number was unlisted, but he was now convinced that the search for his man would end in Afghanistan.
Cavendish believed he knew the reason Susan had received those letters; it was because someone was definitely trying to contact him without making it known in Afghanistan. And David had named Abdul Khaliq in the text message. Putting two and two together was fairly simple logic, but Cavendish knew he was not quite touching home base; there was still plenty to do.
He stayed in the MQ-9 trailer until he had seen enough, and told the young officer at the cockpit controls that he was leaving. He said he would check with the operations officer on the time of the next MQ-9 over flight of the suspected target.
On his way back to his quarters, Cavendish passed by a great number of service and civilian personnel all walking from one place to the other, intent on their business, getting on with their own lives in that hostile environment.
As he walked past the Base Headquarters, Cavendish saw two men come out of the building and get into a waiting car. One of the men was wearing the uniform of a pilot. The other was a civilian and Cavendish thought he recognised him. He watched the car pull away but was unable to get a closer look at the man because of the darkened windows of the car. He shrugged and thought no more of it, and continued his progress towards his own accommodation block, hoping it would come to him later.
Janov had no trouble crossing the border between Turkmenistan and Afghanistan. It was something he had done countless times before and would probably do countless times in the future. It crossed his mind at the time that he might even move the centre of his operation into Afghanistan once he had disposed of the troublesome Abdul Khaliq.
Sitting beside him in the Nissan 4x4 was Maggot. He had travelled with Janov to Turkmenistan, leaving behind the good life in England for a while. He hoped it would only be temporary, but deep inside his instincts told him it was for good.
With Janov were two men; his permanent minders. The four of them were on their way to Maymaneh, a small town about fifty miles inland from the border. It was one of Janov’s safest towns, simply because of its closeness to the Turkmenistan border and the fact that the opium fields like the war did little to interfere with the lives of the local Afghan people.
They reached Maymaneh in time for lunch, and Janov’s driver pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel. He killed the engine and the four men climbed out and went into the hotel for a meal. Janov wasn’t keen to stay too long, so within the hour they were on their way again, driving down the single carriageway that divided the town.
On the way to the airfield they passed a white, armoured scout car with a Finnish emblem emblazoned on the side. It was part of the United Nations security force. The Finns were there alongside their Norwegian counterparts. Janov almost felt sorry for the poor sods that had to serve in such a god forsaken wilderness.
They reached the airfield and left the car in a parking lot. Then they walked through to the airport waiting room and took a seat while one of Janov’s men went in search of their flight crew. Because they were flying internally, there were no formalities to complete other than logging a flight plan and a passenger list.
While they were waiting for the formalities to be concluded, Janov received a text on his mobile phone. He read the message and grunted in satisfaction. He now knew where Abdul was heading.
Within thirty minutes of arriving at Maymaneh airfield, Janov, his two minders and Maggot were on their way to Kabul, and a final showdown with Abdul Khaliq.
Susan was sitting in an armchair in her hotel room reading a book. The television was tuned into Sky News, but the sound was off. It was early evening and Susan was more or less at the end of her personal quest to find her brother. She had spoken to the editors of the three newspapers she had chosen at random from the internet, and received much the same, condescending attention she had experienced at the British Embassy. Sure, there would be press coverage, but with so much happening, so many people being killed and injured by suicide bombers and roadside bombs… Blah, blah.
Susan had no real idea what to do next. Perhaps she would go up to the Mission at Jalalabad, but wondered if there was anything to be gained by doing that. It might bring her closer to her brother, but it was almost a year now since the attack. She gave up the thought and stared sightlessly at the page of her book. Then she got up, threw the book on her bed and wondered if she should ring Marcus and suggest they share a drink downstairs in the hotel bar.
Just then there was a knock at the door. For a moment she wondered if it was Marcus. Perhaps he had come up with the same idea as her. She felt a little excited and hurried across to the door and opened it.
Ali Seema, the interpreter was standing there with Marcus. Seema bowed his head a little.
‘Miss Ellis, please forgive this intrusion, but I would like you both to come with me please.’
‘What on earth for?’ she asked.
He glanced left and right along the corridor. ‘It will be in your interest to come with me. Please,’ he added solemnly.
Susan felt nervous and didn’t know what she should do.
‘Is this about David?’ she asked hopefully.
He dipped his head again. ‘Please.’ He even held out his hand to her.
Susan hesitated for a moment. Then she thought about the reason she was there.
‘Give me five minutes,’ she told him. ‘I will meet you downstairs.’
‘Thank you.’ He glanced at Marcus. ‘We will wait outside the front of the hotel.’
He turned and walked away as Susan closed the door.
Susan went across to the small chest of drawers that graced one wall and opened the top drawer. She took out her handbag and from that she pulled out the mobile phone Cavendish had given her. His instructions were quite explicit; any change in circumstances, any change in plan, or anything she might be concerned about, she was to phone or text.
Susan dialled the number she had been given and waited for the connection. When it came she left the simple message explaining that she was going out of the hotel with Marcus and their interpreter, Ali Seema. She switched off the phone, put it back in her handbag and spent the next five minutes getting ready to go out.
She walked past reception and tossed her key on to the counter, then walked out through the front doors of the hotel. Ali Seema was there with Marcus. He was leaning up against the wall smoking a cigarette. As soon as he saw her, he pushed himself upright and threw his cigarette on to the ground. Then he waived his hand at somebody and stood there as Susan walked up to him.
Susan stopped and waited for Seema to speak. But just then a car pulled up alongside them. Seema hurried forward and opened the door.
‘Please,’ he said with urgency in his voice. ‘Get in, quickly.’
Marcus and Susan exchanged glances and climbed into an old, Indian Tata saloon car that had seen better days.
Seema slammed the door shut and climbed in beside the driver. Suddenly the engine roared into life and the battered old car roared away from the hotel and disappeared into the teeming streets of Kabul.
NINETEEN
‘Where are we going?’ Marcus asked after a brief silence.
‘I am taking you to see someone who can help you find your brother,’ Seema told him.
‘David?’ Susan’s voice sounded harsh and breathless; gushing out of her mouth.
Seema nodded. ‘Yes, but please, we must be cautious.’ He turned round and faced Susan. ‘There could be many problems ahead.’
Susan shook her head gently. ‘Why are we acting like fugitives?’ she asked.
He smiled. It was almost condescending. The car lurched in the darkness and threw Susan sideways into Marcus’s arms. He pushed her gently upright as the driver apologised after letting out a stream of Afghan
