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She turned to find him pointing at her. “Put on the burka and come!”
She did as she was told and followed him back to the main passage and for perhaps a hundred paces, making several turns. She emerged into a well-lit room with carpets and pillows on the floor and several pieces of ornate furniture. Five men sat in a circle, eating. She was told to sit and be quiet.
Half an hour later four of the men left, and the fifth man beckoned her to come and sit before him. He seemed to be in his fifties, with a graying beard and broad shoulders.
“Listen to me,” he said, and she nodded.
“Remove burka.”
She pulled the garment over her head and smoothed her hair back.
“Stand there,” he said, pointing at a white cloth hung on a nearby wall. “Brush your hair—look presentable.”
She did so, tucking in her shirttail. A man appeared with a Polaroid camera and took her picture. When it developed, four images appeared and he took the photos away.
The man beckoned her to return to him, but he did not tell her to put on the burka again. “You are the sister of Ari and Mohammad, are you not?”
“I am.”
“My condolences. I knew your father. My condolences for him, too.”
“Thank you. My only wish from now on is to take revenge against British and American intelligence for their deaths. It would be my father’s wish.”
“I understand. It was important that I see you,” he said, “before you continue your work. You are intelligent and, I suspect, very wily.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“You have good ideas for London.”
“Thank you.”
He rummaged in an ornate box next to him and came up with a sturdy brown envelope. He handed it to her. “Look inside.”
She opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper, to which a thin key was taped. On the paper was written the name and address of a London bank, a man’s name, and a box number.
“You will go to the bank and ask for this man, then request to open your box. There will be money there, sufficient for your needs. When you have more ideas, more money will be in the box. You understand?”
“I understand.”
The photographer returned and handed the man four booklets. He handed them to her.
“Here are passports with new names. You will use one to enter Britain, then destroy it. Use the others as necessary. Your contact remains the same. Now, put on the burka and go back the way you came.”
She stood up and pulled the garment over her head, then she put the passports into her backpack and the key and instructions into the hip pocket of her jeans. She was led back the way she had come, and she emerged from the cave into bright sunlight. The ISI agent and another man were waiting for her, holding the mules, all now unladen.
“Get on,” he said to her.
She got on.
—
As the sun was low in the sky, the helicopter appeared, guided by an electronic beacon held by the ISI agent. He waved the pilot in.
—
Three days later Jasmine opened the door to her London flat and let herself in. She ran a hot bath and stripped off her traveling clothes, tossing everything into her washing machine and starting it. Then she got a half-full bottle of scotch from the bar and settled into the tub, taking pulls from the bottle, hoping she would not drown.
Felicity Devonshire sat at her desk in her beautifully paneled and furnished office on the top floor of “The Circus,” as the MI-6 building was called, even though they had moved from their old location in Cambridge Circus some years before. A green light went on over the door, and she pressed a button to unlock it.
