Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (32 page)

‘It’s question time,’ said Harper.

‘Who are you? EDL?’ asked Usmani.

Harper laughed. ‘English Defence League? You think I’m a racist, do you?’

‘You hate Muslims, is that it?’

‘I hate people who try to do down my country,’ said Harper. ‘There’s a name for people like that. Traitor. And that’s what you are. A traitor.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Usmani.

‘I know who you are and I know what you are, mate,’ said Harper. ‘I know you were in Pakistan being trained by al-Qaeda.’

‘Bull-fucking-shit.’

‘Who was it who sent you?’

‘You’re dreaming, man. I ain’t never been to Pakistan.’

‘See now, I know that’s a lie,’ said Harper. ‘And if there’s one thing I hate as much as a traitor, it’s a bare-faced liar.’ He walked over to the Transit, opened the rear door and took out a red petrol can. He walked back to the bound man, unscrewing the top. ‘You need to start telling the truth, mate. Telling the truth will set you free.’

‘You ain’t my mate, man. I don’t know what you are, but you ain’t my mate.’

‘Tell me something. When you were out in Pakistan, did you ever meet a guy called Al-Farouq?’

‘I was never in Pakistan.’

‘There you go, lying again.’ Harper splashed petrol over Usmani’s legs.

‘What are you doing, man? What’s this about?’

‘You know what this is about. I’m going to burn you.’ He splashed more petrol over his chest and then put the can down and took out his cigarette lighter.

‘You can’t do this, man,’ said Usmani.

‘Clearly I can,’ said Harper. ‘Who’s going to stop me? Allah? Do you want to pray to Allah and get him to stop me? Maybe he could send a few of your al-Qaeda mates to rescue you.’

‘You’re sick in the head, man.’

‘Yeah? I’m sick? You’re the one who went to Pakistan to learn how to kill people. Did they teach you to make bombs? Shoot guns? Turned you into a good jihadist, did they?’

‘Who the fuck are you, man?’

Harper thrust his face close to Usmani’s. ‘I’m your worst fucking nightmare, mate. I’m the guy who can kill you without a second thought. I’m the guy who can set fire to you and walk away with a smile on my face, because I don’t give a fuck.’ He waved the lighter under the man’s nose. He flicked the wheel with his thumb and the lighter sparked.

‘OK, OK, what do you want?’ said Usmani, staring at the lighter.

‘Ullah sent you to Pakistan, right?’

Usmani nodded.

‘For training?’

‘You know he did.’

Harper smiled. ‘That’s right. Now I want you to tell me everything you know about Ullah. Every little thing.’

‘Then you’ll let me go?’

‘Sure. I don’t give a shit about you, mate. You’re just a cog in the machine.’

‘On five,’ said Drake, holding up his hand, fingers splayed. His seven-man team was split into two. To his right were Calvin Wood, Salvador Garcia and Lars Peterson. To his left were Adam Croft, Guy Henderson, Julio Morales and Franklin Sanders. They were standing in front of a mock-up of a two-storey building, typical of the homes found in Afghanistan and Iraq. There was a front door that led into a small room with another room behind it and beyond that a lean-to toilet and bathroom. There was a small staircase that led up to a single room that ran the full length of the building.

The building was one of fifty in the Navy’s $12 million state-of-the-art training facility in Virginia Beach. It was the size of a football field and among the training buildings were houses, shops, a bank, a school, a mosque, a train and a plane. There was enough space for four units to train simultaneously using live ammunition. The walls were covered in layers of Styrofoam and rubber over steel to prevent ricochets, as were the human-shaped targets that were computer controlled and could move around on tracks.

Drake counted down with his fingers. On five, Croft kicked in the door and then immediately moved to the left. Henderson, Morales and Sanders moved into the building in single file, so close that they were touching. They all moved to the right like some three-headed six-legged animal, the barrels of their carbines covering the room. It was empty.

Croft followed them, covering the staircase, then Drake led in the rest, moving to the left.

A target appeared at the top of the stairs and Croft shot it twice, in the chest.

Henderson, Morales and Sanders moved into the next room and Drake heard all three men fire, taking out the targets at the rear of the house, followed a few seconds later by shouts of ‘clear!’

Drake stepped to the side, covering the stairs with Croft, and waved for Wood, Garcia and Peterson to go ahead. They moved as a well-coordinated unit, slightly crouched and their carbines constantly moving. As they entered the room at the top of the stairs there were several bursts of fire and a shout of ‘Clear! Hostage rescued!’

‘Well done, guys, that was textbook!’ shouted Drake. ‘We’ll reset and go again in five minutes.’

There were choruses of ‘hooyah’ from the team as they headed outside. Drake stretched and looked up at the roof, where a network of metal catwalks criss-crossed the mock rooms. Officers often observed from the gantries and there were facilities for recording practice sessions so that they could be analysed later. There were two figures standing looking down at them. Lieutenant Commander Villiers was casually dressed in a blue polo shirt and black jeans, leaning forward with his elbows on the railing. He nodded at Drake and Drake nodded back. Standing next to the LC was a civilian, a grey-haired man in his fifties who had been watching all the rehearsals. The LC hadn’t introduced the man but from his bearing and quiet air of confidence, Drake assumed he was former military now working for the CIA or DIA or any one of the plethora of initials that made up the country’s intelligence services.

The LC had asked Drake to run through a series of close-quarter battle scenarios to give the team a chance to get to know each other. They still didn’t know what envir-onment they would be operating in when they got to Pakistan, but at some point they would almost certainly be charging into a building occupied by al-Qaeda fighters.

Croft appeared at Drake’s shoulder. ‘Nice work,’ said Drake.

‘It’s good to be doing it rather than instructing,’ said Croft. ‘You know Tiger Woods was here, a few years ago?’

‘You’re shitting me,’ said Drake.

‘Nah, it was in the old House of Horrors, before they allowed live rounds. He always wanted to be a SEAL – his dad was a Green Beret, remember? Anyway, one of the commanders was a big golfing fan so he had him in here a few times.’

‘Taking part?’ They walked together back to the door.

‘Hell, yeah. Back then it was pop-up targets and rubber bullets so it was safe enough. Except he got shot in the leg. There was hell to pay. He was lucky it was rubber rounds back then, could have ended his whole career right there.’

‘That’s what they get for taking tourists around,’ said Drake. He looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got time for one more run-through,’ he said. ‘Then we’re off to Kabul.’

‘Do we have a target yet?’ asked Croft. He followed Drake through the door. The rest of the team were gathered some distance away, checking their weapons.

‘They’re working on it,’ said Drake.

‘It’s all a bit rushed, isn’t it?’

‘They want us primed and ready to go,’ said Drake. ‘That way as soon as they get a location we can be in the air.’ He called the rest of the SEALs over and they gathered around him. ‘Right, guys, just so you know, we’re looking to pull two hostages out. I’ll have photographs for you after this session and I need you to familiarise yourself with them. They’re both Brits. One is white, and Guy and Adam are familiar with him. Just under six feet, brown hair. The other guy is also a Brit but of Pakistani heritage so we’re going to have to be very careful about who we shoot. Any friendly fire is going to be more than embarrassing. We’re going to have to be very, very careful out there because Raj will look like one of the bad guys. That’s his name, Raj or Manraj, and he lives in London. He supports Arsenal so that’s a good check question to ask him for confirmation.’

‘Arsenal?’ asked Morales frowning. ‘What’s an Arsenal?’

‘It’s a London soccer team,’ said Drake. ‘Seriously, guys, the whole point of this mission is to get these guys out in one piece so no SNAFUs.’ He checked to see that his message had been received and understood.

‘And there’s one other thing. I’ll be giving you a photograph of an Arab by the name of Akram Al-Farouq. He’s an al-Qaeda heavy hitter believed to be on the premises. Our ancillary mission is to bring him back alive. If not, he’s a valid target. He is a major intel source so we’ll look good if we can turn him in.’

The men nodded.

‘Right, let’s go to it,’ said Drake.

There was another chorus of ‘hooyah’ from the SEALs before they moved into position for the next assault.

Usmani closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘That’s everything, man,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘Let me ask you a question, mate,’ said Harper. ‘You were born here, right? You’re British. You’re not a Pakistani, right?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Because I don’t understand why you’re doing what you’re doing. This is your country. It’s your home. Why are you so hell bent on destroying it?’

Usmani looked up at him, blinking. ‘Are you stupid, man? I’m a Muslim. They want to kill us. It’s a war.’

‘Who wants to kill you?’

‘The government. They invaded Afghanistan, they invaded Iraq. They’re killing our brothers and sisters around the world. Someone has to make a stand.’

‘By doing what? Blowing up Tube trains? Shooting down planes? You’ve been training to attack civilians. If you went off to try to assassinate Blair or Bush then maybe I’d say good luck to you, but killing civilians is just plain evil.’

Usmani spat at the floor. ‘Evil? The kafirs are evil, not us.’ He cleared his throat and spat again. ‘I’m a Muslim first. That’s all that matters to me.’

‘And that’s fine, mate. You’re free to believe whatever you want. That’s the beauty of living in Britain, right? You want to believe the world is flat or the moon is made of green cheese, that’s up to you. Nobody forces you to believe something you don’t want to.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Usmani.

Harper walked slowly around the man. ‘I do understand, that’s the problem,’ he said. ‘You don’t want people to make their own choices. You want to force your religion down the throat of every man, woman and child in the country.’

‘Islam is the only true religion,’ said Usmani.
‘Allahu akbar
. God is great.’

‘Allahu akbar
,’ said Harper, taking his gun out. He pointed the barrel at the back of Usmani’s head. ‘God is great.’ He turned the gun around in his hand and brought the butt smashing down on the back of Usmani’s head.

Shepherd woke as soon as he heard the bolts being drawn back and he was sitting up as the door was flung open. Hands grabbed him and dragged him out into the corridor. Two big men with AK-47s kept their distance and watched him with sullen eyes. They took him to the end of the corridor and through a door into a large room with a window overlooking a small courtyard where water sprayed from a small fountain. There was a man standing looking out of the window and he turned to look at Shepherd as he was pushed into the room. He had a beaked nose and dark patches under his eyes and was wearing a long grey dishdasha robe and a small woollen skullcap atop a mop of curly hair. ‘My name is Mahmud,’ said the man. ‘May I know your name?’ He stroked his beard as he waited for Shepherd to answer.

Shepherd looked at the man but said nothing. He knew his name wasn’t Mahmud. Shepherd’s memory was near-infallible at the best of times but he had seen the man’s photographs only a few days earlier. It was Akram Al-Farouq. The al-Qaeda paymaster.

‘You can tell me your name, surely?’ said Al-Farouq. ‘If you tell me your name and where you are from, we can contact your embassy.’

Shepherd stared at him in silence.

Al-Farouq smiled. ‘Never mind,’ he said. He pointed at a chair. ‘There are clothes there you can wear,’ he said. There was a grey cotton tunic and a pair of beige cotton pants. Shepherd pulled on the pants and tied them with a drawstring, then he pulled on the tunic. ‘It’s not a perfect fit, but I suppose it is better than nothing,’ said Al-Farouq. ‘Now please sit.’

Shepherd sat down on a wooden chair facing a small table on which there was a brass teapot and two cups. Al-Farouq said something to the two men in a language that he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t Arabic or Urdu so he figured it was probably Pashto, one of the two official languages of Afghanistan that was also widely spoken in north-western Pakistan. The men went to stand by the door and folded their arms.

Al-Farouq sat down and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘You’re not helping yourself with your silence, you realise that? You are clearly not a Pakistani so I doubt that they will help you. If you don’t tell us where you are from, you will stay here and rot. Is that what you want? To die far from home, surrounded by strangers?’

Shepherd said nothing.

‘Do you have a wife? Children? Don’t you want them to know that you are safe?’ He smiled. ‘Yes, you have a family, I think. You look like a family man. Think how they must be feeling, not knowing if you are alive or dead.’

Shepherd felt his jaw tense involuntarily. He saw a small smile of satisfaction flit across the man’s face and knew that he had seen the muscle twitch. He continued to sit in silence.

‘You are American?’ asked Al-Farouq. He shook his head slowly. ‘No. Not American. Americans are bigger, with squarer jaws. You are not American.’ He frowned. ‘British? Are you British? But why would a Brit be with Pakistani Special Forces?’

Shepherd fought to keep his face blank as he stared at Al-Farouq.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Al-Farouq. ‘Thirsty? All you have to do is ask.’ He smiled and waited, then waved at the teapot. ‘There is tea. Would you like tea?’

Shepherd looked down at the table.

‘I can get you some water. Or some fruit. Would you like some fruit?’

Shepherd said nothing.