

‘There are always eyes and ears around us here in Kabul,’ he explained. ‘It isn’t always sensible let your adversaries know what you are doing.’ He held his hand out, palm upwards. ‘Someone is always listening. Once they knew you were in Kabul to look for your brother, you became valuable to certain members of our society.’

‘I can’t believe we are that valuable,’ Marcus put in. ‘We are just two civilians who have no allegiance to anyone except David Ellis.’

‘It’s a point of view,’ Seema told him, ‘but a peculiarly British one. Just trust me and try to relax.’

Susan tried to relax a little but was still not sure whether to trust him.

‘Who are these people who may know about David?’ she asked, trying to keep the tone of demanding inquisition out of her voice.

‘I cannot say,’ he replied. ‘But you will meet them soon.’

Susan glanced out of the window, peering into the darkness. ‘Where are we going then?’ she turned and asked him.

‘We are going where you will find your answers,’ he replied cryptically.

As they journeyed on, conversation became limited until it eventually stopped. Marcus and Susan were left with their own thoughts, each one feeling a little apprehensive. Seema would say something from time to time, but to the driver and always in Farsi. The two men would chuckle and this display of ease between them actually unsettled Susan. Marcus didn’t seem the least bit affected by it although Susan did notice that he was not his usual, lively self.

She felt the car slow until it eventually stopped. Seema turned round and looked at them over his shoulder. He told them they would have to wait a few minutes. He then got out of the car and disappeared in the darkness.

Five minutes later Seema was back in the car. He looked satisfied and Susan wondered if he had used the time for a comfort stop. She asked him.

‘Telephone,’ he told her. ‘I used the public phone in that hotel,’ he said pointing out of the window. ‘Safer.’

‘Who were you phoning?’ Marcus asked him.

‘The Mission,’ he answered, and tapped the driver on the shoulder, barking our something unpronounceable. ‘We are going there now.’

Suddenly Susan felt incredibly nervous. The mention of the Mission, where David had almost died was like a shock to her system. She had never in her wildest dreams, or her nightmares thought she would ever walk over the ground where David had almost been murdered. She thought of the poor woman, Shakira and David’s admitted love for her. It made her feel so sad. Her nervousness trickled through her like a growing storm and she hoped she would be brave enough to face whatever was to come.

About half an hour later the driver pulled up outside the Mission and switched the engine off. Susan and Marcus waited to be told that they could get out before opening the door. Seema beckoned to them as he slid from the front seat and stepped out into the moonlight. Susan got out her side and looked around her. Across the other side of the car she could see Marcus doing the same.

All Susan could clearly see was the Mission building in front of her. It was a single story, bungalow style. Behind it, dark and brooding was the mountain that dwarfed the building. The outline of the hills continued; picked out faintly by the moonlight. There was little definition to anything because of the darkness.

The silence was broken only by the clicking sound of the hot engine of the battered Tata and the sound of Ali Seema’s sandals on the gravel as he walked up the main entrance. Susan turned around slowly, full circle trying to get some sense of the solitude that wrapped itself around the Mission. Marcus walked round to her side of the car and slipped his arm around her shoulder.

‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Soon we’ll know the truth.’

Cavendish had enjoyed an evening meal and splendid company in the Officers’ Mess, one that was bereft of the glamour and grandeur of some of the more eloquent messes he had been in during his years in security. He had enjoyed a few glasses of Jim Beam Bourbon Whiskey over ice and felt the consequences of indulging his passion; the result being a little awkwardness when he stood.

Cavendish had been dining with the Lieutenant McCain, and had been joined later by a couple of officers from one of the operational squadrons. Talk had been informative but strictly legit; no secrets being divulged, and much of it humorous anecdotes of past misdemeanours and also thoughts on how the war in Afghanistan was progressing.

It was close to midnight when Cavendish took his leave of the company and decided to take some fresh air before turning in for the night. He made sure he kept to the domestic area, keeping away from the technical site, which included the airfield and perimeters. He had been warned that it wasn’t unusual for the insurgents to send in some hopeful shots, both of gunfire and RPG’s, rocket propelled grenades. It was all more of a nuisance factor than serious threat, but Cavendish heeded the warnings and kept his walk in the safe area.

He had his flak jacket with him; something he had been advised to wear at all times. So his evening stroll was only made supposedly safer by the addition of the jacket; something he felt was totally unnecessary. But he had it on, loosely fitted and with the collar up.

He had reached a particularly quiet area when he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned round, expecting to see someone like himself, either out walking or perhaps returning from a social gathering at one of the on-base bars.

It was then he saw someone walking quickly towards him. In the darkness it looked like he was wearing combat fatigues. He then saw the upraised arm. It came swinging down and something smacked him on the side of the head.

Cavendish yelled out in pain and collapsed, striking his head on the ground. As he began to fade into unconsciousness he was vaguely aware of someone kicking him and then the sound of footsteps running away.

Ali Seema came out of the front door of the Mission and walked across the gravel to where Susan and Marcus were waiting. When he reached them he pointed back towards the building and told them that they could go in.

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ Marcus asked him.

Seema shook his head. ‘No, my work is done here. It would not be right for me to be here when contact is made.’

‘Why ever not?’ Marcus asked him.

The interpreter looked at Marcus rather sheepishly. ‘My job was to bring you here; nothing else.’ He took a step towards the car. ‘I must go now.’

Marcus grabbed his arm. ‘No, Seema, you’re not walking away just like that.’

Seema began to struggle but Marcus wouldn’t let him go. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Seema. There’s no way we are walking into that building without you. Do you understand?’

Seema’s attitude was one of belligerence, but against the powerful grip that Marcus had on him, his belligerence was wasted.

‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘I will go back in there with you.’

Marcus relaxed his grip and let the man go. He said nothing but nodded his head towards the building. Seema took the hint and led them in.

Susan fell into step beside Marcus. She was extremely nervous now and that little show of belligerence from Ali Seema did little to help her nerves. She knew that Marcus would probably sense it. Her breathing sounded laboured but in fact she was beginning to hyperventilate. Seema’s attitude had scared her and she wondered what they might find once they stepped inside the Mission.

They walked in through the double doors, which creaked as Seema pushed them open. Immediately in front of them was a corridor which ran right and left the entire length of the building. Seema turned right and took them a few steps along the corridor before stopping and opening a door which they found led into an office.

It was simply furnished. An old, large desk dominated the room. Behind it was a chair. On the walls were posters of various descriptions, all in Farsi. There was a calendar which would have made no sense to a European, plus a planning schedule, the kind of which would be found in most modern offices.

A single light bulb hung from the ceiling with no benefit of a lampshade. And up against one wall were a couple of chairs that had seen better days. The floor was plain wood, and lodged against the open window was an old, air conditioner. Marcus wondered if it ever worked.

Standing beside the air conditioner, her arms folded was a nun. She tipped her head in greeting and asked them, in English to sit down. Then she looked beyond Marcus and Susan to Ali Seema and nodded. The interpreter bowed his head, said a few salaams and backed out of the office.

Marcus and Susan did as they had been asked and sat down. Meanwhile the nun took her place in the chair behind the desk. They heard the car engine start up and listened as the Tata drove away, the sound of its engine fading into the night.

Then they heard something else; the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, then the creaking of the main door as it swung open. The footsteps sounded again in the corridor outside the office. Suddenly the door opened and an Arab walked in. Marcus and Susan both gasped in surprise; it was the driver of the Tata.

‘Good evening,’ he said to them in passable English. ‘I’m sorry for the…’ he stumbled on the word for a moment. ‘… how do you say, tricks? But I have to be careful.’ He bowed his head. ‘Please allow me to introduce myself; I am Abdul Khaliq.’

Cavendish woke up, his head throbbing like mad. He opened his eyes and looked around him. He could see white walls and smell disinfectant and soap. The ache in his head reminded him that he had been drinking Jim Beam, but there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He lifted his head off the pillow and looked around the room. It was like a private room in a hospital, but without the personal touches he would have associated with such a place. There was a bell cord beside his bed which he pulled. A nurse appeared soon after. She was wearing a white coat over army fatigues. She lifted Cavendish’s arm and checked his pulse, then put his arm down and put her fingers to her lips.

‘Back in a while,’ she told him, and left.

The nurse came back with a doctor. He also was wearing camouflage fatigues beneath a white coat. He had the traditional stethoscope hanging round his neck.

‘Good morning sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How are you feeling?’

Cavendish couldn’t tell him the truth, which was that he didn’t want to give the doctor a reason to keep him there.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Too much to drink I guess.’

The doctor smiled and pulled a pen torch from his top pocket. He shone it in Cavendish’s eyes.

‘You fell over and banged your head, they tell me.’ He peered closely at Cavendish’s eyes. ‘But these tell me something different,’ he muttered.

‘What, my eyes?’

The doctor laughed. ‘No, these,’ he said and touched Cavendish on the side of the neck. The doctor’s touch made him yelp, pulling his head away.

‘It looks like something hit you on the side of the neck.’ The doctor was moving his head around as he spoke, carefully examining the bruising. ‘I think the collar of your flak jacket saved you. Wonderful things, flak jackets.’

He straightened and put his torch away. Then he finished of examining Cavendish and told him he could go whenever he felt able.

Cavendish was mightily pleased; eager to get out of the Base hospital and speak to Lieutenant McCain. He was also curious to find out who the man was he saw coming out of the headquarters building. The bang on the side of the head hadn’t exactly cleared it, but neither had it diminished his sense of urgency nor his sense of intrigue. Something was nagging away at him and he needed to find out what it was.

And quickly.

Abdul Khaliq sat facing them across the desk. The nun had left the room after asking them all if they wanted something to eat or drink. They settled for water which the nun brought in. She had put the jug and three glasses on the desk before leaving.

‘Why the subterfuge then?’ Marcus asked Abdul. ‘Why couldn’t you have come up to the hotel room, avoid all this drama?’

Abdul studied Marcus with the air of someone who feels sympathy for one who understands so little. ‘We are at risk even now,’ he explained. ‘If I had approached you openly in Kabul, I would never have left the hotel. And nor would you.’

Susan twitched at that last statement. She tried to keep thinking of David and not let her nerves get the better of her.

‘What can you tell me about my brother?’ she asked Abdul. ‘Is he ok?’

Abdul smiled at her, his teeth flashing brilliantly white beneath his beard. ‘I can promise you he is alive and he is well.’

‘Why didn’t you bring him here?’ Marcus asked him.

Abdul glanced across at Marcus knowing that he still did not understand. ‘He is too important to be brought here and handed over to you two.’ He held both his arms forward across the desk, his hands open. ‘Surely you can understand that?’

Marcus could see the logic; anybody seriously opposed to Abdul Khaliq would have no problems wiping them all out. The sense of danger, of risk, was beginning to stir something in Marcus; he was beginning to feel that strange sense of displeasure that often surged through him whenever anyone spoiled his day. He wanted David Ellis free, back home with Susan, unhindered by the war lords and the drug barons, and he was beginning to get a little tired of all this posturing he was witnessing from Abdul.

‘So when are you going to take us to see him? I presume you are, Abdul,’ he said. ‘Or is this just a bloody game to you?’

Susan turned sharply. ‘Marcus!’

Marcus stared at her with hard eyes. There was steel in them which Susan recognised and she began to wonder if Marcus might blow it for them all because of his latent temper.

‘I’m sure Abdul will take us to David in good time,’ she insisted, trying to bring a calming influence on Marcus. She looked across at Abdul. ‘Well, will you take us to see my brother?’ she asked.

Abdul sat forward, his manner changing a little; it was more business like. ‘The reason you are here is to get your brother released, is that right?’ Susan nodded. ‘And you are here because you have been sent by your government, is that correct also?’

Susan hadn’t been given any real mandate from Cavendish other than to keep him informed of developments over the phone.

‘Yes, but I’m not sure I have any real authority,’ she replied weakly.

‘Then let me explain something to you.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘The war here in Afghanistan cannot be won by the Americans or the British. The Americans do not like our president; they see him as weak and ineffective. And when our so called democratic elections come in the summer, they expect him to be re-elected; in which case they plan to install someone in the government who will have the real power. He will be pro-American. He will be the top man.’

‘What’s your point, Abdul?’ Marcus asked him.

Abdul frowned. ‘He will be a CIA man. He will run the country, and he will want complete control of the poppy fields.’

‘So men like you will be an obstacle to the Americans, is that it?’

Abdul nodded. ‘To the CIA. And even if I withdrew, they would find me and kill me. In fact, they are trying now.’

‘And that is why you want our help?’ Susan asked incredulously.

‘Yes!’ He slapped his hand on the table making Susan jump. ‘So you can tell your government that I will exchange your brother for my freedom. I want political asylum.’