‘Girling must live long enough to tell us what he knows. I will deal with him personally.’
Girling lay close to the door, his ears straining for sound. In the night, alone with his thoughts, a yearning to survive had returned. The thought that help was at hand sustained him.
On his way back to his cell he had spotted another, nearly identicaclass="underline" the same window bars, same thick wooden door with two armed guards either side. Was it large enough for an ambassador and a nine-strong team of negotiators?
He walked over to the door and looked outside. The moon had slipped behind the clouds. There was not a sound, not a single voice, not a laugh to be heard in the wadi. He clutched his sides for warmth. He could not see the other cell, but was tempted to call out. Then he felt the dried blood on his face from the Kalashnikov and remained silent.
When was Ulm coming?
Jibril and the Sword would put him through a further round of interrogation sometime after daybreak. They would want to know what he knew about the Shura, but with boots and gun butts in his face, his groin, and his kidneys, what else might he tell them?
He heard something.
An engine. An aero engine.
Girling pressed his head to the bars. It was very faint, very distant.
An airliner, crossing the night sky at altitude on its way to Europe, or the Gulf. Passengers inside, warm, relaxed, eating, sleeping…
Girling moved away from the bars to the corner furthest from the door and sat there waiting for the dawn.
He opened his eyes when it was not yet light. He lifted his head from the crook of his arm and heard a sound, very close. He stiffened, then got slowly to his feet. By the door he could see the outline of a man.
A match flared and he found himself staring into the eyes of a man he took at first to be a priest. He was dressed in a long robe and turban. His beard was white and full, the face strong.
The mullah watched him as he brought the flame to the wick. He replaced the glass and hung the lamp on a hook by the door. To Girling’s surprise, the eyes that held his were bright blue.
‘Why so angry, Mr Girling?’ The mullah lifted the hem of his robe and sat opposite him, eyes level.
‘Who are you?’ Girling asked.
‘One who comes in peace.’ His English was accented, but smooth, unlike Jibril’s.
‘Does peace come from the barrel of a gun?’
The mullah raised his eyes. A muezzin had begun to call from the caravanserai.
Girling pointed to the door. ‘There are enough weapons out there to start another world war.’
‘The weapons belong to Jibril and Hizbollah. They are here for the Shura.’
‘The Shura…?’ Lazan’s last piece of intelligence came back to him.
‘A meeting, a council. At the caravanserai. You know what a caravanserai is? It is a holy place-’
‘Where even rival tribes forget their differences,’ Girling whispered.
‘For one who knows our culture it is strange that you should hate it so. What have the Angels of Judgement done to you?’
Girling felt a surge of anger. ‘What have you done…?’
The mullah held up his hand. ‘I know about your wife. I know about your friend. I know about the hostages. But these things are not our work.’
His voice held such quiet conviction that Girling was still. Then he saw himself once more overlooking the valley outside Wadi Qena, Abdullah beside him. The helicopters were circling, pouring fire into the mock caravanserai. ‘Then why call this Shura?’
‘So that many can hear the message.’ He paused. ‘The Sword will tell them that there is to be no Jihad, no Holy War.’
‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it? Wherever he goes, the Sword’s message is pain.’
‘You have written much about his message, and now you are here, his prisoner. But you know so little about him…’ He studied Girling’s bruised face. ‘Was it worth it?’
‘I think I came here to kill him,’ Girling said.
The blue eyes regarded him. ‘Does peace come from the barrel of a gun?’
The question was asked softly, and Girling thought he detected a hint of a smile on the mullah’s face. When he finally answered, Girling’s tone, too, was soft.
‘Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’
‘Your heart was too full of anger to see the truth.’ The Sword paused. ‘The things you wrote… Beirut Airport, murder in Cairo, hostages… none of it true.’
‘But they happened.’
‘Not on my orders.’
‘Then perhaps your Angels of Judgement are operating beyond your control.’
‘I may be an old man, Mr Girling, but you should know that none of my men moves without a word from me first.’
‘If it wasn’t you… then who?’
‘I was hoping you would tell me. Why do you think I brought you here? I need answers, too. I thought you knew…’
The muezzin’s song rose. For a long time the two men watched each other in silence. Girling felt his tiredness leave him. The puzzle was almost complete. It had been since his journey to Qena. He just hadn’t been watching it closely enough.
‘Stamen’s article said you were in Afghanistan, that you were a Mujahideen group, that you had seen action…’
‘A long time ago. Things were different…’
‘In what way?’
‘We were less sold on the ways of peace.’
‘Why such a long way from home? I thought the struggle was here.’
The Sword looked up. ‘The struggle is everywhere, Mr Girling. But I am an Uzbek, born and raised in a village south of Samarkand.’
Girling nodded. ‘Samarkand, Uzbekistan?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Soviet Union.’
‘Islam knows no borders.’
But Girling was far, far away. ‘The Russians… There’s no rescue… it’s a trap.’
‘A trap?’
‘Three days ago I watched a Soviet-American task force destroy a valley identical to this one. I thought it was a dress-rehearsal for a rescue. But if the hostages aren’t here, those helicopters were on a mission to search and destroy.’
The Sword nodded slowly. ‘It’s me they want, Mr Girling.’
‘How could I be so blind? It was the Russians all along. How many Muslims are there in the Soviet Union and Russia? Sixty million, more even? Sixty million Uzbeks, Kirghiz, Tadzhiks, Tatars, Kazakhs, and Azeris all united by a common faith. Sixty million.’ Girling paused as the picture became complete. ‘You’re their worst nightmare. They think you’re going to take the Holy War to the heart of Russia.’
‘But like you, Mr Girling, they were wrong. I called the Shura to tell Jibril and his kind there will be no Jihad. The next Soviet revolution, when it comes, must be a peaceful one.’
‘I’m afraid it’s too late. For you, for me, for the Americans…’
‘The Americans?’
Girling thought back to his meeting with McBain and Ulm. They thought he knew. They had been in the dark then, just like everyone else. Hostages. The Russians took the hostages. Stansell knew, so the Russians killed him. They’d told Al-Qadi to kill Girling too; after the Reuters story he’d be just one more victim of the Angels of Judgement. Jesus, the fucking Soviets had known which buttons to press all along.
He turned to the Sword. ‘When the helicopters leave, this valley will be littered with the dead bodies of Arabs and Americans, unless we do something first.’
As they stepped outside into the air there was an ear-splitting roar and a helicopter the size of a trawler rose up from behind the outhouse. Girling grabbed the Sword’s hand and ran for an irrigation ditch in the lee of the cliffs.