Something like a cloud passed across the features of the Saudi. The Afghan realized he might not have said what was wanted.
‘And I also fight for Allah, Sheikh,’ he added.
The cloud cleared and the gentle smile came back. The Saudi leaned forward and patted the youth on the shoulder.
‘The day will come when Afghanistan will no longer have need of you, but the all-merciful Allah will always have need of a warrior like you. Now, how is our young friend’s wound healing?’ He addressed the question to the Pickwickian doctor.
‘Let us see,’ said the doctor and peeled back the dressing. The wound was clean, bruised round the edges but closed by six stitches and uninfected. He tutted his satisfaction and redressed the suture.
‘You will be walking in a week,’ said Dr Ayman al-Zawahiri. Then he and Osama bin Laden left the ward. No one took any notice of the sweat-stained Muj squatting in the corner with his head on his knees as if asleep.
Martin rose and crossed to the youth on the bed.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘The Arabs will look after you. I will seek to find your father and ask for a fresh guide. Go with Allah, my friend.’
‘Be careful, Ma-ick,’ said the boy. ‘These Arabs are not like us. You are kafir , unbeliever. They are like the imam in my madrassah . They hate all infidel.’
‘Then I would be grateful if you would not tell them who I am,’ said the Englishman.
Izmat Khan closed his eyes. He would die under torment rather than betray his new friend. It was the code. When he opened his eyes the Angleez was gone. He heard later the man had reached Shah Massoud in the Panjshir, but he never saw him again.
After his six months behind the Soviet lines in Afghanistan Mike Martin made it home via Pakistan unspotted and with fluent Pashto added to his armoury. He was sent on leave, remustered into the army and, being still in service with the SAS, was posted to Northern Ireland again in autumn 1988. But this time it was different.
The SAS were the men who really terrified the IRA and to kill – or better still capture alive, torture and kill – what they called a Sassman was the IRA’s greatest dream. Mike Martin found himself working with the 14th Intelligence Company, known as ‘the Detachment’ or ‘the Det’.
These were the watchers, the trackers, the eavesdroppers. Their job was to be so stealthy as never to be seen, but to find out where the IRA killers would strike next. To do this they performed some remarkable feats.
IRA leaders’ houses were penetrated via the roof tiles and bugged from the attic downwards. Bugs were placed in dead IRA men’s coffins for it was the habit of the godfathers to hold conferences while pretending to pay their respects to the casket. Long-range cameras caught images of moving mouths and lip-readers deciphered the words. Rifle-mikes recorded conversations through closed windows. When the Det had a real gem, they passed it to the hard men.
The rules of engagement were strict. The IRA men had to fire first and they had to fire at the SAS. If they threw down their guns at the challenge, they had to be taken prisoner. Before firing, both the SAS and Paras had to be immensely careful. It is a recent tradition of British politicians and lawyers that Britain’s enemies have civil rights but her soldiers do not.
Notwithstanding, in the eighteen months Martin spent as an SAS captain in Ulster he participated in the dark-of-night ambushes. In each a party of armed IRA men was caught by surprise and challenged. Each time they were foolish enough to draw and point weapons. Each time it was the Royal Ulster Constabulary who found the bodies in the morning.
But it was in the second shootout that Martin took his bullet. He was lucky. It was a flesh wound in the left bicep but enough to see him flown home and sent for convalescence at Headley Court, Leatherhead. That was where he met the nurse, Lucinda, who was to become his wife after a brief
‘And I also fight for Allah, Sheikh,’ he added.
The cloud cleared and the gentle smile came back. The Saudi leaned forward and patted the youth on the shoulder.
‘The day will come when Afghanistan will no longer have need of you, but the all-merciful Allah will always have need of a warrior like you. Now, how is our young friend’s wound healing?’ He addressed the question to the Pickwickian doctor.
‘Let us see,’ said the doctor and peeled back the dressing. The wound was clean, bruised round the edges but closed by six stitches and uninfected. He tutted his satisfaction and redressed the suture.
‘You will be walking in a week,’ said Dr Ayman al-Zawahiri. Then he and Osama bin Laden left the ward. No one took any notice of the sweat-stained Muj squatting in the corner with his head on his knees as if asleep.
Martin rose and crossed to the youth on the bed.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘The Arabs will look after you. I will seek to find your father and ask for a fresh guide. Go with Allah, my friend.’
‘Be careful, Ma-ick,’ said the boy. ‘These Arabs are not like us. You are kafir , unbeliever. They are like the imam in my madrassah . They hate all infidel.’
‘Then I would be grateful if you would not tell them who I am,’ said the Englishman.
Izmat Khan closed his eyes. He would die under torment rather than betray his new friend. It was the code. When he opened his eyes the Angleez was gone. He heard later the man had reached Shah Massoud in the Panjshir, but he never saw him again.
After his six months behind the Soviet lines in Afghanistan Mike Martin made it home via Pakistan unspotted and with fluent Pashto added to his armoury. He was sent on leave, remustered into the army and, being still in service with the SAS, was posted to Northern Ireland again in autumn 1988. But this time it was different.
The SAS were the men who really terrified the IRA and to kill – or better still capture alive, torture and kill – what they called a Sassman was the IRA’s greatest dream. Mike Martin found himself working with the 14th Intelligence Company, known as ‘the Detachment’ or ‘the Det’.
These were the watchers, the trackers, the eavesdroppers. Their job was to be so stealthy as never to be seen, but to find out where the IRA killers would strike next. To do this they performed some remarkable feats.
IRA leaders’ houses were penetrated via the roof tiles and bugged from the attic downwards. Bugs were placed in dead IRA men’s coffins for it was the habit of the godfathers to hold conferences while pretending to pay their respects to the casket. Long-range cameras caught images of moving mouths and lip-readers deciphered the words. Rifle-mikes recorded conversations through closed windows. When the Det had a real gem, they passed it to the hard men.
The rules of engagement were strict. The IRA men had to fire first and they had to fire at the SAS. If they threw down their guns at the challenge, they had to be taken prisoner. Before firing, both the SAS and Paras had to be immensely careful. It is a recent tradition of British politicians and lawyers that Britain’s enemies have civil rights but her soldiers do not.
Notwithstanding, in the eighteen months Martin spent as an SAS captain in Ulster he participated in the dark-of-night ambushes. In each a party of armed IRA men was caught by surprise and challenged. Each time they were foolish enough to draw and point weapons. Each time it was the Royal Ulster Constabulary who found the bodies in the morning.
But it was in the second shootout that Martin took his bullet. He was lucky. It was a flesh wound in the left bicep but enough to see him flown home and sent for convalescence at Headley Court, Leatherhead. That was where he met the nurse, Lucinda, who was to become his wife after a brief
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