A Devil Is Waiting Page 16

  “I will.”

  “Excellent. Let’s return and see what the others make of you.”

  Lacey and Parry had appeared, and Ferguson was talking to everybody. He stopped abruptly on seeing Sara, and she drifted into the room to the astonishment of all.

  “Will I do?” she demanded.

  “Oh yes.” Ferguson smiled. “I think we can all agree on that. You look absolutely splendid.” He turned to the others. “So, as we all agree, it’s a go. We’ll leave at ten o’clock in the morning from Farley Field.”

  Sara said, “I’d better go and change.” She pulled down the veil, made a face at Holley, beckoned, and he followed her. “I need to disrobe and pack my burka for the plane trip. Warm up the car, and I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  She emerged, looking amused, dumped a large bag in the back of the car, and sat next to him. “Ferguson wanted a word.”

  “What about?” Holley asked as he drove away.

  “He said he was sorry for plunging me into the deep end so soon after joining the department. If there were problems, I must say so. Hasn’t he read my file? I’ve spent the last ten years fighting wars.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “My place for clothes and things, and the Dorchester for you, then back here.”

  “What about your granddad and Sadie?”

  “Well, it’s useful that both of them are away. With luck, this could just be an in-and-out job, forty-eight hours at the most.” She shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “Well, let’s hope you’re right,” Holley told her, and turned the Alfa out into the main road.

  TEN

  Four hours earlier, Greg Slay had been sitting at the desk of his small office at the old railway airfield in Hazar, bemoaning the fact to his partner, Hakim Amal, that business was seriously slack, when his mobile had sounded. The names of Major Giles Roper and General Charles Ferguson were more than impressive to any old army man, and the use of phrases like “highly dangerous” and “top secret” finished it off nicely.

  A call to the control tower produced information that a jet was due to refuel in thirty minutes, then proceed onward to Peshawar with a cargo of jeeps for the Pakistani Army. It wasn’t RAF, but the captain knew Greg Slay and was able to offer a lift.

  So he was a happy man, striding purposefully across the cracked concrete of the old runway. He was an inch or so over six feet, wearing jeans and a bush shirt under an old Luftwaffe flying jacket, and Ray-Bans that shrouded a heavily tanned face with tousled hair that had needed a barber for some considerable time.

  He said hello to the crew on the flight deck, then went to the rest area, where there was a small kitchen, a shower, and some seats, and belted up for the takeoff. Everything had happened so fast. He glanced at his watch. Only an hour and a half had elapsed since Roper’s call, and he still didn’t know what he’d let himself in for. He tilted back in his seat, lay there thinking about it, and fell asleep.

  Two hours later, he awakened with a start and realized how much time had elapsed. He phoned Roper and got him at once. “It’s Slay here. I’m on my way and doing well.”

  “Excellent,” Roper said. “Although you’re going to be there a long time before Ferguson and his party, but, then, I think you’ll be able to make good use of it. You were Army Air Corps.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Retired in the rank of captain last year. Why did they give you an RAF decoration, the DFC?”

  “I was a passenger on a Chinook medevac RAF flight. One pilot was killed, the other wounded, and there were passengers, so I brought her in.”

  “Though wounded yourself.”

  “I was hardly playing heroes. I was saving my neck. Anyway, what is it you want me to do?”

  “Have you ever heard of a Raptor helicopter?”

  “Of course I have. Medium-size, general-purpose load of Russian crap. Imagine a flying tractor, or, even worse, a tractor trying to fly.”

  “I love your sense of humor,” Roper told him. “So laugh this off. We want you to make an illegal flight across the border to a village called Amira, approximately forty-five miles into Afghanistan. What do you say to that?”

  “What I’d like to say is, you’ve got to be kidding, but I don’t think you are. Tell me the rest or the worst, whichever comes first.”

  Which Roper did, covering the plan of campaign, the players, everything. “How is it now?” he asked. “Laughing or crying?”

  “Well, I’ve often wondered who was running the lunatic asylum. Now I see it’s you. On the other hand, I’m a bit of a lunatic myself, so when do we start?”

  “As soon as you get to Peshawar. There’s no sense in hanging around waiting for the others to arrive. You’ve got a room at this Rangoon place, so book in. Sign for anything you want, it’s taken care of. I’ve told you all you need to know about Colonel Hamza. He’ll be in touch and sort you out the moment you arrive. Enjoy the rest of the flight.”

  Greg sat there, thinking about it, and then called his partner, Hakim, in Hazar, who answered quite quickly. “It’s me,” Greg said. “How are things with you?”

  “That new well they’ve been drilling at Gila has come in big. They’re going to need me on a daily basis with a Scorpion. Things are looking good. What are you up to?”

  “Advising an old friend in Peshawar who’s having problems with his Russian Raptors. I should be back maybe in three days.”

  “The other Scorpion is standing idle. Do I find another pilot?”

  Thinking of the situation he faced with the trip to Amira in the antiquated Raptor over the Afghan wilderness populated by very unfriendly people, it suddenly occurred to Greg Slay that he couldn’t answer Hakim’s question properly, as there was a distinct possibility he might not get back at all.

  “I’ll let you know, Hakim,” he said, and switched off.

  The jet landed at Peshawar International in the early evening and taxied to its designated unloading point, where a squad of soldiers waited to handle the jeeps. A lieutenant, wearing combat fatigues like the rest of his men, was talking to a full colonel in khaki summer uniform with medal ribbons above the pocket. He was clean-shaven, handsome enough, and looked young for the rank, although the scars on his face indicated combat experience. He touched the side of his forehead with his swagger stick as Greg went to meet him.

  “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.

  They 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.”
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  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.”

  Hussein 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?”