Will blinked. Pankhurst was perceptive — he had to grudgingly admit that. But he couldn't answer the question, not without giving the game away. 'I'm not your security adviser, sir,' he said quietly.
Pankhurst breathed out deeply. 'Very well, Will,' he said, passing his hand over his eyes. 'You'd better get back to him. He's acting like a frightened schoolgirl.'
Will nodded, then turned towards the door. But before he could open it, Pankhurst spoke again.
'Will?' he said. There was something in his voice. It was less official. Friendly almost.
He turned. 'Sir?'
Pankhurst was looking at him with intense concentration.
'Good luck, Will,' he said. 'Whatever it is you're doing.'
Will inclined his head slightly. 'Thank you, sir,' he replied, before leaving the DG's office and closing the door behind him.
It was gone six in the evening by the time Will parked outside Priestley's Belgravia residence once more and the strains of their enforced proximity were becoming even more evident. As soon as the car came to a halt, Priestley made to open his door.
'Don't move!' Will shouted at him and the American froze.
'What is it?' he asked, breathlessly.
'For Christ's sake,' Will told him. 'You know the drill by now.' He opened his own door, handgun at the ready, checked up and down the street and did a visual sweep of the rooftops. Only when he was satisfied that he had the all-clear did he open Priestley's door and hustle him up past the armed police officer. Will entered the house first, then gave Priestley the sign that he could come in.
Priestley strode impatiently down the chequerboard hallway, slung his coat over the banister of the stairs and started making his way up. 'Don't take this the wrong way, Will,' he drawled, his voice grumpy, 'but I'm starting to wonder if a bullet in the head isn't preferable to another evening of us sitting upstairs scowling at each other.'
'Your call,' Will murmured.
Priestley stopped halfway up the stairs and looked back at Will. His face had morphed into an unpleasant sneer — halfway between fear and contempt, Will thought. 'Come on,' he spat, before turning and climbing the rest of the stairs.
Will stared balefully at him from the ground floor as he disappeared round the corner. The sooner this was over, he thought to himself, the bett—
He stopped.
Something wasn't right.
At the top of the stairs was a CCTV camera which covered the landing leading to the rooms they were using. Normally a small red light indicated that it was in use, but as he stared at it Will could see that the light was off. He felt his heart in his mouth as he looked over his shoulder at the camera covering the hallway.
No light.
Will knew immediately what it meant. The CCTV had been disabled and there could only be one reason for that. How Faisal Ahmed had got into the house, he didn't know. How he had disabled the CCTV without anyone being alerted, he didn't know. But of one thing he was sure.
Ahmed was here. Now.
Will looked back towards the front door. It was shut and there was no indication that the police officer outside knew what was going on.
The next minute was crucial. Everything he had been preparing for up to this point rested on what happened now.
Ahmed would have been watching them. No doubt about it. Ahmed would know that the first person to enter any room was Will. He would know which rooms they were camping out in. His eyes flickered up. There was no sign of Priestley. He would be approaching the room right now.
Will bounded up the stairs, quickly but lightly. As he moved, his brain worked as speedily as his feet. Timing was everything now. Critical. He had to play it just right. The first shot had to be his.
He stopped, as an idea crystallised in his mind.
Ahmed had respect for his abilities as a soldier; somehow he knew that. He would suspect that Will had seen the cameras were disabled. And he would assume that a good SAS man would follow standard operating procedure in a situation like this and enter the room first. He'd be ready and waiting.
Something the Afghan had said when they last met flicked through his brain. Sometimes we think we are knights, when in fact we are merely pawns.
Today they were neither. Today they were both kings, each trying to outwit the other, both one step away from checkmate.
And it was Will's move.
At the top of the stairs he saw Priestley waiting obediently by the door of the room. Will walked silently down the corridor, doing his best to look nonchalant. When he was three metres from the door he raised his right hand and flicked it, as if to indicate to Priestley that he should just go in.
Priestley's brow furrowed. He looked momentarily surprised, then shrugged his shoulders and opened the door.
Instinctively, Will's hand reached for his gun. In the next five seconds, he knew, he would either hear the sound of gunshot or Ahmed would have been momentarily wrongfooted by the incorrect person entering the room.
He stepped towards the door. No gunshot, just a sound of shuffling. He held his gun out and entered.
Ahmed had his back to him and was in the process of throwing Priestley towards the centre of the room. He, too, had his gun arm outstretched, towards the CIA man, and he was just turning round to check his back.
He never got the chance.
When you hold a gun for long enough, it becomes part of you, like an extra limb. That was how Will's handgun felt now — an extension of his body, under his control, ready to do his bidding, to respond to his split-second decision. In that moment, as a deadly calm descended on him, it was as though there were only three people in the whole world: himself, Faisal Ahmed and Donald Priestley. Will Jackson and his enemies, and everything was about to come full circle.
All he had to do was pull the trigger now and it would be over.
But killing Ahmed would not be enough. The Afghan was not the only person responsible for his family's death. There was someone else, too, and that person was in the room with them.
Will stepped forward and put the barrel of his gun gently against the back of Faisal Ahmed's head. He sensed Ahmed's body twitch in surprise, but then the Afghan stayed perfectly still.
'Any sudden move, Ahmed,' he whispered, 'and I swear I'll kill you without a second's hesitation.'
A hush descended on the room. Ahmed kept his gun trained on Priestley, who crawled backwards up against the wall.
'Clever,' the Afghan said, softly. 'Very clever.' The mere sound of his voice made Will tingle with hate.
Another silence. Ahmed, after an initial moment of shock, had instantly regained his composure. He stood like a statue, his gun still aimed at the American. Priestley himself, previously paralysed by abject terror, seemed to relax slightly at the sight of Will holding his gun to Ahmed's head. His body became less tense and stooped. He drew himself up to his full height, a flicker of contempt playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a newfound triumph.
'Well done, Will,' he whispered, his voice little more than a hiss. Will noticed, though, that his eyes still flickered towards Ahmed's gun. 'My man seems to have got the better of you, Faisal,' he continued. 'Time to put the weapon down. It's all over.'
'No,' Ahmed replied, quietly. 'I do not think so.' Will detected a tone of resignation in his voice.
Priestley's face twitched and he nodded his head sharply at Will. That nod was easily interpreted: Do it.
But Will did nothing. He just kept the gun to Ahmed's head.
The Afghan spoke again. 'If you wanted me dead, Will Jackson,' he said quietly, but clearly, 'you would have killed me already.'
'Oh, I want you dead, Ahmed. You needn't make any mistake about that.'