“That was a long time ago, and I also had to use a cover.”
“Uh Huh. You had followers and they believed in you. You’re a real piece of work, Daddy dearest. Can you look at yourself in the mirror at all, or are you devoid of conscience?”
“Hallah, I work for the British Government. I liaise between our two countries. That’s my job. We work beneath the radar. We don’t kiss and tell.”
“Neither do we, we fuck and publish.”
“Very nice. You have the same sparkling verbal skills as your mother, I see.”
“Actually it’s Mikhail Baryshnikov, but maybe he heard it first from her.” And with that, Haley left, giving instructions to add the bill to her suite number.
“Well, she does have certain panache, Shallal,” said the elegant black man walking towards the table from the other side of the room. It was Idris Farrukh.
“I suppose you have all of that,” Shallal inquired.
“Of course. With pictures,” came the response.
“Then get it to ‘God’ right away and get in touch with Lyall Grant’s first in charge at the British High Commission in Islamabad, in case we need to get the lad to safety.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE
Enjil, Afghanistan
Mason Ansari offered a reward for any information on the man who had arrested and killed Atiya Shah. The video tape was copied and sent by messenger to his step-father in Pakistan. It had reached its destination, Cowan had already confirmed this. A man who identified himself as Aziz Fayed Khan arrived at the clinic. He was not in disguise, showed appropriate identification and explained to the young doctor that several forces were working to get him safely back to the United States. It was up to him what he wanted to do with the information he had received. Khan could provide him an alternative choice of venue. His “backers” could offer Atiya’s killers and abusers on a silver platter for information on the lifestyle, relatives, in fact anything that could lead them to Osama bin Laden before the allies found him. Aziz Fayed Khan in his carefully encrypted email to his Moscow hierarchy two hours later expressed that he had been sorely disappointed when the self-proclaimed ‘Angel of Death’, Masud Ansari, had declined the offer.
The young doctor advised his step-father of the meeting and this telephone call, like all the others was recorded at the National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland by intercepting the communications satellite signal.
The market in Enjil had been mostly obliterated in a bombing a few days earlier. However, the vendors carried on their trade as usual, in loosely constructed stalls holding hard to find fruits and vegetables to exchange for simple comforts like tea or Arabic coffee. Ansari traded coffee and hard cash, both of which he had plenty of, for information on the Englishman who, with a small group of elitist commandos, possibly SAS, had taken Atiya much against her will to the prison where she had been killed. A woman whom Atiya had treated some months previously offered the first clue as to the whereabouts of the group. The British and the Americans, she’d said, had initiated a series of air drops of food and medical supplies as a gesture of goodwill. The project was overseen by a small group of men in black paratrooper uniforms. These men were not American and not were not regular Allied soldiers. She confirmed she had seen such types before; they looked like the group operating near the place where Atiya’s Land Rover had been found. They were led by a civilian. She had seen him at the clinic a few days before Mason arrived. Everyone in the village had talked about it. He had stared at the young women and matrons trying to get them to abandon their burquas. He had been overly friendly to the women and confrontational with Atiya, who had reprimanded him severely. Atiya had later mentioned to her that she had seen him before when she was training in Europe and that he was dangerous.
Mason learned that American and British Special Forces had taken part in covert anti-terrorist operations in the area since late September, scouting the terrain, observing possible landing zones and providing much needed human intelligence. Their objective was clearly to verify high value targets that could be hit by air strikes. Cutting off al-Qaeda resources was also tantamount to success and while U.S. and British Commandos were allegedly not hunting specifically for bin Laden, they were clandestinely operating inside and outside the Afghan borders. Such behind the scenes activity was typical of the SAS since its inception in 1940, and reconnaissance in the desert terrain was what they did best. It was unlikely that there would be any slip-ups in terms of their contribution to the war effort as they worked under intense secrecy, which was why Mason felt sure that the Englishman and his cohorts were outside the accepted norm of SAS operations. His admiration for those who wore the almost sacred, winged dagger beret badge symbolizing the sword of Damocles was such that he had actually considered applying when he was a child. It was 1980 and he had read of the storming of the Iranian Embassy in London to free hostages. Their mission’s success made them heroes in his eyes; he could not imagine that they would be responsible for the cold blooded killing of a Red Cross sponsored woman physician. It was so immoral that it would detract from the respect they’d earned over the last half century. So who was the vile creature who had initiated this and what purpose had this action served? Atiya had known she was under observation, Mason remembered. So much she had told him. She was a known commodity in Enjil because she had helped so many to escape the ruling Taliban Militia. Atiya had also, Mason had learned, prepared papers for women’s groups to spread the word about the treatment of women here. Moreover, she was well known for her stand against injustice; it was highly unlikely that officials in the British or American governments would have consented to her maltreatment and untimely death. This had to be a rogue operation.
Mason continued his walk around what was left of the market, and then he saw it. A British Army Land Rover! In the passenger side of the ‘Defender’ was an older man with graying hair, with cigarette in hand, staring directly at him. Mason quickly turned and began talking to an old woman he knew from the clinic. He told her he might need to get out using the back of her stall; if there was any damage caused she should go to the clinic where she would be reimbursed. As soon as he heard a voice scream in Pashto for him to stop immediately, he fled over the table, turning over chairs and produce baskets as he ran into the alley. He knew they were behind him, he could hear the angry vendors screaming insults at them, which deterred them for a few minutes only. He could hear the sound of footsteps on the rubble; they were perhaps two or three minutes behind. He turned a corner and heard a voice calling him to safety.
“Doctor! Doctor! This way, come quickly!”
A door opened and Mason ran inside. His lungs felt as though they were bursting. A young boy stood before him, he had been in the clinic with his grandmother a few days ago.
“Follow me!” He lead Mason into the largest room where an old woman sat by the window. She remained fixed at her spot, not turning around to greet him.
“They’re running around the building,” she said softly. “Look at them, pushing everyone around. They are animals. Doctor, you can stay here until they are gone. They will never come here in this house, there are three buildings closer that they can search. I have not moved from the window, I have not looked away and they cannot see me speak through my burqua. They believe that I would never harbor a stranger as I live here with only my grandson for company. Be calm, Doctor. It seems we have beaten them as they are leaving, no?” Her covered form remaining at its sentry post before the window, she whispered, “They are getting into their vehicle. No one with them for questioning. We are safe for a little while longer.” She turned away and left the room returning a few minutes later with cups of tea.
“I saw that you did nothing to offend them. What did they want?’
“I don’t know, but the older one looked at me and I think that even with my beard he recognized me. The man is someone I want to meet again. I have a score to settle. He is, I believe, someone I met as a child. Have you seen him be
fore?”
“Oh yes, Doctor,” the boy answered, obviously glad to help. ”He is with the British soldiers outside of the village. The British and the Americans are no different from the Russians. They go after the villagers in their vehicles, like long snakes. They stop and search houses. They have a camp there. We are more afraid of them than the Taliban. But because of their presence, the Taliban has collapsed, and in a few weeks the Interim Authority will be sworn in and the borders will open fully for other countries to help us. The grey man is part of that team, I think. I know he is in the village often. He gives the orders for the men in black to arrest people off the street. Once they are picked up, they don’t come back.”
The old woman spoke, “You see, Doctor, we are witnessing a strange turn of events. For over six years, thousands of Pashtuns were ambivalent to what the Taliban did, not because they were afraid of what would happen, but because after the Russians, it was a relief not to have to fight. There was anarchy here. I was a Professor under the Russian control. Women then were given full rights where before only rich women got an education. I came from a comfortable family, not an overtly wealthy one. But all that ended with the Taliban. Our civilization went back a thousand years, if one was anything above a peasant that is. The Pashtun majority sided with the Taliban and they turned their eyes and hearts from the treatment of our country’s minorities, the Uzbeks, the Hazara and the Tajiks who fought against them. Now that the Allied forces are here, the Uzbeks and Tajiks want revenge. So we will have unrest for years as they fight it out. The Pashtuns are heading into Pakistan for safety and there are thousands of refugees trying to return to Afghanistan to reclaim their homes. The Tajik soldiers have already been here and ransacked the villages, and the allied troops made no attempt to stop them. We cannot win. We have to fight it out amongst ourselves. The allies should just go home and leave us the money to help ourselves.”
“But Grandmother, the people will never get the money or the supplies if the Allies are not there to administer it,” her grandson told her gently, in a respectful tone.
“I suppose you are right, child. We are a doomed people. God has rejected us for our arrogance.”
“I don’t see arrogance here, Old Mother,” Mason told her in using what he hoped was a form of deference, “I see starvation, injury and loss.”
“Doctor, we are glad you are here to help. But while your skin is like ours, and your face is known to me, you are Ansari, I know, but you are not Afghani. You do not know, you can only guess at what we feel.”
“It is like the Hilabi the Mujahideen brought with them. They all screamed and fought in the name of God but they didn’t know the people they were fighting for. They just wanted a cause. Soldiers of God, they do not know God. If they did they would have shown kindness and charity to everyone. I have seen their destruction, Doctor, and I tell you these people are all worse than animals. They are like wicked children; they cannot stop without some sort of intervention and more war is not going to help.”
“Old Mother,” Mason began, “I must find the grey-haired man. He is the one who took away Dr. Shah. I must exact revenge. It is our way.”
“Doctor, it is not your way,” the young boy said, handing Mason clean baggy trousers, an oversized shirt, a thick shawl and a pakol for his head. “You are not one of us. Stay in the clinic if you must, treat the sick, heal the wounded, but leave this alone. You are valuable to us because you are not a killer. Perhaps it is safe for you to go now. Take these and when you get back to the clinic, shave your beard and only wear the clothes of a European doctor. Leave these things to us. We have contacts. Do not run, Doctor, you have nothing to hide. If they see you, we do not have papers yet so you have nothing to produce. Give your Muslim name and our name too. It is Ghauhari. I am Salim and my grandmother is Fahima. We will say you are our cousin.”
Mason changed his clothes and, bidding the couple goodbye, hurriedly left his hiding place and headed for the alley. He crossed the streets now reduced to rubble, with skeletal structures of buildings that the allied bombing had left, which no longer provided shelter or safety for any people. He walked slowly between the debris and reached the remnants of the market he had left that morning. Passers-by ignored him and his confidence was restored. Now he attracted no attention. Within a few minutes he had reached the clinic’s jeep, got inside and drove west towards home.
By now it was mid-afternoon and the clinic was full of people needing help. The women nurses and two surviving technicians had dealt with the twenty or so patients who arrived that morning and Mason was told that the market vendor had come in and asked for money to cover the damage to his stall, which they had given him. Mason went in to the small bathroom of his one room flat next to the office that had once been Atiya’s, shaved off his beard and using surgical scissors and a battery operated razor gave himself a very short haircut. He looked like a young boy. He showered and changed into the American jeans and a sweatshirt he had brought with him. His overall appearance was that of a skinny teenager, not a thirty-two year old physician. He had lost considerable weight and his large black eyes were etched with dark circles. He looked exotic, but not Afghani. He was barely recognizable as the man who had a few short months ago served his residency in a Maryland hospital. Taking a loaded snub-nosed .357 pistol and placing it in an ankle holster, he prepared himself for what was to come. This was good enough. Now he was ready.
He saw six patients before the British came, as he knew they would. They would not connect him with the man who had run away that morning, but they would want to see the clinic and the records it held. He had long since removed anything that could be incriminating. Those who came for treatment were photographed and their signatures, such as they were, a cross, a smudge with an ink pad or a fingerprint, were given an accompanying number and release photograph to be kept on file. Anything that could be perceived as records of Taliban militia had been destroyed. Their patient records now showed the elderly, the very young and an occasional teenage boy. The clinic staff would maintain that their incoming patients had not become more diverse since the Taliban left and they had been so far away from the Taliban controlled areas as not to have had too much contact with them anyway. It looked perfectly in order.
He looked almost exactly as Mason remembered, tall, thin-faced, with oddly shaped teeth and a sad smile. There was a look of derangement about him. His accent was clipped and sounded very immature, very British public school. Mason extended his hand in recognition and introduced himself.
“We’ve met before, I think, when I was a child. My mother is Emily Desai. It was in Heidelberg, you might remember.”
“Ah yes,” the man replied. “I’m Wilfred de Crecy. I’m attached to the British contingent,” He showed his identification, “The welcoming committee for Karzai’s interim government. Not much longer, and we can all go home, thank God. Miserable bloody place, what?”
“Yes, it certainly is Mr. de Crecy. Can you help us get more supplies or at least better access to the Red Cross stuff that’s being airlifted in? Our patients are women and children. The male wounded get sent to the army staffed hospital.”
“Yes, so I am told. Too bad what happened to your Doctor Shah. I remember her rather well, actually.”
“Yes. She was my nanny when I was little. She knew you too. She told me she had seen you when I arrived here from Europe.”
“Europe, was it?” Crecy asked knowingly.
“Europe it was. I was taking a break after I left my residency. If you’ll excuse me now, Mr. de Crecy, I need to get back to my patients.”
“Actually, Dr. Desai, I was wondering if you could come back with us and answer a few questions. We have some photographs we’d like to show you, and if you don’t mind we’d like to take your files with us.”
“But I do mind. We can’t treat our patients without records. How about if I finish up and drive out to you in a few hours. Then I can make copies of the people we’ve seen today and just bring you the
disks.”
“I’ll leave someone here with you then.”
“Mr. de Crecy, am I under arrest?”
“Good heavens, not at all! Just routine, nothing more.”
“Look Mr. de Crecy, I have some things to do here.” He sat down in front of his lap-top and discreetly emailed his step-father in Pakistan as he spoke. His message was very simple, “Crecy taking me. Help.”
It was sent in seconds. He continued to open the files and add to his patient records from the documents in front of him, each before and after digital photograph committed to record. Crecy stepped behind him to view the screen.
“I’ll be through in a minute and you can have the disks.”
Shutting down his system, he got up, gave instructions to his small staff of volunteers and left with the three men.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY
Islamabad, Pakistan
Tony Shallal received the telephone call from Haley Agar ten minutes after her father emailed her from Islamabad. Shallal was already in the process of flying to Herat. With the assistance of his old friend Ishmael Khan, Governor of Herat, and despite the random snow drifts, he was with his help able to get through to the area without official cover. Shallal shared his transportation with relief supplies of rice, oil, powdered milk and blankets being flown in to the Tahija Masquan Orphanage. He was unnoticed by the other relief workers and was met at Bagram Airbase where he traveled with the relief convoy to the outskirts of the province. His arrival at the military base established by the allied troops had taken slightly over twenty-four hours. Using his diplomatic identification he made three telephone calls on his cellular phone; the American Embassy in Islamabad, Harrison Cowan with instructions for Dana Johnson and finally his superior, Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry at MI6. He did not share his suspicions with his long-time friend and mentor Archie Beresford.
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