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.