braced himself for more pain. ‘It’s the only explanation for the way your courts of justice betray us. We interrogate terrorists on your behalf, in confidence, beyond your jurisdiction so nobody in your country breaks the law, then you release details of our work because of so-called freedom of information, and suddenly the whole world knows about it and treats us like pariahs. Never mind that it was your questions we were asking.’
‘We objected to the publication of the information,’ Marchant said. ‘Unfortunately, the courts overruled us.’
Aziz laughed. ‘What sort of secret service is it that gets pushed around by a judge?’
One that operates in a democracy, Marchant thought, but he held his swollen tongue.
‘Tell me one thing, my friend: who is going to remember it was Britain’s dirty work we were doing? No, all anyone remembers is that someone got tortured in Morocco. Happily, we’re not in Moroccan airspace any more, so please answer my questions. Was Salim Dhar in the High Atlas?’
Marchant hesitated a moment too long. Aziz pulled his mouth open and inserted the clamp again, tightening it until his top and bottom jaw were so far apart that he thought his mouth would split at the corners. It was a repeat of what Aziz had done earlier, but he was angry now, curiosity replaced by irritation. Once again, Marchant couldn’t talk, move his head or his jaw, but the sense of vulnerability was nothing compared to the next wave of pain that he knew was about to break over him.
‘We have a choice, Daniel. Either you tell me what you saw, or I will have to remove the molar — it will be no good to you now.’
Marchant instinctively checked the bloodied tooth with his tongue, working it around the edge of the cavity. At the same moment, he flexed his right wrist, trying to find the sharp edge. He felt rough metal cut into his skin again. It was the lid of the ashtray in his armrest, flipped half open. Suddenly his predicament was bearable. He moved his wrist and felt the plastic of his cuffs rub against the edge of the ashtray. It would take time, but at least there was hope.
‘All right, then. I think it’s better we take it out,’ Aziz said, just as turbulence rocked the plane enough for him to steady himself on Marchant’s arm. He hadn’t noticed Marchant working his right hand. ‘I can see it’s clearly causing you some discomfort.’
Again, Marchant wondered if Aziz had ever tried to go into dentistry. When it suited him, he had an excellent bedside manner, a soothing tone of authority that was utterly at odds with his work.
‘Unfortunately, Morocco can be a very backward country at times, as tourists from Britain often remind us, and I’m afraid we have no anaesthetic with us today.’
Marchant thought for a moment that he saw genuine remorse pass across his face.
‘But I do have these. Extraction forceps. The ones for molars have these beak-like ends, do you see?’
He didn’t look at the steel pliers Aziz was holding up in front of him. They were in a medically sealed plastic bag, which seemed an unnecessary precaution in the circumstances. Aziz ripped it open and removed the pristine tool. Marchant guessed he had reached the point of Aziz’s interrogation process that broke his victims. It used to be scalpel cuts to the genitals, but clearly things had moved on.
‘First, though, we have a problem. Your molar is too big, even for these forceps. Maybe I got the wrong ones. Maybe they are for children’s teeth. But it’s OK. We have this.’
He put down the forceps and picked up the drill again, testing it one last time.
‘Perhaps I will drill down through the molar, deep into the nerve, and split the tooth clean in two.’
Marchant could feel his legs shaking. His body was already in shock. He inhaled deeply, letting his diaphragm rise as high as it could, and breathed out slowly, trying to block the pain, focus on the only way out.
‘It’s funny, you know,’ Aziz continued, resting the drill on Marchant’s bottom lip. ‘I was going to say “Open wide,” the way they do, but I was forgetting.’
Fucking hilarious, Marchant thought, tasting the metal of the drill. His right wrist wasn’t free yet, and he was beginning to wonder if it ever would be. The one thing he still had control over was his eyes. The point about torture, the SERE instructor had told him, was that the victim must feel totally out of control in order for it to be successful. He must not believe that he can influence anything in his immediate environment except through compliance.
When the CIA had waterboarded him in Poland, he had managed a soaked, defiant laugh, but he couldn’t even muster that with his mouth levered open like Jonah’s whale. He desperately wanted to shut his eyes, but he kept them open, fixing Aziz with a stare that momentarily unsettled his torturer as he began to drill.
24
‘I’m sorry,’ Myers said, cracking a knuckle so loudly it made Harriet Armstrong jump. The American, Australian and Canadian representatives had all left the Cabinet Room for the second half of the Joint Intelligence Committee, which was traditionally for UK agencies only. ‘I know I should have briefed you all before, and I know it wasn’t my business, but — ’
‘I think, in the light of your initial analysis, we can overlook the histrionics of the second act,’ Fielding said, turning to Chadwick for formal approval.
‘Of course, it was a significant breach of JIC protocol,’ Chadwick said. ‘But I agree, an exception can be made.’
‘Does that unit actually work?’ Armstrong asked, nodding at the handset in front of Myers. She was back to wearing her familiar severe suit jackets. Apart from her crocked knee, the only other visible legacy of her Indian adventure was a silver necklace, which had a hint of tribal art about it. She had also confided in Fielding that her mornings now began with half an hour of Vipassana yoga, something she wholly recommended as a way of getting through tedious meetings at the Home Office.
Myers picked up the handset.
‘I tested it this morning. With the direct audio input between the two units, it sounds just like a phone call is being made.’
‘So what now?’ Chadwick said. ‘Dhar is clearly not only alive, but several steps ahead of the Americans.’
‘It might not have been Dhar’s doing,’ Armstrong said. ‘All that was needed was a recording of his voice and his old SIM card, both of which could have easily been procured by Iran, his previous sponsors.’
‘Our view remains that Dhar’s too hot for Tehran,’ Fielding said.
‘So where is he?’ Chadwick asked.
‘Daniel Marchant is on his way back from Morocco,’ Fielding replied.
‘No surprise there. I don’t think anyone seriously expected that avenue to yield anything, did we, Marcus?’ Chadwick had been opposed to Marchant’s trip to Morocco from the start, fearing that it would only aggravate Britain’s already fragile relationship with America.
‘I know you didn’t,’ Fielding said. He had never had much time for Chadwick, and often wondered if the Americans had been on to something when they had tried to frame him. ‘As you all know, we had hoped Dhar would make contact with his half-brother, but he never did. However, something has come up in the last twenty- four hours which suggests that Marchant might have been right about Dhar seeking refuge in North Africa.’
The assembled chiefs looked up, but before Fielding could tell them about the unmarked helicopter in the Atlas mountains, there was a knock on the door and Ian Denton, now Fielding’s Assistant Chief, put his lean face around the door.
‘Marcus, sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid Daniel Marchant’s dropped off the grid.’ Denton’s voice, laced with a hint of a Hull accent, had become even more
‘And?’ Fielding asked, wondering whether Spiro had already left the building. If Marchant had been taken, it could only be on the CIA’s orders. They had done it once before, smuggling him out of Britain on a rendition flight to Poland. Spiro had given assurances that it would never happen again, but he had evidently hoped the death of
