He kept his eyes peeled for guards. Looking between the shelters to the fence, he saw the flash of an electric torch, and froze. A guard was being conscientious, patrolling his beat and shining a light into dark zones. The guard inside the pit compound came to the fence to talk to his comrade. Abdul watched, silent and still. The two guards parted, neither having looked towards the slave quarters.
Abdul moved on. He came across a grey-haired man urinating, eyes half closed, and went by without speaking. He was not worried about other slaves seeing him. None of them would do anything even if they guessed he was planning to escape. No slave ever had contact with a guard unless it was unavoidable. The guards were violent men who were bored, a dangerous combination.
He drew level with the guards’ compound. Three hundred yards farther along were two gates, a wide one for vehicles and a regular-size gate for people. Both were chained up and a guard stood just inside. From where Abdul stood, half hidden by a tent, the guard was a dark shape, upright but still.
The makhur stood inside the fence between Abdul and the gate, but closer to the gate. It was white, rather than pale blue, in the moonlight.
At this point Abdul had to start taking serious risks.
He walked quickly to the fence and, without hesitation, scrambled up the wire mesh and jumped over the top of the panel and landed on both feet and lay flat on the sandy ground.
If he was spotted now he would be killed, but that was not the worst of his fears. If this attempt failed, Kiah would spend the rest of her life as a sex slave to the jihadis. That was the prospect Abdul could not bear to contemplate.
He listened for a sound, a cry of surprise or a shout of warning. He lay still, and he seemed to hear his heart beating. Had the guard seen movement out of the corner of his eye? Was he now looking in this direction, wondering about a dark smudge on the ground that was about the size of a tall man? Was he hefting his rifle just in case?
After a few moments Abdul raised his head cautiously and looked in the direction of the gates. The dark shape of the guard was motionless. The man had not seen anything. Perhaps he was half asleep.
Abdul rolled along the ground until he had put the makhur between himself and the guard. Then he stood up, moved to the blank wall of the building, and peeped around the corner.
To his surprise he saw a woman approaching the gate from the outside. He cursed: What was this? She said a few words to the guard and was admitted. She walked towards the makhur. Abdul thought: What the hell?
She moved like an older woman, and she was carrying a pile of something in both hands, but in the moonlight Abdul could not make out what it was. Perhaps a pile of clean towels. He had never been to a brothel, in any country, but guessed that such institutions might use a lot of towels. His heartbeat returned to normal.
He remained concealed and listened as the woman went to the makhur door, opened it, and stepped inside. He heard voices as she exchanged a few words with the girls. There seemed to be no men present. The old woman left empty-handed and returned to the gate. The guard let her out.
Abdul began to feel calmer. If there were no men inside, and no used towels to be taken away, perhaps Kiah had been lucky tonight.
The guard leaned his rifle against the fence and stood looking out, towards the slave quarters.
There was nowhere to hide between the makhur and the gate. Abdul would be in plain sight while he covered the distance of about a hundred yards. The guard’s gaze was to the outside. Would he glimpse Abdul out of the corner of his eye, or even just randomly turn around? If so, Abdul would say: ‘Can you give me a cigarette, brother?’ The guard would assume that someone inside the compound was a jihadi, and it might take him a fatal few moments to notice that Abdul was dressed in the ragged attire of a slave and realize that he must be a slave and an intruder.
Or he might give the alarm instantly.
Or he might shoot Abdul dead.
This was the second major risk point.
The sash that Abdul had got from Tamara had been tied around his waist for six weeks or so. Now Abdul untied it and stripped away the cotton covering, leaving a one-metre length of titanium wire with a handle at each end. What he now held in his hands was a garotte, the centuries-old weapon of silent assassination. He coiled up the wire and held the ensemble in his left hand. Then he looked at his watch: fifteen minutes past one.
He spent a few moments easing himself into combat mode, as he always had before a mixed-martial-arts bout: high alert, low emotion, violent intent.
Then he left the shelter of the building and stepped into open space in the moonlight.
He walked towards the gate, quiet-footed but acting casual, staring at the guard. At the back of his mind he knew his life was on the line, but his gait betrayed no fear. As he got closer he realized the guard was half asleep standing up. Abdul circled to come up behind him.
When he was almost there, he silently uncoiled the wire, held both handles, and made a loop. At the last moment the guard seemed to sense his presence, for he made a startled noise and began to turn. Abdul glimpsed a smooth cheek and a sparse moustache and recognized a young man called Tahaan. But Tahaan had moved too late. The loop dropped over his head and Abdul instantly pulled the wire tight, heaving on both wooden handles with all his might.
The wire dug into Tahaan’s neck, compressing his throat. He tried to cry out but no sound came, for his windpipe was squeezed closed. His hand went to his neck and he scrabbled to loosen the wire, but it was too deep in his flesh and beginning to draw blood from his skin, and his fingers found no purchase.
Abdul pulled tighter, hoping to cut off the blood supply to the brain as well as the air to the lungs, so that Tahaan would pass out.
The guard dropped to his knees but continued to writhe. He flailed behind him, trying to reach Abdul, but Abdul easily avoided his hands. The movements became weaker. Abdul risked a look back over his shoulder, across the compound to the dormitory buildings, but nothing was moving. The jihadis were sleeping.
Tahaan lost consciousness and became a dead weight. Without releasing the tension in the wire, Abdul lowered him to the ground and knelt on his back.
He managed to turn his wrist and look at his watch: eighteen minutes past one. To be sure of death, the CIA trainers had said, the victim needed to be strangled for five minutes. Abdul could easily pull the wire for another two minutes but he was worried that someone might appear and ruin everything.
The camp was quiet. He looked all around. Nothing moved. Just a little longer, that’s all I need, he thought. He looked up. The moon was bright but it would set in an hour or so. He checked his watch again: one minute to go.
He looked at his victim. I didn’t expect one so fresh-faced, he thought. Young men were quite capable of brutality, of course, and this one had chosen a career of cruelty and violence; but still Abdul wished he did not have to end a life that had hardly begun.
Half a minute. Fifteen seconds. Ten, five, zero. Abdul released his hold and Tahaan fell lifeless to the ground.
Abdul wound the wire lightly around his waist with a loose knot held in place by the wooden handles. He picked up Tahaan’s rifle and slung it across his back. Then he knelt down, manhandled the corpse onto his shoulder, and stood up again.
He walked quickly to the far side of the makhur and dropped the body to the ground up against the wall of the building. There was no way to hide it, but at least it was unobtrusive.
He dropped the rifle beside the corpse. It was no use to him: one shot would wake every jihadi and that would be the end of the escape bid.
He found the door of the makhur. The bar was in place, confirming that there were no jihadis inside, just slaves. That was good. He wanted to avoid any kind of fracas that might make a noise. He had to take Kiah away without alerting the guards, for he had much to do before they could flee.