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  Randall nodded. ‘I agree. I’ll ask the Home Secretary to arrange for someone to speak to Farmer. In the meantime, we have to secure her house.’

  ‘David is there at the moment, and I’ve told the estate agent to hand over all the keys they hold. Unless you want to bring the forensics team in on this I thought David and I could log everything and take it to a safe storage facility.’

  ‘Yes, do that. I don’t want anyone else in on this. Catalogue everything and have a report on my desk this evening.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Sarah left, preparing herself for a long night.

  Chapter 9

  Abdul al-Hussain sipped from a cup of tea as he waited patiently for the arrival of his guest. Opposite him in the back room of the textile store sat Farhad Nagi; a ferret-faced man in his twenties who sported the beginnings of a moustache.

  ‘I still think something isn’t right.’

  Al-Hussain smiled. ‘It is good that you are suspicious. Complacency leads to an early grave.’

  ‘But what do we really know about her?’ Nagi persisted.

  Al-Hussain shrugged. Beyond the information he’d received from his man in London, there was very little in the public domain relating to Miriam Dagher. There were no social media profiles, and internet searches had revealed nothing more than a couple of articles in medical journals—most of which had been written a quarter of a century ago.

  The absence of an online profile didn’t necessarily mean anything was amiss, but al-Hussain was taking no chances. He’d instructed his men to take the woman into the desert and strip her, discarding the clothes she was travelling in and replacing them with more traditional local garments. The only items she would be allowed to bring with her would be those for work, and they would be transferred to a new bag after being checked for tracking devices.

  If the woman was clean, she should arrive in the next few minutes. If not, carrion birds would feast on her for the next few days.

  ‘Sometimes you only learn the truth when it is staring you in the face. We’ll soon discover if she is all she promises to be.’

  The shop owner poked his head into the room and asked if they required further refreshments, but al-Hussain waved him away. As soon as his men arrived, they would be leaving.

  Nagi nibbled a fingernail as they waited—more out of boredom than apprehension. The young man had been in his service for three years now, and his loyalty was unquestioned. The moment he’d been approached by the CIA and asked to provide information on local Taliban movements and plans, he’d come straight to al-Hussain. Promises of wealth and a one-way ticket to the US had not been enough to convince him to betray his countrymen. According to Nagi, the CIA’s main objective had been the capture of Abdul al-Hussain, renowned Taliban commander. He’d assured the American that while he knew of the man, he wasn’t party to his movements, but for the right money he would ask around and pass any information back to them. Since then, there had been repeated requests for updates, but Nagi would simply tell the CIA that he was still working on it. On a couple of occasions al-Hussain had been in the same room with Nagi as he tried to explain over the phone why his efforts had been fruitless, and afterwards they had both laughed about their enemy’s desperation.

  Nagi felt the American was losing patience, and al-Hussain had seen an opportunity present itself. It would mean sacrificing a few of his men, but willing bodies were easy to come by. Experienced fighters less so, but there were plenty of young men with heads filled with glory who were eager to pick up a rifle and take on the infidel.

  So far, al-Hussain had thrown sixty of his followers to the wolves—half of them in the last week. The attack on forward operating base Tork, twenty kilometres west of Kandahar, was never designed to succeed, and in truth it hadn’t come close. That was because Nagi, who had been given the operational name Sentinel by his CIA handler, had warned the Americans three days in advance. He’d lost thirty men while the enemy had suffered no casualties, but it had been a success nonetheless. The Americans now trusted their Sentinel, and in time that would prove costly.

  The curtains leading to the shop parted and al-Hussain’s bodyguard appeared.

  ‘They are here.’

  Al-Hussain rose and followed him outside, where a second SUV was parked behind his own. In the back he could see a figure dressed in black from the head down, flanked by two of his men. Al-Hussain climbed into the back of his own vehicle and Nagi took the front passenger seat. The driver was instructed to take them to the wadi—four miles north of town.

  From the moment he’d heard about the woman and her virus, al-Hussain had been anxious to try it out. He wouldn’t be satisfied with promises or projections, only verified conclusions on his own terms.

  At the wadi—a depression in the ground formed by a river centuries earlier—he saw another of his men waiting, along with a boy who looked no more than fifteen years of age. Al-Hussain got out of his SUV and walked over to the vehicle that had followed his. The back door was being held open and he watched as the black figure emerged

  The first thing Miriam Dagher did was remove her niqab, revealing her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in English. ‘It’s just too hot. It’ll take some getting used to.’

  Al-Hussain would normally have exploded at such a blasphemous display, but he remained calm. She was returning to the country after forty years in the West, so she could be forgiven for being affected by the weather. He also needed her expertise, so he let it slide. For now.

  If she showed any further disrespect for Islam, he would deal with her harshly once her usefulness had come to an end.

  ‘Welcome to Afghanistan,’ he said. ‘I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced by my… precautions.’

  ‘It has been many years since anyone asked me to take my clothes off, but your men kept a respectful distance.’

  ‘I’m sure you understand my position. The Americans are keen to…how do you say… get their hands on me. I would not like to make that job any easier.’

  Dagher smiled. ‘If they find you, they’ll find me, too. Take all the precautions you feel necessary.’

  She seemed at ease, not even slightly nervous, and that was a good sign. If she was here under false pretences, he would have expected her to be a little tense. She also looked younger than he’d expected. Al-Hussain knew her to be the same age as himself, but she appeared less worn. Perhaps if he’d spent his life in a laboratory rather than on the battlefield, he might look as youthful.

  ‘Your men told me you wanted to conduct an experiment as soon as possible. I expect that’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Correct,’ al-Hussain said, looking towards the teenager. ‘He is to be the subject of your first demonstration.’

  ‘Then if you’ll ask your men to bring my belongings we can begin.’

  Al-Hussain barked an order as Dagher approached the boy. She performed some visual checks on him, and when the box containing her equipment was placed next to her she removed a stethoscope and listened to his heart and breathing.

  ‘He’ll do fine,’ she said, turning to al-Hussain. ‘First, we need some control information. This will enable you to see the results clearly. Has he ever fired a weapon before?’

  Al-Hussain asked the boy in Pashto, and received a shake of the head in reply. He instructed one of his men to give the boy a crash course, including changing the fire selector of the AK-47 from safe to fully automatic or semi-automatic, replacing a magazine and finally lining up a target and firing. Al-Hussain watched the boy fumble with the unfamiliar weapon. He held it as if it was a live snake about to strike, almost dropping it twice. After a few minutes of instruction and practice, al-Hussain pointed out a gnarled tree trunk that was growing out of the wall of the wadi. It was about thirty yards away and as thick as a man’s torso. An easy shot.

  ‘What is your name?’ al-Hussain asked.

  ‘Irshad.’

  ‘Okay, Irshad. I want you to shoot at that tree
on semi-automatic. Off you go.’

  The boy adjusted the fire selector, lined up the sights and pulled at the trigger. The rifle bucked in his hands and the round went high and wide.

  ‘That was your sighter. Think about what you’ve been told. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it. Try again.’

  Irshad had another go, but his effort was just as feeble as the first. Al-Hussain stood behind him and began shouting. ‘Again!’

  Bang.

  ‘Switch to fully automatic!’

  Irshad had to look down at the selector to make sure which setting was the correct one.

  ‘Faster!’

  The boy dropped the weapon in his haste to comply. He picked it up and eventually moved the lever to the correct position and aimed once more at the tree. The gun chattered as a dozen rounds left the barrel, then it fell silent as the firing pin fell on an empty chamber.

  ‘New magazine!’ al-Hussain shouted. He watched the boy squirm as he tried to remember how to eject the old mag and insert the new one. All the while, al-Hussain barked orders; screaming at him to hurry up and basically making the boy as nervous as he possibly could.

  When Irshad eventually dropped the weapon, his hands unable to stop shaking, al-Hussain put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not angry. Come, we have something that will make a real soldier of you.’

  Irshad rose and followed al-Hussain over to the woman. She was preparing a syringe—drawing a clear liquid from a phial and pushing the plunger to get rid of any excess air.

  ‘Roll up your sleeve,’ she instructed him. Irshad did as she suggested, and looked away as she found the vein in his left arm to stick the point of the needle in.

  ‘How long?’ al-Hussain asked.

  ‘About fifteen minutes,’ Dagher told him.

  Al-Hussain took the time to quiz Dagher on her background. He learned that she had been born in Kandahar, not far from their current location. Her parents had taken her to America in 1960 where her father had enjoyed a successful career in medicine at Johns Hopkins hospital in Baltimore. Miriam had followed in his footsteps, but had opted for research rather than surgery.

  Dagher gave al-Hussain a breakdown of her discoveries over the years. Two of them he already knew about; these being detailed in the articles he’d found online. He was surprised to learn that she’d been a big part of the team that had developed the meningitis vaccine in the late seventies and the human growth hormone in the eighties. Her latest work was for a US company but after their systems had been hacked by competitors, they had decided to take the research to England. The relocation had been done under complete secrecy which meant she could conduct her work without fear of prying eyes.

  It was a credible story, but al-Hussain was more interested in her motivation.

  ‘What made you decide to come to us with the virus?’

  Dagher looked over at the distant mountains. ‘Did you ever get the feeling that your life was a lie?’ Al-Hussain didn’t answer. He simply waited for her to continue. ‘Up until fifteen years ago, the only truth we knew was the one offered up by the mainstream media. For decades, the talking heads on our television screens told us what was happening and why it was happening. There was no reason to doubt them. When they told us that the Iraq war in 2003 was all about seizing Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction, who were we to argue? The thought of the Iraqis launching their nuclear weapons at the USA was enough for people to support government actions…but the internet was beginning to change all that.’ She took a bottle of water from her bag and emptied half of it in one go. ‘Independent news websites started to spring up, and their stories ran contrary to the official narrative. Of course, they were dismissed as conspiracy theorists. But some of their news items made too much sense. Iraq is a prime example. The US claimed to have detailed intelligence regarding the WMDs, yet after a year of searching, nothing has been found. In the meantime, it emerged that Saddam switched from selling his oil in US dollars to euros. He started doing it in 2001, and that threatened the US economy. Until then, all oil had been purchased in dollars. If a country didn’t have enough dollars, they had to borrow it from the world bank, incurring dollar interest. Meanwhile, the US could print as many dollars as it wished. The currency had been pegged to gold until the 1970s, but soon after US energy resources began to deplete, and the government struck a secret deal with Saudi Arabia—who accounted for a large slice of their oil imports—to sell in dollars in return for US protection. Since then, the dollar has been pegged to oil, which is the only reason Saddam was toppled.’

  She finished off the rest of the water, then let out a sigh. ‘A million people died just to prop up a failing economy, and it’s going to happen again. Muammar Gaddafi wants to sell oil with a gold-backed dinar, so expect him to be gone in the next couple of years. The US will make up some story about human rights abuses or other such nonsense as the reason for ousting him, while their Saudi friends continue to publicly execute people for being homosexual. The hypocrisy stinks. To answer your question, I’m giving you the virus because America is a country built on lies; a country happy to kill millions of foreigners just to ensure the elite few can continue to rape the economy for their own benefit. They deserve everything coming to them.’

  Dagher looked at her watch. ‘It’s time.’

  She walked over to Irshad and checked his signs once more.

  ‘He’s all yours,’ she declared.

  Al-Hussain could see a difference in the boy already. He seemed more confident, his posture more assured. He handed Irshad the rifle and a spare magazine.

  ‘Remember what you were told. See if you can hit the tree now.’

  Irshad took a knee. Then he brought the AK-47 up to his shoulder, flicked the selector to semi-automatic and squeezed off a round. It whistled past the tree, but the next shot struck the trunk, as did the one after that.

  ‘That’s good,’ al-Hussain said. ‘Let’s try something a little more difficult. Do you see that white rock at the end of the wadi?’

  Irshad nodded.

  ‘Okay, that’s your new target.’

  The stone was nearly two hundred metres away and about the size of a crouched man. A testing shot for a lot of fighters—it would have been well beyond Irshad’s capabilities twenty minutes earlier.

  The first attempt fell short, but Irshad composed himself and tried again. This time his aim was high, but he nailed it with the third.

  Al-Hussain was impressed with the transformation, but the test wasn’t over.

  ‘Fully automatic! Fire!’

  Irshad peppered the target, and when the magazine ran dry, he nimbly switched it for the spare before al-Hussain had time to prompt him. After chambering a round, he sent a two-second burst toward the target, then reverted to single-shot until the second magazine was empty.

  When al-Hussain turned to Dagher, he was grinning from ear to ear. ‘That is most impressive,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘How long does it last?’

  Dagher shrugged. ‘Basically forever. It was initially designed to be triggered by the hormones released during a woman’s labour, but I modified it to be stimulated by increases in adrenaline. Whenever Irshad gets into a fight or flight situation, the virus will kick in, making him calm and focused.’

  This news was beyond al-Hussain’s dreams, but he reined in his excitement. He’d only just met the woman, and despite her convincing background story and the remarkable display he’d just witnessed, he wasn’t about to get carried away. He would wait a few days and see if the virus had any adverse side effects. He would have Irshad brought to him within a week, and if the boy was alive and well, he would be shipped off to the camp in Pakistan for rigorous training, and the next experiment would be conducted.

  Five men had already been earmarked for phase two, and he couldn’t imagine a sorrier bunch of subjects. They were barely any better than Irshad had been prior to his exposure to the virus, so it would be in
teresting to see how they performed under battle conditions.

  ‘Come,’ he said to Dagher. ‘You must be tired after your journey. I have prepared accommodation for you in a nearby town, a walled compound to keep you hidden from curious neighbours. I’m sure the Americans will be doing all they can to get you back, so remain inside as much as you can. If you wish to leave the building, please wear the niqab—otherwise you might be spotted by their drones. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to leave the compound without my express permission.’

  ‘I quite understand. Will this place have electricity?’ she asked as she massaged the area under her breast.

  ‘It has its own generator, so you should be able to start mass production of the virus immediately.’ He noted her discomfort. ‘Are you okay? You seem to be in some pain.’

  ‘I’m fine, just an insect bite.’ Dagher said. ‘I will also need some extra equipment. It would have looked too suspicious if I’d brought everything with me. But the items I require are common enough, even here in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Then prepare a list and give it to Samir. He owns the house and has been instructed to provide you with whatever you need, including privacy. Your work will not be interrupted.’

  Dagher nodded a thank you.

  ‘I do have one other task for you.’

  Al-Hussain explained what he required, then led Dagher back to her vehicle and watched it drive away. So far, she had been everything he’d been hoping for, but something inside him still dictated caution, and he was prepared to be patient.

  For a man who had spent half of his life fighting foreign invaders, another few days was not going to matter.

  Chapter 10

  Cataloguing Miriam Dagher’s belongings didn’t take long. She lived alone, and apart from her clothes, make-up, toiletries and cooking utensils, there wasn’t much to look through. She had a handful of books, a couple of them cookbooks, the rest on virology.