The minister continued to gaze at her for a few seconds then turned to Rachel. ‘So, what do you need from me?’
‘A tactical team to go to Turkey with me, including technical enablers, and a budget, sir.’ Rachel winced as she mentioned the money, knowing full well that Whitehall was not as flush with cash as back in MI6’s heyday when the Cold War had been in full swing and spying was the front line of defence.
Faulton looked from Rachel back to Sandra.‘Of course, anything you want. Will two weeks be sufficient?’
Rachel watched as Sandra held the minister’s longing gaze. ‘Yes, sir, I think that should be more than sufficient,’ she replied.
Faulton stood up. ‘We are stretched thin at the moment, but I will contact the special forces commander. I’m sure the Special Boat Squadron would like to do something other than participate in this year’s Golden Beagle exercise on the Isle of Skye. Get a decision brief to me by the end of the week, Rachel, including your budget requirements – and advise on your required rules of engagement, too. I’ll pass it through to the Foreign Secretary and brief COBRA on Monday. I don’t anticipate there being any problems.’
‘Of course, sir – thank you,’ said Rachel. ‘Your support is very valuable to us.’
‘No. I think what Global Pursuit is doing is valuable. Good job – now go get that thing off the streets.’
‘Thank you, sir; yes, sir,’ Rachel said.
Faulton stood to walk them to the door. ‘Oh, and I assume you have contacted the CIA to keep them in the loop?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. I passed all the information on to the station chief in Italy when I first came across Milko, some weeks ago now.’
‘Good, that’s good. It always pays to keep the Americans onside. Catherine will see you out, ladies.’ He added softly, ‘Sandra, you have my number if you ever need anything.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you.’ Sandra shot Rachel a wry smile as they left the room.
...
Back in the car Rachel was still on cloud nine. ‘Well, that went well.’
‘Yes, that’s a great outcome, but what’s the plan? What are you thinking?’
‘Do you think we can track him through his phone? That’s the obvious starting point.’ As she spoke, Rachel checked her own phone for messages.
Sandra considered this. ‘That should work; he’s not very bright. Getting that authority should be easy enough. Put in a request for Signals Intelligence when we get back to the office and I’ll sign it off for approval. Your request for Cyber tracking was confirmed yesterday, we probably should have submitted them both together, but you know how hard it is to get authorisation for phone monitoring. But with the minister’s approval it should all be pretty easy now. Anyway, if the cyber monitoring has been approved then we should start seeing some information coming in today. It might be a good idea to get a detailed brief to the IT guys. Get them to monitor more than just his emails. Let’s access his camera – really build up a picture of his movements and intentions. Anyway, let’s see how this all plays out.’
Rachel nodded, impressed with her superior’s thoughts on the matter. Scrolling through the messages that had come through while they were in with the minister, she spied one from Milton. She read it quickly. ‘Seems Milko is indeed on the move, Sandra.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ve already had a hit on Milko’s computer; he booked flights to Turkey for six people. He travels in five days, and we have a location for the exchange too.’ Rachel couldn’t believe it even as she said it.
‘Looks like you and the SBS are going to Turkey then.’
‘Yes, indeed it does,’ said Rachel, still staring at the email.
13
ZABOL, IRAN
Stepping out of the taxi, Faisal surveyed the built-up urban area. He was in a small street near the city centre. Most of the buildings lining the street had two storeys, and most were decrepit, the paint peeling, and fixtures like drainpipes and window shutters either missing or rusted away. The tailor’s shop that he had been instructed to visit was directly across the road. On one side was a small bakery and on the other were an electrical shop and a laundry, both of which had already closed for the day.
Faisal could sense that he was being watched. The place had just come alive again after the evening prayers and the city had a strange electric energy to it, as if an evil resided there. Faisal shivered as he paid the taxi driver and dragged his bag from the back seat. The taxi pulled away and Faisal was left standing in the streetlight looking at the tailor’s shop.
Taking a deep breath, he crossed the road and pushed on the door. A bell above the entrance tinkled to signal his arrival. The shop was long and narrow and dimly lit. To Faisal’s left, the wall was lined with rolls of fabric in every possible shade of blue and brown. On the right of the narrow space were three long tables, and behind them stood three young tailors, measuring, cutting and stitching trousers and jackets. They smoked as they worked, and the smoke hung heavy in the air, adding to the gloom. At the back of the shop was a low table behind which sat an old man – Bahbak Khorasanhi, Faisal assumed. The elderly tailor was almost bald, save for a few tufts of grey hair on the sides of his head. Portly and wrinkled, he was hardly a picture of health, but his eyes were bright and sharp as they observed the Afghan. Through the bluish haze, Faisal saw Bahbak raise a hand to summon him.
As Faisal stepped forward, one of the young men moved away from his table to close the door behind him.
Faisal took another step, and another of the younger men launched himself at Faisal, scissors in hand, and threw Faisal against the rolls of fabric, holding his scissors to Faisal’s throat.
‘Easy there, boy,’ said Faisal. ‘I’ve had a long day and I just want to speak to the old man.’
‘Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.’ The young tailor kept a strong hand on Faisal’s chest and didn’t move the scissors from Faisal’s throat. Faisal should have been more cautious; he cursed himself for not changing out of his traditional shalwar kameez, the loose-fitting body shirt and drawers were comfortable but he stood out. He should have worn something more modern, like what the Iranians were wearing.
‘Leave him be, Arman,’ said the old man. ‘Let him through.’
Arman looked Faisal up and down then spat at his feet. ‘I’ll let you go now, Talib, but listen carefully: yours won’t be the first Afghan throat I’ve ripped out with these blades.’ He stepped back, letting Faisal go.
Faisal could see that the young Iranian tailor was powerfully built, but a good six inches shorter than Faisal; he wouldn’t let the young man get the upper hand again.
Faisal adjusted his waistcoat over his brown robes and proceeded to the back of the shop.
‘Please excuse my son,’ said Bahbak. ‘My boys are very protective of me. You are Faisal Khan, I assume?’
‘Yes.’ Faisal put down his bag then stood up straight, as if presenting himself to the old man.
‘Sit. Can I get you chai? Or something to eat? Maybe something to smoke, perhaps?’ The old man coughed as if to emphasise the health benefits.
‘Some food, yes, that would be good,’ said Faisal, who couldn’t remember when he’d had his last meal.
The old man yelled something in Farsi and the two other sons disappeared down a set of stairs near the front of the shop, presumably to a kitchen somewhere.
‘Those two, Basim and Jafar’ – he waved in the direction of the stairs – ‘are not so bad, but Arman has a hot head. One day it will get him killed, I’m sure.’
Faisal smiled at the old man and nodded his head in understanding, while also deciding that he could help the old man’s son to the afterlife if the opportunity arose.
‘Now, I’ve been paid to get you into Turkey, so that is what I am going to do.’
‘Good, and how are we going to do that?’
‘I have my ways – but first, let’s eat.’
One of the old man’s sons put down two bowls of ste
aming lamb stew and a dish of black-eyed peas. The smells of turmeric and cumin had Faisal salivating. The second son put some flatbread on the table along with a pot of chai and two small glasses.
The old man ripped his bread apart and used a piece to scoop up the deep red stew. Faisal followed suit and soon the two men had devoured the meal. Faisal sat back feeling content; he felt much better with a good meal inside him.
‘You will be needing some rest, Faisal. Up those stairs is a small room and a bed. There are some clothes on the bed, too; you should bathe and change out of this.’ The old man waved a hand up and down to indicate Faisal’s vest and robes. ‘We will wake you early in the morning and you will leave before daybreak. My sons will take you. It won’t be a pleasant trip, my friend, but you will get to Turkey and no one will know you are there.’ Bahbak reached under the table for a white plastic bag, which he handed to Faisal.
‘What’s this?’
‘We had these made for you. Hassan al-Britani was very specific about it.’
Opening the bag, Faisal found two battered passports, brilliantly forged with stamps from surrounding countries. One was in Faisal’s name and another in an alias.
‘Thank you, brother.’ Faisal stood and stuffed the passports into his bag.
The old man gestured to someone standing behind him, and when Faisal turned he saw Basim, the youngest of the old man’s sons, standing there with a M1911 Browning, fitted with a silencer. It was pointed directly at Faisal’s face.
Faisal took a hasty step backwards and almost fell over the table.
Arman who was standing further back in the room, laughed aloud. ‘Typical Talib coward.’
‘What’s this?’ said Faisal.
‘It’s a gun, Talib,’ said Arman mockingly.
The younger man then turned the weapon around and handed it butt first to Faisal. ‘It’s for you,’ said Basim.
‘I see.’ Faisal felt the weight of the weapon and decided that it probably wasn’t loaded. If it had been, he might have just shot the lot of them right there and then for their trouble. He placed the gun into his bag.
‘I’ll give you ammunition in the morning, Talib,’ said Arman, walking back down the room towards Faisal.
‘Right, well, if there are no more surprises planned for this evening, I might take my leave of your kind hospitality.’ Faisal picked up his bag with his left hand and took a step towards the stairs.
‘Don’t be smart.’ Arman moved closer to Faisal, only this time Faisal was ready; in fact, he had deliberately moved off on his wrong foot in order to be in position when it counted. In a lightning-quick move, Faisal dropped the bag and punched the young Iranian in the throat. Arman landed heavily on the floor with Faisal following him down and placing a knee on his back.
The other sons circled, but the old man barked something in Farsi and they stayed back, watching.
Faisal grabbed a fistful of the Iranian’s hair and yanked his head back. With his mouth close to Arman’s ear, he whispered, ‘If you cross me again, boy, I will kill you, make no mistake about it; I’ve killed better men than a mere tailor’s son.’ Faisal shoved the Iranian so hard that his head cracked a tile on the floor.
Faisal stood up and turned to face the old man.
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Bahbak, the meal was especially enjoyable. Please excuse my bad temper; it has been a long week.’
As he climbed the stairs Faisal could hear Bahbak cursing his eldest son, and Arman apologising profusely.
Faisal pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and entered the small room. He stripped off his Afghan robes and washed in the small bath. When he was done, he took the scissors and razor that had been left by the sink and first trimmed his long beard, then shaved it close to his face. For the first time in twenty years he could make out his jawline. He looked at the shape of his face in the mirror. In years past he had worn his long black hair slicked back and applied surma, a black mineral powder, under his eyes, believing it would increase the power of his vision. This had given Faisal an evil appearance and helped to reinforce his status in the tribal areas. He took a fistful of hair and chopped at it with the scissors, and then he kept chopping until his hair was shorter at the sides, though still long and curled at the back, in the tradition of the Pakistanis from the border regions.
Faisal held up the clothes that had been placed on the bed. A pair of brown trousers, a white cotton button-up shirt, a grey woollen jumper and black oilskin jacket. These things looked like the clothes of the West to Faisal. He put them on and looked at himself again in the mirror above the sink. The reflection looking back at him made him shudder; he could be one of them.
Faisal checked that the wooden door was locked then lay on top of the single mattress and let sleep wash over him.
He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when there was a gentle knock at the door. He jumped with a start. He could see through the small window in the corner that it was still dark outside, with not even a hint of morning.
He opened the door slightly and saw Arman.
‘Come on, it’s morning prayer time. We can leave once the day breaks.’ He looked Faisal up and down. ‘At least you don’t look like a Talib now,’ he observed. He pushed the door open further and passed Faisal a small bag containing flatbread. ‘And here’s some ammunition for the gun.’
Faisal took the bread and the box of ammunition and tossed it onto his sports bag.
‘I’m going to need some other things, too, Arman.’
‘What? What do you need?’
‘Can you get me some explosives? Military grade would be best – something light and portable, like C4. Also, two garage door remotes, some thin wire and a roll of black tape.’
The younger man shrugged. ‘No problem; I can give you this and more besides. Under the old man’s desk is a trapdoor – go down and fill your bag with whatever you need. He has instructed me to provide you with anything you require until you are in Turkey. I don’t know who sent you or what your mission is, but my father seems to think it is of the highest importance.’ With a nod, he left the room.
Faisal checked the ammunition; it was subsonic. The Iranians knew what they were doing. He quickly loaded the magazine of the Browning then placed the rest of the ammunition in the side pocket of his sports bag.
An hour later Faisal had a second bag, this one packed with enough explosives and electronics to start a war in Turkey. He smiled to himself.
‘Here’s the truck now, Faisal.’ Arman pointed at the vehicle as it pulled up outside the shop. Basim was at the wheel and his older brother Jafar was next to him.
‘Jump up here with me.’ Arman climbed into the back of the truck and started to move some boxes. He lifted a small metal plate on the floor to reveal an opening that was barely a metre wide. The cavity beneath it was about two and a half metres by one metre; barely enough room for Faisal to lie in with his bags at his feet.
‘You need to get in here when we get to the checkpoint, or if we beep the horn twice. Just lift this plate and lower yourself in; it latches closed on the inside behind you. It’s not comfortable, but you will be well hidden.’
‘I see. And for the rest of the trip, I just sit in the back here?’
‘Yes, it’s an eighteen-hour drive. It’s rough going in places but you will just have to make do.’ Arman jumped back down onto the street. ‘Time to leave.’
...
The trip was indeed rough. All day the old Bedford truck bounced and heaved its way along gravel roads and over mountain passes. The landscape changed from fields and woods to escarpments dotted with ancient pines and as they rose higher the temperature dropped. They stopped twice, taking the opportunity to relieve themselves by the side of the road and to drink cold tea and eat stale flatbread.
They had been travelling for a few hours in the dark when the truck came to a shuddering stop. Faisal was thrown from where he was sleeping on the boxes and slammed into the metal grid below the windo
w separating the cabin and the tray. The horn sounded twice in quick succession.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ Faisal muttered under his breath.
He darted for the hatch and clambered in, barely managing to pull it down behind him before the back tarp was ripped open.
Someone jumped up into the truck. Faisal could hear them walking around above him. He held his breath and tried to slow down his breathing. There was shouting outside and he thought he heard someone getting kicked and then someone crying out in pain. Faisal tried to make out what was being said. Lying there in the dark he weighed up his options. Reaching down between his feet he located the sports bag and slowly dragged it up by his side. He unzipped the bag, a tooth at a time and then, working quietly in the close confines of the secret hold, located the Browning. He checked the silencer was on tight and that the magazine was secure. He had cocked it before they started on their journey, so he knew it was ready to fire. The person above him yelled out something and laughed and then Faisal heard him jump from the truck.
Faisal held his breath as he released the latch and slowly climbed out of the hold. Peering out beneath the bottom of the tarp, he confirmed that the coast was clear and dropped onto the ground then rolled under the truck. On the side of the road Faisal could just make out the three Iranian brothers sitting in the dirt, their hands on top their heads. The area was dimly lit by the headlights of the truck and the lights from a car on the track. Faisal could see the giant log that had been laid across the road; the driver wouldn’t have had but a second to react as they rounded the bend. Faisal crawled from the back wheels to halfway under the truck to get a better look. Someone was standing above the Iranian tailors with an AK-47.
Faisal waited and watched while the bandits moved around; they were discussing what to do with their captives and the loot. He counted three bandits in total – one guarding the brothers and two at the front of the truck. They were all armed.
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