Firefight

PROLOGUE

Rain fell in the darkness outside the Moschea di Roma, Rome's only mosque; but despite the cold drizzle outside, inside Abdul-Qahhar felt warm. There were many men here for evening prayer, filling the magnificent interior of the mosque with the heat of their bodies and the comforting sounds of their chants as they knelt towards Mecca. And as prayers came to an end, they stood up and shook hands with one another, smiles on their faces as they chatted with exquisite politeness under the huge, ornate, white dome of the mosque.

'I invite you to join us for tea,' said the man with whom Abdul-Qahhar had enjoyed a number of conversations in the past couple of weeks.

'Thank you,' Abdul-Qahhar replied. 'But tonight I think I will just go home. Allahu Akbar.'

The man shrugged his shoulders, but in a friendly manner.

'Allahu Akbar,' he replied in the traditional way, before smiling and turning to another group of friends who had congregated nearby.

Abdul-Qahhar had not been in Rome long. When he arrived he was just another foreign student at the university and barely knew anybody; but the first thing he did was hunt out the mosque, and soon he had been embraced by the arms of that community. Like-minded people in a strange land.

Prayer was important to Abdul-Qahhar. It refreshed him. So much so that he found he did not mind the rain as he stepped out of the mosque and down the steps. It was not far to his little bedsit, which he had chosen because it was so close to the mosque, and he arrived there quickly — wet, but not disconsolate. He put his key to the door of the apartment block, but as he did so it opened anyway, as the elderly lady who lived two floors below him exited.

'Buona sera,' he said with a smile, doing his best to pronounce the unfamiliar words in an understandable way.

The old lady stared aggressively at him, then brushed past, mumbling to herself. She had never been friendly, at least not to him. It was common enough for people to be like that. Abdul-Qahhar might be wearing fashionable Italian jeans, but no amount of denim could hide the colour of his skin, and there were many people, especially in these difficult times, who saw no more than that. It made some of his fellow countrymen angry, but Abdul-Qahhar wasn't an angry kind of person. Be polite to everyone, that was his motto. Be polite to everyone, and they will soon learn that they have nothing to fear from you.

'Buon Natale,' he called after her. 'Happy Christmas.' Of course, Christmas meant nothing to him, but he understood its importance, especially to the inhabitants of Rome, living as they were in the shadow of the Vatican. As Christmas was just around the corner, he saw no reason to refrain from offering festive greetings to the Italians he encountered in his day-to-day life. Normally they seemed pleasantly surprised.

The old lady did not turn back, however, so Abdul-Qahhar closed the door behind him and climbed the stairs, not bothering to hit the button that illuminated the time-controlled overhead light, because he knew it didn't work. Instead he groped in the darkness, his hand sliding firmly up the wooden banister. On the second floor was the smell of cooking; on the fifth floor he heard the ever-present radio playing Christmas music. Abdul-Qahhar's apartment was on the top floor, and up here it was silent.

The bedsit was sparsely furnished, but his needs were few. A bed, a desk, a bookshelf and a small hob for preparing food. He stripped out of his wet clothes and placed them on the enormous, elderly radiator that heated the entire apartment surprisingly effectively, then went to his meagre closet and pulled out some dry jeans and a T-shirt. He found it strange wearing these Western clothes instead of the more comfortable dishdash, but he could not wear the all-in-one Arabic garment in the streets of Rome, or any other Western city for that matter, and he knew he had to get used to a different style of dress. He fixed himself something to eat, then sat cross-legged on his bed and immersed himself in his battered, treasured copy of the Koran. He should really be studying, but sometimes he hankered after the nannying effect the holy book had on him, and this was one of those times.

As his eyes scanned from right to left and he absorbed the poetry of the text, Abdul-Qahhar lost track of time. When finally he looked at the small clock on his bedside table, he was amazed to see that it was nearly midnight. Regretfully, he closed the book, placed it on his little bookshelf, and went to the sink to fetch himself a glass of water.

He stopped. There was a noise from somewhere. From outside. But he was on the top of the building, eight floors up. It must have been just a bird, or perhaps the rain. Walking to the window he pulled back the frayed curtains, but saw nothing other than the rooftop of the opposite apartment block and the clouds scudding in front of the silvery crescent moon. He drew the curtain again and put the noise from his mind. Sometimes the pipes could make strange sounds in these old buildings, sounds that could be creepy in the middle of the night. That was it. The pipes. He returned to the sink, turned on the tap, filled his glass and sipped it thoughtfully.

Abdul-Qahhar was halfway back to his bed when there was another noise. He turned his head quickly towards the door. It seemed to have come from outside, in the corridor, and this time round there was no mistaking it: it was no bird; it wasn't the rain; it didn't sound like the pipes. It sounded to him like there was someone there, outside his apartment.

The blood ran cold in his veins.

'Chi è?' he called. And then, because he was unsure of his Italian, he lapsed into English, a language with which he was more confident and which was more widely understood than his native Arabic. 'Who's there?'

There was a pause, a silence. And then, with the sudden force of a thunderclap, they came at him from two sides.

The door burst open and Abdul-Qahhar just had time to see three men, dressed in black and wearing dark balaclavas, burst in before the window shattered and another two landed only feet away from him. All five men brandished ugly-looking weaponry and the guns were pointed his way.

'Hit the floor!' one of them shouted in a muffled American accent. 'Hit the fucking floor. Now!'

Abdul-Qahhar felt a harsh blow on the back of his knee and collapsed, jelly-legged, to the floor.

'Hands behind your back,' the American voice instructed as the barrel of a gun was placed against his head. He did as he was told, and as his wrists were roughly handcuffed with what felt like strips of plastic, a warm, moist sensation spread through the cloth of his jeans.

'He's pissed himself,' a terse voice said — an English voice this time, one of the men who had come through the window. There was no distaste in the way he said it, just a cold, clinical tone of observation. Certainly he didn't sound surprised.

'Hood him,' the American instructed and instantly a piece of course material was forced over Abdul-Qahhar's head, then tied uncomfortably round his neck; he could breathe, but only just.

Too scared to speak, he was manhandled to his feet and pushed forward, through the door of his flat and down the steps. None of the men said a word as he was rushed down the seemingly endless flight of stairs and out into the pouring rain. Above the patter of the raindrops on the ground, he heard another noise. It was the engine of a vehicle, and it was being revved. Abdul-Qahhar heard the sound of doors opening, and without ceremony he was bundled into the back and pushed over. He shouted out in Arabic as his head hit the metal floor.

'Shut the fuck up!' a voice said, as the doors slammed shut and the vehicle jolted into movement.

The urine-soaked patch of his jeans was cold and clammy now; but his head was hot as he took deep breaths in an attempt both to calm himself down and swallow big gulps of precious oxygen. In his mind he saw the guns of his abductors, and could still feel that patch on his head where the barrel of the rifle had been pressed. He closed his eyes in the darkness of his hood and started to mutter the prayers that he had recited in the mosque only a short time ago.

'Allahu Akbar min kulli shay. Allahu Akbar min kulli shay.' But in the middle of his private chant, he spluttered as a heavily booted foot kicked him hard in the stomach.

'Quiet!' a voice barked and Abdul-Qahhar did as he was told. Perhaps soon, he thought to himself, he would wake up; perhaps soon he would find himself on his bed, having nodded off over the Koran; perhaps soon the nightmare would end.

In the darkness, time had no meaning. Abdul-Qahhar could not have said how long it was before the vehicle came to a halt and he was manhandled out of the rear doors. Outside the rain had stopped, but it seemed to be incredibly windy and there was a loud mechanical noise that he could not quite place.

'Take his hood off!' a voice shouted. The material was untied and the hood pulled roughly from his head. Abdul- Qahhar scrunched his eyes up painfully as a bright light shone directly in his face. As he gradually opened his eyes, however, he saw what was making the noise and the wind: an enormous helicopter, preparing for take-off.

One of the balaclava'd men approached him with his gun. 'We can do this one of two ways,' he screamed above the noise of the helicopter. 'You come quietly and get on the chopper without a struggle; or we do it the painful way.'

Abdul-Qahhar felt his body start to shake. 'Please,' he begged,'I have a great fear of flying. Please, there is a terrible mistake. I don't know who you are, or what you think I've done, but there really has been the most terrible mis — .'

He was cut short as the butt of a rifle struck him hard in the pit of his stomach. He bent double in pain, but as he did so he was dragged towards the helicopter. The rotating blades sounded louder, an enormous, ear-filling whine, and the force of the wind almost threatened to blow him over.

As a renewed surge of panic overcame him, he started to struggle. 'Please!' he yelled. 'There has been a mistake!' And almost as though he had lost control of his own actions, he made to run away from the group of armed figures who were escorting him to the chopper.

He didn't get far. One of his captors grabbed him hard by the throat; another forced the hood over his head again.

'No!' Abdul-Qahhar shouted. 'Not that! Please, I will come with you!' But even as he spoke, the hood was tied around his neck once more and he felt himself being dragged closer to the helicopter.

He was on a ramp now and the noise of the rotors seemed to fill all his senses. It was too much: his fear of flying seemed to pulse through every vein, and with a great and terrified roar he made one last, desperate attempt to break free from his captors.

It was a vain move. Instantly he felt the sickening crunch of hard metal against his head. A moment of dizziness, of nausea, before he fell hard to the ground, mercifully unconscious, at least for a little while.

When he awoke, the hood had been removed from his head. His skull was pounding and he felt sick. He had no way of knowing how long he had been out cold, but he could tell that they were airborne and he found himself unable to move through terror. He tried to speak, but the words would not come out of his mouth, which was sandpaper-dry. As he looked up, he saw the five men still there with him, only now they had taken off their balaclavas. Through the gloom and his fear, however, he found it impossible to tell one face from the other.

After a while, the popping in his ears and a slight lurch in his stomach told him that they were losing altitude. 'What is happening?' he croaked.

But nobody answered — they just kept their weapons trained on him.

Minutes later they landed. 'Welcome to Poland,' a gruff voice said.

'Poland?' he gasped. 'What do you mean? I promise you, this is a mistake.'

Nobody answered. Instead, Abdul-Qahhar was manhandled to his feet and roughly escorted off the chopper. There was snow outside. The cold air hit his lungs like an electric shock, and the rotors of the chopper whipped up the powdery snow into a blizzard that chapped his face harshly and blinded him. His captors seemed to know where they were going, however. They pulled him away from the chopper and towards a large mound of earth, covered in thick snow, but with a concrete opening in the side. There was a door, which was open and out of which came a flood of yellow light. Abdul-Qahhar was pushed through that opening, down a flight of steps and along a long, dimly lit underground corridor.

The room to which he was taken was icy cold and contained nothing other than a hard metal chair firmly bolted to the ground and a large tinted window in one of the grey concrete walls. Abdul-Qahhar's handcuffs were removed, then he was thrown into the chair; a new set of sturdier cuffs strapped his arms down, before his legs were also fastened to his chair. Without a word, his captors left the room; he heard them lock the door behind him.

'Let me go!' he shouted. 'Please! Let me go! I'm just a student. You've got the wrong person.' He felt a tear ooze down his face as his voice echoed off the concrete walls.

No one answered his call.

It was freezing, and soon his teeth were chattering and his limbs shaking.

'Help me!' he shouted. And then, more feebly, in a voice that no one would have heard, even if they were listening: 'Help me. I'm so cold. Please, help me.'

Time passed. Minutes, hours, he didn't know. Abdul-Qahhar had never realised he could be so cold; all he could do was try to master it, to persuade himself that everything was going to be all right. 'You have done nothing wrong,'

he repeated to himself. 'Believe you have done nothing wrong and they will believe it too. It is a mistake.

'I have done nothing wrong.

'It is a mistake.'

He felt himself falling asleep, as though his body were shutting down.

'I have done nothing wrong.

'It is a mistake.'

The door burst open and two men entered. Abdul-Qahhar was relieved to see they were not carrying guns, but his relief was short-lived as one of them approached him, lifted his head by the chin and struck him hard across the face.

'You have information we need,' the man said. He had a thick mop of blonde hair and his accent was English.

'You are going to tell us everything.'

'I promise you,' Abdul-Qahhar begged, 'I do not know what you mean.'

The Englishman sneered at him and stepped aside to allow the second man to approach. He had a shiny, shaved head and a thin, aquiline nose and when he spoke it was with an American accent. 'You realise,' he said, in little more than a whisper, 'that you are not on US or British soil. The usual laws guaranteeing the safety of interrogated prisoners do not apply here.'

'Please — ,' Abdul-Qahhar breathed.

The American stepped back and turned around so that he was facing away from the prisoner. 'I'm going to tell you one thing before we start,' he announced, a bit louder now. 'Not a threat, just a statement of fact.' He turned back to look at him. His face was serious and one eyebrow was raised. 'If you don't tell me what I want to know, I promise you, you're gonna think Guantánamo is a fucking vacation camp.'

Abdul-Qahhar stared fearfully back at him. 'Guantánamo?' he whispered. 'I'm not a terrorist.'

His interrogators didn't even blink. 'We'll be back when you're ready to speak,' the American said, and the two of them walked briskly out.

'I'm not a terrorist!' Abdul-Qahhar shouted after them.

'You just think that because of the colour of my skin. I'm not a terrorist!'

Yet again, his voice echoed around the empty concrete room. Abdul-Qahhar saw his breath billowing in the icy air, and he allowed his head to fall on to his chest, his body trembling even more violently than before.

He was awoken from his cold-induced stupor by water, a bucket of the stuff being thrown over him. His body temperature was so low that he couldn't tell how hot it really was, but to him it felt boiling. He screamed. Then he felt cold again.

The two men were back. They were standing in front of him.

'Please,' he shivered. 'Don't hurt me. Please.'

'You have information that we need,' the American insisted.

'I do not know what you are talking about. I promise you, I do not know. If I knew, I would tell you.'

'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'

Abdul-Qahhar blinked. Now more than ever he needed to sound convincing.

'I have never heard that name in my entire life. I swear to you.' His wet clothes stuck to his skin.

The two men glanced at each other and something seemed to pass between them. Then the American looked over at the tinted dark window and nodded. 'Bring them in,' he called.

Moments later, the door opened again. Two more men walked in, both wearing blue overcoats. One of them was pushing a steel trolley, the other had a shiny metal drip stand. They stopped just by Abdul-Qahhar's chair, then both of them pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and wrapped cloth masks around their faces.

One of the masked men spoke. 'You sure you don't want to take him to the waterboarding room?'

'No need,' the American replied. 'We'll have this guy talking in no time.'

Abdul-Qahhar started to shake more violently as he watched one of them hand a plastic bag full of colourless liquid to the drip stand. It was the second man, however, who spoke to him.

'I'm going to insert a needle for the drip,' he said, his voice muffled slightly by the mask. 'It will hurt less if you do not struggle.'

Abdul-Qahhar felt his eyes bulging as the medic approached with a small needle. He started banging his restrained arms up and down against the chair, but it made no difference to the medic. He placed one gloved hand on the prisoner's arm and slowly slid the needle into one of the plump veins halfway up. Abdul-Qahhar gasped. The medic attached a long plastic tube to the pouch of liquid suspended from the drip stand, then turned and undid a small screw-top cap at the end of the needle hanging limply from Abdul-Qahhar's arm. A jet of blood spurted momentarily on to the concrete floor, but the medic soon had the drip tube attached. He turned to the interrogators. 'It's ready,' he said.

The American nodded, then looked blankly at Abdul- Qahhar. 'SP-17,' he said cryptically. 'Developed by the KGB.

The most effective truth serum we have at our disposal. Of course, if you still refuse to talk, then we have other means of extracting the information we want.'

He paused, as though waiting for that to sink in, then bent over and placed his face only inches away from his captive. 'It's up to you what method you choose, but let me tell you: by the time we've finished with you, you're gonna be singing like a fucking canary.'

Abdul-Qahhar closed his eyes.

It is a mistake.

I have done nothing wrong.

I have to believe that.

'Please,' he whispered. 'I have nothing to hide. If you would only tell me what this is all about, maybe I could be of some assistance to you—'

But the American had already stepped away and nodded at the medic, who turned a valve on the drip tube. Abdul-Qahhar felt something cold rush into the vein in his arm.

There was silence in the room. Abdul-Qahhar, feeling his teeth chattering again, clenched them together to stop it happening. After a minute or so, however, he released them. It suddenly seemed as though the room was not so cold. There was warmth, or maybe it was just him. The light didn't seem so harsh; it was softer, warmer. He glanced at the needle in his arm, then smiled as he understood what was happening. It was the drugs. The drugs were making him feel better. Maybe, he thought to himself, this was what Westerners felt like when they drank alcohol.

'I'm going to ask you again,' the interrogator's voice said. 'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'

'It means nothing,' he replied, drowsily.

The American turned to the medic. 'Increase the dose,' he instructed. The medic turned the valve once more and again they waited. The warmth increased, and the wooziness.

He heard the American's voice. 'You have information about a terrorist strike.'

Abdul-Qahhar shook his head.

A pause. Lights seemed to dance around the room.

'You have information about a terrorist strike,' the American repeated, relentlessly.

Again he shook his head. He felt comfortable for the first time in hours.

A minute passed.

'You have information about a terrorist strike. You can tell me about it now or you can tell me about it later. One way or another, though, you will tell me about it.'

And all of a sudden, Abdul-Qahhar smiled. There seemed to be no reason to hide it any more. No reason to pretend — to himself or anyone else — that he did not know what they were talking about. They were not going to hurt him.

'I'm going to ask you one more time. Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'

Of course it meant something to him. Faisal Ahmed — the men at the mosque had barely spoken of anyone else.

Faisal Ahmed, the warrior, they had called him.

Slowly, Abdul-Qahhar nodded his head.

The two men looked at each other and the American stepped back. Abdul-Qahhar noticed how the light seemed to reflect off his bald head. It transfixed him and he was only woken from his brief reverie when the Englishman spoke.

'Good,' he said. 'Well done, Abdul-Qahhar. You're doing the right thing. Now listen to me carefully. We know he's planning something big. All you have to do is tell me when and where. As soon as we have that information, you can go home.'

Abdul-Qahhar felt his head nodding. 'I would like to go home,' he said drowsily.

'Then tell me,' the Englishman insisted. 'When and where?'

He had a pleasant face, this man. When he smiled, there were creases on his cheek. Perhaps, once he had told them all he knew, they would let Abdul-Qahhar sleep.

And so he spoke in a clear voice, or as clear a voice as he could manage, like an eager child wanting to impress a teacher.

'Three weeks,' he announced. 'Three weeks. London.'