Justice Denied

Prologue

It was a done deal, he thought to himself as he switched off his mobile phone.

The shipment was to arrive in five days and he’d already been paid.

Years and years of doing this and not once had there been a single hitch.

Business done, the man kneeled down to the child who had been sitting quietly at his side, So my dear, what are we to do with you? he said in his oh-so sweet way.

The girl giggled as she’d been taught to, as if she were about to receive a special treat from her benefactor.

He pulled her to him and hugged her closely, smelling the freshness of her hair, feeling the warmth of her youth and then the sudden tension in her body as he held her close, as he had done many times before.

No need to worry, he whispered quietly in her ear.You’ll be going home soon.

She sighed and he felt the small girl relax as he drew the blade across her throat and let her slide noiselessly to the floor.

Standing up, he pressed a button on the intercom on his desk,

Come and take out this trash. He commanded as he picked up a copy of the Straits Times, barely noticing the spreading pool of crimson around the girl’s body.

Once he’d completed his tenure in public office, he promised himself that he’d fully enjoy his retirement.

Chapter 1

Present day Pakistan

I didn’t know how long I’d been in there.

It could have been day or night and I wouldn’t be any the wiser.

Everything was starting to blur.

I was so, so thirsty, but getting water wasn’t on my priority list right now.

At first it was just the basic questions. "What’s your name? Where are you from?"

I answered them as honestly as I could.

Then came the statements of the facts as the man saw them.

We know who you are Mr. Justice. So why not just tell us the truth.

I’m here on business. I would reply again and again.

I was so tired. I’d been awake on and off now for what seemed like an eternity.

So, why are you here Mr. Justice? The question came again.

This time I just looked at my interrogator, trying to buy a little time to figure out what might get me out of this situation.

Even though just by being here, in itself, it was a sure sign this was not destined to end well for me.

Then came the slaps, soft at first.

A lot like a naughty school boy getting a clip around the ear.

Please don’t lie to us Frank. My interrogator continued, followed immediately by another slap, harder this time, which made me automatically duck my head down, like I wanted to get my nose closer into my imaginary textbook.

You can’t do that! I shouted at him. Who do you think you are? I have rights!

The man, obviously a soldier from his uniform moved slowly behind me.

The next slap I received sent my head rebounding off the desk in front of me.

You have no rights here! He yelled into my ear, his foul smelling spittle, pebble dashing the side of my face.

I would have wiped it off, but for the fact that my hands were handcuffed to my chair.

So it just dripped slowly down towards my chin across the corner of my mouth and I had to try and wipe my cheek against my shoulder to get his slime off me.

I knew it was going to get worse.

I had been staying at the Barossa hotel in Islamabad.

Probably one of the nicest places that was considered safe for foreigners to stay at since the Marriott had been bombed.

My interviews had gone well and I was sure I’d nailed the man I needed for this project and I’d reported back to my back office.

My back office here, being part of the overseas security forces of the UK government.

Our target was a former 2 Star General, Ashif Musfar Khan, who had been identified as a very disgruntled

ex- military officer who had been overlooked for promotion to 4 Star General in the post-Musharaf government restructure and had promptly resigned in response to this open political slap in the face.

More importantly, though we knew Khan was patriotic to the core and would never intentionally do any harm to his beloved Pakistan, we also knew he was pro-Taliban and had strong connections to the Mumbai attack in 2009.

And his way of helping his motherland in his screwed up brain was to supply insurgents with weapons and explosives, using the Pakistan army’s own logistical network as the delivery service.

His government’s investigation into his activities had been undertaken by the infamous ISI, the state secret police and had taken several months and throughout that time, although he was eminently qualified for promotion, Khan’s career progression had been put on hold, hence his recent resignation.

Once his full involvement with the Taliban had been discovered, the decision had been made to remove him from the picture permanently and send yet another message to the insurgents that terrorism would not be tolerated.

The Pakistani government didn’t want anything leading back to them for fear of political and militant backlash, so an agreement was reached for the UK to carry out the deed covertly in return for a free exchange of future information.

His resignation from the military had prompted Khan to post his resume on a number of recruitment websites.

We could only assume that he was looking for a position in the private sector to provide a continuing cover for his liaisons with Taliban and other extremists.

We needed a lure; something that would appeal to his nature.

We had ascertained from our contacts in the Pakistani military that whilst he was particularly knowledgeable on the ongoing Kashmir border dispute and the tribal interactions in the area, he was overly fond of demonstrating his expertise to the point of arrogance to his peers.

Something which did nothing to endear him to those he worked with.

I decided to post a job description from a dummy recruitment company on some of the more prominent recruitment websites in the Middle East for a Chief Regional Political Analyst.

Anyone checking the company would find a fully fledged company with staff, offices, accounts etc.

The position described would be ideal for someone with experience of fluid, cross border relations and preferably from a military or security background and the position came with a generous salary plus expenses.

We now had to sit back and see what happened.

Surprisingly, it took some weeks before we got any hits from our area of interest and to be honest, most of the resumes we received were not relevant.

But five weeks into the project, our man Khan sent in his resume and we were in business.

I contacted our target and along with four other possible candidates fixed appointments for interviews in Islamabad.

The interviews went well with each of the prospects putting forward their best cases for gainful employment.

Once I’d interviewed Khan and pulled apart his resume, I arranged to meet him for the second and final interview the next day.

I’d arranged with him to meet me for an early evening meal at a local Afghani restaurant where I explained we would conclude the selection process and possibly look towards making him an offer.

This was also the place where we would have our people, a team of four special ops personnel, disguised as locals with two of them fluent in Pashto, the language of the border tribes between Afghanistan and Pakistan, pick him up outside the restaurant and drive him away, never to be seen again, with the blame for his disappearance resting firmly on insurgents.

I’d given him my mobile number and my room number at the hotel in case he had any problems in making our appointment.

But from his attitude and enthusiasm at the first interview, especially about the salary, I didn’t expect there would be any hiccups.

I arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early and took the opportunity to take a table towards the back of the restaurant away from the window, but in view of the door, so I couldn’t see events that would unfold outside at the arrival of Khan and therefore would not be linked to his disappearance.

I took the menu from the waiter and began to order a small selection of dishes to be served on the arrival of my guest.

Alcohol is forbidden in Pakistan, so I ordered a simple sparkling water with lime juice.

I checked the time on my Breitling Emergency Mission wristwatch, as 7pm, our appointed meeting time came and went.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable half an hour later as he still hadn’t showed and my call to his mobile phone went unanswered.

I began to suspect that he wouldn’t show and was about to ask for the bill, when my mobile rang.

Mr. Frank?

Yes, I answered. Is that Ashif?

I already knew it was him from the caller ID on my phone.

Yes and I’m very sorry not to be there Mr. Frank, but after talking to my wife I have decided not to take you up on your kind invitation for a second meeting. I feel that the position is just not right for me.

I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice.

I understand Ashif, but you do have all the qualities we are looking for. But if that’s your decision, I completely understand.

I had to let him go as to try and convince him otherwise would perhaps make him suspicious.

I wish you all the best Mr. Frank.

You too Ashif. Goodbye and good luck for the future, and I ended the call.

I sent a text message to a designated number without any message.

It would simply be read as the operation was to be aborted.

My team would simply fall back to their respective hotels and wait for further instructions.

I called for the bill after eating some of the food I’d ordered arrived, just for the sake of appearances and made my way back to the hotel.

I had decided to walk as it was only a few hundred meters to the hotel and it would give me the opportunity to think in the cool evening air.

As I walked, I ran the sequence of events over in my mind and there seemed to be no flaw in the projects’ plan.

Maybe Khan really had just had second thoughts?

I decided I would change my flight back home to the UK for the earlier time the next day and email the other candidates of their unsuccessful applications for our position.

I was just turning into Rashvandi Road, where the hotel was situated, when all the lights went out.

Or rather, my lights went out.

Chapter 2

The man moved to my front and as I lifted my head from the table, a dull pain settling in behind my eyes, I had to try hard to bring things into focus.

I saw that it was Ashif Musfar Khan standing over me in full military uniform.

Sorry about the err, lack of subtlety Mr. Frank, said Khan waving casually at the side of my head where I could feel the pain of where my kidnappers had hit me. But we didn’t have too much time to persuade you to visit with us.

What the hell are you doing Ashif? I shouted at him. What’s all this about?

You see Mr. Frank. We knew about you all along! He smiled knowingly, showing me a set of teeth that I was sure could induce severe sepsis should he ever decide to bite me and I smiled at the thought despite my current predicament.

My mistake.

His hand whipped across the table and he backhanded me across the nose which I felt split at the impact.

Probably due in the main from the gold coin ring he wore on his middle finger.

The blood poured immediately and began to pool around my chin as I lowered my head to the table to let the tears streaming from my eyes dissipate.

But as I did so, he grabbed my hair and bounced my forehead off the table again so hard that I saw stars and my eyes started to lose focus.

He came closer and leaned in to me, breathing foul air from his mouth as he explained, You see Mr. Frank, because we know you were sent to kill me, I thought I would have some fun with you and send a message back to the scum traitorous government we have in my beloved Pakistan that they cannot stop our progress! And with Allah’s blessing we will expel the traitors and return Pakistan to Islamic glory!

Even through the fog of my pain, it was clear that someone had talked.

Certainly not someone from our side, but without a doubt someone from the Pakistani side had sold us out.

Someone with either an axe to grind, or more likely, someone who held views the same as this bastard Khan.

In this country, the state secret service, the ISI, were well known for their double dealings and on more than one occasion operations had been compromised resulting in tragic losses of life because of a subtle word here or there, often made in the pursuit of financial or political gain on behalf of the ever forceful Taliban ideology.

I have no idea what you are talking about Ashif. I said almost pleadingly.

But I knew I was just treading water, trying to buy a little time before the inevitable: either a bullet in the head or worse: a video recorder, a dull knife and a starring role in my very own snuff movie.

Khan motioned to two men who were standing in the corner of the room behind me.

Stand him up and chain him to the wall, he ordered.

One of the men stood behind me and held me secure, while the other unlocked my handcuffs.

I seized the moment and shoved myself backwards into the man behind me, knocking him off balance and temporarily freeing my hands.

One of the innovative things about the Breitling Emergency Mission watch is the emergency transponder which when activated sends out a sort of homing beacon signal allowing any emergency service looking for you to track the signal and hopefully locate you.

Right now it was my only hope and I pulled on the transmitter toggle located on the side of the watch even as the blow from a baton wielded by Khan landed in my lower back and floored me.

I felt more blows on my back and as the lights dimmed all over again all I could do was hope.

I was dragged upright and gasped as water was thrown into my face.

I looked left and right and saw that as well as the same men standing next to the door, my hands were manacled to the wall in a sort of crude crucifix and my watch was missing.

It would soon be over. At least I’d tried.

Khan was standing in front of me holding a telephone directory and I could only try to imagine what he was intending to do next.

Ashif, I want you to… I tried to say, but my words faltered as he put his index finger up to his lips.

Shh, Mr. Frank, he smiled softly, still baring his brown and putrid looking teeth.

You need to understand that right now it wouldn’t matter if this were all an unfortunate mistake.

I couldn’t find fault with his logic.

Even if his information was incorrect, this situation had gone too far to be reversed.

Nearly over. Hopefully.

He saw me looking at the telephone directory,

Oh and this? he said, holding up the book. I was told once that if you hit a man directly with a bat or something like that, it will hurt and break bones. But if you place a thick book on him first and then hit the book, it causes a sort of transference of energy and leads to painful internal damage, but relatively little visible damage.

The thought of him wanting to save me from visible injury registered as an absurd notion given my present condition.

But thankfully I never had to find out just how effective his method was.

As a guard walked over to take the directory from Khan, the room erupted in a blinding flash followed immediately by a bang that stunned everybody in the room into stillness.

The lights in the room went out and there were shots in the ensuing darkness, almost silent with only the telltale muzzle flashes that gave them away.

The two men guarding me dropped immediately, both with additional ventilation holes in their foreheads and Khan who tried to reach for a pistol in his side holster was almost cut in half by shots from three different attackers.

An eerie silence came over the room and I was still in a state of shock from the flash-bangs that had been used to subdue my captors, as I felt my hands come free as a pair of bolt cutters severed the locks that held my hands.

Come on lad. Let’s get you out of here before any more of ‘is troops arrive, came a voice muffled by a full face mask. Wouldn’t do us any good to have another gunfight this evening. The voice close to my ear said.

I couldn’t summon the strength to answer and just grinned stupidly as though I was coming out of a drunken stupor.

Poor bugger’s been through the ringer tonight Mitch, said another.

He’ll be alright Evans, with rest and a few stitches. Now let’s be off.

Rough hands grabbed me and I was supported by a man either side of me as we left the building.

Looking back over my shoulder I saw someone dousing the doorway with what smelled like gasoline and my suspicions were confirmed when moments later the building went up in flames.

I was hauled into the back of a tarpaulin covered truck where I was allowed to close my eyes and thank my lucky stars at my rescue.

I was exhausted and I hurt in more places than I thought were possible.

But I was so, so grateful to my team for finding me.

But just as I was slipping into unconsciousness, the truck hit a pothole in the road and I was jolted awake and I looked over at the men who had rescued me.

Thanks guys. I thought I was a goner there. I said

You would have been, replied the man called Evans. If it weren’t for the distress signal we picked up. Although it was so faint we couldn’t triangulate your position for ages

I remembered my watch. Yeah the watch came in handy there, I said.

Stuff your watch Frank, that piece of crap is useless, he answered grinning. It was the RFID chip Trev had stitched into your wallet. Without that you’d have been toast buddy.

The truck rumbled on towards the team’s rendezvous point and I just relaxed and again thanked whatever fairy godmother was looking over me tonight.

As we rumbled down the road toward our rendezvous point, the drumming rhythm of the truck’s ageing Volvo engine lulled me into a deep slumber.

I woke after what seemed like ages to see the man we called Mitch on his mobile phone, animated in his conversation.

He ended the call a few minutes later and turned to us.

And in his northern English accent we had all heard so often he said,

We’ve got another job on lads. A right job an’ all.

Chapter 3

Growing up, money had been scarce.

I was the youngest of five kids, with a great mum who worked part time at a nursing home to help make ends meet and a dad who, after being used to working hard since the age of 14, had been made redundant at the wrong side of 50 and had found it tough, suffering also with gradually failing health, to find a decent regular paying job when there were so many youngsters who could work for much less money and potentially a lot longer.

They worked hard all their life to give their family a decent upbringing, never complaining and never allowing financial constraints to compromise their inherent decency.

They never allowed us, their kids to go to school without decent food inside them and clean uniforms to wear, no matter how hard things were.

But as I grew, I knew deep down I would never let myself, or my own to struggle like my parents had needed too.

How events can conspire to prove you so wrong.

I’d left school at 17 and started off working for one of the high street banks, but finally after three years of striving to swim against the tide, I finally came to the

conclusion that working in retail banking was a mugs game.

There was just no money in it and office politics were not my game.

I left the bank and went to work for a succession of brokerage firms, working my way into the finance industry and creating a decent reputation for myself.

But it never seemed to be enough. I needed more.

So, here I was now 34 years old.

I had a wonderful family and two just adorable kids, but I wanted more for them; and needed more for me.

My wife Lynne was doing great in her legal career and life was ok, in that monotonous unchanging way how things can become without you ever even noticing it happening.

I was bored and unchallenged in my job and as usual, I was scouting through the brokerage jobs online, when I saw an ad for a Hong Kong firm looking for a manager in Bangkok.

It didn’t take much persuasion for Lynne to see the attraction in moving abroad for a few years. It would give us all a change of scenery and give the kids some great new experiences.

Well, that was the theory.

I flew to Hong Kong to meet with my soon to be, new employers at their head office and was amazed at the dynamism that was shown to me by each member of the firm.

I spent several days being introduced to each director of the company all of whom had their own specialties and I knew inside it wouldn’t take much to persuade me to move my family out to the city known affectionately as The Big Mango, Bangkok.

Upon returning to the UK, I related everything that had been discussed with my Lynne, who had already began to research Thailand and its language and customs, although I had to remind her that I hadn’t yet been formally offered the position.

But we didn’t have to wait long, as very quickly within that same week, my package was confirmed.

Within 3 months, we’d had the garage sale, put our remaining effects into storage, rented out our house and caught a plane to Bangkok.

It was a culture shock for all of us at first; with Lynne getting used to taking the kids to their new school every day, coming to terms with the whole foreign atmosphere and learning a whole new language that bore no resemblance to English, or to my eyes, anything at all.

But gradually, things began to settle down into a steady routine and before the year was out, Lynne and the kids had settled in well and my new career was taking off fine.

I found it remarkably easy to gain new clients and within months I was wondering why we hadn’t made this move before.

And Lynne, who was normally more reserved in her judgment of things, even said how much she was enjoying her new life of leisure, happy to meet with her new expat-wife friends at the social clubs and fitness centres that we went to regularly.

How she felt about the whole situation was important to me, because if she and the kids were happy, it then left me to get on with the business of earning money.

It had got to the point when, because business was almost walking through the door for me, I was even able to make time to rent a condo down at Jomtien, a beach resort a couple of hours drive South from Bangkok, where we’d spend many weekends just chilling out and really enjoying quality family time.

Really things, I thought couldn’t be much better.

But then, only a couple of years down the line, my employers hit some hard times and my salary went unpaid for several months.

The lack of income was beginning to bite as our new lifestyle still needed to be supported and the assurances that the firms’ owners made to me about the company catching up with their commitments went unfulfilled.

I knew I was going to have to make some decisions.

And of those was whether to move back to Birmingham to start all over again, or to go it alone.

One thing was for sure, we couldn’t carry on this way for too long.

As days and weeks went by, the stress of our lack of income was taking its toll on us as a family and though