Trailing Our Man in Afghanistan

Does London now have its very own Man In Afghanistan? The sighting of a tall distinguished diplomat, believed English, among all the American spooks and special forces now pouring into this part of the country was enough to send me scurrying in search to the hills.

He was said to be well mannered and to take tea on the veranda of a government guest house deep in the Panshir Valley. I headed up-country, and was soon lost in the twisting ravines and towering mountains.

Seven times the Russians tried to blast the Mujahideen guerrillas - many now leading the Northern Alliance - out of this rocky fastness. The rusting tanks of their failures still litter this valley.

Hidden side valleys and high-walled compounds contain many of the Alliance's most precious secrets - including, it is said, this diplomat on her Majesty's Service, living in a guest house whispered to have not just furniture but a flushing toilet.

Sightings of American spooks in recent days have become routine. They arrive by helicopter or private plane on farmland close to the front line north of Kabul. Press vehicles speed to the runway as the Americans, in sneakers, jeans and sports jackets, are hustled into Alliance army jeeps.

The British are more refined. Like the US, London has turned its back on diplomacy, limited air strikes and attempts to foment revolt in the Taliban ranks. But it is trying something else too: persuading Northern Alliance president Burhanuddin Rabbani that, if we give him the guns he needs, his men will not follow their victory against the Taliban with the traditional Afghan practice of revenge and mayhem.

My search for the point-man in all these negotiations took me far up the Panshir, past little villages of mud huts and children guiding donkeys laden with bags of rice and flour.

Finally, there were the neat whitewashed walls of Government Guest House Number One. A few staff sauntered about, telling me that no European had been seen in these parts.

And then he arrived, jumping out of a pickup truck and stalking up the hill to the entrance with two anxious bearded minders in tow.

"Foreign office?" I had time to call as the figure, tall, mid-50s, flaxen-haired, marched past.

He was clad, as if for a brisk walk on the Pennines, in sturdy boots, sensible trousers and a green anorak.

But he kept his head down and his mouth shut, and in moments was bundled inside the guest house by one minder while the other barred the door.

"What do you want?" he said, in the most impeccable English.

"To meet our Man in Afghanistan," I said. He replied: "I am from the Protocol Department. You must leave here." As I walked away I caught a twitch of the lace curtains from an upstairs window.

Whoever he is, the man in the green anorak will have his work cut out.

Sorting out the keen but ragtag Northern Alliance into the kind of force that can destroy the larger and fanatical Taliban will be hard enough.

But the real work comes later, in the attempts to glue this wrecked country back together again. I can only hope he has packed plenty of Earl Grey.