Hunter Killer (41 page)

When he wasn’t tending to his mate, Danny had spent the morning scanning the sky. In the bright, clear sunlight there was a chance of catching the metallic glint of a drone high overhead. So far, nothing – but that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched.

Was he being paranoid? Maybe the drone strike had just been a fuck-up. A blue on blue. Wouldn’t be the first time. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Someone meant to kill them, in case they’d found out the truth about Abu Ra’id.

But who? He found his thoughts drifting to Harrison Maddox, the Yank in Hammerstone. He remembered when they’d all met for the first time, the way Maddox had spoken to the others. Like he was pissed-off with the British for not going the Guantanamo route. Was it possible that the Yanks were bankrolling Abu Ra’id? A couple of spectaculars in London just to get the Brits back on side in the war on terror. And now that the job had been done, they’d roped a couple of stooges into nailing the fucker before wiping their fingerprints off the crime scene with a drone strike? It would be fucked up, but Danny knew enough of the way the world worked to know governments had justified worse things to themselves.

He remembered being stuck in the car with Buckingham. Remembered the poison he’d started dripping in Danny’s ears about Harrison Maddox.
Plenty of rumours circulating in the Firm. Not beyond the CIA’s capacity to get into bed with the right sort of terrorists, you know, if it suits their purpose. Keep everyone on their toes, and if the occasional atrocity reminds their allies why they’re fighting a war on terror, well, who’s counting?

He tried to rid his head of Buckingham’s voice. But it wouldn’t leave him.
Not the only one of our American cousins who takes a dim view of our government’s sudden change of heart with respect to supporting the Americans’ intervenionist foreign policy.

Or maybe it was one of the others. Danny stared into the distance as he remembered something else Buckingham said. About Victoria Atkinson, and how she ran an intelligence station in Riyadh, back in the day. How she’d met her husband out there. And how she’d gone AWOL for six months in the middle of her stint. Could she have been radicalised in that time? She’d come back with an Arabic boyfriend, married him, you could guess the rest . . .

Caused a bit of gossip behind her back over at Thames House. Nasty. Not as if having a Muslim husband is a handicap, eh? Sure he’s been thoroughly vetted. Clean as a whistle . . .

Then there was Chamberlain. He remembered what Buckingham had told him about the former Regiment man keeping some funny company. Nutcases who wanted to transfer power to the army if and when Islamic extremism got out of control.
Not too many people take them very seriously, naturally, but they’re a vocal minority and recent events haven’t exactly harmed their argument.
Could Chamberlain have roped Abu Ra’id into helping things along a bit?

Maddox. Atkinson. Chamberlain. It seemed they all had a motive for aligning themselves with Abu Ra’id. But their motives were all different, which fitted with Danny’s instinct that Abu Ra’id’s connection was not to Hammerstone as a group, but to an individual member.

And what of Buckingham? Had he chosen Danny and Spud for this mission because he thought he could control them? Had he fed Danny all that information about the other three to divert his suspicions? Was Buckingham – greasy, self-serving, treacherous Buckingham – capable of encouraging Abu Ra’id to carry out these attacks, then despatching Danny and Spud to kill him so he could mop up all the glory?

Deep down, Danny knew the answer to that: that Hugo Buckingham was capable of just about anything.

He pulled the data stick from his pocket again. Did it hold any answers? He had to find out.

11.00hrs GMT

Clara was glad to be on the late shift. After her broken night staring at figures through the window of the front room, she had slept in and only crawled out from under the duvet at midday. She had shaken off the night terrors now, and was pulling on her raincoat. Her shift would take her through till midnight. She was glad of that. She wanted to be out of the house.

As she stepped into the rain, she glanced towards the lamp post opposite the house. There was nobody there. She felt foolish for being scared last night.

She had planned to walk to the hospital, but as she approached the Edgware Road, the rain became even heavier and she decided to take a bus. They, at least, were running, even if the Underground was still down. There was a 332 approaching the bus stop. She picked up her pace and ran towards it. A taxi honked her as she hurried across the road, then splashed her as it passed. Her lower legs were soaked, and she felt bedraggled as she knocked on the already closed door of the bus, mouthing at the driver to open up and let her in. He pretended not to see her, and the bus drove off.

‘Thanks!’ she shouted after him. ‘
Thanks very . . .
’

She fell silent.

He was standing on the other side of the Edgware Road, beneath the canopy of a small shop that sold cheap electronics. His hood was up and his face obscured. He didn’t move, but there was no doubt in Clara’s mind that he was watching her.

She had been warm from running. Now she was icy cold. A tiny part of her brain told her that she should run across the road and confront him. But that part of her brain was overruled by good sense.

She turned and ran, her flat shoes flapping in the puddles, the rain soaking her face, and dripping down her neck.

18.50hrs AST

Sunset.

The woman had spent the afternoon baking flat bread on hot stones. She offered some to Danny, along with a bowl of tough goat stew. Or maybe it was camel. It tasted like shit, but he chucked it down his throat anyway. It was fuel, and he couldn’t run on empty. He didn’t risk trying to feed Spud, though. His mate was too weak to swallow solids, so he just continued to trickle water down his throat.

When he had finished eating, Yasser approached with a kid who he introduced as his son. The boy couldn’t take his eyes off Danny’s weapons, but he seemed harmless enough. Yasser was a different matter. He chewed as he walked, and Danny instantly recognised the spaced-out look on his face. His wonky eye looked even wonkier. Danny controlled the now-familiar surge of anger, and suppressed an irrational desire to nail him and take his vehicle. But if he did that, he’d never find Yasser’s mate with the plane. Danny needed this guy’s intel, not his driving skills.

‘Let’s get . . . out of here,’ a weak voice said, ‘before they . . . ask us to . . . fucking dance.’ Danny looked at Spud and grinned. His mate’s eyes were open, just. He was a tough little sod.

‘We’re going to find you some proper help, mate,’ he said.

But Spud had closed his eyes again, and didn’t respond.

Of course, Danny wanted to get moving too. The longer they stayed in one place, the easier they were to find. Yasser refuelled the Land Rover from an old jerry can, sloshing a good proportion of the fuel over the desert floor, then invited them to take their seats in the back. Easier said than done. It took five minutes to get the semi-conscious Spud back into the Land Rover again. But as soon as he was in place, and Danny had loaded himself and the gear up, they were on the move again.

They travelled faster than the previous night. The khat-addled Yasser was heavier on the gas than their previous chauffeur. Danny had to tell him to ease off – the faster they went, the bumpier the journey, which was no good for Spud. Sweat-soaked and sand-stained, Danny gazed into the desert night, scanning for strange lights from one window, occasionally checking Spud’s pulse. It was weak, but regular – unlike his breathing, which had started to become more erratic again.

Two hours passed in silence. The lights, when they came, came from straight ahead.

Yasser slammed on the brakes. Spud groaned as his body jolted forwards. The driver looked over his shoulder. The khat seemed to have worn off. He looked sharper now.

‘You have money?’ he demanded.

‘Why?’

Yasser pointed at the blinding headlamps 15 metres up ahead. Two figures had emerged from the car in front. Their silhouettes were approaching.

Suddenly, the headlamps went dark. Danny blinked heavily as his eyes adjusted. The figures were alongside the car now. Yasser opened his window to talk to one of them. Danny glimpsed a
shemagh
round the man’s head, and a weapon slung round his neck.

Fight or pay? Danny’s money was certainly precious. But to leave a trail of bodies would be a marker that they’d passed through this way. And besides, who knew what the darkness was hiding. With Spud out of action, Danny could be taking on more than he could manage. He pulled another 100-dollar bill out and handed it to Yasser. Yasser clicked his fingers to indicate that he needed another, which Danny reluctantly gave him.

Conversation in the front. Not friendly. But efficent. Yasser handed over the cash, and the two self-appointed toll merchants stepped back. Yasser moved off again, driving round the vehicle that was still bang in front of them. Danny engaged his NV and looked around. Fifty metres on either side he saw the green glow of five other trucks, with human figures standing round them.

Looked like he’d made the right call.

‘How much further?’ he growled.

‘We cross the Saudi border in ten minutes,’ Yasser said. ‘Then, a half hour. Be patient, my friend. You will be there very soon.’

Twenty

21.30hrs AST

They called it an airfield. That was generous. It was little more than a flat run of hard-baked earth, three miles west of a barely used highway in southern Saudi Arabia, with a tiny breeze-block building at one end.

But it
did
have an aircraft.

Danny stood by the Land Rover and surveyed it from a distance of 500 metres through the NV he was shortly to give up to Yasser. It looked like an old Cessna 172. Single-engine. High fixed wing. Nothing to write home about. But good enough. He looked at the building. There was an old saloon car parked up outside it, which suggested to him that there was somebody inside. Other than that, nothing.

If Spud had been okay, now would have been the time to ditch Yasser and the kid and approach on foot. But Spud wasn’t walking anywhere. He turned to Yasser, who was still behind the wheel. ‘Kill the lights. I’m going to walk, you’re going to drive next to me.
Very
slowly, so the engine doesn’t make a big noise. Understand?’

Yasser nodded.

‘If you try to drive away without me, I’ll shoot out your tyres, then I’ll shoot you and your boy.’

Another nod, more nervous this time.

Danny raised his rifle and surveyed the building through the sight. No movement. No personnel as far as he could see. He kept the rifle raised as he started walking across the open ground, the vehicle creeping along beside him.

Five minutes later, they were 250 metres out. Still no movement, no sign of life. Yasser was doing a good job of keeping close, slow and quiet.

A hundred metres out.

Fifty.

Danny stopped and held up one hand. The Land Rover came to a halt. Danny scanned the area again for threats. Nothing. It was dead quiet. He walked round to the passenger side of the Land Rover, opened the door and pulled out Yasser’s kid.

‘You stay here with my friend,’ Danny told Yasser. ‘Only drive up when I give you the sign.’

Yasser was sweating profusely. ‘My son . . .’ he said.

‘He’ll be fine, so long as you do what I say.’

Danny nudged the kid towards the building with the point of his rifle. The boy was trembling and looked like he might shit himself. But that was fine by Danny. It would keep him on message.

They covered the final 50 metres in about a minute. All the while, Danny had the back of the kid’s head and the building in his sights. He kept scanning for movement. There was none.

As they came within 20 metres of the building its finer details came into view, not that there were many. A wooden door on the near side, a tumbledown shack on the other that looked like an outdoor toilet. Danny grabbed the kid by one shoulder and pushed him to the ground. ‘Lie down,’ he said. ‘Don’t move.’

The terrified boy did as he was told. Danny left him cringing on the desert floor as he completed a circuit of the building to check there were no other exits. No personnel they hadn’t seen as they approached. The toilet shack stank of shit, but was empty. Elsewhere, the stench of aviation gas hung in the air. Danny approached the main door. Slowly, he reached out and turned the door handle. It was unlocked. He engaged his NV, pulled his Sig, and quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

He heard the occupant of the building before he saw him. His snores resonated around the shabby, cramped single room. There was an old stove at one end, a cluttered desk with a blinking laptop, the outline of what looked like a large mobile phone, and a low bunk along the far wall, where the snoring was coming from. Danny stepped quietly up to it. A man lay there, fully dressed and foul-smelling. He was very thin, and even in the dark Danny could make out his plainly East African features. Somali. Possibly Ethiopian.

He bent down and put one hand over the man’s mouth.