They came for him several hours after nightfall.
Too faint from drugs and hunger to be afraid, Girling stumbled into the night. His hands were roped together in front of him; two soldiers held his arms and a third marched behind, holding a rifle to his back.
Girling felt as if he were caught in a strong current against which resistance was useless. He twisted in his escort’s grip to take in his surroundings. The new moon did not cast much light, but picked out the caravanserai none the less. He reached the top of a rise. Dotted before the walls of the ancient building were a dozen camp fires, each surrounded by fifteen or twenty men. It looked like a medieval battlefield.
In the glow of the fires, Girling could make out weapon emplacements. He saw anti-aircraft guns mounted on station wagons and, amongst the portable weaponry, rocket-propelled grenades and shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missiles by the dozen.
The night air was sharp against his face. He was maybe five or six thousand feet above sea level. Mountains, he was in the mountains.
They reached the caravanserai’s double gates. The soldier in charge of his escort shouted a series of harsh commands in the night and the doors swung slowly open, hinges groaning under the strain.
Inside, women cooked over open stoves while the men sat talking and smoking. The air was thick with conversation and the smell of bean stew and spiced meats.
The caravanserai was lavishly detailed. It reminded Girling of the Al-Mu’ayyad mosque, where he had seen the Guide. A wooden balcony ran around the inside of the courtyard, supported by ornate carved columns. The balcony was covered by a simple tiled roof, but the rest was open to the night. In the corner was a small mosque.
They reached a door set into the far wall and Girling was pushed inside with such force that he tripped and fell headlong.
He lifted his face off the smooth, paved floor. He was in a low-lit room and there was a crowd around him. The silence was palpable. As he climbed to his feet, Girling’s gaze passed quickly across the sea of faces. Some were in traditional robes, others dressed in jeans and combat jackets. Several carried automatic rifles and pistols.
His guards grabbed him again and waded through the crowd, pushing it back with their rifles. He was forced onto a wooden chair.
Smoke hung in layers, from floor to ceiling. Facing him were three tables arranged in a semicircle. The crowd behind him was quieter now, but Girling could sense its every movement.
A door opened and two men entered. They sat down directly in front of him, on the opposite side of the middle table. One of them was Ahmed Jibril, the leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine-General Command. He was older than his few published photographs gave him credit. His hair was grey, his stubble patchy. He wore a chequered Palestinian gutra around his neck.
The second man unbuckled his canvas combat belt and dropped it onto the table. Removing an old Colt .45 from its holster, he proceeded to clean it with a corner of his shirt. His dark hair, thinning at the temples, was swept back over his crown. His eyes were immensely dark and devoid of expression. Like Jibril, he wore military fatigues.
Jibril produced several pieces of paper from the top pocket of his tunic. He unfolded them slowly and placed them on the table. He put on a pair of reading glasses and studied them for a full two minutes without saying a word.
Girling could hear nothing except the sound of his own breathing. The entire room waited for Jibril to speak, but the other man held Girling’s attention. As he watched the rhythmic movements of the second man’s hands on the gun, a succession of images appeared before his eyes. The massacre at Beirut, bodies falling from the aircraft, explosions ripping it apart, flaming jet fuel incinerating the dead and the wounded. He saw Al-Qadi spitting into Stansell’s sarcophagus, felt the crowd close in on him outside the Al-Mu’ayyad Mosque.
As he looked into this man’s eyes he saw the face of Abu Tarek. His men had held him while the rocks rained down on Mona. He who had turned and laughed as he stood over her body on that dirt road in Asyut…
Girling gripped the edge of his chair. He now knew the secret of Wadi Qena. Ulm and the Pathfinders were coming to kill this bastard. And he wanted to watch them do it.
Jibril looked up. ‘Thomas Girling.’ He pronounced it badly, running together the ‘t’ and ‘h’ and softening the first ‘g’.
Girling turned slowly towards him.
‘Who do you work for?’ Jibril asked. Behind him a studious-looking man translated into Arabic for the audience.
‘The British publication, Dispatches.’
Jibril clucked. ‘The whole truth…’
‘I told you — ’
‘I heard first time,’ Jibril interrupted. It was a gravelly voice, heavily accented. ‘Perhaps I should be more clear.’ He waited for the translator to finish. ‘Who is paying you to write this material?’ He waved the pieces of paper in his hand. ‘The Americans? The Israelis? Your own secret service?’
‘I am a journalist,’ Girling said. ‘I don’t work for any government.’
‘You expect us to believe that?’ Jibril gestured around the room.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘One day you are writing about guns and aeroplanes from the safety of a desk in your own country. The next, you are here, sticking your nose into business that is not your concern.’
‘Murder is my concern.’
‘You do not answer the question.’
Girling took a deep breath. ‘I was in Cairo a long time ago. Murder took me away, and murder brought me back.’
The translator held his tongue.
‘Then you have learned nothing,’ Jibril said. ‘Why did you write these lies about the Angels of Judgement?’ He waved the paper again.
Girling looked back at the second man, who was no longer polishing his gun. ‘Because I wanted to see the face of the murderer,’ he said.
‘Who are you working for?’ Jibril repeated. The other man held up the Colt, examining it carefully under the light.
‘You bastards aren’t interested in the truth. It doesn’t matter if you blow the leg off another kid, or waste one more pregnant woman. There’s always the cause, isn’t there? The fucking cause justifies everything — ’
The second man snapped a bullet into the chamber of the automatic. Girling looked straight into his eyes. Suddenly he didn’t care about the hostages, the rescue, even about revenge. Past and future were the same. ‘You can’t kill me again,’ he said, rising. ‘You fuckers did that three years ago.’
Jibril clicked his fingers and three bodyguards appeared from the shadows behind him.
The crowd took it as a signal and came for him from three sides of the room.
One of the bodyguards brought the butt of his Kalashnikov across Girling’s face.
The pain temporarily drowned the cries of the crowd.
The first man to get to him had already drawn his pistol. At least six others held him down, pinioning him to the table.
Girling opened his eyes. He was staring straight into the snub barrel of an automatic. The man who held it was pleading with Jibril, shouting over and over. The crowd joined with him, a tuneless chant, an exhortation for him to pull the trigger and blow the ‘agnabi to hell.
Girling closed his eyes and the barrel was rammed against the bridge of his nose.
Then a voice rang out, silencing the crowd. It was deep and authoritative, but ice cold, not angry. ‘Put your gun away, Adel.’
‘Aiwa, ya Saif.’ Yes, Sword.
Girling tried to turn towards the voice, but it was impossible to see past the wall of men who surrounded him.