Chapter Forty

I HAD LAIN awake in my hotel for hours the previous night thinking about how I would interrogate Zakaria al-Nassouri if I ever got the chance.

I decided my only hope was to ask a relentless wave of questions, never giving him the opportunity to guess which ones I knew the answer to and which ones I didn’t. I had to mix knowledge and ignorance so effectively that he would be loath to risk any lie at all, and I had to do it so fast that he wouldn’t have time to think and weave.

I knew it would have been difficult a few hours ago but, wounded in body and mind, I had no idea if I could manage it now. One mistake, one successful deception, and it would have all been for nothing.

‘If you lie, give me one incorrect answer, ’ I told him, ‘I will shoot you and turn the phone off. As you know, the man in Bodrum has his instructions concerning your son. Clear? ’

I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Who recruited Patros Nikolaides? ’ I said, worried that my damaged throat would fail me.

Straight off, the question wrongfooted him. Nobody had mentioned the old bull’s name, and I could see the Saracen was wondering how the hell I knew it. Already he was on the defensive.

‘My sister, ’ he replied, trying to show he wasn’t shaken.

‘When she was twelve she won an essay competition – what for? ’

‘English … English comprehension. ’ Who the hell did they speak to, he must have been thinking, who would know details like that? His mother—?

‘What hospital treated the shrapnel in your spine? ’

‘Gaza Infirmary. ’

I was flying all over the world, leaping across decades—

‘Did your sister ever go scuba diving? ’

‘My father taught her – when she was young. ’ It was probably correct – their father had worked at the Red Sea Marine Biology Department.

‘How many Hind helicopter gunships did you bring down? ’

I checked the phone’s microphone, desperately hoping Bradley was taking notes – in my state, I wasn’t sure I could remember the answers.

The Saracen was shocked – now we were in Afghanistan. ‘Three, some say four, ’ he replied. I could see it in his face: who is this man?

‘After the war with the Soviets, where did you buy your death certificate? ’

‘In Quetta – Pakistan. ’

‘Who from? ’

‘How do I know?! It was in the bazaar. ’

‘Who provided you with a new identity? ’ I looked straight at him.

‘Abdul Mohammad Khan. ’ His reply was one micron softer than the others, and I figured it was a betrayal. Good.

‘Keep your voice up, ’ I said. ‘The address of your childhood home in Jeddah? ’

‘You know – you’ve seen a photo of it. ’

‘I’ve been there, I took that photo, ’ I replied. ‘Where were you stationed when you fought in Afghanistan? ’

‘The Hindu Kush, a village called—’

I talked over him, letting him think I already knew the answer, keeping the pace relentless. ‘What nationality was your new identity? ’

‘Lebanese. ’

I had got my first one: I had a nationality and, with that, I knew we could start to trace him if we had to. The walls were closing in.

In the house in Bodrum, Bradley was holding the phone tight to his ear – trying to hear everything, paper scattered on the bench in front of him, scrawling notes furiously because of the speed I was going.

He said later that he was almost certain – to judge by my voice – that I was dying on my feet.