Free Deadline by James Anderson Page A

land of sand, gravel
and boulders overlain by silts and clays. The view was of a bleak
and empty countryside.
    Trevanian had no idea where they were,
but knew it must be somewhere in the tribal areas of Northern
Pakistan.
    The remote Federally Administered
Tribal Areas are a prime training ground for insurgents and a focal
point for terrorists, especially since the 911 attacks. The
region’s predominant ethnic Pashtuns have strongly resisted
Pakistani government rule. This border area is a strong entry point
for the insurgents into Afghanistan.
    “ Are we nearly at the end
of this journey?” inquired Trevanian.
    “ We will be at our
destination soon, very soon,” muttered Dharwal.
    The Lada continued on its journey for
another half-hour. Ahead, Trevanian could see the beginnings of
civilization. It was a town. Not a huge town, but not a small
village either. They passed a gasoline station and then a sign.
Dera.
    Throngs of people were milling about.
Many of them were carrying AK-74s and older AK-47s. This looked
like an armed camp for the insurgents. The car suddenly pulled to a
halt in front of a large, red brick building.
    Two heavy-set, bearded men in caftans
at the doorway stood guard with AK-74s. There were three other
armed men posted on the roof of the building as
lookouts.
    Dharwal and his chubby associate
accompanied Trevanian inside the building. Trevor was taken to a
large room. It was something out of a Sultan’s harem.
    An ornate table stood in the centre of
the room on a huge Persian carpet decorated in a deep burgundy.
Around the table were four large chairs with deep cushions and
well-padded backs. They looked very comfortable. The room was
decorated in an Arabic theme. There were many elaborate wall
hangings. Along one wall Trevanian saw a burgundy couch with large
pillows.
    “ Mr. Trevanian, welcome to
our humble abode. I trust that your journey was not too
uncomfortable,” said a lanky, bearded man. He wore a long, charcoal
grey caftan. He extended a sinewy arm and Trevanian shook
hands.
    What the hell is this? They kidnap me
at gunpoint and bring me from Kandahar to some god-forsaken hole in
Pakistan and then exchange pleasantries like it’s some kind of
business trip.
    “ Thank you,” Trevanian
replied politely. “But why have you brought me here? This is a
rather strange invitation. You’ve scared the hell out of me. Is
this a kidnapping or what?”
    “ Oh, most certainly not,
Mr. Trevanian. You are in no danger. You will be free to leave
after your assignment is completed. We will escort you to the
nearest large city in Pakistan to file your story. I apologize for
the manner in which you were brought here, but security is
paramount for us. We had to be sure that no one knew of this in
advance and where you would be going.”
    “ What assignment and what
story are you talking about? What is here that could possibly
interest me or my readers?” asked a perplexed Trevanian. “If you
have a story to tell, a simple invitation would have sufficed. You
wouldn’t have to kidnap me if there is a real story
here.”
    He was starting to feel a lot better
about his situation now. He felt more confident since it appeared
he hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom or worse.
    “ As I stated, Mr.
Trevanian. It was a matter of highest security,” said the al-Qaida
man. “The reason you have been summoned here will become clear
shortly. Your reputation as a journalist on Afghanistan affairs is
well known and respected internationally. Your reports are fair,
even handed and balanced, unlike many of your compatriots who
parrot their government lies, especially the Americans. As a
Canadian journalist, you have shown an understanding for our
struggle even if you do not support it.”
    The man introduced himself as Kaffir
Al-Ghazi, a media relations spokesperson for al-Qaida. He made it
sound like he was representing just another company trying to get
across its message or “spin”.
    Only this company was