‘Soon as I call “go”, we run,’ hissed Kevin.
The first session of torture was over and Howard was now asking questions. If he heard what he needed, it was possible things might stop there, but I doubted it. The MI5 officer had kicked and squirmed as his drowning reflex kicked in. His conscious brain could have told him it would be in vain and to preserve his strength, but this was something he had no control over. Try as hard as he might to resist, he did what everyone else who went through the experience did. And as he was probably going through it for the very first time, he panicked, as his survival instinct took over.
I’d been watching, not really because I wanted to see how he fared, for me it was more a case of hoping those who were now questioning him would be distracted. And they were. Petre was still playing with his laptop – God knows what he was doing – as Howard watched his victim suffer. The woman in black poured the water. Grady was the only one paying us attention, and he often glanced away towards the commotion. In those fleeting moments, we had a chance.
‘End game’ Kevin had said. It was code, well, sort of. Like saying we had one chance left. I’d never put it to the test before, although I was well aware that others had. It was recognition that in a desperate situation, the only option wasn’t a good one and was likely to end badly. At all levels within the Regiment there was an acceptance that if being captured by enemy forces was bad enough for ordinary soldiers, for Special Forces it was always worse. And although those times had been the best part of two decades since, I knew all too well what ‘end game’ meant to them, and what it now meant to us. All or nothing.
Kevin knew I would understand him. One chance, then on our feet and run as fast as we could. Nearest cover was the bothy behind us, but that was a dead end. A log store sat about five yards from me and then, another ten yards further on was the forest, where we would be surrounded by trees. Not only was Grady the only one paying us sufficient attention, he was the only one holding a gun. Kevin would break left, me right. And, if we were lucky, one of us would make it to cover.
I wondered what Jenny was doing. Becky would be in school by now. I pictured our new home, my wife sat downstairs with our new daughter, maybe in front of a breakfast TV programme as she fed her, possibly in the garden if the weather was nice. The house would be quiet. She’d be thinking about me too, worrying, concerned at what I was doing but naively trusting that I would be home eventually, as I always had been in the past.
I was afraid – afraid that this was the time I would fail the people I loved most. I prayed that fear would now give strength to my legs rather than paralysing me. I had been afraid before. That first time you come under fire, hear the zip of a round passing over your head and realise that people are actually trying to kill you, it’s a moment that lives forever in your memory. Fear is a knife that twists in your gut but, as many men before me had learned, fear is an illusion. We need it – soldiers, cops, firefighters, anyone who faces danger – for fear is a precursor to bravery. ‘There is nothing to fear but fear itself’; I remembered those words, a quote I think, and written by someone who truly understood. Many things are worse than fear, and, as the adrenalin now coursed through my veins and gave me strength, I knew that I had to use it, to master it rather than having it control me.
Across the yard at the front of the bothy, I could just make out what Howard was saying. He held his face close to the man’s ear but he was almost shouting. He wanted answers to what sounded like the same questions he had been asking us: Who else knows? Who have you told? What exactly do you know? I caught the sound of a name. Miles. He called their injured prisoner Miles.
As I kept my eyes on Grady and Petre, I flexed my leg muscles to maintain blood flow and, once again, tested the plastic restraints. There was no give and, as I strained my arms, the sharp edges dug painfully into my wrists.
I looked across at Miles and had to work hard to put the wave of sorrow I felt to one side. We’d be abandoning him to his fate. I was glad I didn’t know him. I hoped he wasn’t, like me, a man with a family. It would be they who would suffer the most when he didn’t come home. Miles, like all members of the Security Services, knew there was a risk associated with that role. He would have been warned, although, like me, he probably thought it could only ever happen to someone else.
Yes, I was sorry. But this was one of those times where survival meant looking after number one. I glanced across at Kevin, waiting on his word, flexing my thighs, preparing myself. Any moment now.
‘Comms established,’ called out Petre.
Howard stopped what he was doing and turned to face us. ‘Not the best timing,’ he replied as he studied us. The woman placed the water container she was holding to one side. All eyes were now on us.
‘Check their restraints,’ Howard ordered.
Grady tucked his pistol into his belt, walked around us and carefully felt the cable ties to make sure we were secure. I had no doubt he saw the marks on my wrists where I had tried to break them but he didn’t say anything. As he pulled Kevin’s arms up to make a similar check I saw his wrists were also raw.
‘Not hurting are they, Taff?’ Grady leaned close into Kevin as he hissed the words.
‘Not as much as I’m gonna hurt you,’ my friend answered.
‘Your woman seemed to quite like them.’
‘Bastard…’ Kevin made to stand but it was a futile attempt. Just as Petre had done earlier, Grady kicked his legs out from beneath him, dumping him winded and powerless on the ground.
Petre turned the screen of the laptop around so that it faced us. It looked like he had set it up for some kind of video call. A large face filled the screen.
‘Bring Finlay,’ he called.
Grady moved away from Kevin, grabbed hold of my upper arms from behind and dragged me to my feet. Kevin was left where he now lay as I was dragged towards the Range Rover.
And, as the screen of the computer came closer and I was able to recognise the features, I realised what Petre had been doing and why he was here. On the computer, on a live link to somewhere, was a man I knew would gain great pleasure in seeing my demise.
Gheorghe Cristea, father figure to the slave-trafficking gang I had helped to break up, torturer of the women we had rescued, and the very man who had warned me he would not forget.
And, although it now seemed too late to do me any good, the last piece of the jigsaw fell into place. This was Howard’s connection, this was his secret. In the days when the Cristeas had run drugs and firearms into Peshawar, Howard, Kevin and I had been deployed there. Howard must have worked with the Cristeas then and had dealings with them ever since.
And Gheorghe Cristea was a man Howard was prepared to help when he needed something done.
Like finding me.