He paused at a leather goods stall in the crowded bazaar and casually looked around to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The Urdu-speaking al-Falid mingled effortlessly among the teeming humanity of the Old City. He moved on, glancing at a sign outside what passed for the lobby of a hotel. It read ‘Guns cannot be brought into the hotel. Gunmen must check their arms at reception’. al-Falid smiled to himself. The wild west of Pakistan was one that the US would come to fear, and unlike the Dodge Cities of US history, Peshawar and the North-West Frontier Province would never be tamed. A little further down the Street of the Storytellers, he passed a barber’s shop. The first customer was already seated in the old wooden chair out the front, his head resting on a tattered leather headrest that had been tied to a stick poking up from the chair’s back, and the barber was sharpening a fearsome-looking blade on a black leather strop. Next to the barber’s, above a grubby corrugated iron awning, an alarming 2-metre high painting of gleaming white teeth and garish pink gums announced that a dentist was open to those who might be brave enough to enter. al-Falid shook his head good-naturedly to yet another offer of ‘tuk-tuk?’, and he stopped briefly in front of a brazier stall, feigning interest in the kebabs that were sizzling on the grate. Again he mentally photographed the narrow thoroughfare with its brightly coloured tuk-tuks competing with the donkeys pulling tongas that were overloaded with sacks of spices, seeds and potatoes. Satisfied, al-Falid turned off into a twisting side alley, pausing for a final check before he reached the entrance to the al-Qaeda safe house. The doors were solid teak and the understated but delicate carving was an exquisite example of the very architecture he claimed to be studying.
After the pre-arranged knock, the heavy doors opened and one of Kadeer’s bodyguards beckoned him inside with a wave of his Kalashnikov. al-Falid followed the man down some worn wooden steps into a cellar that was nearly 12 metres below the ground. It was similar to those of many of the houses in the Old City, designed to keep food and other stores cool during the scorching summers. This one served the same purpose, but it also provided protection against eavesdropping.
As al-Falid entered the cellar, the unmistakable figure of Dr Khalid Kadeer rose from the big cushions scattered on the matting covering the dirt floor. He greeted al-Falid with a traditional hug and kisses to both cheeks.
‘Welcome Amon. Your trip was without incident?’
‘Not entirely,’ al-Falid said.
‘They are very arrogant and stupid, these Americans,’ Kadeer observed when al-Falid had finished filling in his spiritual leader on the events of the past 48 hours. ‘That is one of the reasons they will probably not heed the warnings I am about to send them,’ he said, a touch of sadness in his voice.
‘I hope they don’t,’ al-Falid replied angrily. ‘Their religious leaders are now describing Islam as an evil religion. One of them referred to the great Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, as a “demon obsessed paedophile”!’ al-Falid almost choked on the words, determined that his leader should understand what was happening in the land of the great Satan.
‘I heard those remarks,’ Kadeer said quietly. ‘al-Jazeera, Allah be praised, is now providing us all with a great service.’
‘Then you have seen the cartoons Khalid!’
Kadeer nodded. ‘We should not be so concerned about those, Amon,’ he said, cautioning his lieutenant against emotion. ‘Islam is bigger than that. As Muslims we should not forget ahl al-kitab, the Jews and the Christians, the People of the Book. The great Prophet, peace be upon him, was always mindful of the earlier revelations of Abraham, and he always instructed us to treat the people of the earlier revelations, the Jews and the Christians, with respect. It is not the People of the Book with whom we quarrel, Amon. Our quarrel is with the corrupt and lying western and Chinese leaders who persecute our people in the Middle East and in Xinjiang. Our quarrel is with the western Imams who denounce the Angel Gabriel’s revelations to the Prophet, peace be upon him, and who ridicule Islam and the way we dress, encouraging the Jews and the Christians to rise up against us.’ The great Muslim philosopher still hoped for a peaceful solution, but not at the expense of his people and his faith.
‘The plans for the attacks are on schedule?’ he asked al-Falid.
CHAPTER 39
K ate Braithwaite fought to keep her anger in check as the government car that had been sent for her sped along Route 123 into McLean, Virginia, but she kept reflecting on the day’s events. The jerk of a Colonel in charge of USAMRIID had refused point blank to see her. After she’d got his letter of reassignment as a liaison officer to Halliwell Pharmaceuticals she’d demanded an interview but she hadn’t got past ‘J what’s-his-number’.
‘The Colonel is very busy with matters of state, Dr Braithwaite, and he regrets he’ll be unable to see you,’ Captain Crawshaw had said very seriously, standing in front of Colonel Wassenberg’s sandbagged door and barring her entry to the inner bunker.
‘Did you have to rehearse that, Crawshaw, or does that sort of official bullshit just come naturally,’ she’d replied, before storming off. Sycophantic fuckwit, she thought. She’d felt like decking him and if it hadn’t been for Imran’s counsel to ‘go with the flow’ to see what the system was up to, she would have resigned on the spot. Kate had enormous respect for the Professor’s judgement; perhaps there was a need to stay and fight the system from within but for the life of her she couldn’t see much chance of changing things. Halliwell Pharmaceuticals, she knew, concentrated on one thing, and one thing alone – profits. Kate Braithwaite’s sense of foreboding increased as the government car slowed, turning into the main entrance to the Central Intelligence Agency.
‘Why are we turning into the CIA?’ she asked the driver.
‘Sorry Ma’am?’
‘This is the Central Intelligence Agency. Why are we stopping here?’ Kate demanded.
‘I’m sorry Ma’am, my instructions are to bring you here.’
Kate said nothing. No point in taking her frustrations out on the driver, who was only doing his job. Her anger was not diminished by the speed with which she was ushered through security, only to find a rugged and impossibly good-looking man she judged to be in his late thirties to early forties waiting for her just past the main reception desk.
‘Dr Braithwaite. Hi, I’m Curtis O’Connor.’
Kate shook his hand, taken aback by the warmth of his smile and intrigued by the touch of Irish brogue in his voice, but considering the events of the last 24 hours she was not about to be beguiled by anyone. She glared at Curtis, saying nothing.
‘I can understand that all of this will be somewhat of a surprise, Doctor, but I promise all will be revealed shortly,’ Curtis said easily, ushering her across the 5-metre wide granite seal of the CIA that was set into the floor.
‘Can I get you a coffee? It’s brewed, my own machine,’ O’Connor said with a boyish grin, indicating the Faema espresso machine that he’d somehow squeezed into a corner of a bookcase. ‘The Agency stuff’s undrinkable.’
‘Black, thank you,’ Kate replied, relaxing a little. Curtis O’Connor was charming and she felt her anger subsiding. The few Agency people she had encountered had been excruciatingly boring and bound by regulations, but this man seemed very different. Kate quickly reminded herself that he was probably part of the same team that the Colonel was on, and she remained on her guard.