'You shouldn't be walking around here by yourself,' one of the soldiers said in an American accent. 'What are you doing in Kandahar?'
Will had to think quickly. 'Private security,' he said with brash confidence. Beyond the soldiers he clocked his colleagues. Anderson was on the side of the road, his hand under his woollen overcoat; Kennedy had taken up position in the centre of the square. Both of them, Will could tell in an instant, were ready to react.
'Are you armed?'
He nodded.
'OK.Well we advise that you see to your business and get back to an area of safety as soon as possible.'
Will suppressed a sigh of relief. 'I intend to,' he said.
With a nod, the two soldiers walked away. Will saw his colleagues' arms fall to their side as the tension of the situation diffused, but he didn't make eye contact with them. He just turned and continued on his way.
As he reached the north side of the square it became clear to him where the meeting point was, just as Sami had described it. The café had large glass windows at the front, but these had been taped over with some kind of thick gaffer tape to prevent them from shattering, then covered with large sheets of metal mesh, which made it difficult to see inside. The door was open, however, and the snow on the ground around it had melted from the warmth emanating from within. From several metres away Will could hear the noise of voices and smell the thick, sweet tobacco that pervaded the air.
He glanced at his watch. Five to eleven. Stepping up to the doorway, he looked inside.
It was dimly lit and crowded. There were no women, just men, all sitting at rickety wooden tables or congregated around a bar area where a harassed-looking barman provided coffee in tiny white cups. As Will stepped inside, there were a few suspicious glances in his direction, but before long everyone found themselves drawn back into their animated conversations, allowing Will to sidle up to the bar — the only place where there seemed to be any room. He pointed at one of the small cups of coffee, then handed over one of Sami's notes when he was presented with his drink.
He stood there against the bar for five minutes, maybe ten — long enough, certainly, for the coffee he didn't really want to go cold. When he looked at his watch it was five past eleven. It made him uneasy that nobody had made contact yet. Perhaps he was being too surreptitious. He turned round and faced out to the centre of the room, so that his white skin would be on better display. As soon as he did that, he heard a voice next to him.
'Do you have the time?'
Do you have the time? The first phrase of the double password. Will turned his head slowly to see who was speaking. The man was short and fat, his face clean-shaven. Hadn't Sami said that Ismail was a devout Muslim? Wouldn't he be wearing a beard? But that was the opening line, so he responded, word for word, in the way he was supposed to.
'My watch runs slow these days.'
The man nodded. 'My friend is a good watchmaker in Kabul.'
Will stopped. He knew the correct response — Kabul is a long journey in the winter — but the man's words had not been correct. 'I know a good watchmaker in Kabul.' That was the wording, and this guy had got it wrong. Alarm bells started to sound. If Ismail had been rumbled by the Taliban, he might well have given them the wrong password; and Will had been suspicious of this man the minute he set eyes on him.
There was only one option. He had to walk away. Immediately.
Will stepped from the bar and headed briskly to the door. No one seemed to pay any attention to him leaving, but he could tell that the man he had just spoken to was following him. For the second time in ten minutes he felt his hand moving towards the gun strapped around his waist. He upped his pace and stepped out from the warm, smoky interior of the café on to the chilly, snow-laden street.
The first thing he did was scan for Anderson and Kennedy. He saw them immediately — Kennedy still in the square but facing on to the café, Anderson about fifteen metres to his left, standing in the street. In front of Will, parked just outside the café,was a small car. Its engine was turning over and, unusually given the weather, the window was wound down. The man from the café brushed past Will and spoke to the driver, a lanky, bearded individual with a white turban. It was a quick conversation, conducted in Pashto, and from the way the man kept looking at Will, he could tell that it concerned him.
On the periphery of his vision, he could sense Anderson and Kennedy closing in.
The man from the café stepped aside and the driver from the car put his head out. 'Will Jackson?' he said hesitantly. Will narrowed his eyes, but didn't answer.
'You must get in the car. Now.'
Will hesitated. Anderson and Kennedy were only metres away now. He only had to say the word and both these men would be looking down the barrel of a gun. But then he looked at the driver: his face was nervous, his eyes wide, but he didn't look as though he was trying to pull a fast one. He just looked scared.
He looked up at his colleagues and briefly shook his head. They stopped in their tracks. Will strode to the car, opened the back door and climbed in. It was cramped inside, and the heaters were blowing full blast. He pulled his Sig from under his jumper and deftly put it to the man's head. Immediately the driver started to shake.
'Drive,' Will told him. 'Now.'
With shaking hands, the driver tried to put the car in gear, but he seemed too nervous and the engine crunched loudly as he failed to manage it.
'I said drive!'Will barked. The driver tried again, this time managing to knock the car into gear.
'Go round the square,' Will instructed, and the car moved off at a stuttering pace.
'Please, do not shoot me!' the driver begged.
'Then do exactly what I tell you,' Will replied. 'What's your name?'
'My name?' He sounded surprised. 'My name is Ismail. You were meant to be meeting me, yes?'
'I'm asking the questions. What was that pantomime back there in aid of?'
'What is pantomime, please?'
'Just tell me what was going on,'Will growled.
Ismail breathed deeply. 'It was to make sure you were the right person. Passwords are not foolproof. If the Taliban suspected me and learned what the passwords were, they might pretend to go along with the mistake to get proof, then abduct me. Only the right person would walk away if they heard the wrong password.'
Will found that he, too, was breathing heavily, in anger; but there was a curious logic to what the terrified Afghan in the front seat had said. He lowered his gun. 'Stop the car,' he ordered.
Ismail pulled over on the side of the street.
'Turn off the engine and hand me the keys. Then get out.'
The trembling Afghan did as he was told. Will stepped out of the car, too. He slipped the Sig back into its holster, but kept his hand firmly around the handle under his jumper. 'If I see anyone following us, I'll shoot you right here,' he said, quietly, so that none of the passers-by would hear.
'No one is following us,' Ismail assured him. 'I promise you.'
'You'd better be right. 'Will looked around. Sure enough, Ismail's parked car was the only one in the street. 'OK, walk. And just in case you're thinking of running, you might like to know that we're being covered by two men who can shoot a bullet through a coin at fifty metres. Understand?'
Ismail turned to look at him. Although his eyes were still frightened, there was an open honesty in his face. 'You do not perhaps understand how I have risked my life to do this,' he said, quietly,'and the life of my family. Every second I spend with you, I risk our lives even further. If I wanted to run away, I would have done it long ago.'