He threw the pistol to Khan, while several Taliban covered him with their weapons. ‘Because you fought well for us in the past,’ Fahad said, ‘I am giving you this last chance to preserve your honour. Kill yourself now like a man, or we will kill you like the dog you are.’
Khan stared down at the weapon in his hand, then suddenly whipped it up to the firing position and shot Wais with a bullet between the eyes. As Wais slumped to the ground, already dead, Khan screamed, ‘He’s the traitor. Search him, if you don’t believe me.’
The Taliban fighters were screaming at Khan, their fingers tightening on their triggers, but Fahad held up a hand to silence them. ‘Hold your fire and search the body,’ he shouted.
Ghulam stooped over Wais’s lifeless body, running his hands through his robes. ‘There is something!’ he shouted. He straightened up, holding a bulging money belt he had taken from the dead man’s waist. He opened it, stared inside then took out a thick bundle of notes and threw them on the ground. There was a gasp from the watching crowd as the breeze stirred the thousands of US dollars that lay there.
‘Wais has been in the pay of the British for many months,’ shouted Khan. ‘He has been giving them information about our bases and our leaders. They know him as Abu Qartoob.’
Ghulam passed the money belt to Fahad, who flicked through the notes, his face impassive.
‘I heard that Wais had been seen talking to a British officer, but I needed you to see that for yourself,’ said Khan, pointing at the money belt. ‘I was never a traitor. It is Wais who has been betraying you!’
‘We have misjudged you, brother,’ Fahad said, walking over to him and embracing him. He motioned for his son to give the AK-74 to Khan and the boy sullenly obeyed, clearly unhappy at having to return the weapon.
Khan slung it on his shoulder and then walked over to where Wais still lay and spat on him. He watched the spittle dribble down the side of the dead man’s face and drip from the stump of his earlobe – the rest shot away in some long-forgotten gun battle that had earned Wais the Arabic nickname he had chosen as his code name. Khan offered up a silent prayer of thanks for Joshua’s mention of Abu Qartoob. He knew that Wais had tried to protect him and had even intervened to save his life up on the mountainside when Piruz was a heartbeat from killing him, but when it came down to a choice of his own life or Wais’s, there was only ever going to be one outcome. His fellow agent’s reward for saving Khan’s life had been to die in his place.
‘What now, Ahmad Khan?’ Ghulam asked him later.
‘Now?’ Khan said, loud enough for the other Taliban to hear. ‘I shall go home to my daughter, sleep – for it has been two days and nights since I last closed my eyes – and give my wounds time to heal, and then I shall return to again put myself at the service of Mullah Omar and his lieutenant, Fahad the Lynx.’ He made a small bow as he said it, which Fahad acknowledged, but his expression showed that while Khan might have been partly rehabilitated, he was still far from trusted.
As he made his slow way back to his home he reflected on how lucky he had been and knew that time was running out for him. Piruz and Fahad had not been convinced. They would watch and wait, and another slip, however small, would be his downfall. He had to get out. Any lingering doubts that might have remained were removed as soon as he saw his daughter. The dark shadows under her eyes and the way she started as a log shifted in the hearth showed that she still lived in fear.
‘We may go on a journey soon, Lailuna,’ he said. ‘Somewhere far from the men who frightened you. Would you like that?’
She flinched as if she had been struck, but she nodded and then hugged him with such force that he winced at the pain from his wounds. ‘Yes, Father, I would like that,’ she whispered into his chest. ‘I would like that a lot.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said McIntyre as the gate pulled back to reveal the massive mansion. ‘How the other half lives, huh?’
Shepherd waved at Gunter and drove towards the garage. ‘That’s less than half of it,’ he said. ‘It’s like an iceberg, most of it is underground.’
‘How much do you think a place like this would go for?’
‘A hundred million, give or take,’ said Shepherd.
McIntyre whistled softly.
‘So, I’ll introduce you to Dmitry and get you sorted with a transceiver and fitted up for the thumb sensor. How’s your Russian, by the way?’ The garage doors rolled up and Shepherd drove slowly down to the first basement level.
‘All those hours in the Regiment’s language lab paid off,’ said McIntyre. ‘But my Serbian’s better. Why?’
‘Don’t let on that you can speak the language. See if you can pick up anything useful.’
They drove down into the car park and Shepherd took McIntyre over to the security centre.
Dudko was sitting in front of the CCTV monitors and Popov was in the briefing room with Ulyashin. Ulyashin’s crutches were leaning against one wall.
Shepherd introduced McIntyre as Alastair McEwan, a former soldier who had been bodyguarding for more than ten years. The three Russians shook hands with McIntyre and Shepherd could see them all weighing him up. McIntyre grinned amiably as he shook hands.
‘Can someone fix Alastair up with one of the rooms?’ said Shepherd. ‘And get him fixed up with a security code and a transceiver?’
‘He’s staying here?’ asked Popov.
‘Most of the time,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can use him in the house but he’s up to speed on mobile security.’
‘But not armed?’
‘Not sure we’d trust him with live rounds,’ said Shepherd. He grinned when he saw the look of confusion on their faces. ‘Just a joke,’ he said. ‘Alastair isn’t a police officer so he’s not licensed to carry a weapon.’ Shepherd’s phone rang. It was Button. He went outside to the car parking area to take the call.
‘I’m having problems getting information on the bodyguarding teams who were looking after Zakharov and Czernik,’ she said. ‘We’ve spoken to the men’s companies but they’re point blank refusing to help. Their head offices are overseas so there’s not much pressure I can bring to bear.’
‘You want me to run it by Grechko?’
‘You read my mind,’ said Button. ‘But be tactful, obviously.’
‘Tactful is my middle name, you know that.’
‘I thought Spider was your middle name.’ She laughed, and ended the call. Shepherd put the phone away and went back into the control centre.
‘Where is Mr Grechko?’ he asked Dudko.
‘Pool,’ said the bodyguard, flicking through a magazine filled with photographs of classic cars. ‘What do you think about the E-Type Jaguar? A good car, right?’
‘A penis on wheels,’ said Shepherd.
Dudko frowned. ‘What?’
‘It’s a substitute for a small penis,’ said Shepherd. ‘I wouldn’t get one, if I were you.’
‘But it’s a classic, no?’
‘It’s a classic, but trust me, anyone seeing you in one will think you’ve got something to hide.’
Dudko frowned. ‘You think I have a small penis?’
Considering that Dudko’s physique clearly owed more to steroids than it did to exercise, Shepherd figured that the man probably did have problems in that area but he just smiled and shook his head. ‘Girls might, though.’
‘You drive a BMW, right?’
‘An X5. SUV. Can’t fault it.’
Dudko grinned mischievously. ‘What does that say about your penis?’
‘That I look after it,’ said Shepherd, patting him on the shoulder. He took the stairs down to the third underground level.
Grigory Sokolov was standing by the doors. Despite the fact they were indoors and underground he was still wearing his Oakley sunglasses. ‘Grigory, I need a private word with Mr Grechko,’ said Shepherd.