A second door was opened and we were finally inside the compound. Brigadier Howes was standing before us. I recognised him from a photo I’d been shown at the office.
He smiled. ‘Welcome back to Blighty.’
22
The Brigadier shook both of us by the hand. Bang-Bang slung her carbine over her shoulder and looked around in astonishment. The Brigadier laughed and said ‘I know. “There’s some corner of a foreign field”, and all that.’
It was as though we were in a tennis club in Surrey. Before us was a large yellow building with aerials and an even more massive satellite dish on the roof.
‘That’s the main embassy building’, said the Brigadier. ‘We call it the Chancery. Come along. Colonel Mahoney is waiting for you on Skype.’
We followed him past more Portakabins converted into shops. A sign was advertising DJ night somewhere in the compound. Soon we were going up the steps of the main block and inside. We followed the Brigadier up the main stairs to the Special Forces liaison office. A PC terminal had Skype on standby. We crowded in. Onscreen the Colonel was drinking from his office mug. I tapped the microphone.
‘This holiday is shit, boss, I want a refund.’
There was booming laughter from the speakers.
‘So my young hooligans are back! Hello Riz, hello Holly.’
‘Evening Colonel’, she curtsied with a sly grin.
His expression changed to one of concern and he studied her more closely. ‘Are you OK Holly? Everything in one piece?’
She stood up and became more serious. ‘Not really, Colonel. They got me addicted to smack. But I know what to do about it, don’t worry.’
For a moment the Colonel’s face looked like thunder. I would not want to be London’s US Ambassador tomorrow. Then he sat forward.
‘Sure? Because I want you in Paris the day after tomorrow. Big NATO conference there next week, I’ll be there and we need to liaise with the French security people. Can you brief me in on the right-wing elements at Bagram, Holly? Will you be OK to talk?’
She shrugged. ‘Sure. Don’t see why not.’
‘Good. OK, now you two go off and stand down for the evening. Everything is on the office account from now on and I’ve sent your travel stuff and your phones and laptops over by diplomatic bag. The Brigadier will show you to your room. You two deserve Paris, don’t you think?’
Bang-Bang smiled at him, then me. ‘I’ve seen death and Kabul, but I’ve never seen Paris.’
She turned back to the screen and tapped it gently. ‘That sounds lovely, Colonel Mahoney. Thankyou. See you there.’
I spoke to the screen. ‘Appreciate that, boss. By the way did Swallow and co get out OK?’
He nodded.
‘Good. See you in Paris.’
The Colonel saluted. I couldn’t remember whether we had to salute back or not, and then the Skype connection sighed and went out.
‘Right,’ Bang-Bang said, ‘dunno about you, but I’m going to have a rollup, a long hot bath with as much foam as I can get in it, wash my hair, and oh, first… Mr Brigadier Sir, have you got a phone I can use?’
He nodded at a deskphone. She went over to it and lifted the handset. ‘00 44 for Britain, yeah?’
We both nodded. I guessed she was phoning her mum.
She dialled a long number and waited. Then she spoke.
‘Salaam, ammi! You’ll never guess where I am!’
She looked at the handset and then replaced it to her ear.
‘Oh hello Dad. Yes. I’m in the embassy in Kabul. Have you been recording Citizen Khan for me? Waddya mean you forgot. Sorry? Mum’s done what?’
She looked back at us. ‘My mum’s just fainted.’
23
30th September
Next morning found us sitting at the compound’s outdoor café drinking tiny cups of sweet Afghan coffee, black and sticky as tar. The staff had found us some relatively clean Afghan clothes to replace the minging, dusty sets we’d arrived in. The day was already starting to get hot. Bang-Bang was wearing a ridiculously large pair of Sixties sunglasses and snickering to herself as she read a Barbara Cartland paperback she’d found on a bookshelf on the stairs. She was also inadvertently blowing heroin fumes over me from one of those nasty rollups.
‘Oi. Liz Taylor. Can you blow that smoke the other way?’
She gave me a look from over the tops of the shades.
‘Sorry babes.’
I craned my neck to read the book’s title. “The Reluctant Bride?”
‘That’s the one. It’s genius, doll. Whitbread Prize stuff.’
I shrugged. ‘Chick lit.’
Time passed and Sunday at the embassy began. Staff came for their lattes, a man came by pushing a lawnmower. Some lawn sprinklers went on. Our phones and laptops had, as promised, been waiting for us in the Special Forces annex last night. Also waiting had been the embassy medical staff to give us both a once-over to make sure we hadn’t contracted AIDS or hepatitis or Allah knew what. We’d come through clear to my considerable relief. Apart from Bang-Bang’s obvious hard drug habit. The staff had clucked at her trackmarks and given her a shot of vitamins, or echinacea or something.
My BlackBerry was on the table in front of me and buzzing as the backlog of texts, voicemails and emails came through. It was an MOD BlackBerry, managed by the Defence Communication Services Agency, so I could get secure comms almost anywhere in the world. Perk of the job. Fuzz had sent a text with a smiley emoticon. The gang was ecstatic.
Bang-Bang looked at me again. ‘Who are waiting for?’
I waggled my eyebrows. ‘The ambassador’s own CP team, no less. Machineguns, armoured 4 x 4s, the lot. We’re getting the VIP ride to the airport. And check this out…’
From a jiffy envelope I pulled two British diplomatic passports and two pairs of tickets for Etihad Airways…
‘Flyin’ in style, babe. Kabul to Abu Dhabi and then Abu Dhabi to Paris Charles De Gaulle. Economy from Kabul, but at Abu Dhabi we can get an upgrade to something called…’
I looked at the tickets.
‘…“Diamond First.” Plasma screen, bed, inflight bar… all mod cons.’
She grinned. ‘You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Mr Sabir.’
There was a discreet cough to our left. Three Royal Military Police soldiers, in casual dress but armed to the teeth with HK53s and a Minimi light machine gun were waiting. The lead guy spoke. ‘Morning people. I’m Dougie. Taking you to the airport. Ready Sir and Ma’am?’
We were. We stood. Bang-Bang reached under the table and brought up her carbine and checked the safety. I checked my pistol. Dougie looked at his team. They looked back at him. He gave an above-my-pay-grade shrug.
I spoke. ‘Guys. Me and my fiancée here have just fought our way out of an Afghan prison and these are our personal weapons. Tell you what. When you get us on that plane, we will relinquish them to you and you can put them in the next diplomatic bag back to Blighty. Good enough?’
Dougie was coming to a decision. ‘OK. Good enough, fella. Follow me, please.’
We picked up our meagre personal effects and followed them to a convoy of armoured black Toyotas. We got in the middle car, the Ghurkhas pulled the steel gate open and the convoy roared out of the compound at rocket speed into the Afghan morning.
Bang-Bang was squeezed in between me and a rather uncomfortable-looking CP guy who was trying to lay his Minimi out of harm’s way. She laid the barrel of her AKS-74U on his leg and said ‘Eeese… wanna know how many gringos I have keeled with thees?’
He shook his head.
She laughed and her nosering jangled. ‘I have absolutely no idea!’
I whacked her shoulder and gave her the “stop it” look.
24
The digital clock in the Diamond First cabin flicked over to midnight. I looked out of the nearest window. I couldn’t see anything but black. Still, this was an improvement on the plane I’d gone in on.
Bang-Bang was asleep
in what we had discovered to be a single bed when we’d pressed the button that converted the couch. She had her own compartment down the aisle from mine, but I’d explained in vague terms to the chief stewardess where we had come from and what we were to each other, and now the whole cabin crew was cooing over us.
Bang-Bang was shivering in her sleep. I went and adjusted the covers. I reckoned we both knew that the next week or so was going to be hell for her. I stroked her hair and went back to the window and perched on the shelving. I flicked through the channels on the flatscreen.
There was onboard wi-fi internet on this flight. Since I couldn’t sleep I took advantage of it and got on my laptop and went through the huge backlog of social media and emails.
My first assignment was on Skype. I had a call to make to Teacher. The Skype connection booped in my headset. C’monnnnn, I willed the screen. The display came to life. And there was Teacher, smoking a fag.
‘Riz! What’s with the Taliban beard?’
‘Hello mate. I’ll explain when I get back…’
‘Get back? Where are you?’
‘With Bang-Bang.’
The cheer nearly sent me deaf. ‘Shit, Teach, dial it down,’ I laughed, ‘I’ve got her. We’re on a plane to Paris. But we have a problem…’
I explained. Teacher sat back and thought for a bit then went and got a notepad and pen and started writing. ‘Listen, I’ll type this up and Facebook inbox it to you. Follow the instructions and NO Methadone.’
‘Sure thang. I owe you. By the way… can you get a job-lot of acid blotters to the girls?’
Teacher raised an eyebrow but after a while, just nodded. He knew I wouldn’t have asked for something like that frivolously.
We clicked off. I checked my office emails. Toots had sent some updates and clippings. The first one concerned a wave of raids in Germany on neo-Nazi homes, squats, and clubhouses. The North Rhine-Westphalia interior ministry had come down hard on what was known as the National Socialist Underground, but, disturbingly, they’d found very little. The NSU was on the move. The second email was a report on one of Anders Breivik’s aides, who had finally come out of the shadows. He’d identified himself as being from the “Knights Templar Order 777” and had been emailing Norwegian politicians and news media outlets via the anonymous Tor network. The email read:
“I hereby present myself as cell two and representative of the European resistance movement. Me and my soldiers, with all respect to our people, our culture and ethnicity, will warn all supporters of multiculturalism against the war we are now deeply engaged in. No longer will we tolerate your ignorance, nor your derision of our people.
Never before have we been forced to commit this type of acts against our own people, and we will continue along this path until we succeed in waking up the Norwegian and European people from their psychosis, and undoing the brainwashing of our brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers.
Our Commander, Anders Behring Breivik, sacrificed his life and freedom for our people and our struggle. It will be unacceptable and inequitable to us if he continues to be ignored and is declared “insane” by the unjust and corrupt apparatus that is in power. If this is to be the case, all those who died by his sword will have passed in vain.”
I sat back. I could see the pattern. The networks were on the move, the leadership was coming to life. Damn.
The next job was to update my Facebook so that Fuzz and the gang knew where we were heading. Within a minute, Fuzz was inboxing me. The message read ‘Rizbhai! You’re not gonna believe this!’ and was followed by a link to a BBC local news feed. She was right. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was a video link to an Infidels flashmob in Derby yesterday. A shaven-headed man was speaking into the mic of a very large megaphone being held by… Duckie. Oh my God. She was in.
By 2am I’d done all I could online. Holly seemed mercifully asleep. I envied her. There was no way I could sleep on a plane. I kissed her cheek. She stirred and smiled. I spoke to her.
‘Shift up, crazy chica.’
She woke and looked up at me. ‘Are we there yet?’
‘Nearly. Do us a favour hun - say “Tommy Robinson” when we get to Paris.’
‘Tommy Robinson when we get to Paris.’
‘No dipstick, I meant remind me to call him when we get there.’
‘Oh. OK. Sing me a song hun.’
‘Hmm. OK. Here’s one.’
She snuggled onto my chest. Oh brilliant, now I couldn’t move.
‘What’s the song Riz babes?’
I looked down at her and murmured
‘Brazil, when hearts were entertaining June
We stood beneath an amber moon
And softly murmured “someday soon”
We kissed and clung together,
Then, tomorrow was another day
The morning found me miles away
With still a million things to say;
Now, when twilight dims the sky above
Recalling thrills of our love…’
She was asleep again, and that smile was still on her face.
Had I done a good thing? I supposed I had. I’d got her back. But the pair of us seemed to attract trouble.
I left the compartment and made my way forward to the bar. It was a chintzy little affair, a semicircular bar lit from below, with saucers of peanuts and I had no idea what. I felt like I’d accidentally walked into a Fifties science-fiction film. “Riz Sabir in Forbidden Planet.” I decided I was too tired to care. I collapsed onto a barstool. To my left a giant moving-map display was tracking the plane’s course.
The bartender came over, stood before me and raised an eyebrow. I looked at him.‘I know. What d’you recommend boss?’
‘To sleep?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Are you Muslim, Sir? If you are, we do some mean mocktails.’
I had to laugh, so I did. ‘Mocktails. Good one. I am Muslim, but I’m one of those Muslims that has had a bad week at the office. OK. Fix me a gin and tonic and don’t skimp on the gin.’
He nodded approval and got busy.
A middle-aged man in a sharp grey suit plonked himself down onto the barstool next to me. The suit was good, and well-cut, but he looked like a soldier in civvies. He gave me a thousand-yard-stare and then smiled. And then he spoke in a voice that sounded like gravel being poured onto a road.
‘Riz Sabir ? Enchanté. Je m’apelle Tchéky, Capitaine dans la Direction de la Protection et de la Sécurité de la Défense. DPSD for short, part of our Military Intelligence. We shall be working together when we reach Paris.’
Work never switched off. I bet the Colonel had set this up. I toasted him with my freshly-arrived G and T. ‘Salaams, Tchéky. Turkish name, innit?’
He nodded and chinked his own glass of spirits against my glass.
‘D’accord. Salams and Hosgeldin.’
We laughed together. I liked this guy already.
‘Parlez-vouz Francais, Riz ?’
‘Er… non. My other half does, but she’s zonked out at the moment.’
‘Zonked?’
‘Chinstrapped. Out cold.’
He just looked at me.
‘Asleep, mate.’
‘Ah. Eh bien, the boys will drink, non?’
‘Plan. Right. Tell me about what we’ll be getting up to in Paris and I’ll tell you what my other half found out.’
We talked into the dawn.
25
1st October
Another morning and another motorcade. Our three-ship convoy of black Renault vans roared down the E19 from Charles De Gaulle International into Paris, with no subtlety whatsoever. Our vehicles had more guards and more firepower onboard than The Expendables. They were in plainclothes but were all wearing balaclavas, orange armbands with “GIGN” on them, and carrying G36 assault rifles, in a typical French display of “this is what we do, deal with it”.
On the drop-down seats in front of me our new mate Tchéky was showing Bang-Bang some
photos from a file. They were talking in French and she was looking at blowup photos. Every now and then they’d take a good look at a photo and either dismiss it or talk to him and he’d file it. She was very, very pale. Tchéky had caught my eye some time back on the road and gripped my arm. He knew. ‘Where we go, I know the hotel manager. He is proud to serve the Fifth Republic. Nothing will be a problem. Comprenez?’
I comprenezed.
I sat back in my seat and tried to take in Paris. I only really knew the city from films like Ronin and The Bourne Identity. God I felt like such a chav. I tried to look for something I might recognise, like the Eiffel Tower. Ah. Up ahead was something I’d seen in films. The Arc de Triomphe. We went round the massive roundabout the wrong way and the traffic scattered like chickens.
Tchéky tapped my knee. ‘Regardez. Avenue Des Champs Elysées. Nearly there.’
Our convoy turned right on a boulevard and pulled in onto a parking area. We’d arrived. The CP teams dismounted and checked the area, weapons ready. Tchéky walked us through double doors into… a big, plush hotel.
‘Four Seasons George Cinq. Best hotel in Paris.’ He waved at the reception. ‘Stevie! Viens, nous sommes arrives!’
A man came out from behind the main reception. He was in a pin-sharp charcoal suit and he gripped Tchéky’s arm and shook his hand. ‘Tchéky. And these are our English guests?’
‘Oui. Les foux Musulmans Anglais, Riz et Holly, qui viennent d’Afghanistan.’
Stevie came over and shook our hands. ‘I am Stevie. I am the hotel manager. Tchéky and I… we go back. At your service.’
I dropped my bag and I let the tension flood out of me. Bang-Bang leant on my shoulder. We should be OK. ‘Hello Stevie.’
Stevie smiled and two busboys made to pick up our bags. I gave them a look and a slow shake of the head and they stopped in their tracks. Stevie spoke to them.
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