Something moved in front of his face. A water bottle. Evian water. Khan thought he might be hallucinating then he realised that the bottle had been taped to the barrel of a pistol. Khan recognised the gun. A Makarov. A common weapon used by the Taliban, usually after it had been prised from the dead hand of a Russian soldier. It wasn’t a common weapon in England. He stared at the gun, wondering what its significance was. He knew what the significance of the water bottle was. It was a silencer, to deaden the sound of the shot that would take his life.
The man holding the gun sneered down at him. ‘Do you know who I am, you piece of raghead shit?’ the man snarled.
Khan shook his head. Maybe they had the wrong man. Maybe this was all some horrible mistake.
‘You killed three of my mates and now I’m going to kill you.’
Khan looked to his left. There was another man there. In his forties. White. Staring at Khan with cold eyes. The man’s face was familiar, but Khan knew very few Westerners. It had to have been in Afghanistan. Which meant that he was a soldier.
‘Look at me, you bastard!’ shouted Harper. ‘I’m the one who’s going to put a bullet in your head.’
Khan looked up at the man again. Three of his friends, he had said. When had Khan killed three men? He had killed many men over the years, which three was he talking about?
‘You shot them in the back, you fucking coward. At least you get to see my face.’
‘Just do it, Lex,’ said a third man, standing somewhere beyond Khan’s feet. Khan tried to get a look at him but all he could see was a gun. A revolver.
Khan tried to speak but he could barely breathe and the only sound he could make was a grunt from the back of his throat.
The man with the Makarov grinned. He was wearing gloves. Black leather gloves.
‘The men you killed were friends of mine,’ said the man. ‘I’m going to tell you their names so that they are the last things you think about before you die.’
Khan blanked out the man’s words. There was only one thing he wanted to think about just then. If he was indeed going to die then he wanted his last thoughts to be of his darling daughter, the light of his life.
Khan heard the roar of an engine off to his left. Then a flash of light through the trees. His heart leapt as he thought that perhaps rescue was at hand, that somehow the police had found out what was happening and were coming to save him. The engine noise got louder and he realised it was a motorbike and not a car, and then he saw it, bumping across the rough ground.
The man with the Makarov saw it too and he brought up the gun with both hands and fired.
The bullet glanced against the side of Shepherd’s crash helmet and ricocheted off to the side. He swung the handlebars to the right but hit the curved root of a beech tree and before he could do anything he was hurtling off the bike, arms flailing. He hit the ground hard but rolled and scrambled behind a tree. He flicked up the visor as a second round thudded into the trunk by his head. ‘It’s me, Spider!’ he screamed at the top of his voice.
‘It’s Spider!’ echoed McIntyre, holding up his hand.
Harper lowered his gun as Shepherd stepped out from behind the tree. The engine of the bike was still roaring and the air was growing thick with exhaust fumes. Shepherd pulled off the helmet and dropped it on to the ground, then knelt down and twisted the ignition key and pulled it out.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Harper. ‘You gave me a shock there.’
‘You might think about identifying your target before pulling the trigger,’ said Shepherd, straightening up.
‘Yeah, well, we weren’t expecting you on a bike, were we?’ said Harper. ‘Anyway, you’re here now, better late than never.’
He walked over to Khan and pointed his gun at the man’s face.
‘Put the gun down, Lex,’ said Shepherd, walking towards Harper.
‘What, having second thoughts, are you?’
‘We’re not shooting him, Lex.’
Harper continued to point his gun at Khan’s face. Khan stared at Harper, his eyes cold and emotionless as if he didn’t care whether he pulled the trigger or not.
Shepherd reached into his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife. He folded out the blade and stepped between Harper and Khan. ‘Spider, mate, I’m slotting him tonight, come what may,’ said Harper quietly.
‘He killed Captain Todd,’ said McIntyre. ‘And he shot you, Spider. The bastard deserves to die.’
‘Then let’s at least hear his side of the story,’ said Shepherd, kneeling down next to Khan. He used the blade to sever the duct tape at the back of Khan’s head, then pulled it away from his mouth. ‘Did you shoot me?’ he asked Khan.
Khan shook his head. ‘No, sir, I did not.’
Shepherd put a hand on Khan’s shoulder. ‘And Captain Todd. Did you kill him?’
Khan shook his head again. ‘No.’
‘Of course he’d say that!’ shouted Harper. ‘He knows we’re going to slot him, Spider. He’d say anything to save his skin.’ He waved the gun at Khan. ‘Get out of the way. If you don’t want to do it, you can leave it to me.’
‘He didn’t do it, Lex,’ said Shepherd quietly.
‘Bullshit.’
Shepherd turned back to Khan. ‘But you were there, outside the al-Qaeda house in Pakistan? It was you I saw. Outside the house?’
Khan nodded. ‘Yes, I was there.’
‘We know he was there, we saw the bugger,’ said Shortt. ‘And we saw him kill Captain Todd.’
‘And the three Paras!’ shouted Harper. ‘Let’s not forget the three lads he shot in the back.’
‘Take a breath, Lex,’ said Shepherd.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ yelled Harper, waving his gun over his head. ‘We brought him out here to slot him, let’s just get on with it.’
Shepherd looked over at Khan again. He forced a smile. ‘Tell him,’ he said. ‘Tell him what happened the night that Captain Todd was killed.’
AFGHANISTAN, 2002
For a week Ahmad Khan remained at home, working in the fields and regaining his strength, and then he returned Lailuna to the care of his sister. When she realised that he was going away again, Lailuna wailed as if her heart would break, but he promised her, ‘This is the last time I shall leave you behind. Next time we go together, I swear to you.’
He walked away without looking back, knowing that the desolate look on her face would weaken his resolve. He made contact with Joshua using one of the dead drops he had set up on his instructions, and the following night, waiting as arranged in the shadows at the side of a road outside Jalalabad, he was picked up by an American patrol and taken to a meeting with Joshua at the American FOB. ‘You’re not exactly flavour of the month with the British, just now,’ Joshua said as Khan was brought into the room where he was waiting. ‘They think you deliberately led their men into a trap.’
By way of answer, Khan simply removed his shirt and turned slowly around, allowing Joshua to see the fresh scars that covered his back and torso. Joshua listened intently as Khan told him the story. ‘So, do the Taliban still trust you?’
‘Two of the leaders don’t,’ Khan said. ‘My time is definitely running out. It is time for you to do as you promised and give me and my daughter a new life in the West.’
‘I will,’ said Joshua. ‘But before I do, I need you to carry out one more task for me. You know the money house you talked about across the Pakistani border? We have intelligence suggesting that some al-Qaeda operatives are based there and are using it as a source of funds and weapons. We’ve identified the broad area where it’s sited but we have not been able to locate it precisely. I need you to locate it, penetrate it and identify who’s using it.’
‘And then? What will you do?’