The noise of the choppers reached the camp and more people quickly appeared.
The lead aircraft was equipped with a powerful public address system, and a voice now said in Arabic: ‘Move into the desert with your hands on your head. If you are unarmed, you will be in no danger. Move into the desert with your hands on your head.’
People in the slave quarter ran out into the desert, in too much of a hurry to put their hands on their heads, but they were obviously unarmed.
It was different in the third compound. Men poured out of the barracks buildings into the open. Most had assault rifles and some carried hand-held missile launchers.
All the helicopters quickly gained height and moved away. Apache fire was accurate from as far as five miles. Explosions peppered the compound and destroyed some of the barracks buildings.
Most of the infantry approached from the desert side, to draw fire away from the slave quarters. There was little cover, but a squad set up a mortar battery in the pit and began to lob shells into the compound. Someone in the air must have been giving them guidance, because their aim rapidly became devastatingly accurate.
Tamara was watching from a distance, though to her it did not seem a very safe distance, given the sophisticated targeting systems of shoulder-launched missiles. However, she could see that the jihadis had no chance of victory. Not merely outnumbered, they were fenced into a clearly defined space with nowhere to hide, and the carnage was dreadful.
One of their missiles found its target, and an Apache blew up in mid-air, its disembodied parts falling to the ground. Tamara cried out in dismay and Tab cursed. The attacking forces seemed to redouble their efforts.
The compound became a slaughterhouse. The ground was littered with the dead and wounded, often on top of one another. Those still unhurt began to drop their weapons and leave the compound, holding their hands on their heads to indicate surrender.
Without Tamara noticing, a squad of infantry had approached the compound through the slave quarters and had taken cover near the gate. Now they trained their weapons on those surrendering and ordered them to lie flat, face down, on the path.
Returning fire died down and the infantry swarmed the compound. Every soldier on the mission had seen Abdul’s colour photograph of al-Farabi with the North Korean man in the black linen blazer, and they all knew to take both alive if possible. Tamara thought the chances were slim: few of the jihadis were left alive.
The helicopters retreated and landed outside in the desert, and Tamara and Tab got out. The shooting petered out. Tamara felt good, and realized that the fear had left her as soon as the battle began.
As they walked back through the encampment, Tamara marvelled at what Abdul had achieved: he had found this place, he had escaped, he had sent the information home, and by setting fire to the car park he had prevented the jihadis from getting away.
By the time she reached the compound they had found al-Farabi and the North Korean man. The two high-value prisoners were being guarded by a young American lieutenant who looked proud. ‘These are your guys, ma’am,’ he said to Tamara in English. ‘There’s another Korean dead, but this is the one in your photo.’ He had separated these two from the other prisoners, who were in the process of having their hands tied behind their backs and their feet hobbled so that they could walk but not run.
She was momentarily distracted by the sight of three young women wearing absurd lacy lingerie, as if auditioning for a cheap porno film; then she realized they must be the inhabitants of the light-blue building. The social-work team would have clothes for them, and for the rest of the slaves, most of whom were wearing rags that were falling off them.
She returned her attention to the prize captives. ‘You are al-Farabi, the Afghan,’ she said, speaking Arabic.
He made no reply.
She turned to the Korean. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am Park Jung-hoon,’ he said.
She turned to the lieutenant. ‘Set up a shade of some kind and see if you can find a couple of chairs. We’re going to interrogate these men.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Al-Farabi evidently understood English, for he said: ‘I refuse to submit to interrogation.’
‘Better get used to it,’ she said to him. ‘You’re going to be questioned for years.’
CHAPTER 30
Kai got a message from Neil Davidson, his contact at the CIA station in Beijing, requesting an urgent meeting.
For discretion, they varied the venue of their meetings. This time Kai told Peng Yawen to call the managing director of the Cadillac Center and say that the Ministry of State Security required two seats for that afternoon’s basketball match between the Beijing Ducks and the Xinjiang Flying Tigers. A bicycle messenger delivered the tickets an hour later, and Yawen sent one to Neil at the American embassy.
Kai assumed Neil wanted to talk about the looming crisis in North Korea. That morning there was another worrying sign: a collision in the Yellow Sea, off the west coast of Korea. It happened to be a clear day in that zone, and there were good-quality satellite photographs.
As always, Kai needed help interpreting the pictures. The vessels were mainly visible by their wakes, but it was clear that the larger one had struck the smaller. Yang Yong, the expert, said that the larger ship was a naval vessel and the smaller a fishing trawler, and he could make a good guess at their nationalities. ‘In that area, the navy ship is almost certainly North Korean,’ he said. ‘It looks very much as if it rammed the trawler, which is probably South Korean.’
Kai agreed. The disputed maritime border between North and South Korean waters was a flashpoint. The line drawn by the United Nations in 1953 had never been accepted by the north, who in 1999 declared a different line, one that gave them more of the rich fishing grounds. It was a classic territorial squabble and frequently led to clashes.
At midday, South Korean TV broadcast a video made by one of the sailors aboard the trawler. It clearly showed the red-and-blue ensign of the North Korean navy flapping in the wind on a ship heading straight for the camera. As it came closer without turning aside, there were cries of fear from the trawler crew. Then there was a loud crash followed by screams, and the film ended. It was dramatic and scary, and within minutes it had gone around the world on the Internet.
Two South Korean sailors had been killed, the newsreader said: one drowned and one struck by flying debris.
Soon afterwards Kai left for the Cadillac Center. In the car he took off his jacket and tie and put on a black Nike puffer jacket, the better to blend in with the other spectators.
The crowd in the arena was mostly Chinese but with a generous sprinkling of other ethnicities. When Kai arrived at his seat, with a couple of cans of Yanjing beer in his hands, Neil was already there, wearing a reefer jacket with a black knitted beanie pulled low over his forehead. The two of them looked like all the other spectators.
‘Thanks,’ said Neil, accepting a can. ‘You got good seats.’
Kai shrugged. ‘We’re the secret police.’ He popped his can and drank.
The Ducks were in their all-white home strip, the Tigers in sky-blue. ‘Looks just like a game in the States,’ said Neil. ‘Even some black players.’
‘They’re Nigerian.’
‘I didn’t know Nigerians played basketball.’
‘They’re very good.’
The game began, and the noise of the crowd became too loud for conversation. The Ducks went ahead in the first quarter, and by half-time they were up 58–43.
In the interval, Kai and Neil put their heads together to talk business. Neil said: ‘What the fuck is going on in North Korea?’
Kai thought for a moment. He had to be careful not to give away any secrets. That said, he believed it was in China’s interest that the Americans should be well informed. Misunderstandings so often led to crises.
‘What’s going on is civil war,’ he said. ‘And the rebels are winning.’