abuse.
‘There are always eyes and ears around us here in Kabul,’ he explained. ‘It isn’t always sensible let your adversaries know what you are doing.’ He held his hand out, palm upwards. ‘Someone is always listening. Once they knew you were in Kabul to look for your brother, you became valuable to certain members of our society.’
‘I can’t believe we are that valuable,’ Marcus put in. ‘We are just two civilians who have no allegiance to anyone except David Ellis.’
‘It’s a point of view,’ Seema told him, ‘but a peculiarly British one. Just trust me and try to relax.’
Susan tried to relax a little but was still not sure whether to trust him.
‘Who are these people who may know about David?’ she asked, trying to keep the tone of demanding inquisition out of her voice.
‘I cannot say,’ he replied. ‘But you will meet them soon.’
Susan glanced out of the window, peering into the darkness. ‘Where are we going then?’ she turned and asked him.
‘We are going where you will find your answers,’ he replied cryptically.
As they journeyed on, conversation became limited until it eventually stopped. Marcus and Susan were left with their own thoughts, each one feeling a little apprehensive. Seema would say something from time to time, but to the driver and always in Farsi. The two men would chuckle and this display of ease between them actually unsettled Susan. Marcus didn’t seem the least bit affected by it although Susan did notice that he was not his usual, lively self.
She felt the car slow until it eventually stopped. Seema turned round and looked at them over his shoulder. He told them they would have to wait a few minutes. He then got out of the car and disappeared in the darkness.
Five minutes later Seema was back in the car. He looked satisfied and Susan wondered if he had used the time for a comfort stop. She asked him.
‘Telephone,’ he told her. ‘I used the public phone in that hotel,’ he said pointing out of the window. ‘Safer.’
‘Who were you phoning?’ Marcus asked him.
‘The Mission,’ he answered, and tapped the driver on the shoulder, barking our something unpronounceable. ‘We are going there now.’
Suddenly Susan felt incredibly nervous. The mention of the Mission, where David had almost died was like a shock to her system. She had never in her wildest dreams, or her nightmares thought she would ever walk over the ground where David had almost been murdered. She thought of the poor woman, Shakira and David’s admitted love for her. It made her feel so sad. Her nervousness trickled through her like a growing storm and she hoped she would be brave enough to face whatever was to come.
About half an hour later the driver pulled up outside the Mission and switched the engine off. Susan and Marcus waited to be told that they could get out before opening the door. Seema beckoned to them as he slid from the front seat and stepped out into the moonlight. Susan got out her side and looked around her. Across the other side of the car she could see Marcus doing the same.
All Susan could clearly see was the Mission building in front of her. It was a single story, bungalow style. Behind it, dark and brooding was the mountain that dwarfed the building. The outline of the hills continued; picked out faintly by the moonlight. There was little definition to anything because of the darkness.
The silence was broken only by the clicking sound of the hot engine of the battered Tata and the sound of Ali Seema’s sandals on the gravel as he walked up the main entrance. Susan turned around slowly, full circle trying to get some sense of the solitude that wrapped itself around the Mission. Marcus walked round to her side of the car and slipped his arm around her shoulder.
‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Soon we’ll know the truth.’
Cavendish had enjoyed an evening meal and splendid company in the Officers’ Mess, one that was bereft of the glamour and grandeur of some of the more eloquent messes he had been in during his years in security. He had enjoyed a few glasses of Jim Beam Bourbon Whiskey over ice and felt the consequences of indulging his passion; the result being a little awkwardness when he stood.
Cavendish had been dining with the Lieutenant McCain, and had been joined later by a couple of officers from one of the operational squadrons. Talk had been informative but strictly legit; no secrets being divulged, and much of it humorous anecdotes of past misdemeanours and also thoughts on how the war in Afghanistan was progressing.
It was close to midnight when Cavendish took his leave of the company and decided to take some fresh air before turning in for the night. He made sure he kept to the domestic area, keeping away from the technical site, which included the airfield and perimeters. He had been warned that it wasn’t unusual for the insurgents to send in some hopeful shots, both of gunfire and RPG’s, rocket propelled grenades. It was all more of a nuisance factor than serious threat, but Cavendish heeded the warnings and kept his walk in the safe area.
He had his flak jacket with him; something he had been advised to wear at all times. So his evening stroll was only made supposedly safer by the addition of the jacket; something he felt was totally unnecessary. But he had it on, loosely fitted and with the collar up.
He had reached a particularly quiet area when he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned round, expecting to see someone like himself, either out walking or perhaps returning from a social gathering at one of the on-base bars.
It was then he saw someone walking quickly towards him. In the darkness it looked like he was wearing combat fatigues. He then saw the upraised arm. It came swinging down and something smacked him on the side of the head.
Cavendish yelled out in pain and collapsed, striking his head on the ground. As he began to fade into unconsciousness he was vaguely aware of someone kicking him and then the sound of footsteps running away.
Ali Seema came out of the front door of the Mission and walked across the gravel to where Susan and Marcus were waiting. When he reached them he pointed back towards the building and told them that they could go in.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ Marcus asked him.
Seema shook his head. ‘No, my work is done here. It would not be right for me to be here when contact is made.’
‘Why ever not?’ Marcus asked him.
The interpreter looked at Marcus rather sheepishly. ‘My job was to bring you here; nothing else.’ He took a step towards the car. ‘I must go now.’
Marcus grabbed his arm. ‘No, Seema, you’re not walking away just like that.’
Seema began to struggle but Marcus wouldn’t let him go. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Seema. There’s no way we are walking into that building without you. Do you understand?’
Seema’s attitude was one of belligerence, but against the powerful grip that Marcus had on him, his belligerence was wasted.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘I will go back in there with you.’
Marcus relaxed his grip and let the man go. He said nothing but nodded his head towards the building. Seema took the hint and led them in.
Susan fell into step beside Marcus. She was extremely nervous now and that little show of belligerence from Ali Seema did little to help her nerves. She knew that Marcus would probably sense it. Her breathing sounded laboured but in fact she was beginning to hyperventilate. Seema’s attitude had scared her and she wondered what they might find once they stepped inside the Mission.
They walked in through the double doors, which creaked as Seema pushed them open. Immediately in front of them was a corridor which ran right and left the entire length of the building. Seema turned right and took them a few steps along the corridor before stopping and opening a door which they found led into an office.
It was simply furnished. An old, large desk dominated the room. Behind it was a chair. On the walls were posters of various descriptions, all in Farsi. There was a calendar which would have made no sense to a European, plus a planning schedule, the kind of which would be found in most modern offices.
