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was eerie because the effect of their words was dramatic. The detainee responded as though to a series of blows.

Suddenly the man cried out and started to talk. At first he muttered, looking down at his feet. Then his voice grew stronger.

He was thin and his bones protruded. His face was clouded by anger and resentment.

‘What’s he saying?’ Kila asked.

‘Just a minute.’ Asma broke into English. ‘Give us a bit of bleeding time. We’re getting there.’

She obviously was English. She had some sort of accent, maybe London. Disappointingly rough, thought Weeks. Although she didn’t look it.

The detainee sighed and said something and the women backed away. Asma looked at her watch. She pointed to something and the man turned his chair to get a closer look. Weeks tried to see what she had shown him, without success. He looked at Iain Kila for guidance.

‘Saying his prayers. He got disoriented by the blindfold so she had to tell him which way to Mecca.’

Nobody took their eyes off the prisoner as he prayed.

‘Looking good.’ The other CSM walked over to them. ‘Looking very good.’

‘So what the hell is going on?’ Kila asked.

‘We’ve passed the first stage,’ Jean said. She had a Scottish accent.

‘Which is?’ Weeks asked.

‘
I’m visiting my relatives and I just got caught up in the firing, I don’t know anything about it.
’

‘So what’s he saying now?’ Kila asked.

‘He’s telling us about Taliban activities in this area. But he’s not telling us exactly where.’

‘The OC wants it all.’

‘He’ll have it. Don’t forget, we haven’t even started on the other one yet.’

Weeks listened to her soft Scots accent and wondered how she had learned fluent Pashtu.

‘Um . . . doesn’t the detainee have a serious leg injury?’

‘Not that serious.’ Kila’s tone was defensive.

‘But he was hit!’ Weeks said.

The woman paused. ‘Skimmed. Not hit. And he’s received medical attention.’ Her voice was stiff, as though the officer had made an accusation.

She moved back to the table and spoke quietly to her colleague. Asma kept her back to Weeks and continued to ignore him. When the prisoner had finished praying, she invited him to return to the table. She started to talk. Her tone was coaxing.

Suddenly the man’s voice rose. He began to shout. He jumped to his feet and roared hoarsely at the beautiful, dark woman. His arms struggled against his plasticuffs. His face thickened with anger.

Asma produced a pistol, so quickly that Weeks hardly saw her. She darted to the prisoner and held it against his head. The man froze. His speech was halted mid-sentence. His eyes stared straight ahead. The room was silent. Jean moved up to his other side and began to whisper in his ear as Asma slid the safety off the pistol. The man heard it. He still didn’t move. Jean carried on whispering.

The detainee swallowed. He sank back down into his chair. And began to talk. The women took it in turns to ask him questions. Boss Weeks recognized the same question more than once. The pistol did not move from his head.

‘What’s he saying?’ Kila was almost beside himself with impatience. But the two women ignored him.

Gordon Weeks was shocked. He waited for Asma to put away the pistol. It remained firmly pressed against the prisoner’s temple.

‘Isn’t this a bit . . . unethical?’

Kila turned to look him full in the face for the first time. He seemed to have trouble focusing, as if the young officer was so insignificant that he was barely visible to the naked eye.

‘This man’s got information. We want it.’ His lips hardly moved.

For a few moments, Weeks did not reply. He found his mouth was dry. ‘Carrying a pistol in an interview, let alone threatening with it, is contrary to all rules of tactical questioning.’

Asma heard him. She gave him a steady glare before turning back to the detainee.

‘We’re not at Sandhurst now. This is the real world. Sir.’

A few