Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (37 page)

‘Cat got your tongue, Mr Shepherd?’ said Al-Farouq. He grinned triumphantly. ‘Yes, I know who you are. And I know who you work for. I know you once served with the British SAS and that you now work for the Security Service, MI5. See, Mr Shepherd. I know everything.’

Shepherd kept his face blank. It was important that Al-Farouq didn’t know what he was thinking. He maintained eye contact and tried not to swallow. Had Raj told Al-Farouq who Shepherd was? That didn’t seem likely, despite everything that Raj had been through. There had to be something else going on. Raj didn’t know that the SSG were going to try to rescue him, or that Shepherd would be part of the rescue team. There was nothing Raj knew that could have compromised the SSG rescue attempt. That information must have come from someone inside the Pakistan military or from their intelligence services. A traitor. Had that same traitor betrayed Shepherd to Al-Farouq?

Al-Farouq’s grin widened. ‘Do you know who I am, Mr Shepherd?’

‘You said your name was Mahmud.’ He tried to keep his voice flat and emotionless.

‘That’s right. Do you believe me?’

Shepherd feigned confusion, as if he didn’t understand what was happening.

Al-Farouq knew who Raj was. And Shepherd. Shepherd wasn’t sure how Al-Farouq knew. Not that it mattered how he had come by the information. What mattered now was what Al-Farouq was going to do.

‘Who am I, Mr Shepherd?’

Shepherd frowned. ‘Mahmud.’

Al-Farouq walked over to Shepherd and stood looking down at him. ‘Why did you come to Pakistan?’

‘To help with the rescue of a British citizen.’

‘And how did you know where he was being held? How did you know about the fort at Parachinar?’

‘The Pakistani military knew where the fort was.’

Al-Farouq nodded slowly. ‘And who briefed you on the mission? Before the attack?’

His face was so close to Shepherd’s that Shepherd could smell the garlic on his breath.

‘It was a brigadier,’ said Shepherd.

‘What was his name?’

‘I can’t remember,’ lied Shepherd.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Al-Farouq.

‘It’s true. Some Pakistani name, obviously. But I don’t remember.’

‘Let’s see if some physical pain will help you remember.’

‘It won’t,’ said Shepherd.

‘You don’t know what I’ve got in mind,’ said Al-Farouq. He straightened up and said something to the men guarding the door before turning back to Shepherd. ‘I know you can stand pain, Mr Shepherd. You have an astonishingly high threshold, even if you do scream a lot. But I wonder how high your threshold is when it comes to your friend.’ He gestured at Raj.

Shepherd could feel a growing sense of panic threaten to overwhelm him but he fought to keep his voice steady. ‘He’s not my friend.’

‘We shall see,’ said Al-Farouq. He left the room with the two guards, leaving the man with the AK-47 watching them. He had his finger on the trigger and the selector switch was set to fully automatic. Considering they were in a confined space it was an incredibly dangerous way of holding the gun; he just hoped the man knew what he was doing.

Raj looked over at Shepherd. ‘What’s going to happen?’ he asked fearfully.

‘It’s OK,’ said Shepherd, though he knew the situation was far from being OK.

‘What’s he going to do?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ said Raj.

Shepherd forced a smile. ‘Good man.’

The white SUV remained dead centre in the middle of the screen as it powered along the road. ‘How does it do that?’ said Button. ‘No matter which way the road bends, the drone keeps it dead centre.’

‘The camera’s controlled by an AI program,’ said Singh. ‘Artificial intelligence. Once the target is locked in, the camera will keep on it no matter what. And when necessary, the program makes suggestions for course changes for the pilot. In a few more generations, they won’t even need a pilot.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not,’ she said.

‘You and me both,’ said Singh. ‘The Reapers and Predators they have at the moment can carry out entire hunter-killer missions with no human involvement at all. They just program the target in, launch, and the computers do the rest.’

‘It’s a brave new world, that’s a fact,’ said Button.

‘What they don’t tell you is that the accident rate of a drone is three times that of a conventional aircraft,’ said Singh.

‘Please don’t jinx it,’ said Button.

At that exact moment the screen pixellated and went black.

‘That’s not funny, Amar,’ said Button.

Singh put his hands in the air. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said, ‘I swear.’

Button reached for the button on the console to talk to Yokely. ‘Richard. What’s happening?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s gone blank here too.’

Singh was talking to his contact Eric as he tapped on his keyboard.

Button heard a muffled conversation through her headset, culminating with the American swearing. ‘Charlie, we’ve got a technical SNAFU. It’s not the first time apparently. The sensors are working but the Sentinel isn’t able to upload the data.’

‘Can you fix it?’

Yokely sighed. ‘I’d be lying if I said we can,’ he said. ‘At the moment we’re flying blind. The pilot has the instrument details so we can fly it, but we’re not getting any visuals at all. Like I said, I think the camera is OK and the drone has the pictures, it’s just they’re not getting from the drone to us. We’re going to continue on the same course but if we don’t get the visuals sorted we’re going to have to bring it back to base. I’m sorry, Charlotte. We can’t afford to have it crashing in Pakistan.’

‘I understand, Richard,’ she said.

‘I’m going to see what other drones are available. If we’re lucky there’ll be something in the air close by.’

She thanked him, took off her headset and placed it on the desk. ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said.

Singh pushed back his chair and threw up his hands. ‘I told you. They can be so bloody unreliable at times.’

‘He’s going to try and get an alternate in the air.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Singh.

‘I don’t know,’ said Button, her mind racing. ‘If we can’t track al-Haznawi back to wherever they’re holding Spider, they’ll move him and it’ll be over.’ Her eyes widened. ‘What about the number Salma called? If Al-Haznawi still has the phone on, we can track his phone.’

Singh nodded and his fingers played across the keyboard. ‘I’ll call him using a Pakistan number, he’ll assume the call is local.’ He keyed in the number and hit enter. There was a brief pause and then the call went straight through to voicemail. Singh scowled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The phone is switched off.’

Harper swung the length of two-by-four hard and it thwacked against Ullah’s backside. Harper had gagged the man and after each blow he’d asked the same question. ‘Are you ready to talk?’ When the imam made it clear he had nothing to say, Harper would wallop him again. And again. He had lost count of the number of times that he had beaten the man. Thirty? Forty? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He figured the Taliban would be doing worse to Spider in Pakistan.

Sweat was beading on his forehead and he wiped it away with his sleeve. He tossed the length of wood to the side and it skidded across the floor and came to rest by the wall. Harper pulled a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and flicked open the main blade. Ullah began to struggle frantically as Harper walked over to him, swishing the blade from side to side.

Harper knelt down beside the man and cut the duct tape away from his face. Ullah began to cough. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he gasped, and coughed again.

Harper stood up and put his penknife away. ‘You seem to be good at tolerating torture,’ said Harper. ‘Have you been tortured before?’

Ullah didn’t answer.

‘Or have you been taught? Is there an al-Qaeda interrogation course? Are there techniques you can learn that make it easier?’

‘I’m not in al-Qaeda,’ said the imam. ‘I am not a terrorist.’

‘Right, then,’ said Harper. ‘I should get you down, then, right?’

He walked over to where the free end of the chain was tied off and undid it, then let it slide slowly through his gloved hands until Ullah was lying on the concrete.

Harper stood over him and took out his cigarettes and lighter. ‘You smoke?’

‘Smoke?’

Harper wiggled the pack of cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’

Ullah nodded. ‘Yes. I smoke.’

Harper lit one and blew smoke. ‘Terrible habit.’

He pulled a wooden chair over and then dragged Ullah up and sat him down. He used duct tape to bind Ullah to the chair, then slipped the cigarette between his lips. Ullah sucked on it gratefully as Harper lit another one for himself.

Ullah began to cough so Harper took out the cigarette. Ullah took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, then he nodded and Harper put the cigarette back between his lips.

Harper paced up and down as he smoked. Ullah watched him fearfully. ‘I’m not happy about you making me do this, you know?’ fumed Harper. ‘Beating the crap out of somebody isn’t my thing. You can see I’m serious, I don’t understand why you don’t just tell me what I need to know, then I can stop doing this.’ He shook his head and looked up at the roof. ‘I have to say, if it was me being tortured and you asking the questions, I’d be spilling my guts. No question. I’d just tell you.’

He dropped what was left of his cigarette on to the floor and ground it out with his heel, then did the same with the cigarette that Ullah had been smoking. Then he walked over to a bench and picked up a red plastic can with a black cap and a black spout attached to the handle. He unscrewed the cap and put it on the bench, then screwed in the spout. He lifted up the can and poured petrol over Ullah’s legs, just enough to soak into the material.

Ullah screamed as he struggled, but Harper knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He poured more petrol over the bound man. The imam gasped and spat to clear his mouth. Harper put the petrol can on the floor and took out his cigarette lighter. ‘Why do you care so much about Al-Farouq?’ said the imam.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Harper.

‘He doesn’t even come to this country.’

Harper said nothing.

‘Why are you doing this? You are not with the authorities. You would not be allowed to do this if you were.’

Harper walked to stand in front of the bound man. ‘You think you’re the only one who doesn’t have to follow rules?’ he said. ‘That’s what you depend on, isn’t it? The British sense of fair play. Human rights. You want us to play by the rules while you go around killing and maiming civilians.’

‘We are at war,’ said the imam.

‘Then wear a uniform and carry a rifle,’ said Harper. ‘If you did that, I might have some respect for you. You’re as bad as the scum we fought in Afghanistan. During the day they’d wave and smile at the troops. At night they’d plant IEDs. That’s how cowards fight.’

The imam glared at Harper. ‘We are not cowards.’

‘You fight like cowards. You plot and you scheme and you murder innocents, and then as soon as the authorities give you a hard time you scream “human rights” and claim persecution.’

‘And what you are doing now is honourable?’ spat Ullah. ‘How is this not cowardly?’

‘I’m not the one pretending to be a religious figure,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t hide in a church.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, enough chit-chat. I need to know how you talk to Al-Farouq.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Al-Farouq.’

‘Really? He’s an al-Qaeda paymaster. And you send young men over to Pakistan for him to train.’

The imam shook his head.

‘You think this is a game?’ asked Harper. He waved the cigarette lighter in front of the man’s face. ‘You think I won’t do it?’

‘I am an imam,’ said Ullah. ‘I serve Allah. If it is Allah’s wish that I die, then so be it.
Allahu akbar
.’

‘Yeah,
Allahu akbar
, blah blah blah.’ Harper stared at Ullah for several seconds, then put the lighter back in the pocket of his jeans and walked over to the far side of the building. There was a package there, six feet long and wrapped in polythene. Harper hefted it on to his shoulder and carried it over to Ullah. He dropped it down on the floor with a dull thud before grabbing one end of the polythene and unrolling it. The body of Shakeel Usmani flopped on to the concrete floor, swathed in duct tape. He had been gagged with a rag and more tape. ‘You know Shakeel, of course.’

The imam stared at Usmani in horror. Usmani was in shock, his eyes were open, but he didn’t seem aware of what was going on around him.

‘Shakeel told me that you sent him to Pakistan for specialised training. It was Shakeel that told me about your three families. Your wives. Your kids. He was a mine of information. Very helpful.’

The imam shook his head. ‘You can’t do this. This is England.’

Harper smiled thinly. ‘I can. And I have done. You take money from Al-Farouq. And you send young guys like Shakeel out to train with him. So I know you know how to get in touch with him.’

The imam continued to shake his head as he stared at Usmani.

‘You know the difference between you and me?’ asked Harper. ‘You’ve got dependants. You’ve got family. Me, I’ve got nothing. I don’t care if you know who I am or where I live, because there’s nothing you can do to hurt me, other than to come after me with a gun. And if you do come after me, I’d lay money on my coming off best. You can kill me, sure, but you’ll have a fight on your hands. But you, you’ve got wives. Three wives. I don’t know how you manage to get away with that in a country where bigamy is illegal, but we are a tolerant country, aren’t we? When all is said and done.’

Harper pulled out his gun. ‘I need you to know what sort of person I am, Mohammed. You need to know when I say I will do something, I will do it. Do you understand me?’

The imam’s face was bathed in sweat. He was staring at Usmani, his eyes wide and fearful.

Harper grabbed Ullah’s chin and stared at him from just inches away. ‘I’m going to kill Shakeel here and now. I’m going to kill him in front of you. Then I’m going to take off your gag and I’m going to ask you one more time how you contact Al-Farouq.’ Ullah tried to twist out of Harper’s grip but Harper tightened his fingers like talons. ‘Look at me, Mohammed, I need you to look at me while I talk to you.’ Ullah stared at Harper fearfully. There were tears in his eyes. ‘If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll go and get one of your wives. Maybe the young one. Little Smita. When’s the baby due? Three months? I think that’s what Shakeel said.’ Harper looked across at Usmani. ‘That’s what you said, Shakeel, right? She’s six months pregnant?’ Harper looked back at the imam. ‘I’ll bring Smita here and I’ll kill her. And I’ll cut out the baby and rub your face in it. I’ll bring them all, Mohammed. I’ll bring every one of your wives and kids here one by one and I’ll kill them in front of you. Do you understand?’ Harper stared into the imam’s eyes. Tears were running down the man’s cheek and over the duct tape gag. ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Harper. He let go of Ullah’s chin and walked over to Usmani. He pulled his gun from the back of his jeans, chambered the first round and shot Usmani three times, in the groin, the chest and the throat. He stood watching Ullah with a smile on his face as Usmani bled out.