A Devil Is Waiting (21 page)

“Captain Slay? Hamza’s the name. I command the military police here, but Roper will have told you that. You’re an old Sandhurst hand, I hear.”

“That’s right, and so are you.”

“Something in common. I’ll take you to your hotel.” A jeep roared up, a bearded sergeant in a scarlet turban at the wheel. They drove away, and Hamza said, “It’s better to stay out of the downtown area. Lots of refugees from the tribal areas. Al Qaeda’s made us one of the most bombed cities in the world.”

“There seems to be no end in sight,” Greg said.

T
hey turned in through an archway with a faded painted sign above it that said “Rangoon Hotel” and strongly hinted of better days, as did the cracks in the walls of the main building, but there was a fountain, which was actually working, and, inside, the old-fashioned fans stirred the air as they must have done for years.

Colonel Hamza introduced the manager, a dignified and bearded old man who wore a frock coat over traditional dress. “Omar has never forgiven the British for leaving India.”

“You are wrong, Colonel. I have never forgiven myself for not leaving with them,” Omar said, and told a porter, “Captain Slay’s bag to Cottage Three.”

“Let him take it, but you come and have tea on the terrace with me,” Hamza said to Greg. “We need to talk.” He led the way through an extensive bar area, where staff were already turning on lights and making ready for the evening.

“A caravanserai for travelers, just like the old days, only these are pilots, cabin crews, transients between planes. No tourists at all, as you would expect. Terrorism is strangling the world.”

They sat on old wicker chairs opposite each other at a small table. The waiter who served them was so old, he seemed to move in slow motion.

Hamza sipped his tea. “I have history with Ferguson and Miller, and I hate everything Al Qaeda stands for, so in this matter I’m totally on your side. Commanding the military police has given me considerable power. People tend to do as I say.”

“I bet they do,” Greg said.

“On the other hand, the Pakistani Army can’t be seen to be involved with anything that takes place across the border. That’s why the only solution to the present problem is an illegal flight.”

“In an aging Russian helicopter that wasn’t much good in the first place,” Greg told him. “What does this Wali Hussein get up to anyway?”

“Drug trafficking, mostly, and guns for the Taliban. A very unsavory crook. His mother is American, and when his father was killed, she took the boy to Florida and raised him there until he was eighteen, so he can’t speak Pashtu—not that it matters. Nearly everybody can speak English here. He came back because his grandfather left him property here.”

“He doesn’t sound like the most trustworthy guy on the block,” Slay said.

“He isn’t. How did you get mixed up in this?”

“I was recruited by Major Giles Roper because of my experience flying helicopters in war zones. I have my own setup in Hazar now, next to Rubat and Yemen.”

“So I understand. What do you know about General Charles Ferguson?”

“A great soldier who walks on corpses, if needed, to get the job done.”

“And Roper?”

“A George Cross man, Colonel.” Slay nodded. “A true hero.”

“So tell me what he expects you to do.”

“Fly the Prime Minister’s personal representative and his support team in across the border to Amira to snatch Mullah Ali Selim.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Roper warned that Downing Street is all atwitter, worried about the possibility that Amira might be swarming with Taliban, putting Miller in danger—putting them all in danger, comes to that.”

“What’s your opinion?” Hamza said.

“I don’t have one. I’m a pilot. I fly missions, that’s what I do. And I do it well.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are adept at looking after yourself. Are you carrying?”

“With the kind of security in airports these days?” Slay smiled. “Do I look like that kind of guy?”

“Yes, you do.” Slay produced a .25 Belgian Leon from the holster on his right ankle.

“Some people might say it’s a woman’s gun.” Hamza weighed it in his hands.

“Not with hollow-point cartridges.”

“Yes, that would make a difference.” Hamza checked his watch. “The Gulfstream won’t be in for some time. We’ll drop you at the hotel while I show my face at headquarters, then I’ll take you to meet Wali Hussein, and you can run your eye over the Raptor.”

H
ussein Air, as it was called, was in one of several old aircraft hangars on the outer edge of the complex, and about as far from the control block and concourse as it was possible to be. The doors of the hangar were closed, but there was a small
Judas gate through which Slay and the colonel entered, leaving the sergeant and the jeep outside.

The hangar was in half darkness and there was an all-pervading odor that was a mixture of damp cold, oil, and aviation fuel. There was music playing softly from above, Latin American rhythms, and a flight of steel steps led up to a railed landing and an office with glass walls and a light on.

“Wali Hussein, where are you?” Hamza called in English.

There was an old Cessna 310 to one side of the hangar and a Raptor helicopter parked toward the rear, close to the engineering section, where an engine, suspended by chains and pulleys, hung close to one of the benches.

“Nothing to do with our requirements, I hope,” Hamza said.

The main door of the Raptor had been pushed back so that one could see into the interior, and Slay was already pulling himself inside. Hamza joined him. It was larger than Slay had expected, quite cavernous, with a bench seat and a high superstructure, housing seats for two pilots. He mounted four steel rungs and slid into the right-hand seat.

He had never flown this aircraft before, but it felt completely familiar to him, in spite of the fact that all the instrumentation was in Russian, which he could not read. He knew exactly what everything was for, though, after the vast range of helicopters he’d flown over the years.

“It’s a dinosaur, it belongs in a museum, but I like it,” he said.

“She’ll fly
you
,” a voice broke in, and they turned to view the man who was leaning in. “Raptors have a mind of their own.” He was small and aggressive, his skin olive and eyes blue
hinting at his mixed blood. He wore a khaki shirt and jeans, and a baseball cap pulled down over long hair.

“Where are the other two?” Hamza asked.

“Islamabad. They both needed work done on the engines that I can’t do here.” He had a distinct American accent.

“Where are your flight mechanics?” Greg asked.

“Islamabad with my two pilots.”

“So what if we want this up and running first thing in the morning?” Greg asked. “Are you capable of checking it out?”

“Hey, I fly them, but I’m no mechanic, man.” He was obviously on something. “Anyway, I was flying it yesterday, and it was fine.”

“Not for me, my friend, not when we’re faced with the kind of flight we’re going to make on the other side. It’s a long night ahead, so you can help me.”

“Can I? Hell, that wasn’t in the deal. You wanted to hire a helicopter, and there it is. What makes you so special anyway?”

“Because as a captain in the British Army Air Corps for the last fifteen years, he’s flown more helicopters in more wars than you’ve had hot dinners,” Hamza said.

He lightly tapped his swagger stick against Wali’s chest. “You’ve been snorting coke again, I can always tell. I imagine you’ve left your supply on the desk. I’ll send Sergeant Hamid to find it. He’s a religious man, so he’ll be disgusted enough to take you down to the military prison. We’re rather full at the moment. It can be very unpleasant in the showers.”

“You lousy bastard,” Wali Hussein said.

“Time you learned that.” Hamza turned to Slay. “Is there anything else?”

“There’s a mounting for a machine gun.”

“Have you got it?” Hamza asked Wali Hussein.

“They didn’t have the guns when I bought them.”

Hamza said to Slay, “I’ll see you get one.”

“Pineapple fragmentation grenades would be good, and a couple of AK-47s. A launcher and some RPGs would also be useful.”

“You’re going to war, then?”

“A few of those grenades dropped from on high can have a salutary effect.”

“I can imagine. I’ll see you later when the others get in. After Sergeant Hamid drops me, I’ll send him back. He speaks English, and he’s a good man. Maybe he can help you with that engine, and he can certainly kick Wali Hussein up the backside if he needs it.”

He went out through the Judas, and Slay turned to notice that Hussein had mounted the steel steps and was going up to the office. He went after him, found the door open and Hussein leaning across the desk.

There was a line of cocaine lying ready, a bag of the stuff beside it, the white powder round his mouth and nose when he turned to look at Slay. There was also an open bottle of Cossack vodka, a half-filled glass beside it.

Slay picked it up. “They wouldn’t be very pleased about this down at the mosque.” The toilet door was ajar; he walked in and emptied the bottle down the bowl.

“You bastard.” Hussein lunged at him.

Slay slapped him backhanded twice, then picked up the bag of cocaine. “Let’s just flush it away.”

Hussein’s face was contorted, and he was close to tears. “No, don’t do that,” he pleaded.

“Then let’s play question-and-answer. This place Amira—it’s Taliban, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you don’t know. The colonel seems to think you deal in guns with them.”

“You don’t go to them unless they send for you, and they’ve never sent for me from Amira. Most of the people only speak Pashtu, and I can’t. Blame my Yank mother. The rest speak very little English. I only know it by reputation. It’s a bad place.”

“No word of anyone special being there?”

“No!” Wali Hussein cried. “And if I start asking round the bazaar, they’d be at my door within the hour, wanting to know what was going on. Get one thing straight, pal.” He was suddenly all-American. “These Taliban bastards make the Mafia look like a Sunday-school outing. They think they’ve got God on their side when they cut your throat.”

“And what about Al Qaeda?”

Wali Hussein laughed wearily. “So what can I say? It’s in the police force, it’s in government, it’s in the schools, and the Taliban are the foot soldiers. They probably know about you now, but if they don’t, they soon will. I’d go back to where you came from, I really would.”

There was the sound of the jeep down below. Slay said, “That will be Sergeant Hamid, arriving to give me a hand.” He tossed the bag of cocaine to Hussein. “I notice a convenient bunk back there. I’d go to bed, if I were you, and stay out of his way.”

Hussein retreated, and Slay went down the steps, taking off his flying jacket as Hamid got out of the jeep and came to join
him with a bag in one hand. He had opened the hangar doors to get in, and it was raining outside.

“Not good flying weather,” Slay said.

“The forecast is bad for the next few days, sahib.” Hamid held up the bag. “Tea and coffee, various things to eat and keep us going.” He put the bag on the bench. “So what do we do first?”

“We need the engine cowling off,” Slay told him. “So let’s get started.”

I
t was seven o’clock in the morning when the Gulfstream landed at Peshawar International, the normally impressive background of the mountains of the northwest frontier shrouded in heavy rain.

Colonel Hamza was standing under a canopy, a Burberry trench coat hanging from his shoulders, a van beside him, and another of his sergeants wearing a yellow slicker. A couple of porters ran forward with large umbrellas as Ferguson led the way down the steps.

“My goodness, Colonel, the rains seem to have come early this year. It’s good to see you.”

“I’ll take you along to the Rangoon and help you settle in,” Hamza said. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”

Lacey called from the Gulfstream. “We’ve got to sort out a few things with the plane, sir. We’ll be in touch later.”

The rest of them piled into the van. As it drove away, Ferguson asked, “Where’s Captain Slay? I thought he’d be here.”

“He and one of my sergeants have been working all night. I called on them a short while ago with weaponry he wanted, including a machine gun for mounting in the Raptor. He told me the engine was now ready.”

“And this Wali Hussein chap?”

“Knows where he stands, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know whether he’ll be much good to you.”

“Well, I must say Gregory Slay has come up trumps in my book,” Ferguson said. “I look forward to meeting him.”

S
lay and Hamid showered in the staff quarters at the back of the hangar. It had been a hard night, but it had been worth it, Slay told himself as he got dressed. There had been plenty that had needed taking care of. He was so pleased that he actually felt full of energy as he stood looking at the old Raptor, and Hamid had hosed it down to finish things off.