A Loyal Spy Read Free Page A

elevated traffic island outside Kabul’s presidential palace the corpse of former president Mohammed Najibullah was strung up by his neck. His clothes were drenched in blood and the pockets of his coat and his mouth were stuffed with afghanis, the country’s almost worthless currency. Kabul had fallen to the Taliban and the motley collection of British soldiers and spooks known as the Afghan Guides were now officially surplus to requirements.
    Jonah was called to a meeting with Fisher-King to be given the news in his carpeted rooms at 85 Vauxhall Cross, the headquarters of MI6. He left the Department and walked down Whitehall and along the Embankment, past Parliament and MI5, and crossed Vauxhall Bridge. Approaching the building with the sun rising behind it, you could see why it was known as the ‘inca jukebox’. It was surprisingly brash for a building that housed a secret arm of the government.
    Fisher-King met him by the lift in shirtsleeves and socks and guided him by the elbow past Immaculate Margo, his formidable secretary, and on into his inner sanctum with its privileged view of the Thames.
    ‘Looking back on it, who’d have thought a band of bloodthirsty tribesmen would bring the Soviet Union to its knees,’ he drawled in his effortlessly patrician voice. ‘Darjeeling?’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Have a seat.’ He waved in the direction of a chesterfield.
    Jonah sat carefully. The first time he had been called to Fisher-King’s office a chair had collapsed beneath him, and although he had suspected that the incident had been manufactured, it had nonetheless had the desired effect; ever since he had felt ill at ease in Fisher-King’s presence.
    Fisher-King crossed to his broad, uncluttered desk and paused for a moment with his hand resting on his high-backed chair. ‘Afghanistan has been through a whirlwind of intrigue and deception in the years since the Soviets left, and during that time your friend Nor has offered us an unparalleled insight into Pakistani meddling.’
    ‘And I think he still could,’ Jonah said.
    Fisher-King sat and leant back in his chair with his fingers clasped behind his head. ‘We hung on in longer than most, Jonah. Long after the Americans had lost interest. You can’t say fairer than that, can you?’
    ‘No,’ Jonah conceded.
    ‘Now it’s time to move on, to invest in new areas. The Pakistanis have put the Taliban in power in Kabul and on reflection we think that’s a good thing. In fact it’s good news across the region. We gave Saddam a bloody nose in ’91 and now he’s contained. In Tehran, President Rafsanjani has taken the mullahs in hand. He’s a moderate, a thoroughly good chap. And Arafat’s returned to the West Bank. You couldn’t have predicted that. I think we’ll look back in a few years time and say 1996 was the turning point for Middle East peace. You played a part in that and, of course, we’re bloody grateful. We know what you’ve been through. Both of you.’
    Fisher-King smiled broadly.
    ‘That’s it?’ Jonah demanded.
    ‘We can’t be expected to shoulder your costs indefinitely,’ Fisher-King protested. ‘After all, you’re not really one of us, Jonah.’
    Fisher-King had always treated the collection of misfits at the Department at best as poor relations, at worst as rank amateurs. He was of the opinion that military intelligence was a contradiction in terms and Jonah was forced to admit that for the most part he agreed.
    ‘How is Monteith?’ Fisher-King asked. ‘Is he still growing roses?’
    Monteith was Jonah’s boss, a fiery terrier of a man who ran the Department out of the gloomy basement beneath the Old War Office in Whitehall.
    ‘I have serious doubts about the Taliban,’ Jonah told him.
    Fisher-King sighed. ‘Of course you do, Jonah, and so do we, but it’s a trade-off. It’s always a trade-off, in this case between peace and security on the one hand and human rights on the other. Right now Afghanistan needs peace more