'Simple,' Omar said. 'We kill you.'

The guy was as subtle as a horse turd in the cream pitcher.

I couldn't sleep for the next two nights. Every time I tried to concentrate on something, a hooded gentleman with a scythe would come into my view. And I would begin shaking like a jackhammer.

To make matters worse, a blue norther arrived on 11 March, bringing with it screaming winds and more rain in one day than I had seen in the last five months. It was a real gulley-washer, with thunder and lightning. As sheets of rain struck the house, I thought of Mom. I thought of Mizz Henrietta Loretta. I thought about the Undertaker. About that freak April snow in Waco. I even thought of pa. But most of all I thought of a woman I had never even seen.

I woke up on 12 March and was told by Teknikal that there was still no word from the President. I was given a nice breakfast which I didn't touch, and then I was taken to Abu Khaled.

'Mr Page, looks like your people have decided to sacrifice you. Now you know why I call the Americans heartless. You better say your prayers.'

'Let me kill him, Boss,' Omar said, full of piss and vinegar. Ever since he bonked that girl he had become queer as a three-dollar bill.

'No, Chief, I will do it,' Teknikal said quietly.

I was ushered out of the house and taken to an open field which was slicker than owl shit with all that rain. Omar handed me a shovel. 'Come on, dig your grave, American pig,' he barked.

For half an hour I slaved over that trench, shovelling soil out of the hole in the ground that would be my final resting place. Finally, the grave was ready. The sun was halfway into the sky by then. A few birds chirped in the sunshine. It didn't look at all like someone was going to die.

Teknikal took out a black piece of cloth from his trousers. 'Would you like to be blindfolded?'

'No. I want to see what you guys are doing,' I said.

'Very brave, just like Saddam,' he mumbled. His AK-47 brushed against my leg. I was pretending to be brave, but inside I was shaking like a leaf.

They say when you're about to die your whole life flashes before your eyes. Well, that's not true, coz the only thing that flashed before my eyes was a crow, and an ugly one at that.

'Come on, just do it, Abu Teknikal,' Omar urged, looking at me through a video camera.

Abu Khaled recited a prayer in Arabic. For himself, or for me, I didn't know.

'Any last wish?' Teknikal asked me in a low voice. I knew he had grown fond of me, just as a family grows fond of a pet dog. But even pet dogs are put down when the time comes.

'Any last wish?' Teknikal repeated.

I thought about it. They wouldn't have any chocolate brownies in this hick town. That's when I noticed Teknikal had the sat-phone in his pocket. 'Can I make one phone call?' I asked.

'Who will you speak to?'

I first thought of calling Mom, but she would worry the warts off a frog and I didn't want to spoil her supper.

'There is only one person I would like to speak to before dying. The woman I love.'

'And who is she?'

'Her name is Shabnam Saxena.'

'Shabnam Saxena? The actress?' Omar suddenly became interested.

'Yeah. She is my fiancée. We were going to get married.'

'The bastard is lying, Abu Teknikal,' Omar shouted. 'There is no way he can know Shabnam Saxena.'

'I have her picture in my wallet, and also her mobile phone number,' I said.

'Let me check the bastard's wallet.' Omar ran to me and took out the wallet from my hip pocket.

I heard him whistle. 'The bastard wasn't lying. He does have Shabnam's picture.'

'Show me, show me,' Teknikal said and snatched the picture from Omar.

He whistled too. 'Oh my God! She is the most beautiful woman I have seen in my life.'

'Abu Teknikal, can I talk to her one last time?' I interjected.

Omar turned to Abu Khaled. 'Boss, the bitch wears very few clothes in her films. Very un-Islamic. Can I be in charge of the operation to kidnap her?'

'I want nothing to do with this woman.' Abu Khaled shook his head.

'Give me her number,' Teknikal said. 'I've got the Thuraya and I've put it on speakerphone.'

'No, I'll speak with her,' Omar said, and snatched the phone from Teknikal. He extracted a slip of paper from my wallet. 'I've got the bitch's number.'

He dialled the number and the call went through.

I was expecting the recorded voice to come on as usual when suddenly someone picked up the phone.

'Who is this?' I heard a woman's voice say. My heartbeat quickened.

'Do you know who you are talking to, bitch? This is Commander Abu Omar. Number five in Lashkar-e-Shahadat.'

'Excuse me?'

'You better watch out, bitch. You are doing obscene films and wearing skimpy clothes. We are going to kidnap you. Then we will torture you and kill you.'

'Is this some kind of joke?'

'No, Shabbo, this is not a joke.'

'Shabbo? You've got the wrong number.'

'Wrong number? You are not Shabnam Saxena? Then who are you?'

'This is Elizabeth Brookner, US Embassy.'

'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Omar.

'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Khaled. 'Who's she?'

'Chief, Elizabeth Brookner has been the CIA Station Chief in India since 2006,' Teknikal replied. 'A Summa Cum Laude from Stanford University, she joined the CIA in 1988 and has served in Ukraine, Jordan and Kuwait. She is an expert on Al Qaeda. Fuck!'

'This means this bastard has double-crossed us.' Khaled wagged a finger at me.

'Kill him. Just kill him!' Omar screamed.

'No, first we have to find out his connection to the CIA,' said Khaled.

So, for the next ten minutes, I had to explain how I happened to have Elizabeth Brookner's mobile number in my wallet. Then Khaled gave a signal and Teknikal put the AK-47 to my head. He was hiding his eyes, trying not to look at me. 'Don't worry,' he whispered. 'There will be no pain at all. It will be over in a second.'

Suddenly there came the sound of a giant flapping, a rat-a-tata- tat-a-tat-a.

'What in Allah's name is that?' asked Abu Khaled, pointing to a strange-looking object which appeared over the hill like a rising cloud.

'That, Chief, looks suspiciously like an MQ-1 Predator drone – that is, a medium-altitude, long-endurance unmanned aerial vehicle system, and what is worse, it is equipped with two laserguided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles,' croaked Teknikal. 'The Brookner bitch has triangulated us. And even as I speak, the missiles have been fir-'

There was a flash of fire and a big explosion. The earth shook, something sharp hit my leg and I toppled into the trench. All the soil I had dug out fell in after me, almost burying me. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to fight my way out of the grave. I came out choking and wheezing. There was mud in my ears, mud in my eyes, mud in my mouth. My left leg felt as if a chainsaw had run through it. There was a raw wound, an inch deep, just below my knee, from which blood was still dripping.

The area looked like it had been visited by the Terminator. The ground had been ploughed up, leaving craters the size of a bathroom.

Abu Khaled and Abu Omar had been blown to pieces. I saw a mangled hand here, a crumpled leg there.

Teknikal lay bleeding on the other side of the trench. I dragged myself to him and cradled his head in my lap. His chest was heaving and he was struggling for breath.

He looked up at me. 'Do you think they have broadband in heaven, Mr Page?' he asked, and his head lolled down and his eyes closed. He looked kind of dead to me.

I ran from the scene as fast as my one good leg could carry me. The wind whirled around, groaning and moaning like a woman in labour. I ran past mud houses and startled villagers. I scattered herds of goats and flocks of pigeons. I charged down a hill, came to a river and jumped in. On the other side of the river I found a gravel road. I was making progress. The road ended at what looked like some kind of warehouse. A rusted sign at the entrance said 'Hafiz Timber Exports, Keran'. I pushed open the metal doors of the warehouse. They were unlocked and I entered to find stacks of lumber, but not a soul around. 'Hello! Is anyone home?' I shouted, but only heard the echo of my voice. I ventured further and discovered chainsaws and machetes, axes and choppers. The floor was covered with dried grease and oil stains. I followed a trail of oil and came upon an extraordinary sight. A forklift stood in a corner of the warehouse. It was a Nissan Nomad AF30 and looked like it had diesel in the tank. I cranked the engine, and it worked! My spirits rose like a corncob in a cistern. Two minutes later I was driving down the gravel road, shouting 'Hee-haw!' and breaking every forklift speed record in the book. Those idiots at the Cisco Rodeo should have seen me go. I'd have shown them how a forklift with a maximum speed of 10.6 mph could do twenty without blowing the engine.