Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (14 page)

‘You may eat,’ said the man.

Rafiq didn’t react, wondering whether he had misheard the man.

‘There is food for you. Please, eat.’

Rafiq heard tea being poured. He looked up. The man was holding the teapot.

Rafiq closed his eyes and hugged himself. It was a trap. He was sure it was a trap.

‘Rafiq, you will need your strength if you are to get through this,’ said the man quietly.

Rafiq opened his eyes. He blinked and focused on the plate of fruit. There were slices of orange, chunks of pineapple, and green grapes. He slowly reached out with his right hand, picked up a grape and pushed it between his cracked and bleeding lips. He bit down on it and the grape popped and his mouth was filled with sweetness. He swallowed and felt the soft flesh slide down his throat. He grabbed a handful of the grapes and began pushing them between his lips, biting once and swallowing.

‘Take your time,’ said the man. ‘Don’t eat too quickly.’ He had a hooked nose and his eyes were deep set, giving him the look of a bird of prey.

Rafiq’s hands were shaking as he reached for a piece of goat’s cheese. He slotted it into his mouth and sighed as the rich creaminess of the cheese mixed with the sweetness of the grapes. He was certain that he had never tasted anything so delicious in his entire life.

He reached for a chunk of lamb, knowing that it would be hard to digest but also knowing that he needed protein. His jaw ached as he chewed. He tried to eat quickly, fearful that the platter would be taken away from him, but his mouth had gone dry and he almost gagged.

The man seemed to sense his discomfort and pushed a beaker of tea across the table towards Rafiq. Rafiq pushed the rest of the lamb into his mouth and then took a swallow of tea. It was sweet and minty, lukewarm rather than hot. He drained the beaker and the man refilled it for him.

‘My name is Mahmud,’ said the man. ‘And yours is Manraj Chaudhry.’ He smiled. ‘You see, Raj, I do not insult you by pretending not to know who you are. You are a man and I am a man, and men should be known by their true names.’

Raj took another piece of lamb and began to chew on it. It wasn’t as tasty as the grapes or the cheese but long-term it would do him more good. And eating gave him time to think, and to get his thoughts in order. Mahmud knew who he was. There had been no doubt, it hadn’t been a question and he wasn’t asking for confirmation. He knew who Raj was, but did he know everything? Raj could feel his stomach churning and it wasn’t the food causing it. He had no choice; he had to continue with the lie. He had no choice because if he told the truth he’d be dead.

Mahmud sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Raj swallowed the meat, then washed it down with more of the lukewarm mint tea.

Mahmud continued to stare at Raj with featureless brown eyes, his face impassive.

Raj picked up another piece of goat’s cheese.

‘The food is to your liking?’ asked Mahmud.

Raj nodded but said nothing.

Mahmud refilled Raj’s beaker. ‘You know your Qur’an?’ he asked softly.

Raj swallowed and nodded. ‘Of course,’ said Raj.

‘Then you know what the Qur’an says about those who wage war against Allah?’

‘I am not waging war against Allah,’ said Raj. ‘I am a jihadist, that’s why I’m here, to train …’

Mahmud put up his hand to silence Raj and smiled sadly. ‘The Qur’an says the punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger and strive to make mischief in the land is only this, that they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or they should be imprisoned.’ The man put his hands palms down on the table. ‘The punishment is harsh, but deserved,’ he said. ‘Those Muslims who side with the infidel are the lowest of the low.’

Raj found it difficult to swallow and he gulped down some more tea.

‘But it is never too late to return to the fold, brother,’ said Mahmud. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You have made bad choices, Raj. But you have the opportunity now to put that right.’

‘What do you think I’ve done?’ asked Raj. ‘Someone is lying to you, Mahmud. I am here to learn how to fight the infidel. I have given up everything to be here. I have left my family, I have given up my studies, I have put my life on hold to fight the good fight.’

Mahmud nodded. ‘I understand your desire to lie, Raj,’ he said. ‘You are clinging to the hope that you can lie your way out of this. I have no doubt that your handler said that there was no way you would be caught. But he was wrong, Raj. Your handler lied to you.’ He poured more tea into the beaker and placed the pot on the table. ‘What is his name, Raj? This man who lied to you?’

Raj tried to fake a look of confusion, as if he didn’t know what Mahmud was talking about. ‘Mahmud, there has been a mistake. I’m not what you think I am. I am here to learn, that’s all.’ He lifted the beaker to his lips but his hand shook and tea spilled on to the table.

‘He cannot help you, your handler,’ said Mahmud. ‘In fact he will have already given up on you. He will be protecting himself, that will be his first concern. He will be removing all evidence that you ever worked for MI6. And he will be doing whatever he can to protect his other agents.’

Raj took a handful of grapes and put one in his mouth.

‘The one thing that he won’t be doing is trying to rescue you, Raj. You must put any thoughts of rescue out of your mind. He has thrown you to the wolves. Now that you are no longer any use to him, you have been discarded.’

Raj put the grapes down on the table. His stomach was churning and while he knew that he needed the nourishment, he no longer felt like eating. ‘Mahmud, please, you have to believe me. I don’t work for MI6. I don’t work for anybody. I gave up everything to come here. I am prepared to die for Allah. If you truly believe that I am a traitor to Islam, then you must kill me.’

‘Is that what you want, brother? You want me to kill you?’

‘Of course I don’t want that,’ said Raj. ‘But I don’t know what else to say.’

‘The truth,’ said Mahmud. ‘You need to tell me the truth, because that is the only thing that will save you.’

‘I am telling you the truth!’ protested Raj.

Mahmud shook his head sadly. ‘No, brother, you are not.’ He sighed. ‘And if you do not tell the truth, there is nothing I can do to help you.’

‘Mahmud, please, you must listen to me.’

‘I am listening to you, Raj. That’s why I’m here. To listen.’

Raj swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again and he reached for his tea. Mahmud’s hand flashed out like a striking snake and gripped his wrist. His nails dug into Raj’s flesh, making him wince.

‘But there is no point in me listening if you are going to lie to me.’

‘I’m not lying,’ said Raj. ‘I’m not.’

Mahmud released his grip on Raj’s wrist. ‘Do you have any idea what they will do to you if you don’t tell the truth?’ he said.

Raj massaged his wrist. He looked down at the table, unable to meet the man’s gaze. There was no point in protesting his innocence. Mahmud clearly knew that he was working for MI6.

‘They will take off your head, Raj. While you are alive. Have you ever witnessed a beheading?’

Raj shook his head.

‘What, never? You have never looked at YouTube? Curiosity never got the better of you?’

Raj closed his eyes. His chest felt tight as if it were in the grip of a vice and he could barely breathe.

‘The brain continues to function after the head is severed,’ said Mahmud. ‘Sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for as long as half a minute. The eyes can blink and move. The mouth opens and closes. The body also continues to move. The chest heaves. Arms and legs thrash about.’

Raj shuddered but continued to stare at the table.

‘Think how your mother and father will feel, seeing you die like that,’ said Mahmud. ‘And Jamila. Think of the effect it would have on her. You are planning to marry her, aren’t you?’

Raj looked up, his heart racing. Mahmud was watching him with amused eyes. ‘You think I don’t know everything there is to know about you? And your family?’ He leant back in his chair. ‘You don’t seriously want to die, do you, Raj? You want to marry Jamila and have children and you want to watch them grow up and when you’ve lived a full and happy life then you’d want to die peacefully in your own bed surrounded by your family.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘It is time for you to tell me everything, Raj.’

Raj stared into Mahmud’s brown eyes. The man was smiling but there was no warmth in his gaze. He was studying Raj as if he were a specimen on a microscope slide. Raj’s mind raced. Mahmud seemed to know everything. But if he knew everything, why even bother with a conversation? What was it that he wanted from him? And whatever the information was that he wanted, what would happen if and when Raj gave it to him?

‘Your handler has abandoned you, Raj. There is no ransom to be paid, you will not be exchanged for another prisoner. You are on your own. The only friend you have is the man sitting across from you. Let me be your friend, Raj. Let me help you get out of the hole you have dug for yourself.’

Raj blinked back tears.

‘This is your chance to help me help you. I beg you, please take it.’

Raj took a deep breath, then slowly shook his head. ‘I’m a loyal servant of Allah, here to learn how to become a jihadist,’ he said.
‘Allahu akbar
. God is great.’

Mahmud pushed back his chair and slowly stood up, then walked around the table. He patted Raj on the shoulder and left the room. A few seconds later the two big bearded men burst in, grabbed Raj and pulled him off the chair. They began to kick him, all the time screaming insults at him. Raj curled up in a ball and begged for mercy even though he knew that there would be none forthcoming.

The AgustaWestland AW109 banked to the left and came in for a perfect landing on the square helipad to the south of the Credenhill barracks, home to the SAS. Major Allan Gannon was standing next to a green open-top Land Rover at the edge of the helipad, wearing a black tracksuit and black Nike trainers. As soon as the wheels of the helicopter touched the tarmac, Shepherd pulled open the side door and climbed out, then jogged over to the Major, bent at the waist even though he knew that the whirling rotor blades were well above his head.

He straightened up when he reached the Major, and the two men shook hands as the twin engines of the helicopter roared and it climbed back into the air.

‘I’m surprised to see you being given the VIP treatment, what with all the cutbacks and all,’ said the Major, as he climbed into the driving seat of the Land Rover.

‘There’s considerable time pressure on this one,’ said Shepherd, getting into the front passenger seat. ‘They didn’t want me stuck in traffic and I have to get back tonight. Then out to Pakistan tomorrow.’

The helicopter banked to the left and headed east. The Major started the Land Rover’s engine and headed towards the armoury. Their route took them past several large featureless metal-sided buildings. They had been aircraft maintenance hangars when Credenhill was an RAF station but had been converted into offices and training facilities when the SAS took over the base in 1999. They had all been painted green at the insistence of the local council, which wanted them to blend in with their surroundings. During the short drive Shepherd filled the Major in on what was happening. He finished just as they arrived at the door to the armoury. ‘You would have thought they’d have sent in the Increment,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s what we train for.’

‘I suppose the Pakistanis want the credit,’ said the Major. ‘And you can see their point, can’t you? If there was a hijacked PIA jet at Heathrow, we’d hardly be letting Pakistani special forces handle it.’

The two men climbed out of the Land Rover. ‘Anyway, it might not be too bad,’ said the Major. ‘They do a fair bit of training with the Americans, at least they did until the Bin Laden business, and they’re much better than most of the Asian SF mobs. They’ve had a fair few successes over the last few years. They took out more than ninety extremists at the Red Mosque in 2007 and a couple of years later they saved the day at the Lahore Police Academy and the Pakistan Military Headquarters.’

The armoury door opened and a grizzled grey-haired sergeant appeared. His face broke into a grin when he saw Shepherd standing with the Major. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, in a gruff Geordie accent. ‘Spider bloody Shepherd. I thought we’d got rid of you.’

Shepherd grinned. Sergeant Pete Simpson was a Loggy, a member of the Royal Logistics Corps. The RLC made up almost a sixth of the British Army, and without the Loggys the army – and the SAS – wouldn’t be able to function. Simpson had been in charge of the armoury when Shepherd had been in 22 SAS and by the look of it had no plans to leave. Simpson knew more about guns than anyone Shepherd had ever met. There wasn’t a weapon in the armoury that the sergeant couldn’t field-strip and reassemble in less than two minutes – blindfolded. The two men shook hands. ‘Good to see you, Pete. How’s the lad?’

‘Passed selection three years ago,’ said the sergeant, his chest puffing up with pride. ‘Out somewhere hot and sunny as we speak.’

‘Pity, I’d have liked to have said hello,’ said Shepherd. Simpson’s son must have been about ten years old the last time he’d seen him at one of the family open days the Regiment had run at the old Stirling Lines barracks.

Simpson looked over at the Major. ‘I’ve got everything ready,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Pete, sorry about the short notice.’ The SAS, officers and troopers, were unfailingly polite when it came to dealing with the Loggys, in recognition of the vital role they played in the smooth running of the Regiment.

The sergeant held the door open for them and Shepherd and the Major went inside. They entered a corridor lined with wire-mesh cages where the Regiment stored the bulk of its weapons and ammunition. To their left were racks containing several dozen Heckler & Koch G3 carbines. ‘I’ve put the MP5s in there for you with the G3s,’ said the sergeant. He pulled open the door to the cage.

‘You’re a star, Pete, thanks.’

‘Give me a shout if you want anything,’ said the sergeant, and he headed back to his cubbyhole of an office. Gannon led Shepherd into the cage. ‘The SSG use a range of weapons, but like the SAS they’re big Heckler and Koch fans,’ said the Major. ‘They produce HK G3s and MP5s locally. Snipers use the Barrett M82, the HK PSG1 and occasionally the Dragunov. So far as shorts go, they favour Hecklers and of course the Glocks.’