Undersea Prison Read Online Free PDF

stepped carefully between two parked cars to avoid the muddy gutter, crossed the pavement and passed through a small brick archway.
    He entered a stone courtyard, immediately turned the corner towards a large wooden door and on reaching it he knocked on it. He turned his back on the door and studied the dark, silent courtyard that was surrounded by shadowy alcoves. A gust of wind blew a collection of leaves in a circle in the middle of the courtyard before scattering them into a corner. A bolt was loudly thrown back behind the door and Durrani turned around as it opened wide enough for a man with a gun in his hand to look through and examine him.
    The man’s name was Sena and Durrani had seen him before in the service of the mullah. He was tall and gaunt and, despite the gun, looked unthreatening. Durrani suspected the man had never fired a shot in his life and would probably drop the weapon and run if he were to kick the door open. Sena stepped back to allow Durrani inside, secured the door again, and led him along a corridor, holding the gun at his side as if it was a tiresome appendage. Two Taliban fighters lounged on the floor, staring up at Durrani. They were dressed in grubby black and brown robes and wore long black beards. Two AK47 rifles were leaning against the wall between them. Neither man made any attempt to shift his dirty sandalled feet out of the way as the other men stepped over them.
    Sena opened a door at the end of the corridor and led the way down a short flight of stairs to the bottom where two more fighters stood smoking strong cigarettes - the small space stank of tobacco. Sena knocked on the only door on the landing and waited patiently. A voice eventually summoned them and Sena pushed the door open and stepped to one side, indicating that Durrani should enter.
    Durrani stepped inside a long narrow windowless room illuminated by a lamp on a desk at the far end. The door closed behind him. Sena remained in the corridor outside.
    The room was sparsely furnished: a chair behind the desk, two more against a wall and several cushions on a worn rug. A mullah, dressed completely in black, was replacing a book on a shelf behind his desk. He turned to face Durrani as the door was closed and he studied his guest solemnly. A moment later his face cracked into a thin, devilish smile. ‘That was a good job you did today,’ he said.
    ‘It was my duty,’ Durrani replied courteously.
    The mullah’s gaze dropped to the case in Durrani’s hands.
    Durrani stepped forward and placed it on the desk. ‘You have not opened it?’ the mullah asked as he put on a pair of expensive spectacles.
    ‘Of course not.’
    The mullah took hold of the chain, raised it to its full length, released it and turned the case around so the locks were facing him. A brief test proved that they were locked as he suspected. ‘Sena!’ he called out.
    The door opened and Sena looked in.
    ‘A hammer and screwdriver,’ the mullah ordered.
    Sena closed the door.
    The mullah took a packet of cheap African Woodbines from a pocket, removed one, placed it in his mouth and offered the pack to Durrani.
    ‘No. Thank you,’ Durrani said.
    The mullah pocketed the packet, dug a lighter out and lit the cigarette. He blew a thick stream of strong smoke into the room as he turned the case over to check the other side. ‘It was British?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How many dead?’
    ‘I don’t know. It was burning. One or two, perhaps, plus the crew.’
    The mullah stared coldly into Durrani’s unwavering eyes. He had known the fighter for many years, having first encountered him during the Taliban’s capture of Kandahar. ‘You look tired, old friend. Are you well?’
    ‘I am well. You are kind to ask.’
    ‘Would you like some tea?’
    ‘Not right now. But thank you.’
    The door opened and Sena returned with the tools.
    ‘Open it,’ the mullah ordered briskly, impatient to know the briefcase’s contents.
    Durrani placed the case on its side with