Richard Halliwell walked unsteadily across the penthouse to where Simone was now reclining on the lounge that faced the big windows overlooking the vineyards far below. Simone’s red hair cascaded over her shoulders, the low-cut, black evening gown accentuating her generous cleavage.
‘I think we should fuck,’ Halliwell said thickly, grabbing at her breast.
Simone groaned inwardly. She never missed an opportunity to exploit Halliwell’s weakness for sex but when he was drunk, and he was now very drunk, it was a case of humouring him and getting it over with, although drunk or sober, getting it over with was the usual.
Halliwell put his drink on the coffee table, spilling champagne on the polished glass. He unzipped his fly and fumbled for his small, half-erect penis.
‘Suck my cock,’ he demanded, pushing his groin towards Simone’s face.
‘More comfortable in the bedroom,’ she answered in a throaty voice.
Halliwell fell over while he was trying to get his trousers off and had to clamber into the bed from the floor. He crawled on top of Simone and, to her surprise, she found that he was hard, despite the alcohol. Even though his erection was tiny she winced as he forced himself into her.
‘Fuck me, Mr President, fuck me,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Oh yes! Yeeesss.’ It was a well-practised routine for Simone Carstairs but tonight the faked orgasm was not really needed. Richard Halliwell groaned as he came almost immediately, farted, rolled off her and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 36
B ill Crawford slowed his vehicle as he approached the Old City of Peshawar and the Street of the Storytellers. The narrow road was almost impassable. Pashtun tribesmen mingled with the Taliban as donkey carts competed with brightly coloured buses, tuk-tuks and bicycles. The air was thick with the aroma of spices, pomegranates, goat cheese and the smell of greasy slices of mutton sizzling on braziers beside the crowded thoroughfare. In the back of the shops and bazaars that were crammed together, hot forges were fired by old tyres and hundreds of gunsmiths were turning scrap metal into rifles of dubious quality. An acrid smoke hung heavily over the city. Every few minutes the sound of gunfire could be heard as the gunsmiths took their life into their hands and tested their newly manufactured wares. Photographs of Osama bin Laden, Mullah Omar and al-Zawahiri hung proudly above stalls that offered tea brewed in Russian samovars. Alongside the gunsmiths other merchants were peddling fruit, ceramics, carpets and prayer mats.
Instinctively Crawford felt for his shoulder holster. Every man in the city was armed with a Kalashnikov and a lot of them had bandoliers of ammunition over their shoulders. The few women around were covered from head to toe in black burqas, their eyes hidden behind fine mesh. Suddenly, in among the chaos, he saw it. The Hyderabad Laundry Company Toyota pulled out of a laneway about 100 metres ahead, scattering a herd of goats that had added to the impossible congestion on the Street of the Storytellers.
A more experienced agent might have held back and wondered if this sudden appearance was mere coincidence or something more sinister, but Crawford was keen to make up for his mistake earlier that day. He forced his car past the goats, ignoring the shouts and remonstrations of the gnarled and bearded goatherd.
The Toyota turned left and Crawford followed it down a narrow dirt road. As they headed towards the more upmarket area of University Town, the gunsmiths’ bazaars and roadside stalls gradually gave way to large villas on spacious grounds, hidden behind big whitewashed walls. Bill Crawford slowed as the Toyota stopped 200 metres ahead of him. Unfamiliar with the area, and with the lectures on Pakistani culture a distant memory, Crawford unwittingly pulled over past a set of iron gates. If he’d had more experience he would have chosen a safer place to stop. The gates shielded the driveway and entrance to one of Osama bin Laden’s madrassa compounds. He might also have locked his doors, but he didn’t.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the Toyota, al-Falid dialed a number and allowed it to ring three times. He hung up and moved his head slightly so that the side mirror gave him a clear view of the infidel’s red Suzuki. Three minutes later twenty students slipped out of the front gates of the madrassa and approached the Suzuki from behind. al-Falid knew the infidel would be totally focused on his Toyota and he watched with satisfaction as the young Islamic students closed in on their quarry. One of the CIA’s newest recruits was about to discover how dangerous Peshawar could be.
Bill Crawford concentrated on the Toyota ahead of him. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted as the door of the Suzuki was wrenched open and he was dragged onto the dirt road. He tried to reach for his shoulder holster but his arms were being forced behind his back and his hands were securely tied, the thin wire tearing into his flesh. His assailants turned him around, slamming his head against the Suzuki’s door pillar with bone-crunching force. Searing pain flooded his body.
Bill Crawford tried to keep his focus on the group of young men that surrounded him. There seemed to be a big crowd of them all dressed in loosely fitting robes and black turbans and they were seething with anger, their chants getting louder and louder. ‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allah is Great! Allah is Great!
Young Taliban, Crawford thought, but how… where had they come from? He knew there were still remnants hiding in the mountains of the Hindu Kush, yet here they were in broad daylight on a public road in the capital city of the North-West Frontier. The station chief’s last words about Peshawar not being a tourist resort suddenly came home. Crawford looked from left to right vainly hoping for assistance. He fought against a rising panic as he saw a man get out of the passenger side of the white Toyota and walk towards him. There was no mistaking who he was – al-Falid, the Cairo-born American whom he’d been assigned to tail from the Islamabad International Airport.
‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allah is Great! Allah is Great.’
Crawford felt a chill run down his spine as the chants echoed off the whitewashed walls.
‘Death to the Infidel! Death to the Infidel!’
As al-Falid reached the group the chanting died down and the young Taliban parted respectfully.
‘Why are you following me?’ al-Falid asked. Crawford was taken aback at the hatred in the man’s dark eyes and he remained silent. al-Falid nodded to one of the young students wielding an AK-47. Crawford grunted in pain as the butt of the rifle smashed against his chin.
‘I asked you a question, infidel. Why are you following me?’ al-Falid demanded, the fury of his hatred for America and her allies colouring his voice. al-Falid again nodded to the gun-wielding student and the young CIA officer choked back a bellow of pain as the rifle butt smashed into his face again, breaking his jaw. Bill Crawford began drifting in and out of consciousness as the group once again started up their chant.
‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is Great! God is Great!’ al-Falid spat on Crawford’s bruised and shattered face, then nodded to one of the young students fingering a jambiyyah, a viciously curved dagger. The young Islamist started to chant ‘Buzkashi! Buzkashi! Buzkashi!’ As the realisation of what the chant meant penetrated through the mists of pain, Bill Crawford could feel his legs beginning to give way. Buzkashi was the traditional game of polo that was played in Afghanistan, and the students wanted a ball.
Bill Crawford’s eyes widened in horror as the huge blade whistled through the air towards him, taking his head off in one brutal sweep. Bill’s head bounced twice before rolling into a dusty hole in the road, leaving a trail of blood. Jerky streams of bright red blood sprayed out of his aorta as his still frantically beating heart found little resistance. al-Falid stepped back as the students bundled the headless corpse of the infidel back into the Suzuki and doused the small four-wheel drive in petrol. Just before the match was lit Bill Crawford’s mobile rang but al-Falid motioned for the students to ignore it. As the phone rang out, it beeped as Natalie left a message. ‘Tabatha wanted to say goodnight, darling. We both love you very much and we miss you.’ The Suzuki burst into flames. al-Falid looked on in satisfaction as he watched the students tossing the infidel’s head to one another as they walked back up the drive of the madrassa. One of them stepped back and dropped the head, laughing as he tried to avoid the spattering of blood. The discarded head lay facing the clear blue sky, the last moments of pain permanently frozen in the lifeless eyes.