Firefight

SEVEN

When he awoke, his ears were popping. The Galaxy was losing height. Will looked at his watch. 2 a.m., UK time. He did a quick calculation — that would make it 6.30 a.m. in Kandahar. Sure enough, as he looked out of the window, he saw that the blackness of the night was giving way to a glimmer of morning light.

Around him the others had already woken and were packing their hammocks back into their rucksacks. No one was speaking — there was no banter, no small talk. Everyone seemed businesslike and efficient. Will hauled himself from his own hammock and started getting his things together.

The flight lieutenant appeared again. 'Ten minutes till landing,' he announced, and the four of them strapped themselves in once more.

Kandahar Airport, Will knew from past experience, was much easier to land at by night. During the hours of sunlight, it tended to merge into the surrounding countryside, whereas when it was dark, the two-mile runway was lit up like a Christmas tree. When he felt the wheels of the Galaxy touch ground, it was a strange sensation. No matter how used you were to flying, there was always a vague sense of relief when the aircraft touched down; but today it was tempered with a heightened sense of anticipation. Up until now there had been a sense of unreality about this whole thing, but the moment he knew he was on Afghan soil, it hit him that there was no turning back. He just had to get on with the job in hand.

Kandahar Airport was a huge, sprawling space. Stuck in the middle of one of the most inhospitable regions of this inhospitable country it was not only a civilian airfield, but home to troops from all over the world. Pankhurst had explained to Will that the NATO-led International Security Assisted Force were based here, but he knew from his own past that it was also home to the RAF's Harrier GR7 detachment as well as the detachments of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters, CH-47 Chinook support helicopters and Lynx utility helicopters. Soldiers from America, Canada, Britain and, of course, Afghanistan worked side by side out of this airport, so it was no surprise, as they walked down on to the tarmac, to see how busy the place was, even at this early hour in the driving snow, which reduced visibility to only a few metres. Voices were shouting above the noise of the aircraft engines; a Harrier screamed down to land on the runway, while all around them were armed troops going about their early-morning business. Everyone's breath steamed in the cold air and as they drove around the airfield, beams of headlamps from all the vehicles flashed blindingly, like mechanical fireflies at night.

It was freezing cold and within seconds of stepping on to the tarmac, snow started to settle thickly on their clothes.

'Will Jackson?' a voice called.

Will looked round to see a figure in RAF uniform standing by a military truck. Its yellow headlamps cut a beam through the half-light and the snow. The four-man unit walked towards him. 'I'm Junior Technician Evans,' he said. 'I've been sent to escort you.' The kid had a shock of ginger hair and green eyes. His face was chapped from the cold, and he barely looked old enough to walk to school by himself, let alone be out here.

Will nodded and they climbed into the truck, Kennedy and Drew bringing the weapons case with them. The vehicle moved off and they were driven along a winding road that skirted the edge of the airfield. It stopped, about a mile later, outside a glum-looking pre-fabricated hut. A couple of trucks were parked outside and from the glow of light coming out of the window, Will could tell it was occupied.

'Who lives here?' he asked the young RAF soldier, gruffly.

'His name is Arthur Rankin, sir,' he replied. 'He's an assistant to the NATO Senior Civilian Representative. He helps coordinate liaisons between the military and the local Afghan population. He's requested that you report to him as soon as you land.'

'Fine,' Will said. He turned to the unit. 'You three wait here. I'll see what he has to say.' He climbed out of the truck and hurried through the snow to knock on the door of the hut.

'Come in,' a voice called, but Will had already opened the door and stepped inside.

It was warm in the hut, thanks to a large electric heater burning at full blast; but warmth was the only comfort the place offered. It was sparsely furnished — at one end was a solitary desk that looked like it came from a school classroom, with a beige computer and a telephone on it. Around the walls were a number of metal filing cabinets and sitting behind the table was an enormously fat man wearing a thick woollen overcoat. Standing at the other end of the room was a tall, skinny man with dark skin, a long scruffy beard and sturdy Afghan clothes. He had a large, hooked nose, deep brown eyes and his hair was bundled into a black turban.

'Shut the bloody door, for crying out loud,' the fat man barked. His voice was posh and it didn't do much to endear him to Will, who closed the door slowly behind him.

'Beastly place,' the man shuddered. 'As hot as hell in the summer, colder than a snowman's bollocks in winter.' He stood up and waddled towards Will. 'Arthur Rankin. Welcome to Afghanistan,' he said, stretching out his hand. 'You must be delighted to be here.'

Will shook his podgy hand without much enthusiasm. 'Not really,' he replied. 'The sooner we can get our business done, the sooner we can leave.' He looked meaningfully over at the bearded man.

'This is Sami,' Rankin said. 'He's your fixer.'

Will nodded curtly at Sami. 'I take it you have details of our contact.'

Rankin rolled his eyes at Will's aggressive demeanour. 'Of course he has the details of your contact,' he said. 'I hardly think he's here for the company or the comfortable surroundings.' He smiled at his own joke. 'I'd like to offer you a seat, but I'm afraid NATO won't stretch to any extra chairs in my delightful office.'

'I'll stand.'

'You'll have to, my friend.'

Will ignored him and turned to the fixer.

'Where do I meet him?'

Sami eyed him warily. 'Kandahar, at eleven o'clock this morning.' His voice was heavily accented, but he obviously spoke English extremely well.

'Where in Kandahar?'

'There is a small café near the bazaar next to the main mosque in the centre of the city. It has no name, but you cannot miss it.'

'I'll say,' Rankin interrupted in his braying voice. 'Ghastly little place, always filled to the rafters with screaming Afghans smoking their revolting tobacco.'

Will did his best to ignore the comment and he could sense that the fixer found Rankin as unpleasant as he did.

'Your contact's name is Ismail,' Sami said, calmly. 'He has been feeding us good information about what the Taliban in this region have been up to, but he is extremely nervous.'

'I don't blame him,' Rankin snorted. 'If they find out what he's been doing, he'll be in the arms of Allah faster than you can say "Islamic Jihad".'

'Have you met him?' Will asked. He had addressed the question to Sami, but Rankin answered.

'Absolutely not. I try to leave Kandahar Airport as little as possible and there's no way our man would ever come to us here. No, we have agents like Sami on the ground handling him. They pass information on to me and I pass it upwards.' He cast a curious glance at Will. 'I must say,' he observed,'there hasn't been any intelligence passing through me that I would have thought warranted the arrival of the SAS.'

He looked expectantly at Will, clearly hoping he might enlighten him; but Will remained stony-faced.

Rankin shrugged.

'As I was saying,' Sami continued, 'Ismail is an extremely nervous informant. As he's never met you before, he's insisting on using a double-password.'

'All a bit World War Two to my mind,' said Rankin, 'but if it stops the Taliban waving their cudgels at the little man, I suppose we ought to humour him.'

As each second passed, Will found himself loathing more and more this pompous official who worked in the relative safety of the airport base, yet was so dismissive of the people on the ground risking their lives. 'Why don't you just give me the passwords?' he growled.

'Give them to him, Sami,' Rankin ordered and the fixer handed Will a piece of paper, folded once. Will read the words that had been carefully typed on it and slipped it in his pocket so that he could commit them to memory later. Then he looked back at the smug, fat man opposite him.

'How sure are you of this Ismail's reliability?'

Again Rankin shrugged — he did that a lot, it seemed to Will. 'He's an informant. He's given us good intelligence about the Taliban, but where he gets it from he refuses to tell his handlers. He's reliable, but he's still an informant. He's screwing someone over — we just don't think it's us.'

Will nodded, then turned back to Sami. 'What do you think?'

Sami's eyes narrowed. 'My job is not to think about such things,' he replied. 'My job is to stay alive and pass on the information I am given to my superiors.' As he said that word, he hesitated slightly and glanced at Rankin. 'They decide whether to act on it or not.'

'But what's your gut feeling?' Will had only known these two men for a matter of minutes, but already he trusted Sami's instinct much more than Rankin's.

'My instinct,' Sami said, 'is that Ismail is a young man very much out of his depth. The Taliban are not stupid — they will find out soon enough that he is betraying them and when that happens he will be executed. But until then, we would do well to take advantage of the information he is giving us.'

Will assimilated this for a moment while Sami and Rankin watched him carefully. 'I'll need local clothes,' he said, finally. 'And transport.'

Sami inclined his head slightly. 'It has already been attended to. I will be able to come a certain amount of the way with you, but no further. There are barricades on the way into the city, which we will want to avoid, but I know a route that should stop us having to negotiate these. I will get you to within walking distance of the café, but it would go badly for me, you understand, if I were to be seen in the presence of a member of the military.'

Will gave him a nod of thanks, but before either of them could speak again Rankin gave them both a slightly dismissive wave. 'Speak to the kid who picked you up,' he said. 'He's been told to give you whatever you want. Now if you'll excuse me.'

The fat man turned and put his hands over the electric heater, rubbing them together. Will sneered. He didn't want to be in this guy's presence any longer than was necessary, so he left the hut and hurried back to the truck, Sami following close behind.

The clothes Sami had supplied them with were bundled in the back of one of the trucks outside the hut. 'This vehicle is for you,' he told Will as they stood out in the bitter snow. 'It looks old, but in fact it is in very good condition. The paintwork has been scuffed and damaged in order to stop it from standing out. There are not many new vehicles in my country these days.' He kicked one of the tyres. 'These are the only things that might attract attention,' he continued. 'Winter tyres, with a harder tread. But the risk is small, I think. Not many people will know what they are.'

He pulled out a canvas bag, dumped it on to the snowy ground, then climbed into the back of the truck. Once inside, he pulled up a metal panel to reveal a storage area, then grabbed a clinking handful of metal. 'Snow chains,' he said. 'Ismail will not tell me where he is taking you, but it is possible that you may need these. Also there is a — ' he seemed to struggle to find the word '- a winch, in case the vehicle comes off the road. The driving conditions south of here are not good. There are also extra tanks of diesel fuel for you.'

'Thank you,' Will said, sincerely. Sami was a typical fixer — no-nonsense, helpful. It angered him that the guy had to put up with an idiot like Rankin. 'You're a lot more help than he was.'

Sami inclined his head. 'I have noticed that a tour of duty in Afghanistan brings out the worst in people,' he observed. 'I do not judge him too harshly. We should ask your driver to take us somewhere where you and your men can change. Kandahar is not far from here, but the road can be slow in this weather.'

'I'll need some local currency,' Will told him.

'I have it here. I suggest I distribute it once you are changed.'

Will nodded and they made their way back to the truck, where brief introductions were made. There was no small talk.

The young RAF soldier drove them to a small hangar which he explained had been requisitioned for the use of British servicemen at the airbase. They attracted some curious looks as, carrying their weapons case, they were led to a private area where they could change their clothes, but they shrugged all that off. Maybe the rumour had gone round that an SAS unit was on site; maybe it hadn't. Whatever the cause of those funny looks, the four of them were too focussed on the job ahead to give them any thought.

The clothes Sami had provided were rough and cheaply made, but they were at least warm. There was no point trying to make themselves look like Afghans, but if they could avoid people thinking they were soldiers it would make what they had to do in central Kandahar more straightforward; and the fact that they all had beards was a help. Once they had picked up the contact, they would be able to change back into their cold-weather gear, which would be more suitable for the journey south. Will donned a pair of thick trousers made from a scratchy, Hessian-type material, a warm woollen jumper and a colourful Afghan hat; the others dressed similarly. They each attached holsters under their clothes — Anderson, Drew and Kennedy had chosen shoulder holsters, but Will had always found a waist holster to be more comfortable. He took the Sig 230 from the weapons case, loaded it, then hid it neatly under his jumper. They carefully stowed grenades and ammunition into their rucksacks, then loaded their Diemacos and slung them across their backs. Once they were ready, Sami took a bundle of afghani, the currency of the country, and handed them around.

By the time they were ready to leave, the snow was falling even more thickly. Junior Technician Evans drove them back to the hut where Sami's truck was waiting, then left them to it as Sami and the unit loaded their things on to the new vehicle, stowing the Minimi and the grenade launchers into the compartment alongside the snow chains, the winch and the spare diesel. Sami looked at the Diemacos slung across their shoulders. 'I would stow those away,' he told them. 'They will only attract attention. You have your handguns, do you not?'

Sami was right. If they wanted to merge into the background, they couldn't walk around the streets of Kandahar with heavy weaponry on display. Will nodded curtly to the others and they stowed their guns as Sami took the driving seat.

It was about fifteen miles from the airport to the town of Kandahar and the snow was falling heavily. Occasionally a rocky mound would rise up out of the earth, but apart from these solitary hills, the immediate area was flat and featureless. The roads were nearly deserted — whether that was because of the snow or because people were keeping off the road in this dangerous part of the world, it was impossible to say. Now and then Will noticed an ordinary Afghan by the side of the road, struggling on foot through the snow; it didn't escape his notice how many of them had elderly AK-47s strapped across their backs. When they heard the truck approaching, they always stopped and watched, unsmiling, as it passed. This was hostile territory.

Sami drove slowly and carefully. It took more than an hour. As they travelled, Will gave the unit their orders. 'I'll be going in alone,' he said. 'If the four of us barge into this café, we're going to attract attention and if our contact is as jumpy as that idiot back at the airfield says, we can't risk scaring him off.'

'We should cover you,' Anderson suggested. 'Take up positions outside the café, in case anything goes wrong.'

Will thought for a moment. In a situation like this it was all too easy to get cocky, to assume that because this was the relatively straightforward part of the operation, nothing could go wrong. It would be a mistake and Anderson was right to suggest that Will needed a bit of back-up.

He pointed at Anderson and Kennedy. 'You two,' he said, 'follow me at a distance. Keep it subtle — I don't want our guy taking fright.' He looked at Drew. 'You,' he said, 'stay with the truck. Once I've made contact, that will be the RV point.'

The three men nodded their agreement as the vehicle trundled towards Kandahar. Will pulled the slip of paper Sami had given him from his pocket and committed the double password to memory.

— Do you have the time?

— My watch runs slow these days.

— I know a good watchmaker in Kabul.

— Kabul is a long journey in the winter.

Once he was sure he had firmly remembered the words, he spoke to Sami.

'Tell me more about this Ismail character. If he's going to be coming with us, I want to know who we're dealing with.'

'Very well,' Sami replied, politely. 'I will tell you what I know. He is about twenty-eight years of age and his parents were imprisoned by the Taliban when he was about seventeen. My understanding is that a sarinda — an Afghan musical instrument — was found in their house, which was considered sinful by the regime. They both died in prison. Ismail, I would say, is a very clever young man, but nervous at the best of times. After his parents were imprisoned, he followed the Taliban's rules to the letter, as most people did, so that he would not be destined for the same fate. He took a wife, whom I have never met, and I believe they have a young son.'

'How did you manage to recruit him?'

Sami shrugged. 'In the usual way,' he replied. 'A mixture of gentle persuasion and money. The people here are very poor — they will do many things for a few extra dollars and Ismail has a family to keep. I imagine he caught the eye of the Taliban insurgents because he is a very devout man and now they believe he acts as one of their — ' Sami seemed to struggle for the word. 'Sneaks,' he settled on, finally. 'But his devotion does not, happily, extend to the kind of extremism they espouse. I truly believe he thinks that informing on them is a holy act, no matter how scared it might make him feel; the money is just an added bonus. He has been very useful, too. So useful that I do not think all of the information he supplies is acted upon, simply in order to maintain his cover.' Sami glanced over his shoulder at Will. 'Someone in your government must want this woman he knows about very badly. They have instructed that we pay him a great deal of money to lead you to wherever it is that she is being held.'

Will's eyes flickered towards the other three, but they did not seem to have raised an eyebrow at what Sami had said; and Sami was evidently too discreet to question Will any further.

'Ismail's English is serviceable, but not perfect,' the fixer continued, 'and he is not a physically strong man. I would advise that you do not expect him to fight or to endure extreme environments in the same way that you have become used to.'

'Sounds a fucking liability to me,' Drew complained.

'Maybe,' Will said, 'but without him we don't have an objective. He comes with us, liability or not.'

They drove on in silence.

As they hit the outskirts of the town, the roads became less treacherous as more vehicles appeared. Among the elderly and run-down civilian cars, Will saw a number of military trucks bearing the UN logo, which told of the heavy military presence in this part of the world. Normally this would make their job more secure, but for the moment, Will didn't want anyone to link them to NATO, the UN or the British or American army. What they were doing was under the radar and he wanted to keep it that way. Sami took them off the main road as soon as he could and continued their journey through a series of intricate, winding streets, not ideal for a large vehicle, but they were at least clear of the various security forces that would be barricading other entrances to the city.

The further they travelled into the centre, the more people there were. Large numbers of Afghans — some in traditional dress, others wearing more Westernised clothes — went about their daily business, shuffling up and down the snowy streets, moving quickly because of the snow. Some of them carried wicker baskets of food; others were empty-handed. No one paid any attention to their truck as it trundled past; in fact, nobody seemed to pay attention to anything.

Surprisingly frequently Will caught sight of two or three soldiers in camouflage uniform and carrying what looked to him like excessively heavy weaponry for patrolling the streets. There weren't many cars on the road and those that were had clouds of greasy diesel smoke billowing from their exhausts; they looked rickety in the extreme. Walking was clearly a far more common method of getting around, so several people walked in the road, all but ignoring the beeps from the horns of those who were trying to drive. At one point the unit stopped outside what could only be described as a shack, from which the appetising aroma of meat being grilled over hot coals wafted towards them. A customer bought a kebab, but Will noticed that the shopkeeper refused to hand it over until he had the money firmly in his hand.

Further along, they passed what looked to Will like a former administrative building. It was ramshackle now, its windows blown out and one side reduced to a pile of rubble — a monument to some violent incident in the not too distant past.

'We don't want to be dropped off too near the café, but it needs to be in sight,' he told Sami as they passed an impressive-looking mosque, its golden dome heavy with snow and people swarming outside.

'I know a suitable place,' Sami replied. 'It's not far now.'

The street where they stopped was thin but straight — Will noted with approval that they had a good line of sight at either end and they could see directly on to a bustling square. Anderson and Kennedy took their Sig 226s from the weapons cache — the slightly larger firearm was fine for them as they wouldn't be getting up close and personal with the contact, at least not yet.

'Is that the bazaar up ahead?' Will asked Sami.

The fixer nodded his head. 'The café is one of the doors you can see on the other side of the square.'

'Give us thirty minutes,' Will told Drew, tersely. 'If we haven't returned, come and get us.'

'Roger that,' Drew murmured. If he was upset at not being on the front line, he didn't show it.

'Remember,' Sami continued, 'Ismail is nervous. If you do not recite the double password exactly correctly, he will take fright and it will take weeks to regain his trust. Do not mention my name to him — he will only deny knowledge.' He turned to Drew. 'You can remember the route out?'

Drew nodded his head.

'Good,' Sami replied. 'Ismail will not want to risk being seen with me, not in public. I have to go now.' He opened the car door. 'Good luck.'

He climbed down from the car, walked nonchalantly to the end of the deserted street and disappeared around the corner. 'That's the last we'll see of him,' Anderson muttered.

'He's a good fixer,' Will said. 'He's thought of everything. OK, let's go. Remember, not too close.' He opened up the back of the truck and jumped out.

Kandahar had a certain smell to it, he noticed as he headed down the street. The smell of rotting rubbish, of food cooking, of sewers; and the blanket of snow that had fallen over the city could not hide the unpleasantness of it. As he walked, snowflakes settled on his clothes and he reached the end of the street with a light dusting already covering him. He knew that by now Anderson and Kennedy would have exited the vehicle, but he didn't look behind to check — it wasn't necessary, and he didn't want to draw attention to his trail.

To his right, he saw a large makeshift wall across the road, constructed of what looked like bags of concrete. Armed men were questioning anyone who wanted to drive through, as well as a fair number of ordinary Afghan pedestrians. Will was pleased Sami had directed them round that and he turned left to follow the rough pavement that surrounded the main square.

The square itself was lined with bombed-out buildings, but the centre, separated from the buildings by the road that was still almost empty of cars, was crowded: a huge market place was laid out and despite the relentless snow, crowds of Afghan women, some dressed in warm robes, others completely covered by the burka, gathered round talking in little groups. Stallholders stood guard over stalls that held small amounts of sorry-looking produce and the whole thing was covered by a large canopy that looked almost precarious under its heavy blanket of snow.

There was a sudden roar as a plane flew overhead. Will looked up and recognised a Harrier patrol aircraft, but nobody else, it seemed, paid it any attention. Clearly these people, inhabitants of a war-ravaged country for so long, had seen so many air patrols that they had ceased to be a curiosity.

Will gave himself a moment to get his bearings. The north side of the square, Sami had said. He glanced in that direction, over the top of the heads of the women in the bazaar; there seemed to be a crowded area on the other side, so he started walking round the edge of the square to see if that might be his place.

He had only gone a few paces, however, when his path was blocked. Two men — burly with dark rings under their eyes — blocked his way. They both carried ancient AK-47s. Neither of them was in military uniform. Just a couple of thugs, Will realised, intuitively. One of them spoke harshly to him in a language he didn't understand — Pashto, no doubt — but the tone of his voice made it clear he was demanding something.

The muscles around Will's eyes tensed up slightly and he felt his right hand brush instinctively to his waist where the Sig was concealed. The last thing he wanted now was a fight. He felt sure his contact would be looking out for him, but if there was a scene, he might be frightened off. Moreover, a gunfight would undoubtedly attract the attention of the heavily armed troops dotted around.

The man spoke again, more aggressively this time. Without looking, Will knew that Anderson and Kennedy would have their hands firmly round their gun handles now, ready to react with swift, brutal force if anything went wrong.

And it looked to Will as if that was just what was about to happen.

From behind him, he heard a familiar sound — the metallic click of a safety catch being removed. The men looked behind Will with an expression of distaste; he turned round to see two armed soldiers brandishing their weapons. One of them pointed his gun at the Afghans, then jabbed the barrel to the side to indicate that they should move on. The Afghans hesitated, but after a moment they did as they were told, walking down the street away from Will, but still casting a threatening gaze over their shoulder as they went.

'You shouldn't be walking around here by yourself,' one of the soldiers said in an American accent. 'What are you doing in Kandahar?'

Will had to think quickly. 'Private security,' he said with brash confidence. Beyond the soldiers he clocked his colleagues. Anderson was on the side of the road, his hand under his woollen overcoat; Kennedy had taken up position in the centre of the square. Both of them, Will could tell in an instant, were ready to react.

'Are you armed?'

He nodded.

'OK.Well we advise that you see to your business and get back to an area of safety as soon as possible.'

Will suppressed a sigh of relief. 'I intend to,' he said.

With a nod, the two soldiers walked away. Will saw his colleagues' arms fall to their side as the tension of the situation diffused, but he didn't make eye contact with them. He just turned and continued on his way.

As he reached the north side of the square it became clear to him where the meeting point was, just as Sami had described it. The café had large glass windows at the front, but these had been taped over with some kind of thick gaffer tape to prevent them from shattering, then covered with large sheets of metal mesh, which made it difficult to see inside. The door was open, however, and the snow on the ground around it had melted from the warmth emanating from within. From several metres away Will could hear the noise of voices and smell the thick, sweet tobacco that pervaded the air.

He glanced at his watch. Five to eleven. Stepping up to the doorway, he looked inside.

It was dimly lit and crowded. There were no women, just men, all sitting at rickety wooden tables or congregated around a bar area where a harassed-looking barman provided coffee in tiny white cups. As Will stepped inside, there were a few suspicious glances in his direction, but before long everyone found themselves drawn back into their animated conversations, allowing Will to sidle up to the bar — the only place where there seemed to be any room. He pointed at one of the small cups of coffee, then handed over one of Sami's notes when he was presented with his drink.

He stood there against the bar for five minutes, maybe ten — long enough, certainly, for the coffee he didn't really want to go cold. When he looked at his watch it was five past eleven. It made him uneasy that nobody had made contact yet. Perhaps he was being too surreptitious. He turned round and faced out to the centre of the room, so that his white skin would be on better display. As soon as he did that, he heard a voice next to him.

'Do you have the time?'

Do you have the time? The first phrase of the double password. Will turned his head slowly to see who was speaking. The man was short and fat, his face clean-shaven. Hadn't Sami said that Ismail was a devout Muslim? Wouldn't he be wearing a beard? But that was the opening line, so he responded, word for word, in the way he was supposed to.

'My watch runs slow these days.'

The man nodded. 'My friend is a good watchmaker in Kabul.'

Will stopped. He knew the correct response — Kabul is a long journey in the winter — but the man's words had not been correct. 'I know a good watchmaker in Kabul.' That was the wording, and this guy had got it wrong. Alarm bells started to sound. If Ismail had been rumbled by the Taliban, he might well have given them the wrong password; and Will had been suspicious of this man the minute he set eyes on him.

There was only one option. He had to walk away. Immediately.

Will stepped from the bar and headed briskly to the door. No one seemed to pay any attention to him leaving, but he could tell that the man he had just spoken to was following him. For the second time in ten minutes he felt his hand moving towards the gun strapped around his waist. He upped his pace and stepped out from the warm, smoky interior of the café on to the chilly, snow-laden street.

The first thing he did was scan for Anderson and Kennedy. He saw them immediately — Kennedy still in the square but facing on to the café, Anderson about fifteen metres to his left, standing in the street. In front of Will, parked just outside the café,was a small car. Its engine was turning over and, unusually given the weather, the window was wound down. The man from the café brushed past Will and spoke to the driver, a lanky, bearded individual with a white turban. It was a quick conversation, conducted in Pashto, and from the way the man kept looking at Will, he could tell that it concerned him.

On the periphery of his vision, he could sense Anderson and Kennedy closing in.

The man from the café stepped aside and the driver from the car put his head out. 'Will Jackson?' he said hesitantly. Will narrowed his eyes, but didn't answer.

'You must get in the car. Now.'

Will hesitated. Anderson and Kennedy were only metres away now. He only had to say the word and both these men would be looking down the barrel of a gun. But then he looked at the driver: his face was nervous, his eyes wide, but he didn't look as though he was trying to pull a fast one. He just looked scared.

He looked up at his colleagues and briefly shook his head. They stopped in their tracks. Will strode to the car, opened the back door and climbed in. It was cramped inside, and the heaters were blowing full blast. He pulled his Sig from under his jumper and deftly put it to the man's head. Immediately the driver started to shake.

'Drive,' Will told him. 'Now.'

With shaking hands, the driver tried to put the car in gear, but he seemed too nervous and the engine crunched loudly as he failed to manage it.

'I said drive!'Will barked. The driver tried again, this time managing to knock the car into gear.

'Go round the square,' Will instructed, and the car moved off at a stuttering pace.

'Please, do not shoot me!' the driver begged.

'Then do exactly what I tell you,' Will replied. 'What's your name?'

'My name?' He sounded surprised. 'My name is Ismail. You were meant to be meeting me, yes?'

'I'm asking the questions. What was that pantomime back there in aid of?'

'What is pantomime, please?'

'Just tell me what was going on,'Will growled.

Ismail breathed deeply. 'It was to make sure you were the right person. Passwords are not foolproof. If the Taliban suspected me and learned what the passwords were, they might pretend to go along with the mistake to get proof, then abduct me. Only the right person would walk away if they heard the wrong password.'

Will found that he, too, was breathing heavily, in anger; but there was a curious logic to what the terrified Afghan in the front seat had said. He lowered his gun. 'Stop the car,' he ordered.

Ismail pulled over on the side of the street.

'Turn off the engine and hand me the keys. Then get out.'

The trembling Afghan did as he was told. Will stepped out of the car, too. He slipped the Sig back into its holster, but kept his hand firmly around the handle under his jumper. 'If I see anyone following us, I'll shoot you right here,' he said, quietly, so that none of the passers-by would hear.

'No one is following us,' Ismail assured him. 'I promise you.'

'You'd better be right. 'Will looked around. Sure enough, Ismail's parked car was the only one in the street. 'OK, walk. And just in case you're thinking of running, you might like to know that we're being covered by two men who can shoot a bullet through a coin at fifty metres. Understand?'

Ismail turned to look at him. Although his eyes were still frightened, there was an open honesty in his face. 'You do not perhaps understand how I have risked my life to do this,' he said, quietly,'and the life of my family. Every second I spend with you, I risk our lives even further. If I wanted to run away, I would have done it long ago.'

Will stared at him and felt the stirrings of a grudging respect. But respect or no respect, he had to cover himself and his unit.

He nodded in the direction they needed to go.

'Walk,' he told Ismail, curtly. 'Now.'