KANDAHAR
Sweat beaded on Steph’s forehead, partly from the humidity but mostly in anticipation of the conversation she was about to have. It had been only a few minutes since she had seen the Australians’ concept of operations brief come across her desk and it had alarmed her.
Opening her desk drawer she removed her notebook, secured her paddle holster to her belt and picked up the phone containing only one saved number. She slipped quickly through the door of the oval room and out into the hallway. A few steps along the hallway, Steph exited the back door of the old demountable. Once out the back she quickly climbed the wooden stairs that had been built to give access to the roof. Steph looked out at the large satellite dishes and telecommunications towers that sat at the side of the building as she strode across a small walkway connecting the roof of the building to the top of a stack of Connex shipping containers. The roof overlooked the Kandahar airfield. She breathed in deeply, composing herself. Steph had grown accustomed to the smell of aviation gas; in some ways she found it comforting. She dialled Faisal’s number.
‘Hello, sister.’ His voice was relaxed.
‘Faisal, they’re coming for your brother, they’re coming tonight.’ Steph drew another deep breath, trying to calm herself further. ‘They know the exact location of the house in Mirabad.’ She hoped she didn’t sound as panicky as she felt.
Faisal laughed softly. ‘Don’t worry, sister – he’s not there. He left for Quetta last week.’
Faisal knew better than to let Steph have too much information when it came to the whereabouts of someone as important as Ahmed. It was true that he wasn’t in Mirabad, but he wasn’t far away. Faisal squatted down in the motorcycle yard. Holding the phone against his shoulder with his ear, he hitched his black and dark red robes around his waist and urinated into the dust between his feet.
‘But I saw their plan, they think he is there – they asked specifically to go after him.’ Steph was confused – surely if the target had left for Quetta Sam would know; he was usually so thorough when cross-checking intelligence sources.
‘No, sister, he isn’t there. He won’t be back for a week.’
What are they playing at? Steph wondered. Sam wouldn’t knee jerk to unreliable sources, he would have layered this with geospatial and signals intelligence.
‘Don’t think too hard about it, sister – we can have a surprise waiting for them when they come to slow them down.’
‘Hold on a minute, Faisal,’ Steph snapped. ‘I’m just telling you what you need to know to keep you and your people safe. In return, you give me the information I need. You’re not supposed to use the information I give you to harm anyone.’
‘I think that maybe things have changed,’ Faisal said, still in the same relaxed tone. ‘Every day they leave their base another brother dies. Quetta are asking that we level the playing field.’
‘That wasn’t the deal, Faisal.’ Her legs feeling weak all of a sudden, Steph sat down on a small seat behind the sandbag wall.
‘Ah, but I have information that you will want. When you hear it you won’t care about a few infidel.’
Steph pressed the phone to her ear. ‘What are you saying, Faisal?’
‘I can give you information about bigger fish.’
Her heart was beating faster now, Steph whispered, ‘Mullah Omar?’
‘No, sister, don’t play games with me. We have discussed this already.’
‘I’m not,’ Steph protested. ‘I mean, I don’t know who the bigger fish could be then – tell me.’
‘There is someone that you should meet – someone who has information . . .’
‘Who?’
‘A pomegranate farmer.’
A pomegranate farmer . . . was this the solid link to the Iranians Faisal had promised?
‘But how can I meet him, Mohammed? You know I can’t leave the base without an armed escort.’
‘I mean that he should come to you.’
‘Right, I see.’ Steph paused to digest this. It was possible to get informants onto the base – it was highly dangerous but achievable. She had done it before.
‘Faisal, I need a few days, maybe even weeks, to organise this properly, to ensure that he is protected. The information he has must be worth it.’
‘Oh, it will be worth it, sister,’ Faisal promised. ‘Make the arrangements.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Let’s speak again in a couple of days.’
Steph ended the call and looked off into the distance. What information did this farmer have, she wondered. She was intrigued by this turn of events. Faisal had been quick to snap at the mention of Mullah Omar, she noted. It was always said that the Taliban leader remained in Afghanistan, somewhere in the border regions, and the recent frictions within the Taliban leadership might be the catalyst for someone to offer him up. No that wasn’t it, but Steph sensed that Faisal probably would have access to Mullah Omar and that she should tread lightly around the subject in future. This time it was about the Iranians and that in itself was an exciting prospect.
• • •
Mohammed Faisal opened the back of the small phone. He levered out the SIM card and held it between his teeth. From his waistcoat pocket he took another card and slipped it into the phone. He rang the only number on the card; it was picked up within seconds.
‘Hello there, Mohammed, it’s great to hear from you. How are you?’
Faisal loved the sound of her Dutch accent.