'We're taking you back to the UK,' he said, firmly.
Latifa gave a weak smile.
'For more torture?' she asked.
His lip curled slightly. 'No,' he said. 'No more torture.'
An enormous wave of relief crashed over her. If anyone else had said this to her, she wouldn't have believed them: she would have just thought it was part of the torture. But there was something genuine about this man. She didn't think he would lie to her.
'Thank you,' she said, simply. 'For everything. You are a good man.'
Jackson's face remained stern. 'Don't be too grateful,' he said, flatly. 'You're coming with us for a reason.'
'And what is that?'
'To lure Faisal Ahmed out of hiding.'
Latifa closed her eyes as a strange sense of numbness passed over her. She coughed, painfully. 'You wish to use me as—' She struggled for the word. 'As bait?'
Jackson's face remained stony as she gazed up at him.
'You and my brother,' she said weakly. 'You are both soldiers. You both fight for what you think is right.'
'Perhaps,' Jackson replied. 'But we have very different ideas of how to go about it. Of what is acceptable.' He bent down slightly so that his face was closer to hers. 'Don't get too hung up on what a good man I am, Miss Ahmed,' he whispered. 'I am going to catch your brother. And when I do, I won't hesitate to do what has to be done.'
She could hear his breathing. Slow. Controlled. He meant what he said.
'And what is it,' she asked, steadfastly holding his gaze, 'that has to be done?'
The question hung in the air.
'They say,' she continued, 'that my brother is a great fighter. One of the best. You understand, I suppose, that if he believes you have been mistreating me, he will kill you.'
She looked up at him, as earnestly as she could.
'Not if I kill him first,' Jackson said, gruffly. She felt her stomach tighten as he turned and walked out of the room.
Latifa Ahmed watched him go with a sickening sense of apprehension. Then, once more, she fell back on to the stretcher bed and waited for the soldiers to wheel her out to the plane.
THIRTEEN
'I sure hope you know what you're doing, Lowther.'
Don Priestley sat in Pankhurst's comfortable office. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the C-17 Globemaster had only touched down at Brize Norton at 08.30 that morning. Pankhurst was tired, ratty and — though he would never have admitted it to his American counterpart — not at all sure that he knew what he was doing.
'I was there, Don,' he replied, impatiently. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers as the memory of Latifa Ahmed's cling-filmed mouth passed through his mind. He'd put a brave face on it in front of Jackson, but just the experience of watching it had been traumatic enough. The image wouldn't leave him. 'I watched the interrogation. Jackson was right — they weren't going to break her.'
Priestley raised an eyebrow. 'Maybe they would have had a better chance if your guy hadn't kicked them in the cojones.' He waved a piece of paper in the Director General's direction. 'They made their report already.'
Pankhurst sighed heavily in frustration. It was certainly true that Jackson's heroics hadn't helped matters; but then, maybe, if he hadn't intervened…
'They did it three times, Don. I've seen the same statistics as you. Even the most hardened terror suspects fold in a matter of seconds using your clever little technique.'
'It's not my technique, Lowther,' Priestley replied, seemingly a little abashed. 'The Japanese have been doing it for years. All I'm saying is, are you sure this Jackson character is the right guy to take it from here?'
'I wish he weren't. I don't like him. He's insubordinate and a loose cannon. But we've got to be pragmatic. Jackson and his team just whisked that woman away from under the noses of the Taliban. That's no mean feat. And he still wants Ahmed's head on a plate even more than we do.'
'I don't know about that,' Priestley murmured. 'You've seen the latest intel.'
'Enough to know it's close.' He stood up and looked out of his window.'Shit,' he swore suddenly and Priestley looked surprised to see an expletive leave Pankhurst's lips. 'Sometimes I think every man Jack on the streets knows more about Faisal Ahmed than we do. We've got chatter coming in from all sorts of unexpected quarters — just last night we took two Muslim teenagers into custody. They both admitted they knew the name Faisal Ahmed, that he was planning something. But that's all they knew.'
'You couldn't probe a little further?' Priestley asked, delicately.
'No,' Pankhurst insisted. 'Not with their lawyers sitting next to them. And we'd be airlifting planes full of them to Poland if we did it your way.'
'Like I say,' Priestley complained. 'It's not my way.'
'Whatever you say. All I know is I'm hearing the same rumours from everywhere. He's planning something soon, but no one knows where or when.'
'Where are they keeping the sister?'
'At the moment she's in protective custody in Paddington. News of her "arrest" should hit the wires in an hour so, then she's being moved to a safe house in the North Downs. Jackson's prepping it at the moment.' Pankhurst passed his hand over his eyes. 'I don't know when that man ever sleeps. Anyway, it's a location Ahmed knows — we used it to debrief him when he first arrived in the UK. Jackson thought that if we used a familiar site it would make it more likely that he would try a rescue attempt.'
Priestley looked dubious. 'It would also make it more likely that Ahmed succeeds. And actually having the woman there, on site, seems like madness to me. This is pretty highrisk, Lowther, if you don't mind me saying so.'
Pankhurst shrugged. 'Jackson's convinced that if Ahmed has any suspicion that his sister isn't really there, he'll abort. He says it's what he would do.'
'Can't you at least have some proper back-up? A cordon around the area — men nearby ready to go in if Ahmed does show his face?'
'How can I, Don? Five's compromised. If I mobilise everyone, I risk giving Ahmed a direct feed into everything that's going on.'
Priestley's eyes narrowed and he looked as if he was about to say something. In the end he seemed to decide against it, but he didn't look happy.
Pankhurst noticed that look. 'If you have a better plan, Don, I'm all ears.'
But Priestley, for all his criticism, clearly didn't. 'They've been instructed, I hope, to shoot to kill. If they give Ahmed a second's leeway—'
'Of course, Don. They're professionals. They know what to do.'
'Good,' the American nodded. 'You have a shortlist of Ahmed's possible targets in London?' he asked, though it sounded more like a statement of fact than a question.
'Of course — the usual suspects. Thames Barrier, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, any of the bridges. Our people still think the Tube is his most likely target. Security levels have been raised, but you can't stop and search everybody that uses the Underground. God only knows how many casualties there'll be if he puts his mind to it down there — not to mention the fact that London will grind to a halt for months.'
There was a pause.
'Cities bounce back,' Priestley said, quietly. 'Look at New York.'
Pankhurst blinked. 'You won't be offended, I hope, if I fail to see much comfort in that notion.'
'Of course not, Lowther,' Priestley replied, his voice soft, reasonable. 'Of course not. But you know that if my country can do anything to help. Anything at all.'
Pankhurst turned around. He regretted having snapped at Priestley — they were on the same side, after all. 'Thank you, Don,' he replied. 'I understand your President has already made the same offer to the Prime Minister.'