He had his flak jacket with him; something he had been advised to wear at all times. So his evening stroll was only made supposedly safer by the addition of the jacket; something he felt was totally unnecessary. But he had it on, loosely fitted and with the collar up.
He had reached a particularly quiet area when he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned round, expecting to see someone like himself, either out walking or perhaps returning from a social gathering at one of the on-base bars.
It was then he saw someone walking quickly towards him. In the darkness it looked like he was wearing combat fatigues. He then saw the upraised arm. It came swinging down and something smacked him on the side of the head.
Cavendish yelled out in pain and collapsed, striking his head on the ground. As he began to fade into unconsciousness he was vaguely aware of someone kicking him and then the sound of footsteps running away.
Ali Seema came out of the front door of the Mission and walked across the gravel to where Susan and Marcus were waiting. When he reached them he pointed back towards the building and told them that they could go in.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ Marcus asked him.
Seema shook his head. ‘No, my work is done here. It would not be right for me to be here when contact is made.’
‘Why ever not?’ Marcus asked him.
The interpreter looked at Marcus rather sheepishly. ‘My job was to bring you here; nothing else.’ He took a step towards the car. ‘I must go now.’
Marcus grabbed his arm. ‘No, Seema, you’re not walking away just like that.’
Seema began to struggle but Marcus wouldn’t let him go. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Seema. There’s no way we are walking into that building without you. Do you understand?’
Seema’s attitude was one of belligerence, but against the powerful grip that Marcus had on him, his belligerence was wasted.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘I will go back in there with you.’
Marcus relaxed his grip and let the man go. He said nothing but nodded his head towards the building. Seema took the hint and led them in.
Susan fell into step beside Marcus. She was extremely nervous now and that little show of belligerence from Ali Seema did little to help her nerves. She knew that Marcus would probably sense it. Her breathing sounded laboured but in fact she was beginning to hyperventilate. Seema’s attitude had scared her and she wondered what they might find once they stepped inside the Mission.
They walked in through the double doors, which creaked as Seema pushed them open. Immediately in front of them was a corridor which ran right and left the entire length of the building. Seema turned right and took them a few steps along the corridor before stopping and opening a door which they found led into an office.
It was simply furnished. An old, large desk dominated the room. Behind it was a chair. On the walls were posters of various descriptions, all in Farsi. There was a calendar which would have made no sense to a European, plus a planning schedule, the kind of which would be found in most modern offices.
A single light bulb hung from the ceiling with no benefit of a lampshade. And up against one wall were a couple of chairs that had seen better days. The floor was plain wood, and lodged against the open window was an old, air conditioner. Marcus wondered if it ever worked.
Standing beside the air conditioner, her arms folded was a nun. She tipped her head in greeting and asked them, in English to sit down. Then she looked beyond Marcus and Susan to Ali Seema and nodded. The interpreter bowed his head, said a few salaams and backed out of the office.
Marcus and Susan did as they had been asked and sat down. Meanwhile the nun took her place in the chair behind the desk. They heard the car engine start up and listened as the Tata drove away, the sound of its engine fading into the night.
Then they heard something else; the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, then the creaking of the main door as it swung open. The footsteps sounded again in the corridor outside the office. Suddenly the door opened and an Arab walked in. Marcus and Susan both gasped in surprise; it was the driver of the Tata.
‘Good evening,’ he said to them in passable English. ‘I’m sorry for the…’ he stumbled on the word for a moment. ‘… how do you say, tricks? But I have to be careful.’ He bowed his head. ‘Please allow me to introduce myself; I am Abdul Khaliq.’
Cavendish woke up, his head throbbing like mad. He opened his eyes and looked around him. He could see white walls and smell disinfectant and soap. The ache in his head reminded him that he had been drinking Jim Beam, but there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He lifted his head off the pillow and looked around the room. It was like a private room in a hospital, but without the personal touches he would have associated with such a place. There was a bell cord beside his bed which he pulled. A nurse appeared soon after. She was wearing a white coat over army fatigues. She lifted Cavendish’s arm and checked his pulse, then put his arm down and put her fingers to her lips.
‘Back in a while,’ she told him, and left.
The nurse came back with a doctor. He also was wearing camouflage fatigues beneath a white coat. He had the traditional stethoscope hanging round his neck.
‘Good morning sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How are you feeling?’
Cavendish couldn’t tell him the truth, which was that he didn’t want to give the doctor a reason to keep him there.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Too much to drink I guess.’
The doctor smiled and pulled a pen torch from his top pocket. He shone it in Cavendish’s eyes.
‘You fell over and banged your head, they tell me.’ He peered closely at Cavendish’s eyes. ‘But these tell me something different,’ he muttered.
‘What, my eyes?’
The doctor laughed. ‘No, these,’ he said and touched Cavendish on the side of the neck. The doctor’s touch made him yelp, pulling his head away.
‘It looks like something hit you on the side of the neck.’ The doctor was moving his head around as he spoke, carefully examining the bruising. ‘I think the collar of your flak jacket saved you. Wonderful things, flak jackets.’
He straightened and put his torch away. Then he finished of examining Cavendish and told him he could go whenever he felt able.
Cavendish was mightily pleased; eager to get out of the Base hospital and speak to Lieutenant McCain. He was also curious to find out who the man was he saw coming out of the headquarters building. The bang on the side of the head hadn’t exactly cleared it, but neither had it diminished his sense of urgency nor his sense of intrigue. Something was nagging away at him and he needed to find out what it was.
And quickly.
Abdul Khaliq sat facing them across the desk. The nun had left the room after asking them all if they wanted something to eat or drink. They settled for water which the nun brought in. She had put the jug and three glasses on the desk before leaving.
‘Why the subterfuge then?’ Marcus asked Abdul. ‘Why couldn’t you have come up to the hotel room, avoid all this drama?’
Abdul studied Marcus with the air of someone who feels sympathy for one who understands so little. ‘We are at risk even now,’ he explained. ‘If I had approached you openly in Kabul, I would never have left the hotel. And nor would you.’
Susan twitched at that last statement. She tried to keep thinking of David and not let her nerves get the better of her.
‘What can you tell me about my brother?’ she asked Abdul. ‘Is he ok?’
Abdul smiled at her, his teeth flashing brilliantly white beneath his beard. ‘I can promise you he is alive and he is well.’
‘Why didn’t you bring him here?’ Marcus asked him.
Abdul glanced across at Marcus knowing that he still did not understand. ‘He is too important to be brought here and handed over to you two.’ He held both his arms forward across the desk, his hands open. ‘Surely you can understand that?’