Undersea Prison

‘I know you like to work alone, Durrani. And it is not that I don’t trust your abilities.You are the best of my mujahideen. But this time I need to know where you are every second of every hour. The men who travel with you will not know that you carry anything other than an important message inside your head. Not even those who you will meet in Chaman will know your true purpose.You will be taken to Quetta where you will meet great leaders of our cause who are expecting you. These men will know your purpose.’The mullah emphasised the gravity of his words with an intense stare. ‘Durrani. I believe that whatever this is inside you is of great importance to us and to our cause.’

‘It will be delivered,’ Durrani assured him. He was flattered, despite his concealed indifference to the so- called cause.

‘Sena,’ the mullah called out and the door opened.

Durrani pulled on his robe, a streak of pain flashing through his gut as he raised the garment over his shoulders.

‘Allah will watch over you,’ the mullah assured him.

Durrani nodded. As he turned to walk away the mullah grabbed his arm and held up the packet of pills. ‘Use these if you think there is infection,’ he said.

Durrani took the packet and left the room.

The mullah went back to his desk, glanced down at the charred briefcase on the floor, pulled out his packet of Woodbines and lit one.

Chapter 3

Sumners walked into the security-conference ‘bubble’ on the sixth floor of the Secret Intelligence Service’s London headquarters by the Thames and placed a file on a slender chrome podium standing to one side of a wide- screen monitor. Bubble was an obvious nickname for the multi-layered mesh-and-plastic module apparently suspended inside an ordinary room. It had insulated contact points with the floor, walls and ceiling and was protected by layers of various technical screens that prevented all forms of transmission, X-ray and vibration from escaping the module. In short, it was an anti-eavesdropping environment for top-security meetings.

While Sumners attached a memory stick to a USB port on the podium a man in a smart pinstripe suit who looked like a First World War general with his snow-white hair and matching handlebar moustache stepped up into the bubble. He paused in the entrance, planted the tip of his cane on the rubber floor and looked around as if unsure where he was.

‘Good morning, Sir Charles,’ Sumners said in a jaunty tone without pausing from setting up his presentation.

Sir Charles nodded grumpily. ‘Am I early?’

‘No, no, you’re right on time,’ Sumners said, producing the smile he reserved for his superiors.

Sir Charles looked at the four comfortable leather armchairs spread around in no particular pattern. ‘Anywhere?’

‘Oh, yes, anywhere you like.’

Sir Charles plonked himself into one of the chairs, exhaled heavily, rested his cane against the side of the armrest, put on a pair of spectacles and perused a thin file he had brought with him.

A moment later another man walked in, younger than Sir Charles, lanky, highly intelligent- and sophisticated- looking with his cold eyes and very white skin.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Sumners said, with distinct gravitas and no smile. This time he paused for the newcomer and there was a hint of a servile nod too.

Sir Charles looked up at the man. ‘Van der Seiff,’ he said casually before going back to his file.

‘Sir Charles,’ Van der Seiff replied, a surgical precision in his tone as he selected a chair and sat down in it, straightening the razor crease in his trousers and ignoring Sumners altogether. Van der Seiff ’s nickname within the lower echelons of the SIS was ‘The Spectre’ but it referred more to the coldly calculating way he talked and moved than to his actual personality. His pale complexion might also have contributed to the phantom-like impression.

Sumners arranged some papers on the podium and checked his watch as another man entered the bubble. This new arrival looked downright scruffy compared with the others. His suit was clearly off the peg, the knot of his tie was too small and his worn shirt lapels were askew. But if a stranger was to form a lowly opinion of the man based on his clothing he would be making a great miscalculation. His eyes alone threw any negative assessment into confusion. At first glance they appeared weasel-like but on closer inspection they more closely resembled those of a shark.

His name was Jervis and he scrutinised the backs of Sir Charles and Van der Seiff before looking coldly at Sumners. ‘This gonna take long?’ he asked in a distinct South London accent that was nonetheless far more refined than it had been in his younger days.

Sir Charles and Van der Seiff did not look around at the man although it was clear from their reactions that they knew who he was.

‘Hard to say, sir,’ Sumners said, trying to sound matter-of-fact but unable to disguise his grudging respect for the man.

Jervis’s gaze returned to the backs of the other two men. ‘Mornin’, gentlemen,’ he said as if it were a mild taunt.

‘Good morning,’ Van der Seiff replied without shifting the direction of his stare, which was fixed ahead at nothing in particular.

Sir Charles gave a grunt without looking up from his file.

Jervis sat down in the armchair furthest from the podium. ‘Don’t suppose you can smoke in ’ere?’ he asked.

Sir Charles frowned.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Sumners said.‘Apparently it can interfere with the bubble’s instrumentation,’ he added by way of an apology for denying his superior a chance to indulge his habit.

Jervis smiled thinly. He was well aware of the rules but liked to take every opportunity to rub the toffs up the wrong way.

Sumners busied himself checking various cable connections in order to distance himself from the tension- tainted atmosphere. The hostility sometimes displayed by certain department heads towards each other never ceased to perturb him. This was a particularly bad lot and he put it down to their extremely diverse pedigrees. Sir Charles was ex-army, Hussars, a retired general, very old school, tough as marching boots and a consultant to the Ministry of Defence and certain lords and monarchs. His brand of diplomacy and numerous highly placed contacts in Europe and America made him very useful in certain areas.

Unlike the other two,Van der Seiff had no military experience. On paper he was the classic brilliant Intelligence recruit: an Oxford graduate, fluent in French, Italian and Spanish with masters degrees in both classics and history.The abilities that placed him a notch above those with similar credentials were an extraordinary geopolitical vision, outstanding analytical skills and a cold, ruthlessly logical mind unhindered by emotion. Van der Seiff had been in MI for eight years and was currently with the Directorate of International Special Services. He was tipped to go all the way to the top of the intelligence ladder.

Jervis was more like a common urban fox but with some very uncommon qualities.The events of his earliest years were shrouded in rumours, one of which gave him gypsy origins and another a criminal record. Strangely, all documentation of his life before the age of nineteen no longer existed, the result of either catastrophic bureaucratic failure on several levels or the work of a very senior government official. Jervis had found his way into the Secret Service through the army, signing up to the Intelligence Corps, the first documented proof of his existence. After a year training as an analyst in a camp outside Dover he volunteered for and was accepted on a posting in Northern Ireland. This was during the heyday of the campaign against the IRA, in the late 1960s and during the 1970s, and after showing great promise he was trained and eventually operated as a tout maker, one of the most dangerous jobs in the MI field.

It was during this period of Jervis’s life that he began to display some extraordinary gifts. For example, he