Between them they had one firearm, which de Payns insisted Templar take. And then Templar threw a small backpack over his shoulder and walked into the shadows without even a backward look.
They were at the northern outskirts of Gardez. North of his position was the service station, which de Payns could see stayed open for all the trucks that were on their way to or from Kabul. It was 5.24 a.m. He drove into the forecourt, avoided the diesel queue and went straight to a petrol bowser. He tanked and went to the counter with euros and US dollars, then waited behind a truck driver who was paying. As he did he became aware of a couple of National Police officers standing at the coffee stand to his left. He smiled briefly and they glared at him—early thirties ANP cops with Sigma 9mm handguns on their hips and AKMs over their shoulders. De Payns got to the front of the queue, gestured to the petrol pump and asked for a large bottle of water, a pre-paid phone and a pack of Marlboros, offering euros and US dollars. The young man accepted the euros.
As he walked to the car he sensed the cops behind him. The hum of diesels vibrated around him as the trucks lined up for fuel.
‘Good evening sir,’ said the taller of the cops, in English. ‘Far to go?’
De Payns turned. ‘To Kabul.’ He smiled.
‘American?’ asked the one with a moustache.
‘French,’ said de Payns.
‘Ah,’ said the tall one. ‘Long way from the home. Why are you in Afghanistan?’
‘I’m a journalist,’ de Payns said. ‘Morel. Georges Morel. I’m doing a story about the aquifers in northern Pakistan and eastern Afghanistan.’
‘This is your car?’
‘Yes,’ said de Payns, as the tall cop walked to the front of the Passat and made a face.
‘You staying in Afghanistan for long?’ asked the tall one.
‘I’m flying out in the next two days,’ said de Payns, wishing they would just leave him alone.
‘Okay,’ said the tall one, now smiling. ‘If it was more than thirty days, you’d have to change those plates. Pakistan plates no good.’
De Payns made good time north, hitting only one checkpoint, where he was not asked to stop. It was 7.43 a.m. when he reached the city limits of Kabul. He kept an eye out for an internet cafe. As he moved into the city he saw a place, stopped and paid for a screen. He opened a Gmail account in the name of Charles Paris and sent a quick message, with his new phone number, to Dennis London, better known as Mike Moran.
He drove for another five minutes, past soldiers in mixed uniforms lounging on armoured personnel carriers, smoking; the city was looking less bombed out than on de Payns’ last visit, two years ago. He saw a restaurant with an English sign that looked open. He was happy to find the female owner was French and he ordered coffee, pain au chocolat and an omelette. As the woman walked away, his pre-paid phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘This is your wake-up call,’ said an English voice. ‘Long time no see, mon pote.’
‘Too long.’
Moran said, ‘Shall we meet?’
‘That would be great,’ said de Payns, pouring sugar into his coffee. ‘You where you always are?’
‘I am,’ said Moran. ‘I’ll wait at the gate.’
‘See you in an hour,’ said de Payns and hung up.
He finished the omelette and coffee, and carried the pain au chocolat to the Passat.
He arrived early at Tajikan Road, in the north of Kabul, and walked the street in front of the police special forces base. The city of four million was getting busy, a mix of horses and motorbikes, limos and army trucks. One of the biggest markets in Afghanistan was over the road from the base. There were soldiers and police on the street, and even first thing in the morning the thump of a helicopter engine was audible, hovering over the base. It was a fortress and had to be that way; a former police chief from the Taliban era had turned on his former colleagues and decided to work for the new American-backed government. That simple shifting of allegiance had triggered fifteen years of attempted assassinations, bombings and kidnappings of anyone associated with the National Police.
He walked routes to see who was around and who might be interested in him. It seemed clean, and exactly one hour after he’d spoken with Moran, de Payns walked to the main security gate. Before he could get there a local man in an Afghan pakol and a shalwar kameez grabbed his arm. As de Payns tensed, the man told him to relax. It was Moran. They walked through the crowds and down a side street where a black Toyota LandCruiser was parked in the loading bay of a laundry.
‘In here,’ said Moran, opening the rear door.
They clambered into the vehicle and a heavily muscled local man started the car and drove off.
Moran whipped off the hat and struggled out of the knee-length dress. ‘Hate these things,’ he said, as he kicked away the long shirt, revealing pale chinos and a dark polo shirt. He was a solidly built, dark-haired man who obviously exercised.
‘How are you Alec?’ asked the Englishman, holding out his hand.
As they shook, de Payns couldn’t keep the smile off his face. ‘You’re looking younger. You doing yoga?’
‘No, mate,’ said Moran with a wink. ‘Second divorce. Pure joy keeps me young.’
Mike Moran was two years younger than de Payns, and had spent all his post-university life in the SIS. They had known each other as children, when their grandparents used to meet up once a year. During World War II, Moran’s and de Payns’ grandfathers had fought with de Gaulle for the Free French. Moran’s grandfather married an Englishwoman and lived out his days as a bank manager in Southampton. De Payns’ grandfather returned to France with de Gaulle and stayed close to the President and managed his pine forest in the south of the country. For years the families would meet up in Bournemouth over the summer and the tradition was kept alive by Mike’s and de Payns’ parents.
‘We gotta stop meeting like this,’ said Mike. Then his tone changed. ‘What’s up? You okay?’
‘Something’s not right and I have to get back to Paris. Independently.’
Mike nodded slowly. ‘Well, you wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. How’s your mum?’
‘Loving Netflix but doesn’t like all the swearing,’ said de Payns.
‘Ha! That’s her. That’s exactly her.’
Then he leaned forward between the front seats and asked his driver something in the local tongue. They nodded and went back and forth, and then the driver met de Payns’ eye in the rear-view mirror.
Moran sat back. ‘Abed can get you on a government supplies plane, but it lands in Frankfurt. That useful?’
‘Sure is,’ said de Payns.
They motored west to the Hamid Karzai International Airport and swung around the back, past cells of soldiers and vehicle-mounted heavy machine guns, into the government and military annexe. They were checked at the gate with mirrored wands under the vehicle and a dog handler walking around the LandCruiser. De Payns fished the Georges Morel passport from his windbreaker and handed it to Moran, who did the talking. Abed drove them along an endless series of bomb-proof hangars, the air conditioning keeping them cool as the morning air started to shimmer with heat outside. They stopped at a collection of freight depot hangars in which de Payns could make out large pallets of plastic-wrapped boxes with European names such as Siemens and Krupp on them. Obviously this was the receiving depot for Germany.
They stopped beside a security post and Abed became all smiles for a local woman in a security uniform with no hijab. By the way he flirted—despite her no chance, mister look—de Payns assumed they were well known to one another. Eventually she stood and came around to the passenger seat, electronic clipboard under her arm, and climbed in.
‘Which one is Georges Morel?’ she asked, peering into the back seat.
De Payns raised his hand and smiled.
‘You have friends in high places, monsieur,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to go on the manifest. That a problem?’
‘No,’ said de Payns, handing over his passport.
She brought up a screen on her iPad and input de Payns’ fictive name and passport number.
‘I need an address,’ she said.
‘Place d’Armes, Versailles, France,’ said de Payns. He spelled it out for her and she hit ‘enter’.
The woman said, ‘Come on, then,’ and got out of the LandCruiser.
Moran extended his hand. ‘Good luck, brother.’
‘Thanks, Mike,’ said de Payns. ‘I owe you.’
‘All you owe me is a beer,’ the Englishman replied. It was an old joke between them—it didn’t matter what they did for one another, the only debt was a drink.
De Payns clambered out of the Toyota and watched it drive away. There was no breeze among the buildings and the temperature must have been high-thirties. He followed the woman through a security door and into a small lounge that shared space with more freight pallets and boxes. One set of pallets featured water filters, probably destined for Afghanistan’s new water infrastructure.
The woman unhooked the radio handpiece from her chest webbing and talked to someone in German. She nodded then turned to de Payns. ‘You can board, front stairs.’
He loaded up with water bottles and packets of biscuits from the lounge area and walked onto the apron towards a DC-10 with a meaningless acronym on the tail. He climbed the stairs to a small area at the front of the cargo plane which had one row of seats, right behind the cockpit. A pilot leaned through, saw him and asked, ‘You are Morel?’ in a thick Dutch accent.
De Payns nodded, and the Dutchman said they’d be in the air in about forty minutes. ‘There are no other passengers, so spread out.’
De Payns reclined the seat and let his eyelids droop. He thought about Islamabad and Palermo and a phone call to Dr Death. And he thought about weaponised gangrene and what that evil bastard might be planning.