“Within seconds, of course, I understood what was happening. I ran towards the encampment waving my arms, yelling at the plane-as if anyone up there could hear me-that the people were just letting off fireworks. And all the while the plane was moving in these slow, methodical circles, drilling every inch of the place with cannon-fire. The dead and dying were everywhere, with the wounded writhing on the ground and rolling in the embers of fires, screaming. I ran through the firing as if it was rain, untouched, but I couldn’t find my parents or my sister or anyone I knew. And I couldn’t find Farzana. I screamed her name until I had no voice left, and then I felt myself lifted off my feet and thrown face-down on the rock. I had been hit.
“The next thing I knew was that Khalid, my future brother-in-law, had dragged me to my feet and was yelling at me to run. Somehow he got me out of the killing zone and back to the hill I had been standing on earlier. I had been hit in the side with shrapnel and was losing blood fast, but I managed to drag myself beneath a fold of the rock. After that, I passed out.
“When I came to, I was in Mir Wais hospital in Kandahar. Khalid had loaded eight of us into a truck and driven us there during the night. My sister Laila was alive, but had lost an arm, and my mother had suffered severe burns. She died a week later. My father, Farzana and a dozen others had been killed in the attack.”
Jean said nothing. She tried to synchronise her breathing with his, but he was too calm and she was too distressed. We are right in what we do, she told herself. And one day, long after we and thousands like us have given our lives for the struggle, we will prevail. We will prevail.
“That night the television carried a CNN report of a ‘firefight’ near Daranj. Elements loyal to Al Qaeda, the reporter said, had attempted to bring down a US transport aircraft with a surface-to-air missile. The attempt had failed, and the terrorists had been engaged and several of their number killed. Twenty-four hours later Al Jazeera ran a counter-story, in which Khalid was interviewed as an eyewitness. A US aircraft, they said, appeared to have launched an unprovoked attack on a betrothal party in an Afghan village, in the course of which fourteen Afghan civilians had been killed and eight critically wounded. Of the dead, six were women and three were children. None of those involved had any connection to any terrorist organisation.
“After refusing to comment on the incident for almost a week, a USAF spokesman conceded that it had taken place more or less as reported by Al Jazeera, and described the loss of life as ‘tragic.’ In mitigation, he said, the aircrew maintained that they had come under sustained small-arms fire, and the pilot stated that a surface-to-air missile had been fired at them. Pictures were published of the unit’s commander, Colonel Greeley, pointing to what he claimed was bullet damage to the fuselage of an AC-130 transporter gunship. In the course of the subsequent military inquiry, which totally exonerated the gunship’s crew, it was reported that two AK-47 assault rifles had been discovered in the area of the encampment, along with a number of expended 7.62 cartridge cases.”
“Did you give evidence at the inquiry?”
“What would have been the purpose of that, other than to draw attention to myself? Like everyone else, I knew what its conclusion would be. No, as soon as my wounds were healed I returned to Mardan.”
“That was two years ago?”
“That was almost exactly two years ago. Inside myself, now, I was a dead man. All that remained was the necessity of vengeance. The matter of izzat-honour. At the madrassah they were sympathetic-more than sympathetic. They sent me to one of the North West Frontier camps for a few months, and then sent me back across the border into Afghanistan. I took up work at a truck stop which operated as a cover for one of the jihadi organisations, and there, a few months later, I was introduced to a man named al Safa.”
“Dawood al Safa?”
“The same. Al Safa was interested by my story. For some time he had been considering revenge against those responsible for the Daranj massacre. Not a general action, but a specific, targeted reprisal. Just as they had come to our country to bomb, burn and kill, so we would do the same. The Americans and their allies would be left in no doubt of the length of our reach, or of the inexorability of our purpose. Al Safa had just visited a camp in Takht-i-Suleiman, he said, where Fate had delivered to him a pearl beyond price. A brave fighter, a young Englishwoman, who had dared to take the name of Asimat-bride of Salah-ud-din-and the sword of jihad. An Englishwoman, moreover, with highly specialised knowledge. Knowledge that would enable us to take a revenge of such exquisite appropriateness…”
“I didn’t know any of this,” she said. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“For your own safety, and that of our mission.”
“Do I know everything now?”
“Not yet. When the time comes, trust me, you will know everything.”
“It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Trust me, Asimat.”
She stared out into the darkness. At that moment, the rain-dripping chamber beneath the bridge was the whole world. If this was to be her last night on earth, then so be it. She reached out her hand, and found the roughness of his cheek. “I am not Farzana,” she said quietly, “but I am yours.”
Silence, and from beyond the stillness surrounding them, the long sigh of the fenland wind.
“Come here then,” he said.
53
Well, at least we now know for certain what the target is,” said Jim Dunstan. From behind him came a hydraulic hum followed by a muted shudder as the main entrance to the hangar closed.
“I’m afraid there was never much doubt that it was going to be one of those USAF bases,” said Bruno Mackay, unwrapping an Army Air Corps-issue Mars Bar. All the phones in the place, for once, were silent.
“It’s certain that the AC-130 involved in the Daranj incident was one of the ones based at Marwell, then?” asked Whitten.
“No doubt at all, according to the report,” said Liz.
“What’s the provenance of the report?” asked Mackay, a little testily. “Can you tell us that?”
“Everything in it except the involvement of Faraj Mansoor is public domain,” said Liz evasively. “The story slipped beneath the radar here at the time-the Northern Ireland Assembly had just been suspended, and Saddam Hussein had just submitted his arms declaration-but the Arabic-language press went to town on it in a big way.” She turned to Mackay. “I’m surprised the reports didn’t cross your desk.”
“They did,” said Mackay. “And as far as I remember the Islamabad Stars and Stripes burners made quite a meal of the incident. I was just curious as to the Mansoor link. That’s not mentioned in any file we’ve ever received from Pakistan liaison or any of our people in the field.”
“I’m assured that the source is reliable,” said Liz, conscious that Don Whitten was watching Mackay’s discomfiture with undisguised pleasure.
“And tomorrow’s the anniversary,” said Jim Dunstan. “Do we think they’ll try to stick to that?”
“Symbolism and anniversaries are hugely important to the ITS,” said Mackay, recovering his authority. “September the eleventh was the anniversary of the British mandate in Palestine and of George Bush Senior’s proclamation of ‘New World Order.’ October the twelfth, when the Bali nightclub bombing and the attack on the USS Cole took place, was the anniversary of the opening of the Camp David peace talks between Egypt and Israel. This is more local and perhaps more personal, but I think we can count on them moving heaven and earth to stick to it.”