Reaction of the tiger, p.14
REACTION OF THE TIGEr, page 14
part #4 of André Warner, Manhunter Series
I chanted, ‘Like one that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread …’
He snorted. ‘I didn’t know you were into poetry.’
‘I’m not. My father read the whole Ancient Mariner to me when I was a kid. It was a stormy night and it scared the shit out of me. I never forgot that verse. Hey, you don’t think the road’s bugged, do you?’
The look he gave me was devoid of amusement.
‘This is not funny, Anders. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen anymore.’
He lit a cigarette – Players – I remembered an uncle who used to smoke the brand. The slogan “Players Please” so simple yet so slick it had lasted for decades.
‘Well, excuse me if I can’t get worked up about the goings on in the espionage brigade. I got it out of my system long ago.’
Our footsteps were silent on the wet leaves. Once, Tony glanced over his shoulder and I had to restrain myself from laughing. I could almost have believed I was playing a part in a Bond movie.
‘It’s all right for you.’ His voice was rimed with bitterness. ‘You don’t have to sort out this shit. You think it’s a joke, don’t you?’
‘Tell you what I think, Tony. I think the whole espionage business is a joke. We watch them, they watch us. Now and again we deport a suspected spy, and they do the same. Where’s it all get us, this cat and mouse, tit-for-tat charade? Now that the Russians are the enemy again, do we really have to re-start the cold war?’
‘It’s not the Russians this time,’ he said, sucking on his cigarette like a man in need of oxygen. ‘It’s the fucking Chinks.’
‘The Chinks?’ Now at last he did surprise me. ‘Leaving aside your atrocious lack of PC, are you saying we’re spying on them too these days?’
He shrugged, did the over-the-shoulder sweep again.
‘Only up to a point.’
‘Talking of points, maybe you could get to the point of my being here as your guest. Don’t think I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but I need to know what’s going on that apparently requires my involvement.’
‘Sure you do, pal.’ He exhaled a long streamer of smoke, lobbed the stub of the cigarette over the wall. The couple up ahead had done a U-turn and were heading back towards us, the dog straining at his leash.
‘They want me to get you to do a job,’ Tony said, and it was grudging, as if I were extracting it from him by force. ‘They reckon you’ll refuse unless the request comes from me.’
‘Because I owe a couple of favours?’ I pondered that for a second or two. ‘They’re not wrong. There are things I’ll do for you that I would never do for Q and C. Especially not with these clowns in government.’
‘There, I am in agreement with you.’ Another Player was transferred from the near-empty pack to his mouth. A match flared, cigarette smoke thickened the mist in our immediate area.
Good mornings were offered by the couple with the dog, as they came within hailing range.
We reciprocated. They were middle aged, respectable country folk, if appearances told the full story. Tweeds and green wellington boots with parkas to keep the rain out. The dog was a Scotch terrier; it yapped at us. Tony stooped to stroke it, but it growled and backed away.
‘Sorry,’ the woman said in a Home Counties accent. ‘He’s very protective.’
‘Being Scottish, maybe he just doesn’t like the English.’
This crack from Tony fell on stony ground. The man’s brow darkened, the woman smiled nervously, and they meandered on, out of our lives.
‘Maybe the guy’s a Scot too,’ I suggested. ‘Did you think of that?’
Tony puffed smoke and said nothing.
‘We must have walked the best part of a mile,’ I said. Ahead lay only trees and more trees. Funny how the High Peak is generally considered bleak, yet Wildboarclough was in the midst of a forestload of timber.
‘They want him disposed of,’ Tony blurted, looking ahead not at me.
‘Your double agent?’ I didn’t ask if he was kidding. The way he had been reluctant to spit it out meant it had to be the truth.
‘They want him wasted,’ Tony said, adding a second euphemism to the first, in case I hadn’t gotten the message.
‘A final solution, eh?’ Then it struck me what he was saying. I grabbed his arm and swung him round. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. ‘You … they … want me to kill the guy? Is that what this is all about?’
He nodded.
‘Did you tell them I would?’ I demanded, angry now at the gall of MI6 and Tony to think I was willing, and capable, of eliminating someone just because they asked me. ‘What makes you think I would kill anyone?’
A shrug, a swallow. He wasn’t comfortable with his assignment, which was a small consolation.
‘You did, twice, when you were in the service. Then you did that job for us, the year after you left.’
‘That was a one off. I needed the cash.’
‘Sure.’ He didn’t believe me. Maybe he even knew more about me than he was letting on. This called for delicate handling.
‘Is this why you intervened with the police over the Weldon business – to use as a lever, you bastard?’
‘Christ, no, mate!’ His rebuttal was so passionate I instantly believed him. ‘This thing only came up a few days ago. I helped you out of friendship, nothing more. Not only that, the police were actually chuffed about getting rid of Weldon without due process and all that crap. They can now close the case and get on with the next speeding ticket.’
I matched his rueful grin. Not for long though. We were on dangerous ground – for our friendship, for my security. It didn’t do to have the British Secret Service thinking I was what I was. One day, that knowledge was sure to trip me up.
‘Tell you what,’ Tony said, ‘We’ll leave it for now, give you time to mull it over. Let’s forget about business for a day or two, concentrate on having a few laughs together, like in the old days.’
‘Oh, thanks a lot,’ I said under my breath, too softly for him to hear.
We turned and retraced our steps to the Mondeo.
III
THE SPY WHO WENT INTO THE COLD
Ten
Operation Enduring Freedom to free Afghanistan from the medieval clutches of the Taliban was launched by the US and UK in October 2001. On 17 November the Taliban fled Kabul, the capital, and we victorious Allies marched in. A few days later, a team of experts from the British Secret Intelligence Service marched in after them. I was one of them. My close colleague, Tony Dimeloe, was another.
Two years my senior, Tony was not only a colleague but my friend and mentor. Slightly shorter than me, of chunky build and very good looking, aside from the ageing slender moustache. Fair haired, like me, we were often referred to as ‘the two blondies’, as we hung out together quite a bit in our leisure periods. He had been a dinner guest at our apartment more than once, and was well liked by my wife Marion. Because he had no wife of his own she tended to mother him somewhat.
It wasn’t often we went on assignments together, and we were looking forward to fun times in each other’s company, though our paths were likely to diverge now and again when he went off wenching, whereas I was scrupulously faithful to Marion. Much to the derision of those of my colleagues who never missed an opportunity to fraternise abroad.
Billeted at the largely undamaged Kabul Serena Hotel, handily placed for the bright lights, we were allowed twenty-four hours to acclimatise after our arrival before knuckling down to the serious task of intelligence gathering and rooting out enemy informers. That first evening Tony and I joined a couple of army subalterns and went out to ‘do the town’. We found that the lights were really not very bright at all. Negotiating around the beggars and other street lice we eventually found ourselves outside the then-fashionable Taverna du Liban Restaurant. Not that we cared much about its reputation. We just needed sustenance.
All expenses being paid by HM Government, we didn’t stint ourselves on food and drink. Hummous, baba ganoush, falafel, and other Lebanese delights were washed down with enough Marsuret Prosecco, the local sparkling wine, to fill a bath. When we left, around midnight, we were all unsteady on our feet, bellowing out an off-key “Rule Britannia,” and oblivious of the warnings about a fifth column of Taliban still lurking in the city, looking to pick off or pick up representatives of the hated democracies.
In my case it was pick up. As we covered the last few steps to the entrance to our hotel, a battered grey Land Rover mounted the curb alongside us. The two officers were swept into the gutter; Tony was sideswiped and went down in a sprawl of limbs and curses. Only I was unhurt. As I stood, reeling, in my inebriated state barely registering that we were the victims of an attack, two men in paramilitary garb plus hoods sprang from the Land Rover and grabbed an arm apiece. Survival instantly shredded some of the alcoholic haze and I wrenched my right arm away and used it to club my would-be abductor, while reaching for the gun under my armpit. He staggered but stayed on his feet, and the other guy rammed me against the side of the Land Rover. My head connected with metal with enough violence to make it ring. If it hadn’t been for my abductors hauling me into the vehicle I would have bounced back onto the sidewalk. As for my gun, I never saw it again.
I heard a yell, ‘Hang on, Anders!’ and it sounded like Tony’s voice. Gunshots followed. The windshield of the Land Rover starred and the driver punched through it. Someone inside the car opened up with an automatic weapon. Shouts and screams all around now, and the street seemed full of people running. The Land Rover took off with a lot of tyre commotion. I caught a glimpse of Tony on one knee at the curbside, his automatic levelled; he would be reluctant to fire indiscriminately for fear of my copping a stray bullet. That was the last I saw of him. Hands thrust me on the floor and what felt like several pairs of booted feet kept me there. I was still stunned from the impact with the side of the Land Rover and could do no more than squirm and moan and feel sorry for myself. Still too drunk to understand what had happened.
We were moving fast, the vehicle swaying as we rounded a corner, barely slowing. The hubbub receded. A couple more bursts from the terrorist with the automatic rifle, then darkness enveloped us as we turned again, into an unlit street, of which there were many in Kabul. Then I must have passed out. My next awareness was of jolting along a rough surface, a sense of no longer being in a built-up area, and excited chatter among my captors. My wrists had been bound behind my back. It was beginning to filter into even my alcohol sodden mind that I was in big trouble.
* * * * *
The four adobe walls, with the single window above head height were beginning to close in on me. Five days I had been here, according to the scratches I had made on the wall with a triangle of broken tile. Five interminable days with nothing to help while away the hours, other than my thoughts and my silent berating of my stupidity in getting caught by the Afghan patrol. They fed me after a fashion, and watered me, though the water didn’t look as though it came from a sparkling stream. I drank it anyway. Better to die of typhus than go mad from thirst. Up until now, I hadn’t been questioned. Maybe they figured I wasn’t worth it, just another trained monkey from the West, a know-nothing, machine-gun fodder. Or maybe they were softening me up. I was expecting some form of interrogation, and resigned to the likelihood that it would involve pain. What I was less confident about was my ability to stand up to it. To give the stipulated name, rank, and number, and stop at that. Farcical really, the idea that the Taliban would even be aware of the existence of the Geneva convention, let alone observe its niceties. For sure, at twenty-six, I wasn’t ready to die.
Footsteps in the passageway brought me up off my haunches, fearful that this might be the moment when my resolve not to succumb to torture would be put to the test. Even more fearful of failing the test, of letting the side down, than of the prospect of pain.
Two of them, as usual. One wearing a traditional perahan tunic over army-style camouflage pants, his woollen pakol sported at a jaunty tilt. He was armed with the ubiquitous Kalashnikov, his companion with a metal dish of some unmentionable fodder and a tin cup of water. The food carrier was small, old and seriously wizened, and wearing a tunbaan lower garment with his perahan. He was a daily visitor to my cell. The armed guards were rotated; all to a man tall, bearded, and vicious looking, with hooked noses and eyes that glittered like obsidian, as if they came off a production line. This one kept the Kalashnikov trained on me from the moment of entry to the moment of departure, giving the impression he was itching to turn it on me. Some of the guards were more relaxed. They knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Good morning, gentlemen’ I said, as if I were a guest at the Ritz and this were room service. The hunchback twisted a toothless grin at me as he set my breakfast on the floor. No utensils naturally. He muttered a few unintelligible words that might have been the Afghan equivalent of ‘bon appetit’, and backed out. The guard treated me to a glower before retreating into the passage. The door slammed shut, and I heard the bar slide into place to secure it.
Thus began another day. Unless this was the day when they would come for me, the rest of it stretched emptily ahead for the next ten hours, when my meagre supper would be delivered. My breakfast was no different from the previous four days. Some kind of stew, actually not that bad. I guessed it was the same as they dished out to the fighters. Maybe they spat – or worse – in mine as part of the marinating process.
It was while I was finger-scooping the last dregs of my stew from the dish that the sound of the bar sliding back announced an unscheduled visit. The door was flung open, smashing against the wall and causing plaster to patter on the floor. Two guards entered. I was hauled to my feet without much ceremony. The dish and I parted company, and went in opposite directions.
‘Hey, go easy,’ I protested, as they hustled me out through the doorway, my arms bent up behind my back. I wasn’t fighting them. If they’d asked me nicely I would have travelled under my own steam.
The passage was long with doors off, probably other cells as cosy as mine. At the end was just an opening. We passed through it and swung to the right, quick march. My feet fairly skimmed the ground.
To the left, another door, standing ajar. In we went at speed. I stumbled and they let me go, my knees coming into painful contact with the painted concrete floor. I fell forward onto my hands before a table with round metal legs and a vinyl covered top surface.
‘Get up, scum,’ an educated voice said in English.
I got up, brushing bits of floor off my palms. Seated on the other side of the table was a man in traditional Afghan dress, all black, including his headgear. As he also had a very black beard and moustache combo, the only parts of him that were not black were his forehead and cheeks. He was smoking a cigarette with a brown paper wrapping. Two other tribesmen, less sombrely attired, stood at ease on his left. All were regarding me with a kind of fascination.
‘My name is Jamal Rashad,’ the seated man said in a very quiet voice. ‘And yours?’
‘Warner.’
He nodded, as if that told him something.
‘Your first name? And your rank?’
‘André. Executive Officer.’
I was still within the constraints of the Geneva Convention.
‘Executive Officer?’ He frowned, his eyes narrowing to slits, making him look fiercer than he was naturally. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a civilian rank. I’m not with the army.’
Was that a breach of the Convention? Did it matter if it was?
Rashad consulted briefly with the guy standing closest to him. He shook his head, shrugged.
‘Very well,’ Rashad said. ‘We will accept this for now. Why are you in Kabul?’
‘We were sent.’
Not the most diplomatic of answers. Something hard thudded into the small of my back, driving me onto my knees again.
Rashad didn’t repeat his question. He said, ‘What is the purpose of your presence in Kabul?’
The big test was about to begin.
I stood, swallowed, and said, ‘My name is André Warner. My rank is Executive Officer.’
Rashad laughed, and the rest of the crowd laughed with him, though they probably didn’t understand much of what I had said. Rashad obligingly translated, and the laughter grew in volume.
‘I will ask you once more. If you do not answer, or if your answer is not to my satisfaction, you will be strapped to that chair –’ he indicated a steel chair up against the wall on my left. It appeared to be screwed to the floor, and had broad straps fixed to the arms, the back, and the legs. The torture stool.
‘Then,’ he said, in his soft Oxford English, ‘if you still do not provide a satisfactory answer, one of your eyes will be removed.’
I felt my knees buckle and my bowels loosen, though I kept them under control.
‘My name is André –’
That was as far as I got. I was grasped by the arms again and marched off to the chair. Dear God, how the hell did I get into this. I knew it wouldn’t end with the removal of one eye, even if I was prepared to let them go that far. By the end of the session I would be blind. It never occurred to me to doubt their willingness to go through with it, to disable me in this fashion. What did they have to lose? Loss of vision wouldn’t mean loss of memory. No doubt they would continue working on the blind me until I cracked and told them what they wanted to know, or until they killed me. Come to that, they probably intended to kill me anyway, whether I told them or not.
When they strapped me in the chair, I felt numb: my mind and my body just ceased to function. I was vaguely aware of Rashad approaching and repeating the question. My vocal chords wouldn’t respond. I remained silent.
The taller of the two sidekicks came to join Rashad. He was brandishing what looked like a teaspoon with a long handle – I think they were called ice cream soda spoons. I had read about spoons being used by Iraqi soldiers to blind Kuwaitis during the Kuwait invasion. My senses went into meltdown. This couldn’t be for real. It couldn’t be me sitting there, waiting for someone destroy my sight forever, just because I wouldn’t tell them why I was here, in Afghanistan.
