The Agent Runner

by Simon Conway

  Or else what?

  Or else we shut off the money and find someone else to do business with.

  The final straw was the realisation that Khan must have known the whereabouts of bin Laden for several years before revealing it to them.

  She’d never mistaken him for an angel. There had never been any doubt in her mind that he was a bad man, an unscrupulous manipulator who bore more responsibility than almost anyone else for the rise of Islamic extremism in Afghanistan and Pakistan. But she had expected him to honour the deal, the deal offered to him in 2005 when he agreed to provide information to Her Majesty’s government.

  As far as she was concerned he had broken that agreement, which was why she had felt no qualms in acting to get rid of him. After all, spying was a profession of cold calculation. The west was probably going to fail in Afghanistan, leaving civil war and anarchy behind, just as it had after the Soviet withdrawal and the collapse of the communist regime. The last time around the anarchy had given birth to Al Qaeda, which had risen like a ghastly phoenix from the ashes. Who knew what might be born this time around? Ensuring an improved flow of information from Pakistan was therefore vital. Burns did not count herself amongst those who argued that electronic surveillance and drones were sufficient to protect Britain against its enemies. There would always be a need for human intelligence.

  She stopped at the centre of the Blue Bridge with its view of the East Front façade of the palace.

  It was standing here beside Jonah in the immediate aftermath of the death of bin Laden and the exposure of Tariq as a British spy that she had raised the possibility of discrediting Khan. At the time she had been under considerable pressure from No. 10 to deliver some form of nudge that would allow for a swift exit from Afghanistan. Something had to be done. It had been her hope that by removing Khan from his position of power in the ISI it would allow more malleable elements to rise to the fore. It was Jonah who had suggested Noman Butt as the poster-boy for a post-Khan future. It was an elegant solution, with a minimum of fuss. Mumayyaz would remain as the recipient of the funds and ensure that her ambitious husband delivered a better product than her father had. Together they had drawn up the plan to ditch Khan and empower Noman. Ed Malik was the obvious choice to execute it and his assault on the CIA Head of Station in Kabul had provided a helpful pretext for his subsequent downfall.

  The plan had failed, of course. Noman had proven to be less malleable than promised, but at the same time it had exceeded her expectations. Khan had been given a timely reminder of how vulnerable he was and notice that it was time to deliver on old promises.

  The indications were that he had learned his lesson. There was even a chance that her predictions of failure in Afghanistan might be turned around. By inadvertently entrenching Khan’s position, she had perhaps created space for a deal with the Taliban.

  In his conversation with Jonah, Khan had pledged to arrange for Pakistan to free the senior Afghan Taliban officials that it was holding in Rawalpindi, releasing them to the care of the Afghan High Peace Council, which was tasked with opening talks with the Taliban. He had pledged not to interfere if the Afghan Taliban and the Afghan Council went to a third country as a venue for future talks. And if these initial steps bore fruit, he had promised to put pressure on hundreds of Taliban commanders fighting Western and Afghan forces inside Afghanistan to support reconciliation talks with Kabul. If Khan delivered on these promises then it might be possible for America and Britain to withdraw from Afghanistan without it turning into a rout. And in return all he had requested was that the money continued to be delivered as before.

  She took a left turn past the Nash Shrubberies and walked anti-clockwise past the playground.

  It was unfortunate about Ed, of course. It wasn’t completely hopeless, but it was necessary to be realistic. He was probably dead by now. Burns had agreed to send Jonah out to Afghanistan to see what could be done, even if it was just a question of recovering the body. She would ensure that Ed received some form of posthumous recognition.

  It was necessary to balance the destruction of one man – Ed – with what had been achieved. It was a matter of the greater good of the British people. They were fighting against an amorphous enemy that killed thousands with suicide bombers, which used torture and intimidation. It would be absurd to be squeamish when the stakes were so high.

  51. Into the tribal areas

  As they approached the bridge over the River Swat, Ed could see lights haloed in the driving rain and dark shapes moving in the road ahead.

  ‘It’s a checkpoint,’ he growled. ‘Hang on!’

  He floored the accelerator. He caught a brief glimpse of soldiers in ponchos scattering. The car struck an oil drum a glancing blow and fishtailed on the road before righting itself.

  Then they were on the bridge with the immense roar of water below them, the only light from the muzzle flashes behind them. A spray of bullets struck the back of the car and the windscreen cracked and spider-webbed in front of him. Ed cried out in pain and anger. The car grazed the parapet at the side of the bridge in a flurry of sparks, slid sideways and struck the other side before bouncing back into the centre of the road.

  The road climbed after the bridge in a series of precipitous switchbacks. The windscreen was almost completely opaque and he could only see to steer by sticking his head out the side window.

  ‘Are they following?’ he asked her.

  She turned in her seat. From this height she could see back down the route they had travelled and the bridge far below.

  ‘No.’

  After a few minutes he pulled over to the side of the road. He got out and picked up a rock with his good right hand, and used it to knock out the windscreen.

  ‘You’ve been hit,’ Leyla said.

  He was breathing heavily and blood was running down his sleeve. The adrenaline was already deserting him and he knew he would soon feel the pain.

  ‘Give me your belt,’ he said. She pulled it out of its trouser loops. He fed the tongue of the belt through the buckle slid it up over the wound onto his upper arm and tightened it.

  ‘You drive.’

  He crossed to the passenger side. She got in beside him in the driver’s seat. She re-started the engine and pulled out into the road with her scarf drawn tightly across her face so that only her eyes were exposed. He ripped away the sleeve on his wounded arm and tore it into rags for a dressing with his teeth. He started winding them around his arm. When he was done he let himself sink back into the seat. He was cold and he could feel his heart pounding as it tried to keep feeding oxygen to his brain.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  ‘Why aren’t they following us?’

  ‘Because its too dangerous on the roads for the army here.’

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘It’s dangerous for us too.’

  The road had been damaged by flooding or earthquakes and in places the tarmac had buckled and cracked. Some parts had washed away and been replaced with meandering detours through dynamited rubble. Several times they had to slow to a crawl and weave between boulders that had tumbled into the road. The landscape appeared to have been torn apart by elemental energies.

  #

  There was a scintillating pattern in the rain, like falling strings of code not visible to the focussed eye. A drumbeat on the bonnet, stinging needles of rain striking his cheeks, the foot-well awash with bloody water.

  The headlights barely pierced the storm but his retinas were filled with light. The car slammed to a halt. The falling rain swelled and contracted like a kaleidoscope.

  ‘You keep passing out,’ she said.

  He gripped the dash with his good arm.

  ‘It’s after the next river crossing,’ he said, loosening the tourniquet.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’ve been here once before,’ he laughed, sending shooting pains up his arm and into the base of his
skull. ‘Two miles after the crossing, there’s a lay-by and a rock that looks like a raised fist.’

  ‘I can barely see the road ahead.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her.

  #

  Water was running across the surface of the bridge when they got there.

  ‘Hold tight,’ she said.

  The car surged into the water, creating a bow wave. For a few precarious moments the car drifted sideways and it seemed as if they might be swept off the bridge into the ravine, but then they were through to the other side.

  He watched the milometer tick by.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  She rolled to a halt and switched off the engine. Together they peered into the swirling darkness.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘the Gonzo fist.’

  ‘It really does look like a fist,’ she said.

  They got out of the car.

  ‘This way,’ he said.

  They slid down the muddy shoulder of the road with Ed in front. There was a half-hidden trail leading away between two large spurs of rock. They went carefully between the two and followed the trail down into a ravine. Around a boulder they came in sight of an old Soviet command trailer on a Zil chassis with the skeletal remains of a radar dish at its front end. Its windows were lit by firelight and shadows danced in the windows.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  She followed him into a muddy yard filled with stacks of tyres and car parts and what looked like the tails and nose cones of several missile systems. There was a number of vehicles behind the trailer but it was difficult to judge how many.

  ‘I know these people,’ Ed told her.

  He moved into the shadow of the trailer and close alongside the window. He climbed up on an old ammunition crate and from where he stood he could see most of the interior. There was a fire in the stove and an on oil lamp hanging from a hook. A young woman in a headscarf was kneeling by the stove and sitting against the wall behind her there was an old man wearing a white turban. It was Hakimullah, Tariq’s manservant. He was smoking a long-handled pipe. The young girl was his granddaughter.

  Ed found Leyla squatting in the darkness by one of the wheels and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘It’s ok, they’re friends.’

  He climbed the steps and knocked on the door. He didn’t want to surprise them. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The girl issued a stifled scream.

  ‘Who is it?’ Hakimullah called out in Pashto.

  The girl on the floor stared at him with fearful, addled eyes. Hakimullah climbed to his feet and came towards them.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ he said. He was smiling, his voice slurred by opium. ‘You look like a ghost.’

  ‘It’s been a long night,’ Ed replied in Pashto.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

  ‘Well I’m here now,’ Ed told him, collapsing into one of the chairs. He saw that the girl was looking towards the door where Leyla was standing. He was pleased to see that she didn’t look scared.

  ‘She’s my friend,’ he said.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Hakimullah told him.

  The dressing on his bicep was dark brown and saturated with blood. More blood had crusted in patches all down his arm.

  ‘I got shot. I think it’s gone all the way through. Can you stitch me up?’

  Hakimullah shrugged, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you got something you can clean it with?’

  Hakimullah nodded. He pulled aside the rug and lifted one of the wooden planks, revealing a metal box beneath. From it he removed a bottle of clear liquid covered in Cyrillic writing.

  Vodka.

  ‘Let’s have a celebration,’ Ed muttered.

  Hakimullah removed the dressing, peeling it away from the entry and exit wounds, and poured vodka on them. Ed winced at the sting. Then they passed the bottle back and forth, taking swigs, while Hakimullah stitched the wounds with a sewing needle and some dark thread.

  ‘I need you to get us over the border,’ Ed told him.

  Hakimullah paused with the needle in his a hand and the thread between his teeth.

  ‘We have a car that can get us most of the way,’ Ed explained. ‘If you’ve got some fuel.’

  Hakimullah finished sewing before replying. He tied off the ends and made a fresh bandage from strips of cloth cut from a white turban. He took a final swig at the bottle.

  ‘Let us go now,’ he said. He gave them blankets to fashion into cloaks.

  They went out again into the rain. Hakimullah and his granddaughter were clutching two-litre soda bottles filled with petrol in each hand. They crossed the yard and followed the trail back up onto the road. The car was still there.

  As soon as the petrol had been dispensed they set off again, Hakimullah driving this time with the young girl beside him. Ed and Leyla in the back with a blanket over them.

  ‘Try to get some sleep,’ Ed told her. ‘We’ve got a long walk ahead.’

  52. Crossing the Durand Line

  They had been walking for a couple of hours when they heard the noise of the helicopter carried on the wind. It had stopped raining and they had made reasonably good speed, but dawn wasn’t that far off. For the last hour the forest had blocked their view of the valley as they climbed. It had been dark under the fir trees, like being in a long tunnel, and silent, their footsteps swallowed by the soft carpet of needles. Then they emerged onto an exposed ridgeline and it was as if they were on the roof of the world. Deep gorges and jagged peaks stretched away in every direction. There was a sprinkling of stars to the west but most of the sky was dark.

  The cloud cover wasn’t low enough to inconvenience the helicopter. It was heading towards them but wasn’t flying in a straight line. It was criss-crossing the valley and every now and then its searchlight would pinpoint one of the isolated farmsteads. It was looking for movement, any kind of movement.

  As it approached the edge of the valley and climbed towards them they took refuge in a hollow at the base of a rock. It passed almost directly over them. They waited breathlessly for it to turn back but the sound of its rotors was abruptly muted as it dropped between two peaks and the night was silent again.

  Leyla switched on the torch and changed the dressing on Ed’s wounds. Some of the stitches had torn through the soft flesh and the surrounding skin was mottled every colour of the rainbow and so tender that even to look at it made it hurt more.

  ‘How far to the border?’ Ed asked through gritted teeth.

  Hakimullah shrugged. He seemed to have only the most rudimentary understanding of time and distance. ‘Not far.’

  ‘Will we make it before daylight?’ It was good country for moving at night but when daylight came it would work against them. They would be far too conspicuous.

  ‘Inshallah, we will.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Wearily they climbed to their feet and set off again. They were tired now and the short break that had helped their lungs had stiffened the muscles in their legs. Ed set off at a good pace to show them he was strong enough to make it, but after a while he slowed and fell behind. He found it difficult to hold his arm up, but if he let it hang it throbbed even more. He wondered if it was septic. He’d seen wounds go septic very quickly in this part of the world.

  He put the thought to the back of his mind and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  #

  Less than an hour later they stood above a valley with a thin grey strip of river running through it: Durand’s arbitrary line. On the far side of the river was Afghanistan.

  There was the faint pinkish tinge of light in the eastern sky. Ed cursed their bad luck. Hakimullah spoke for the first time since they last stopped, turning back to Ed. His face was drawn and tense.

  ‘We have to cross here now, without delay,’ he said, ‘or hide and wait until night comes.’

  ‘We can’t wait another day,’ Leyla said when Ed had finished translating for her. �
��We need to get you to a hospital.’

  ‘On the other side the path is narrow and there are many mines,’ Hakimullah explained.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Leyla demanded.

  ‘We have to walk in his footsteps on the other side.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Russian helicopters dropped a lot of mines in these valleys.’

  She was appalled. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘It’s ok, he knows the way through. And because there are so many mines the Pakistanis won’t expect us to cross here. It’s the best chance we’ve got. It’s going to be ok.’

  Scrambling downslope through the loose rocks and stones, Ed slipped and fell and knocked his wounded arm and the pain was so great he curled up in a ball. Leyla lifted his face from the ground and cupped it her hands. She kissed his forehead and his cheeks.

  ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I don’t care about what happened before.’

  He smiled but he didn’t say anything. There was no energy in him to spare. She helped him up and gripped him around the waist and he leant on her for support. At the bottom of the ridge they left the cover of rocks and stumbled across an exposed gravel plain. If the helicopter came back now it was certain that they would be killed.

  When they reached the river they hesitated. The old man’s granddaughter was the first in. She plunged in to her waist and battled against the current. Hakimullah was next and then Leyla and Ed. She gripped him around the waist and held him upright. It was freezing, the glacial water cutting through their bones like steel. Ed managed to keep his arm out of the water but he felt his resolve draining away as the cold penetrated.

  The girl splashed ashore and paused at the top of the bank to help the rest of them. Ed sank to his knees on the gravel.

  ‘We can’t stop here,’ Hakimullah said.

  Ed nodded and Leyla helped him, slowly and painfully, to his feet again.

  Hakimullah took the lead. They walked in single file following a barely discernible path. Ed gripped the back of Leyla’s wet coat with his good hand. Once the old man knelt down and pointed to a shape in the gravel within a foot of the edge of the path. It was a sycamore-shaped piece of plastic, its seed pouch full of liquid explosive. It was a Soviet PFM mine, scattered here a quarter of a century before. Ed imagined many more of them lying hidden in the gloom. Hakimullah set off again and they followed, fearing that each step might be their last.