At Risk

23

In the thirty-six hours since his arrival, Faraj Mansoor had spoken very little. He had described the circumstances surrounding the death of the fisherman and he had satisfied himself that there was no particular reason for the police to come knocking at the bungalow door, but otherwise he had kept his own counsel. From 8:30 to 10 p.m. on the evening of his arrival he had paced the beach in the dark. He had eaten the food that the woman had put in front of him, and smoked a couple of cigarettes after each meal. At the prescribed time he had prayed.

Now, however, he seemed disposed for conversation. He called the woman Lucy, since this was the name on her driving licence and other documents, and for the first time he seemed to look at her closely, to fully acknowledge her presence. The two of them were bent over the bungalow’s dining table examining an Ordnance Survey map. As a security precaution they were using stalks of dried grass as pointers; both were aware that a bare finger leaves a fine but easily traceable grease trail on map paper.

Road by road, intersection by intersection, they planned their route. Where possible they selected minor roads. Not country lanes where every passing car was a memorable event, but roads too insignificant for speed cameras. Roads where the police were unlikely to be lying up waiting for boy-racers or drunk-drivers.

“I suggest we park here,” she said, “and walk up the rest of the way.”

He nodded. “Four miles?”

“Five, perhaps. If we push ourselves we should be able to do it in a couple of hours. There is a track for the first three miles, so we shouldn’t look out of place.”

“And this? What is this?”

“A flood relief channel. There are bridges, but that’s one of the things we need to recce.”

He nodded, and stared intently at the gently undulating countryside. “How good are the security people?”

“We would be foolish to assume that they are not very good.”

“They’ll be armed?”

“Yes. Heckler and Koch MP5s. Full body armour.”

“What will they be looking out for?”

“Anything out of the ordinary. Anything or anyone that doesn’t fit.”

“Will we fit?”

She glanced sideways at him, tried to see him as others would. His light-skinned Afghan features marked him out as non-European in origin, but millions of British citizens were now non-European in origin. The conservative cut and idiosyncratic detailing of his clothing indicated someone who, at the very least, had been educated in Britain, and probably privately educated there. His English was flawless, and his accent was classic BBC World Service. Either he had attended a very smart school in Pakistan, or he had had some decidedly patrician friends over there.

“Yes.” She nodded. “We’ll fit.”

“Good.” He pulled on the dark blue New York Yankees baseball cap that she’d bought him in King’s Lynn. “You know the location? They said that you knew it well.”

“Yes. I haven’t been there for several years, but it can’t have changed much. This map is new, and it’s exactly as I remember it.”

“And you will have no hesitation in doing what has to be done? You have no doubts?”

“I will have no hesitation. I have no doubts.”

He nodded again, and carefully folded up the map. “They spoke highly of you at Takht-i-Suleiman. They said that you never complained. Most importantly, they said that you knew when to be silent.”

She shrugged. “There were plenty of others prepared to do the talking.”

“There always are.” He reached into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

It was a gun. A miniature automatic, the size of her hand. Curious, she picked it up, ejected the five-round magazine, ratcheted back the slide, and tried the action. “Nine millimetre?”

He nodded. “It’s Russian. A Malyah.”

She hefted it in her hand, slapped back the magazine, and thumbed the safety catch on and off. Both of them knew that if she was forced to use it, the end would not be far away.

“They decided that I should be armed, then?”

“Yes.”

Fetching her waterproof mountain jacket, she unzipped the collar section, pulled out the hood, and zipped it up again with the Malyah inside. The hood effectively hid the slight bulge.

Mansoor nodded approvingly.

“Can I ask you something?” she said tentatively.

“Ask.”

“We seem to be taking our time. A recce today, a rest day tomorrow… What are we waiting for? Why don’t we just… do it? Now that the boatman is dead, every day makes it more likely that…”

“That they’ll find us?” He smiled.

“People don’t get shot here every day,” she persisted. “There will be detectives, there will be pathologists, forensics people, ballistics… What’s that round of yours going to tell them, for example?”

“Nothing. It’s a standard calibre.”

“In Pakistan, perhaps, but not here. The security people here aren’t stupid, Faraj. If they smell a rat they’ll come looking. They’ll send their best people. And you can forget any idea you might have about British fair play; if they have the faintest suspicion of what we are planning to do-and a search of this house would give them a pretty good idea-they will kill us outright, proof or no proof.”

“You’re angry,” he said, amused. Both of them were conscious that it was the first time she had used his name.

She lowered her fists to the table. Closed her eyes. “I’m saying that we can accomplish nothing if we are dead. And that with every day that passes it becomes more likely that… that they will find and kill us.”

He looked at her dispassionately. “There are things that you don’t know,” he said. “There are reasons for waiting.”

She met his gaze for a moment-the gaze that at times made him look fifty, rather than a score of months short of thirty-and bowed her head in acceptance. “I ask only that you don’t underestimate the people we are up against.”

Faraj shook his head. “I don’t underestimate them, believe me. I know the British, and I know just how lethal they can be.”

She looked at him for a moment, and then, taking the binoculars, opened the door, stepped outside on to the shingle, and scanned the horizon to east and west.

“Anything?” he asked, when she returned.

“Nothing,” she said.

He watched her. Watched as her eyes flickered to the jacket containing the concealed Malyah.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. Took an uncertain step back towards the front door, and then stopped.

“What is it?” he said again, more gently this time.

“They’re looking for us,” she replied. “I can feel it.”

He nodded slowly. “So be it.”