Pankhurst turned his back on Will.
'She won't talk,' the SAS man called after the Director General. 'I've already interrogated her. I think she knows something about Ahmed's location, but I'm telling you, there's no way on God's earth that you'll make her give him up!'
Pankhurst stopped, paused a moment, then turned back to look at Will. 'I think, perhaps, you underestimate just how persuasive these people can be.'
Will sneered at him. 'Actually,' he said, 'I don't think I do. I think you underestimate just how much Latifa Ahmed has been through. The Taliban wanted Ahmed's location, too, and they did things to that woman that you couldn't even imagine.'
A mock frown furrowed Pankhurst's brow. 'I do hope, Will, that you haven't become too emotionally involved in this mission.'
'Don't give me that crap, Pankhurst. I'm here because I'm emotionally involved. When I found Latifa Ahmed, she wasn't much more than a few hours from being dead. Push her too hard and you'll kill her yourself and anything she knows will die with her.'
But as he spoke, he noticed that Pankhurst was looking beyond him. Will turned back to see Latifa's stretcher bed being carried off the plane. In a moment of madness he started to calculate his chances of taking down the men who were carrying her. But of course, it would be idiotic; even if he managed it, what would he do then? Besides, he had his orders. And wasn't he meant to despise Latifa Ahmed anyway?
'You can travel with me, if you like, Will,' Pankhurst interrupted his thoughts, quietly. 'Or you can travel with your unit. Either way, I wouldn't recommend staying here. It's terribly cold and we really don't know how long this is going to take.'
The convoy trundled slowly through the snow and the gloom. Latifa had been loaded into a separate truck along with a couple of guys who said they were medics but who, Will knew, would soon be involved in something that they surely never expected when they underwent their medical training. Will had absolutely no idea where they were and began to lose his bearings as the truck wove its way down a series of winding lanes. There were no houses, no signs of life. This truly was the middle of nowhere.
He had chosen to travel with Drew and Kennedy, but was beginning to wish he hadn't. Clearly they didn't believe Will when he said he'd had no idea that they were going to be re-routed, and they were making their displeasure felt by a stern silence that was, Will couldn't help thinking, more suited to a couple of teenage girls than two burly Regiment soldiers. He felt he owed them an explanation.
'They're taking her to a black camp,' he said, darkly. 'They want to torture information out of her. They can't do it in England, so they have these places—'
'Yeah, thanks Einstein,' Kennedy interrupted. 'We know what a black camp is.'
'I didn't know about this,' Will reiterated.
'Whatever,' Kennedy said, flatly. 'They'd better go easy on her, though. She's been pretty well fucked-up. Slap her on the arse and she'll probably drop dead.'
'Yeah, maybe,' Will replied. He wasn't too sure.
After about an hour of driving, they came to a halt and de-bussed. Will looked around. There was not much here — just a small hillock, covered with thick snow, in the side of which was a concrete door. Yellow light flooded from it. The truck carrying Latifa opened up and the SAS men watched as the woman they had rescued was stretchered down and carried through the door.
Pankhurst had joined the team and he ushered them in with a sweeping gesture as though they were about to enter a decent restaurant. 'Shall we?'
They found themselves filing down a flight of steps and along a dim underground corridor. As they walked, Will peered over at Latifa's bed. She seemed drowsy, but aware. Their eyes met and in that moment he felt her fear. She could tell what was coming — of that he could be sure.
Nobody spoke as the sound of their footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Suddenly the soldiers pushing Latifa's stretcher bed came to a halt. There were two doors — they opened one of them, took her in and shut the door behind them. Will, Pankhurst, Drew and Kennedy were left in the corridor. Pankhurst turned to Drew and Kennedy. 'You two,' he said, 'there's a room down there on the left. You can wait for us there.'
They looked at each other a bit uneasily, but even Kennedy seemed reluctant to offer one of his usual sarcastic ripostes. They stepped aside and followed their instructions, while Pankhurst spoke to Will. 'I want you in on this, Will,' he said, quietly.
'Why?' asked Will, sickened at the thought of what he was about to witness. Shooting a Taliban guard in the head was one thing; watching his own side torture a defenceless woman was quite another and he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved.
'Because,' Pankhurst said slowly, not taking his eyes from Will's, 'if she gives us Ahmed's location, I think it's a good idea that you hear it directly. You'll want to go after him yourself, won't you?'
Will felt his lips curl. Yet again, Pankhurst was manipulating him; yet again, the Director General had read him well.
'All right,' he muttered. 'Let's get it over with.' They walked through the adjoining door.
The room in which Will found himself had three concrete walls. The fourth wall was a huge sheet of glass looking on to the next room and he could tell from the dark sheen that it was one-way. A small loudspeaker was embedded into one of the concrete walls, through which they could hear everything that was going on. Will watched what was happening in silence.
Latifa had been wheeled into the room by the soldiers, who swiftly left. Waiting for her were two other men, both in white coats. One of them — a red-haired man with round spectacles and a grim expression — gave Latifa a cursory examination. He looked at her bandaged feet. Even from here Will could tell that blood from the wounds had started to saturate them, but the man — presumably a doctor of some kind — did not seem to think it was worthwhile replacing them. Using his thumb he pulled down her lower eyelid, before talking to his colleague.
'She needs an adrenaline shot,' he said in an American drawl. 'Otherwise it's not going to have the same effect.'
His colleague, whose grey hair was thinning, nodded. Behind him was a white cabinet from which he removed a glass vial filled with a clear liquid and a hypodermic needle. He filled the needle in a matter of seconds, while the red-haired man started to roll up the sleeve of Latifa's robe to find a suitable place for the injection.
'Jesus,' he muttered as he saw the mottled bruising that went all the way up her thin arm. He went around to the opposite side of the stretcher bed and tried the other arm. This was also bruised, but not so badly, and he located a suitable patch of skin. The other man passed him the injection and he clinically punctured the skin with it.
The effect was immediate. Latifa's breathing rate increased and her eyes shot wide open. The two men took a step backwards and observed her in a slightly detached manner, as Latifa tried to raise herself on her elbows. Then they looked at each other. 'She's ready,' the red-haired man stated. 'They can come in.'
His colleague left the room and returned less than a minute later with two other men. One of them had a thick mop of blonde hair and was carrying a large leather bag; the other had a shiny, shaved head and a thin, aquiline nose.
'Strap her down,' he said to the blonde-haired man in an American accent. His colleague delved into the bag and pulled out several sturdy leather straps.
'Don't you dare touch me!' Latifa hissed as he approached, but the man didn't pay attention. He pushed her back down on to the bed and, ignoring her pathetic struggles, shifted her a bit further up so that her head was dangling over the edge of the bed. Then he wound the straps around her body and under the stretcher several times before buckling each one tightly. There was no way she could move.