‘It’s a copy, of course. Eyes only?’
‘You have my word, ole buddy. My eyes only. And my personal safe. Or the incinerator.’
The DD Ops flew back to Langley but a few days later he phoned again. Steve Hill took the call at his desk in Vauxhall Cross.
‘I think I should fly back,’ the DDO said without preamble. Both men knew that by then the British Prime Minister in Downing Street had given his friend in the White House his word on total cooperation from the British side on tracking down Project Stingray.
‘No problem, Marek. Do you have a breakthrough?’ Privately Steve Hill was intrigued. With modern technology there is nothing that cannot be passed from the CIA to the SIS in complete secrecy and a matter of seconds. So why fly?
‘The ringer,’ said Gumienny. ‘I think I have him. Ten years younger but looks older. Height and build. Same dark face. An AQ veteran.’
‘Sounds fine. But how come he’s not with the bad guys?’
‘Because he’s with us. He’s in Guantanamo. Has been for five years.’
‘He’s an Arab?’ Hill was surprised; he ought to have known about a high-ranking AQ Arab in Gitmo these past five years.
‘No, he’s an Afgha
n. Name of Izmat Khan. I’m on my way.’
Terry Martin was still sleepless a week after his meeting at Fort Meade. That stupid remark. Why could he not keep his mouth shut? Why did he have to brag about his brother? Supposing Ben Jolley had said something? Washington was one big, gossiping village, after all. Seven days after the remark in the back of the limousine he rang his brother.
Mike Martin was lifting the last clutch of unbroken tiles off his precious roof. At last he could start on the laying of the roofing felt and the battens to keep it down. Within a week he could be waterproof. He heard the tinkling of Lillibulero from his mobile phone. It was in the pocket of his jerkin which was hanging from a nail nearby. He inched across the now dangerously frail rafters to reach it. The screen said it was his brother in Washington.
‘Hi, Terry.’
‘Mike, it’s me.’ He could still not work out how people he was ringing already knew who he was. ‘I’ve done something stupid and I want to ask your pardon. About a week ago I shot my mouth off.’
‘Great. What did you say?’
‘Never mind. Look, if ever you get a visitation from any men in suits – you know who I mean – you are to tell them to piss off. What I said was stupid. If anyone visits—’
From his eagle’s nest Mike Martin could see the charcoal-grey Jaguar nosing slowly up the track that led from the lane to the barn.
‘It’s OK, bro,’ he said gently, ‘I think they’re here.’
The two spymasters sat on folding camp chairs and Mike Martin on the bole of a tree that was about to be chainsawed into bits for camp-fire timber. Martin listened to the ‘pitch’ from the American and cocked an eyebrow at Steve Hill.
‘Your call, Mike. Our government has pledged the White House total cooperation on whatever they want or need, but that stops short of pressuring anyone to go on a no-return mission.’
‘And would this one fit that category?’
‘We don’t think so,’ Marek Gumienny interjected. ‘If we could even discover the name and whereabouts of one single AQ operative who would know what is going down here, we’d pull you out and do the rest. Just listening to the scuttlebutt might do the trick.’
‘But, passing off . . . I don’t think I could pass for an Arab any more. In Baghdad fifteen years ago I made myself invisible by being a humble gardener living in a shack. There was no question of surviving an interrogation by the Mukhabarat. This time you’d be looking at intensive questioning. Why would someone who has been in American hands for five years not have become a turncoat?’
‘Sure, we figure they would question you. But with luck the questioner would be a high-ranker brought in for the job. At which point you break out and finger the man for us. We’ll be standing right by, barely yards away.’
‘This’ – Martin tapped the file on the man in the Guantanamo cell – ‘is an Afghan. Ex-Taliban. That means Pashtun. I never got to be fluent in Pashto. I’d be spotted by the first Afghan on the plot.’
‘There would be months of tutorials, Mike,’ said Steve Hill. ‘No way you go until you feel you are ready. Not even then if you don’t think it will work. And you would be staying well away from Afghanistan. The good news about Afghan fundos is that they hardly ever appear outside their own manor. Do you think you could talk poor Arabic with the accent of a Pashtun of limited education?’
Mike Martin nodded.
‘Possibly. And if the towelheads bring in an Afghan who really knew this guy?’
There was silence from the other two men. If that happened, everyone round the fire knew it would be the end.