Free Rogue Elements by Hector Macdonald

Above each man was a rifle, suspended from a heavy iron hook – AK-47s, old Lee-Enfields, one Chinese Type 56. Two of the men shifted a fraction, and Arkell was invited to sit beside the host.
    For some time, very little was said. The translator coaxed Arkell through the usual greetings. Tea and qat were offered and accepted. A gift of an English leather wallet was presented in return. Arkell knew enough of Yemeni culture by now to understand that many hours might pass before they reached the real substance. The polythene bag of qat leaves was passed to him repeatedly, and soon a mildly euphoric mood came over him. Draped in a blanket the colour of mulberries he smiled endlessly at the hardened mountain men, but he kept his contributions – both translated and in halting Arabic – to a minimum.
    Then, suddenly, it was time. The men around them rose as one, took down their rifles and filed out of the room. Al-Gadhi muttered something to Arkell’s translator, who, without reference to his employer, also left. Perhaps it should have worried Arkell, at that point, to see a stranger walk through the door. But the qat had done its work and his only substantive feeling was one of mild curiosity.
    The newcomer offered thanks to Allah and took up position on the mat opposite Arkell. His creased suit trousers bore a trace of mountain dust, but otherwise looked as new as the crisp ivory shirt and the silver butterfly cufflinks. A barber had very recently drawn razor-sharp lines on the man’s nape and sideburns. The only thing out of place was the savagely crushed nose. It had healed some time ago, but the new tissue had done nothing to disguise the damage.
    ‘This . . .’ muttered Al-Gadhi, speaking English for the first and only time, ‘is Saeed.’ Abruptly, he rose and walked out.
    Arkell took one look at the desperation in the man’s eyes and spat the wad of qat into his tea cup. ‘Hello,’ he said, offering his hand.
    If the man saw it, he didn’t respond to the gesture. Instead he began talking, fast. ‘Are you who they say you are? Do you have credentials? I will feel more comfortable after you show me your credentials. Ali says you are CIA?’
    Arkell wasn’t surprised. It was not unusual for assets to confuse SIS with the better known agency, and sometimes little distinction was drawn between American and British officers. Also quite possible that his predecessor had passed himself off as CIA when recruiting Al-Gadhi. And so Arkell nodded, thinking nothing of it, curious to understand what this highly strung city creature was doing in the mountains of Yemen.
    ‘Thanks be to God. I was afraid you are British MI6. Your face seems British. Do you have credentials, please?’
    After two years in Washington, Arkell could summon up a solid Ivy League accent with no difficulty. ‘What’s wrong with the Brits?’
    ‘They betrayed me,’ said the man gravely. ‘They did this to me,’ he added, touching his wrecked nose.
    Arkell was intrigued. An Iraqi perhaps? Had he crossed paths with the wrong British army patrol in Basra? ‘Doesn’t sound like them,’ he shrugged. ‘Polite bunch, what I’ve seen.’
    ‘Because of them, I was arrested in Riyadh.’ His eyes were a flickering chestnut. ‘I gave critical information to the British embassy. The same day, the Mabahith came for me. Less than twelve hours after I warned Mr Colville. You think this was coincidence? Locked in a cell underground for twenty-one months. No trial. Just beatings. I should have gone to the American embassy. It was a foolish mistake. I thought I knew the British. I studied at London Queen Mary. I read Jane Austen and Charles Dickens. It was a matter of familiarity, you see?’
    ‘You said you gave this Colville some kind of warning?’
    ‘Which he ignored,’ said Saeed hotly.
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘Because two weeks later hundreds of innocent people were murdered in Chicago, and no one did anything to stop it!’
    Arkell