A Devil Is Waiting (28 page)

There was significant history between him and Slay. Earlier that year, Slay had taken Feisal with him on a contract job to fly an old Dakota from Bahrain to Hazar. Five miles out, the starboard engine had caught fire, and the undercarriage had collapsed during the emergency landing on the edge of the airfield.

Feisal, his seat buckled, his safety belt so twisted that he couldn’t break free, had thought that his time had come, as the
fire started and Slay left him. And then Slay had returned with the fire ax, hacked him free, and they’d escaped together—and just in time. It was a debt of honor to be paid when the opportunity arose, the Bedu way.

“Happy to see you, sahib. We’ve missed you, with the oil well coming in nicely at Gila. Hakim’s been flying back and forth, sometimes at night, only stopping to refuel, and the other Scorpion’s been standing there doing nothing.”

“Is Hakim up at Gila now?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, here I am, back in the saddle and raring to get started. Where’s the schedule list? What have you got for me?”

Feisal consulted the notice board. “Machine tool parts, grade-
A priority and needed at Gila urgently.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“But they aren’t here. They were off-loaded in Rubat yesterday.”

“So I drop in at Rubat. It’s only another half hour on the journey. Give me the consignment bill and I’m on my way.”

T
he Scorpion was an excellent helicopter, good to fly, a fine performer, and it would be even better when it was fully paid for. He told himself this as he drifted across the outer fringes of the Empty Quarter, the greatest desert in the world, then swung toward the sea and the white buildings that were Rubat. The old military airfield was on the edge of town, and he swung in toward the cargo hangars and settled gently.

A police sergeant in khaki was sitting in a canvas chair, smoking a cigarette, a man Slay had met many times, so he simply waved and went to the foreman on duty, gave him the consignment bill, and stood watching as his goods were loaded.

He had reasonable Arabic, and used it when offering the man a cigarette, which was accepted. “Not so busy. It must get boring for you,” he said, offering a light.

In spite of the fact that Khazid had issued an order that any mention of the Hawker would be a serious breach of airport security, the foreman, who had dealt with Slay many times, answered instinctively.

“Oh, one never knows what the day will bring us. For example, earlier we had a very beautiful jet plane land, gold in color. One of the mechanics, Achmed, told me it was called a Hawker.”

“So where is this marvel of the skies?” Slay asked.

“It did not stay. The chief of police drove out to meet it in a security van to speak to the pilots, but came back alone. It refueled and took off again.”

“To have seen such a thing must have been a wonder,” Greg Slay told him. “I must go now. The cargo you loaded is needed urgently at Gila.”

“Take care,” the foreman said. “I sense a wind coming, a sandstorm perhaps. May Allah guard you.”

“He always does,” Greg said, and took off.

Fifteen minutes out into the desert, he called Giles Roper, who answered at once. “Slay, my man, good to hear from you. Where are you?”

“Straight back to work. There’s a lot of pressure due to a big
oil strike. I’ve just done a cargo pickup at Rubat airfield and heard something strange.”

“I’m all ears.”

“A golden Hawker dropped in at Rubat earlier. The police chief drove out to greet it in a security van on his own, spoke to the pilots, then returned on his own, and the Hawker flew away after refueling.”

“Are you sure no one was in the back of the van?”

“No idea. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

“Well, I’ve got something strange for you.” He told Slay about the Canadian patrol finding the burned-out Raptor at Herat with a corpse in it.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Slay said. “I haven’t the slightest idea what it all means, but if I find out, you’ll be the first to know. I must press on. I could be flying into a sandstorm.”

T
he police sergeant at Rubat airfield noticed the lengthy conversation between the cargo foreman and Slay, after the gift of a cigarette, and questioned the man.

“You seemed to be getting friendly with the Englishman from Hazar. Enjoying a smoke and a chat? What were you talking about?”

“Oh, the usual things. The comings and goings,” the foreman said uneasily, wondering where this was headed. “He’s flying up to Gila to the new strike with urgent equipment. I warned him I thought a sandstorm was coming.”

“So the comings and goings did not include a mention of a certain golden jet plane landing here?”

The foreman could have said no and left it at that, but such was his fear of Khazid, he went into denial at once and, in a garbled panic, put all the blame on Slay.

“It was no doing of mine, but he did raise the matter. He said he’d heard a mention of some such plane making a brief visit and asked me if anyone had got off.”

“And what did you say?”

“The truth, Sergeant, that nobody did. What else should I have said?”

The sergeant nodded. “Good man. Get back to work.”

A
li Selim had been working on a speech at one end of the desk, Fatima at the other end working on accounts and taking phone calls on speaker so that he could listen if he wanted to.

Khazid finished his account of the incident involving Greg Slay at the airfield, and Fatima said to Ali Selim, “I’m sure this is nothing. We know about this man. He retired from the British Army Air Corps last year, bought the air taxi firm Ben Carver had been running in Hazar for years. His partner is one of our own people in Hazar, Hakim Asan.”

“Would you be surprised to know that he attacked me in Amira flying a Raptor helicopter, acting under Charles Ferguson’s orders?”

She looked bewildered. “Are you certain it was the same man?”

“Get in touch with this partner of his and ask him where Slay has been for the past few days. I’m going out for a cigarette.”

He was standing at the rail when she joined him ten minutes later with two cups and a pot of coffee on a serving tray. She hung the tray up, poured and handed him a cup, and raised hers in a kind of salute.

“He got a lift from a plane refueling at Hazar, to Peshawar, day before yesterday. Was dropped off from an RAF Hercules on a run from Peshawar to London, refueling at Hazar, no more than a couple or three hours ago. Is he a danger to your plans?”

“I don’t know. It could be nothing. He returns to Hazar and goes about his business, flying to Rubat to pick up cargo for Gila, so it is only by chance that he is here not long after the Hawker landed. As far as he knows, I didn’t get off and the plane had a legitimate reason to be here. You could argue that
perhaps
I was on board all the time, but that won’t help people like Ferguson unless they know where the Hawker is going, and they don’t.”

He took a sip of coffee. “On the other hand, I don’t trust people who ask nosy questions.” He turned to her. “Contact his partner, this Hakim, at Gila. Tell him Gregory Slay is a threat to Al Qaeda and must be disposed of at once. Is he reliable?”

“A dedicated jihadist.”

“Then tell him that Allah is great and he is privileged to have been given this task. You will not say my name.” He smiled. “I am not worthy of even being mentioned.”

“At your orders, master.”

The wind was coming in forcefully from the desert beyond
the town, stirring the sea into waves, the
Monsoon
pitching on its two great anchors, the one at the stern, the other forward. He stood there gripping the rail, looking out to sea, thinking of Slay flying in such weather. A good man, and there was much to admire in him, but this was war and he was on the wrong side.

Fatima appeared. “It is taken care of. Hakim says he knows his duty.”

“Thank you, Fatima,” he said calmly.

A sudden fierce gust dashed sand in his face, and she grabbed his arm with surprising strength. “You will come in now. You could damage your eyes. Such behavior is foolishness when so many depend on you.”

His smile was unlooked for and unexpected. “Why, Fatima, you are quite right. I stand corrected.”

He passed inside, and she closed the shutter.

D
uring the run from Rubat, the wind had increased considerably, picking up more and more sand, but it wasn’t at the stage where it was giving Slay any serious trouble, although he thought it likely that might happen. His mobile sounded, and once more it was Roper.

“It’s me again. Did you really mean that about the sandstorm?”

“It’s shaping up to one now. This is the last place God made,” Slay told him. “In other places, people go to market to buy food. Here down on the border with Yemen they go to market to buy arms. Anything from a general-purpose machine gun to a pistol for your pocket, and most things in between. It’s a savage old world.”

“Are you regretting you ever went there?”

“I didn’t have much choice, old son—the cutbacks in the military in the UK saw to that.” A violent wind rocked the Scorpion. Slay managed to control it. “All of a sudden, it’s getting interesting. I’ll check in with you later.”

“I’m open at all hours.”

S
lay tried going up above the storm and seemed to do better, so he increased speed and pushed on until in the distance he saw three or four derricks next to various trucks, cars, and prefabricated buildings. He dropped to where red and green lights marked the landing site, and he put down.

Sand was beginning to coat everything like a different kind of snow; he noticed that as three men manhandled a trolley toward him, the foreman leading. Slay got out of the pilot’s seat, opened the side door, and jumped out.

“Help yourselves,” he shouted to the foreman in Arabic. “Where is Hakim?”

The men were already transferring the cargo. “He’s gone,” the foreman shouted back. “He said he thought it was going to get worse. I told him he should stay until it blows over, but apparently he needed to get back to base.”

“Damn fool,” Slay said.

“That’s what I thought. You’ll be staying, then?”

“No, I’m a damn fool, too.”

The men had finished their task, were driving the cargo away. The foreman said in English, “It’s your funeral—isn’t this what you British say?”

He was laughing as he followed his men into the buildings. Slay closed the main door of the Scorpion, went back to the cockpit, and took off, sand devils dancing all around as the helicopter lifted.

H
akim had envied Gregory Slay from the start, although he had managed to conceal his feelings. There was more than one reason why. He had been taught to fly by Ben Carver, but hadn’t been able to raise the money to buy it when Ben retired. Slay referred to Hakim as his partner, but he knew it was more to salve the man’s pride than anything else, and Hakim’s flying was only adequate, whereas Slay gave a master class in how to fly a helicopter every time he took off. Hakim, however, was totally dedicated to Al Qaeda, what Osama himself had described as the perfect
jihadist,
a man who gave no indication of being one.

He knew nothing of Fatima personally. To him, she was just a voice on the phone who occasionally passed on orders to him in Al Qaeda’s name. Even more important, he had to keep her informed well in advance of flights to anywhere, such as Djibouti, Muscat, Bahrain, or Dubai, so that he could act as postman when required.

Fatima’s first call, asking for details of Greg Slay’s recent whereabouts, had excited his curiosity, but she had not explained the reason for her interest. Her second, just before he landed at Gila, certainly did.

Gregory Slay was a direct threat to Al Qaeda.
He had been given the task of disposing of him, she told him, and by a famous man, Mullah Ali Selim—surely he had seen him recently on Al Jazeera? Hakim had. Fatima had disobeyed the master’s order not to reveal his name because she hadn’t been able to stand his questioning his own worthiness.
Such nonsense
. She wanted to
shout out his greatness to the whole world, but had to be content with just telling Hakim.

“I want to hear from you the instant Slay is disposed of,” she said. There was crackling on the line. “What’s wrong with the reception?”

“The wind will get worse before it gets better,” he told her. “If a full sandstorm drives in from the Empty Quarter, it will probably kill any signals for mobile phones for some time. I will handle this matter as fast as possible, but may not be able to report a successful outcome for a while.”

“Then you must fly down to Rubat and make your report to us here on the
Monsoon
.”

“As you wish.”

He gripped the steering column tightly and laughed, head thrown back. So Al Qaeda wanted Greg Slay disposed of? How perfect an answer to all his problems. Change was coming; it was inevitable that Al Qaeda would fill the vacuum of power that would bring to Hazar. With Slay disposed of and the goodwill of Al Qaeda behind Hakim, there was nothing to stop him from taking over the company and its aircraft.