A Devil Is Waiting (24 page)

There was no one at home, although a fire smoldered on a stone hearth. Dillon and Holley had taken Uzi machine pistols from the bag and passed another to Sara. They all went down to floor level as a storm of bullets few in, splintering the wooden shutters at the windows.

“I’ll check the back,” Dillon said.

He reached the kitchen as the outside door opened and a man appeared, whom he knocked backward into the yard with a quick burst of fire, then closed and barred the door. He
returned to the others, crawling as bullets reduced the shutters to matchwood. Firing stopped for a moment, and Holley peered out cautiously.

“I can see at least twenty out there. I think they’ll try to rush us at any moment.”

Indeed, there was the chatter of the Raptor’s machine gun, and in that instant, Holley saw seven or eight men go down in the street. He looked the other way at the Raptor.

“It’s Colonel Hamza doing the firing. Maybe we could make a run for it.”

There was the unmistakable rattle of a helicopter approaching, and Holley peered out to see another Raptor swoop in, a machine gun poking out of it, a man standing behind it, ready to fire, just too late, as Greg Slay boosted engine power to lift off with extraordinary rapidity, causing the other Raptor to take immediate evasive action to avoid a midair collision, exactly what Slay had intended.

The other Raptor needed to fly parallel to be able to bring its machine gun to bear, but Greg Slay, his skills honed by years of flying in combat zones, put the Raptor through a dazzling sequence of avoidance turns, during which Hamza’s attempts to bring the machine gun to bear on the other craft proved as fruitless as his opponent’s.

Slay half cursed, aware of Miller in the far corner, clutching a bloody shoulder, and shouted to Hamza, “This is getting us nowhere. Try an RPG. I’ll increase speed and look as if we’re fleeing while you get ready, then we’ll turn and take him head-on. Don’t forget your safety harness.”

Hamza took it down from a peg, slipped it on and buckled
it, the webbing strap with the hook hanging. He dropped to his knees beside Miller and the box of grenades beside him.

As he opened it, he shouted above the cacophony, “How bad are you?”

Miller had his scarf tucked inside his tunic. “I’ll survive, don’t worry about me. Just blow these bastards away.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

He had the launcher out, inserted a grenade, then hooked himself on by the machine gun and waited. They curved round and went headfirst for the approaching Raptor, whose pilot panicked, turning away and exposing his blind side so that Hamza, trusting his restraining strap to hold him, was able to lean out to fire.

The hit was a direct one. There was a colossal explosion, the other Raptor a great ball of fire as it mushroomed in the rain, pieces of the wreckage flying all over the place and then descending through a pall of smoke.

Slay half turned again and laughed harshly. “Bloody good show, Colonel. That’s given Ali Selim something to think about.” Hamza stepped back, unhooked his safety belt, and Slay added, “If you look in that locker above Major Miller, you’ll find a pretty comprehensive medical kit. While you’re attending to him, I’ll take us back to Amira, and we’ll see what the situation is there.”

A
li Selim had stayed in the porch to watch the air battle far out over the plain, recognized the undoubted superiority of Greg Slay’s flying skills, and knew defeat when he saw it, the
situation hardly helped by fifteen or so dead or wounded tribesmen sprawled in the street in the rain.

He said into his mobile, “You must have seen what happened, Omar. Stay where you are. Be prepared for a quick exit.” He turned to Ibrahim. “Bring the jeep out of the barn. We’ll leave at once.”

He stayed on the porch, watching the Raptor approaching in the distance, the remains of the other one sending a towering column of black smoke into the sky, and smiled slightly. Defeat was for this occasion only. There would be other times.

He turned inside the house, found his briefcase and laptop, put them into a bag, and went out to the backyard, where Ibrahim had already driven the jeep out of the barn and was waiting behind the wheel. Ali Selim climbed in and they drove away.

As they bumped along a track, scattering sheep to one side, Ibrahim said, “A bad business, master.”

“Life often is—you should have learned that by now. I’m not finished with Ferguson and his people. There will be other days.”

“So where next?” Ibrahim asked as slush that the windscreen wipers were unable to clear obscured his vision.

“A place where the sun shines on a regular basis would be a change. Arabia, or Oman—or, I know, Rubat, where our good friend Owen Rashid’s uncle is Sultan. Would you like that?”

Ibrahim, who was driving one-handed and reaching out through an open window in an attempt to clear the slush with his hand, said, “I would prefer it to this, master.”

“Excellent. That’s where we shall go. It fits into my plans
perfectly,” Selim told him, and they topped the hill and started their descent to the Raptor waiting in the hollow below.

G
reg Slay flew over the rooftops a couple of times, Hamza loosing off a machine-gun burst or two into the air to show that they still meant business, but only Dillon, Holley, and Sara appeared, waving up at them. Slay put the Raptor down and Hamza stood behind the machine gun, an intimidating figure, as Dillon and Holley walked backward, one on each side of Sara, weapons ready for trouble.

Slay sat in his seat at the controls, waiting for them to arrive, decided to switch off, which he did. The silence was eerie, only the rush of the rain, and nothing stirred until there was the blast of engines breaking into life, the inimitable clatter that could only be from a helicopter. Slay hurriedly switched on again, and Sara picked up her skirt and started for the Raptor, Holley and Dillon running with her. She slowed, limping badly. It was very pronounced now, and there was pain on her face.

“God dammit,” she said when they got to the Raptor, where Hamza was reaching out to her.

Behind her, the third Raptor rose into view on the other side of the hill, but immediately swung away to the left. She watched with the others. The engine note deepened as it flew away to the west as fast as possible and was swallowed up by the mist.

“Are you okay?” Holley asked with concern.

“Just the damn leg, love.” She managed a smile. “It could be
a lot worse. That firefight—I thought we were finished.” She reached up and grasped Hamza’s hand. “Until you decided to intervene. What happened here, and where’s Wali Hussein?”

“His body’s somewhere close by. We’re in a different spot than when you left. You’ll notice Major Miller feeling sorry for himself in the corner. Wali shot him, so Slay shot Wali dead and threw him out.”

She turned to look up at Slay in the pilot’s seat. He shrugged. “I didn’t have much choice. He suddenly turned angry with all of us and produced a shooter from up here somewhere. That was what started heating things up.”

Harry Miller said, “Sara, would you mind checking the medical unit for morphine? After all, I
have
been shot in the shoulder.” He winced with pain. “And may I suggest to you, Captain Slay, that we get the hell out of here?”

Hamza said, “I suspect Ferguson is the kind of man who prefers bad news sooner rather than later.”

“You’re quite right.”

Miller pulled out his Codex with a bloodstained left hand and called Ferguson, who responded immediately.

“Harry, where are you? How did it go?”

“Wali Hussein turned out to be completely untrustworthy, so we found ourselves juggling with three Raptors, not one. There was a brisk firefight, but we’ve come through, thanks to some brilliant flying by Gregory Slay and some good work from Colonel Hamza, who shot down a Raptor for us with an RPG. And I mustn’t forget Sara, who started playing bowls with a couple of pineapple grenades.”

“And Ali Selim?”

“Flown off to God knows where in the worst weather imaginable. Can we leave this dreadful place as soon as possible and come home?”

Sara grabbed the Codex and said, “He has a bullet in his shoulder, General, which I’m trying to do something about, so I’ll pass you to Colonel Hamza.”

Which she did, cutting Miller’s shirt open, the medical kit at her side. She took out a couple of morphine ampoules and jabbed them in his left arm and then explored the wound.

“There appears to be an exit hole, which is lucky, but you’ll need a doctor to confirm it.”

“Thanks, Sara, you’re an angel.” He managed a smile, waiting for the morphine to take effect.

Hamza was still talking to Ferguson. “I’ll call in and arrange for Major Miller to be patched up at the military hospital, but then I think it would be better for all of us if you got back in that Gulfstream and returned to London as soon as possible.”

“And how will this affect you?”

“Why should it affect me at all? Wali Hussein, a man who has long been suspected of making illegal flights over the border, filed a flight plan to Dimla and has gone missing. There is no sign of his helicopter in Pakistan territory, crashed or otherwise, so the inescapable conclusion must be that he’s finally met with a bad end out there in the Wilderness.”

“How unfortunate,” Ferguson said.

“Not my jurisdiction. It’s tribal territory and in another country,” Hamza told him. “I’ll have an ambulance waiting for
Miller, and we’ll have a surgeon see to him discreetly. No need to make a fuss. Bullet wounds are common enough in these parts. I’ll also have a word with your pilots and suggest they make ready for a quick departure.”

“And Captain Slay will need a return to Hazar.”

“No problem. He can go back to Hazar the way he came in. I’ll see you soon.”

F
erguson sat there in the hangar trying to come to terms with his disappointment. Hamid came in from the kitchen with a tray. “Would you care for a cup of
char
, General?”

“To be frank, after the news I’ve just had I’d have preferred something stronger, but in the circumstances tea will be just fine.” He called Roper and gave him a summary of events.

Roper said, “So where’s he off to now, that’s the thing.”

“I think Colonel Hamza might be helpful there.”

“He’s certainly come up trumps so far,” Roper said.

“The Prime Minister’s going to be furious, especially about Harry being shot,” Ferguson said.

“As long as it doesn’t kill you, there’s always a slightly heroic thing about taking a bullet,” Roper told him. “I’ve been there, remember, before the bomb? On top of that, the PM will enjoy being able to say I told you so.”

“Which I don’t look forward to at all.”

“So what happens now? Will you call him personally, or do you want me to speak to Henry Frankel at the Cabinet Office?”

“Well, at least that would be following protocol, and it would give me time to get my act together here for the return home. You don’t mind?”

“Why should I? It will quite make his day. Henry loves being the bearer of bad news.”

N
ot long after leaving Amira in the Raptor, Ali Selim spoke to the chief pilot of the Hawker that had delivered him to Peshawar after his flight from London. It had been waiting at Peshawar Airport while he considered his next move.

Having discussed where the Raptor should meet the Hawker, he stood and leaned up to the flight deck, where the pilot, Omar, sat alone. He gave him a destination and flight instructions, then sat down again.

Thirty minutes later, they came to a village in ruins named Herat, a crumbling runway beside it, a concrete control tower and some flat-roofed buildings. It was a relic of the Russian occupation, totally uninviting, no signs of life, brooding in the rain as if waiting for something.

The Raptor was different from the other two in that there was no machine gun and only the one pilot. Omar was a young and energetic man in his twenties, in a brown flying jacket and jeans. He was obviously overawed by Ali Selim, who told him to land by the tower and switch off.

Ibrahim stayed impassive, a sinister figure in dark robes, an AK-47 beside him, a bulging bag at his feet. Ali Selim took
a book from his briefcase and read, and Omar, on the flight deck, stirred uneasily.

Finally, Ali Selim looked up and said, “If you want to smoke, do it outside. Go now, I can’t abide your twitching.”

“Yes, master.” Omar scrambled down, slid back the door, dropped to the runway, then ran through the rain to stand in the doorway of the control tower, where he lit a cigarette.

There was the sound of an engine approaching, and the gold Hawker dropped in below gray clouds, descending through the heavy rain, rolling to the end of the runway, turning and taxiing toward them, and stopping some little distance away. Omar hurried back to the Raptor, the airstair door opened on the Hawker, and a uniformed pilot came down, opening a large umbrella.

A handsome, bronzed-faced Arab, he smiled and inclined his head. “It is an honor to see you again,” he said to Ali Selim.