And then they were there, men with guns. 'Get to the floor!' a voice shouted. 'Get to the floor or we'll shoot!'
As if he were flicking a fly, Will hurled Pankhurst to the ground, where he fell in a heap. And just as the Director General was getting to his feet, Will lay on the floor. He was aware of Pankhurst standing over him.
'You've blown it, Jackson,' he spat.
From inside the room, Will could hear the sound of Latifa's desperate racking sobs.
'You're the one who's blown it, Pankhurst,' he hissed.
'What do you mean?'
He was going to have to talk fast. Talk fast to save Latifa Ahmed's life and talk fast to stop the whole operation from going tits up.
'Can't you tell she's never going to reveal his location? And even if she does, what do you do when you get there, find he's gone and realise that you've waterboarded your only lead to death — or to the point of insanity?'
There was a pause.
'Get to your feet,' Pankhurst instructed, curtly.
Will did so, holding his hands in the air so that the three soldiers whose weapons were trained on him didn't think he was about to make any sudden moves. His eyes flickered into the room — Latifa was still curled up into a ball, but at least the two torturers had kept their distance. For now.
'Think about it,' Will continued. 'From everything you've told me about Faisal Ahmed, he'll do anything for his sister. If she won't lead us to him, it's obvious what we have to do: let him know we've got her and get her to bring him to us.'
Pankhurst was looking at Will with an expression of great dislike; still, he didn't speak for a moment and Will sensed that he had got the Director General's attention. They stared at each other, the only sound being that of Latifa's desperate sobs.
Finally, Pankhurst spoke, but not to Will. He addressed one of the soldiers who was still holding the SAS man at gunpoint.
'His team are in the holding room down the corridor,' the Director General said. 'Take him there and stand guard outside. If any of them try to leave, shoot them.'
The soldiers glanced at each other a little nervously. But they had their orders. 'Let's go,' said one of them to Will. 'Hands on your head.'
For a moment Will didn't move; he just fixed Pankhurst with a harsh glare. Then he felt the barrel of a gun poking him and he started to walk down the corridor. 'You're making a mistake,' he called back to Pankhurst; but the older man didn't answer.
The room in which Drew and Kennedy were waiting was surprisingly comfortable, with a couple of low-level sofas, a coffee table and even a kettle for making hot drinks. The two of them were sprawled on the sofas, which seemed dwarfed by their massive frames; but they sat up sharply when they saw that Will was being held at gunpoint.
'You heard the man,' the soldier told Will. 'No heroics.' And with that he shut the door on the three of them.
'What the f — ?' Kennedy started to say.
'They're waterboarding her,' Will interrupted, angrily. 'I stepped in.' He strode around the room, systematically looking for another way out; but there was none.
'Christ,' Kennedy replied. 'She's probably beginning to wish she was back with her caring, sharing Taliban.'
Drew, however, kept quiet; but he stared at Will with a look that was heavy with meaning. Will stopped pacing and from nowhere the words Drew had said to him back in the Stan resounded in his head: 'You can trust us… You have to trust us. Just like Anderson trusted you. Just like we all trusted you.'
More than ever, those words rang true. These men had followed him into battle. They'd risked their lives under his command. Pankhurst might think that nobody could be trusted, but one thing was immediately clear to Wilclass="underline" Drew and Kennedy had proved themselves. He owed it to them to tell them what was going on; then he was going to ask them to do one last thing. Help him escape and take Latifa with them. Together they would lure Faisal Ahmed far more effectively than these moronic spooks and their cack-handed techniques.
But just as he was about to speak, the door opened and Pankhurst strode into the room. His brow was furrowed and the fury of a couple of minutes ago had not left his face.
'How would you do it?' the MI5 man asked, shortly.
Will's eyes narrowed as his mind started rushing through the logistics of his hastily put-together plan.
'We take her back to the UK,' he said, finally. 'Leak it that she's been detained on terror charges and put under house arrest. Blanket coverage — TV, radio, internet chat rooms, the works. If Faisal Ahmed's as good as you say, he'll try and extricate her.'
'If Faisal Ahmed's as good as I say,' Pankhurst retorted with a hint of sarcasm, 'he'll succeed.'
As Pankhurst spoke, however, Will became aware that Drew and Kennedy had stood up and were now flanking him on either side. It helped: any lack of confidence he might have felt was suddenly bolstered.
'No he won't,' Will replied, calmly.
'How can you be so sure?'
'Because there will be three of us and only one of him.'
A silence followed, as Pankhurst seemed to be weighing up his options. 'Ahmed will know it's a trap.'
'Of course he will,' Will countered. 'But think about it. He was willing to risk being discovered by al-Qaeda just to make sure his sister was well treated. Everything we know about him suggests that he'll do whatever it takes to rescue her.'
Again Pankhurst fell silent.
'You won't break her,' Will insisted, quietly. 'You know that. She'd rather die.'
A tense hush filled the room. Everyone knew that a woman's life depended on what was said next.
'London's beginning to resemble Ulster twenty years ago,' Pankhurst announced without taking his eyes offWill. 'We've shut down the major terminals, main artery roads are closed, we've got unmarked cars in every other street. All leave's been suspended from the Met and there's armed police at every underground station. The population of the capital is in a frenzy — they know something's around the corner and they're right.' He stopped a moment to let that sink in. 'If this goes wrong,' he continued,'you know what will happen. You know the stakes.'
Will nodded. 'It won't go wrong,' he said.
He looked to either side of him, where Drew and Kennedy were standing up straight, exuding confidence and menace. Their silent support made him feel a great deal more sure of himself.
'It won't go wrong.'
Latifa Ahmed remained on the stretcher bed, huddled on her front, her legs bent under her and her head in her arms. She had not opened her eyes since they had taken the soldier, Will Jackson, away, but she could tell that the two men who had been interrogating her were still in the room. It wasn't over yet: they were just waiting for the go-ahead from the man in the black coat.
Her body was shaking uncontrollably and though her lungs had been replenished with precious air, her abdomen ached as if she had been beaten.
They had different ways of torturing people, these Westerners with their white coats and syringes. But deep down, she had fully realised in the last few minutes, they were no better than her Taliban torturers. The sensation of what had just occurred, the feeling of drowning, of knowing that death was almost upon you, was as terrifying as anything she had undergone in Afghanistan.
'Get out.'
The voice made her open her eyes and for an instant she stopped sobbing and looked up. It was Jackson and he was talking to the two men who had been interrogating her.
'I said, get out.'
The bald man, the one who had put the film over her face, looked as if he might argue, but then he clearly thought better of it and pushed past Jackson out into the corridor. The other man followed.
And then Jackson was there by her. He looked stern. Tired, but stern. Something in his face reminded her of Faisal. What was it? Determination, perhaps. Strength.