twenty-two-year-old. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?’
‘How old were you when I met you in Sierra Leone?’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘Sierra Leone in 1997 was a hell of a lot more dangerous than present-day Pakistan. And you were what? Twenty-three?’
‘I was in the SAS.’
‘Exactly. You were doing stuff a hell of a lot more dangerous than we asked of Manraj. You took out a group of mercenaries. You were chased by drugged-up AK-47-toting child soldiers. And I’d barely turned thirty.’
‘You weren’t handling me, Jeremy.’
Willoughby-Brown laughed. ‘Yes, I was.’
Shepherd shook his head emphatically. ‘We did a few things for you to kill time. You weren’t involved in the planning or the execution.’
‘If that makes you feel better, you carry on believing it,’ said Willoughby-Brown. He took a long pull on his cigar and held the smoke deep in his lungs. He stared at Shepherd, a slight smile on his face.
Shepherd considered what the MI6 man had said. Was it true? Had he been played when he was in Sierra Leone? Had he been following Willoughby-Brown’s lead the whole time? He scratched the back of his neck. He’d been a relative youngster when he’d been in Sierra Leone with the SAS, but he hadn’t been stupid. Had Willoughby-Brown been manipulating him? He could see the sparkle of amusement in the MI6 man’s eyes so he forced a smile. ‘It’s not worth arguing about,’ he said. ‘We did what needed to be done, it doesn’t matter who was or wasn’t calling the shots.’
Willoughby-Brown blew smoke. ‘Exactly,’ he said.
‘But that doesn’t make this Taz any less culpable,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re going to have to treat that as water under the bridge,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘The mission at hand is to rescue Manraj, not to apportion blame.’
‘Was Taz working for you?’
‘The decision to put Manraj with Taz wasn’t mine. I knew of Taz but I hadn’t worked with him. Just between you and me, he wouldn’t have been my first choice but it was felt that he was ready and able to take on the task.’
‘Yeah, well that was clearly an error of judgement.’
‘No arguments there,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But as I said, we need to put that behind us. What matters is where we go from here.’
‘You have a plan?’
Willoughby-Brown smiled thinly. ‘I have an aim. I want to bring Manraj home. So far as a plan’s concerned, well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
Rafiq heard footsteps outside the door to his cell, then the sound of two bolts being pulled back. He was lying on his side, facing the door, his hands still bound behind his back. The cuts in his mouth had stopped bleeding but he still tasted blood each time he swallowed. The door opened and a big man in a dark green shalwar kameez and a white skullcap appeared. Rafiq blinked up at him. ‘Brother, I have done nothing wrong,’ he said.
The man ignored him. He took a plastic bottle of water and a rough clay bowl from an unseen figure and carried them into the cell. He knelt down and put them on the floor by Rafiq’s head. There was cooked rice in the bowl, topped with a splash of brown liquid that might have been a curry of some sort. He lifted Rafiq into a sitting position and then pulled a curved knife from his belt. Rafiq flinched and the man smiled savagely, then he knelt down and cut the rope that was binding Rafiq’s wrists. A second man appeared in the doorway, squat and well muscled, holding a pistol in his right hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Rafiq. He picked up the bottle of water, twisted off the cap and drank greedily. He gulped down half the bottle and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Where am I, brother?’ he asked.
The man folded his arms but said nothing. He had a long beard, twice the length of Rafiq’s, dark brown at the end but white close to his skin. His eyebrows were jet black and his hair was only flecked with grey.
Rafiq put
‘How old were you when I met you in Sierra Leone?’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘Sierra Leone in 1997 was a hell of a lot more dangerous than present-day Pakistan. And you were what? Twenty-three?’
‘I was in the SAS.’
‘Exactly. You were doing stuff a hell of a lot more dangerous than we asked of Manraj. You took out a group of mercenaries. You were chased by drugged-up AK-47-toting child soldiers. And I’d barely turned thirty.’
‘You weren’t handling me, Jeremy.’
Willoughby-Brown laughed. ‘Yes, I was.’
Shepherd shook his head emphatically. ‘We did a few things for you to kill time. You weren’t involved in the planning or the execution.’
‘If that makes you feel better, you carry on believing it,’ said Willoughby-Brown. He took a long pull on his cigar and held the smoke deep in his lungs. He stared at Shepherd, a slight smile on his face.
Shepherd considered what the MI6 man had said. Was it true? Had he been played when he was in Sierra Leone? Had he been following Willoughby-Brown’s lead the whole time? He scratched the back of his neck. He’d been a relative youngster when he’d been in Sierra Leone with the SAS, but he hadn’t been stupid. Had Willoughby-Brown been manipulating him? He could see the sparkle of amusement in the MI6 man’s eyes so he forced a smile. ‘It’s not worth arguing about,’ he said. ‘We did what needed to be done, it doesn’t matter who was or wasn’t calling the shots.’
Willoughby-Brown blew smoke. ‘Exactly,’ he said.
‘But that doesn’t make this Taz any less culpable,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re going to have to treat that as water under the bridge,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘The mission at hand is to rescue Manraj, not to apportion blame.’
‘Was Taz working for you?’
‘The decision to put Manraj with Taz wasn’t mine. I knew of Taz but I hadn’t worked with him. Just between you and me, he wouldn’t have been my first choice but it was felt that he was ready and able to take on the task.’
‘Yeah, well that was clearly an error of judgement.’
‘No arguments there,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But as I said, we need to put that behind us. What matters is where we go from here.’
‘You have a plan?’
Willoughby-Brown smiled thinly. ‘I have an aim. I want to bring Manraj home. So far as a plan’s concerned, well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
Rafiq heard footsteps outside the door to his cell, then the sound of two bolts being pulled back. He was lying on his side, facing the door, his hands still bound behind his back. The cuts in his mouth had stopped bleeding but he still tasted blood each time he swallowed. The door opened and a big man in a dark green shalwar kameez and a white skullcap appeared. Rafiq blinked up at him. ‘Brother, I have done nothing wrong,’ he said.
The man ignored him. He took a plastic bottle of water and a rough clay bowl from an unseen figure and carried them into the cell. He knelt down and put them on the floor by Rafiq’s head. There was cooked rice in the bowl, topped with a splash of brown liquid that might have been a curry of some sort. He lifted Rafiq into a sitting position and then pulled a curved knife from his belt. Rafiq flinched and the man smiled savagely, then he knelt down and cut the rope that was binding Rafiq’s wrists. A second man appeared in the doorway, squat and well muscled, holding a pistol in his right hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Rafiq. He picked up the bottle of water, twisted off the cap and drank greedily. He gulped down half the bottle and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Where am I, brother?’ he asked.
The man folded his arms but said nothing. He had a long beard, twice the length of Rafiq’s, dark brown at the end but white close to his skin. His eyebrows were jet black and his hair was only flecked with grey.
Rafiq put
Similar Books
