A Devil Is Waiting Page 17

  “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.”

  It 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.”

  Slay 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.

  “She looks good, sahib?”

  “You were a great help,” Slay told him.

  Wali Hussein came down the steps and paused, gazing in awe at the helicopter. “My God, what have you done?”

  “A complete overhaul, which is what was required. You look a mess, so go and stand under a shower for half an hour. That’s an order. We may need your brain working.”

  The van swung into the hangar and braked to a halt. Colonel Hamza got out of the front, Ferguson leading Miller and Dillon out of the back, followed by Holley and Sara.

  They all stood staring at the helicopter, the muzzle of the machine gun poking out of the side door, which had been rolled back, Slay and Hamid standing beside it.

  Dillon said, “I thought it was supposed to be some kind of wreck.”

  “Well, it looks pretty damn good to me,” Sara said.

  “And to me.” Ferguson held out his hand. “Captain Slay? I can only congratulate you on a job well done. If it flies as well as it looks, our problems are over.”

  “Oh, I think she might surprise you, General,” Slay told him. “She’s surprised me already.”

  “That’s good to hear, so let’s all sit down, talk things over, and discuss our next move.”

  The rear of the hangar was still the departure hall from the old days of the airport, with chairs and tables in profusion, toilets that still worked, and kitchen facilities. They put some tables together, and Sergeant Hamid went to make coffee and tea while the plan of action was considered.

  “It could all be very simple,” Ferguson said. “Ali Selim is in Amira and waiting, probably contacting his people in London to try and find out what’s gone wrong. No news from his niece or Jemal, no big bang at Westminster.”

  “The important thing is who’s waiting with him in Amira,” Slay said.

  He went and got into the Raptor, and Hamza, who had noticed Wali Hussein hanging around on the fringe of things, said, “Here’s a man who must have a point of view. He owns three of these Raptors and does a brisk business running guns and drugs to the Taliban.”

  Slay leaned out the door of the Raptor, one hand on the machine gun. “You’re wasting your time. He’s half American and can’t even speak Pashtu.”

  “It’s true,” Wali Hussein said. “Just leave me out of it,” and he turned, moved away to the back, and disappeared into the kitchen area.

  Ferguson and Miller had their heads together with Dillon and Hamza, and Holley approached Sara. “Are you all right?”

  “I was impressed with what Slay had to say. I could do with another cup of coffee. Let’s see what Hamid’s got going in the kitchen.”

  There was no sign of him, only a pot bubbling on the electric stove. She switched it off and was suddenly aware of a low voice coming from the next room. Holley started to speak, and she held up her hand and shook her head.

  “Someone’s speaking in Pashtu,” she said, and eased the waist-high screen door gently open to reveal Wali Hussein talking softly into a mobile phone. She turned to Holley. “He said he couldn’t speak Pashtu.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Holley darted out the door, appeared in seconds on the other side, a Colt in his hand, and rammed the barrel into Hussein’s neck. “Now then, you little bastard, let’s have some truth.”

  Everybody watched as Colonel Hamza questioned Hussein, who stood before him handcuffed, Sergeant Hamid at his side.

  “I have no time to waste in this matter,” the colonel said. “You will answer my questions or it will be the worse for you.”

  “They will cut me to pieces,” Hussein told him.

  “Who, the Taliban or Al Qaeda?”

  “I dare not say.”

  Hamza turned to Sergeant Hamid. “Take him down to the military prison. Don’t book him, turn him loose in the general cell, lose him. We’ll see how he likes that. Twenty-four hours and he won’t be able to walk.”

  Sara, horrified, said to Hussein in Pashtu, “Don’t be stupid. He means it. Tell him what he wants to know.”

  He raged at her in fluent Pashtu. “All right! The Taliban rule in Amira, but on behalf of Al Qaeda. Ali Selim arrived from London in a gold Hawker jet, with two prominent businessmen with him as cover. I flew him to Amira myself in the Raptor that you didn’t think was safe. He’s waiting for you, whoever comes, but not to return to England. You are meat for the dogs, all of you, and a Jewish whore like you knows what to expect.”

  She punched him in the mouth, knocking him back into Hamid, and Ferguson said, “Tell me the worst, Captain Gideon.”

  Which she did.

  Hamid took Wali Hussein off to the kitchen, while the rest of them sat around the table and considered the situation.

  Slay said, “Can I ask a question of you, Major Miller? As there was al
ways the chance that things would go sour when you met Ali Selim face-to-face, what did you intend to do if that happened?”

  “Shoot him dead,” Miller said. “That’s why Dillon and Holley came along, to back me up.”

  Dillon said, “His importance stretches way beyond Europe. He’s been responsible for more deaths than you could ever imagine, from Yemen to New York. If I could get close enough, I’d shoot him dead without a thought.”

  “Are you saying you’d still like to go through with it?” Hamza said. “Even though you know Ali Selim has got his own troops ready for whoever comes along?”

  Slay said, “On the other hand, what if we changed that some?”

  “How could we do that?” Ferguson asked.

  “Let’s be a little inventive,” Slay told him. “Say, Wali Hussein phones Ali Selim up to tell him that the whole mission’s been aborted. That he’s been told that the Prime Minister’s got cold feet, decided he can’t risk losing Miller, and has called them all home. You could order the Gulfstream to take off as if returning to London, put down at Islamabad perhaps.”

  “What would be the point?”

  “A considerable one, if Hussein could be persuaded to tell Ali Selim he’d be dropping by in the Raptor to report in person, especially if he had us on board.”

  “Good God, what a wonderful idea!” Ferguson exclaimed.

  “It does have merit, though there would be no guarantee you could get close enough to guarantee killing Ali Selim.” That was Hamza, who was frowning but suddenly smiled. “Of course, and so obvious. A mullah’s blessing, the most precious gift a young woman contemplating marriage can have. If Wali Hussein begs for such a blessing, as if for a relative and his intended bride, such people would be privileged to meet Ali Selim face-to-face.”

  It was Holley who said, “Before we go any further, we’d need a woman—”

  “We’ve got one, Daniel, don’t be silly,” Sara told him. “I could pass without comment in my black burka. One of you would have to go native and dress up. You could get away with a cotton headcloth across the face, only the eyes showing.”

  “Two would be better,” Dillon said. “Men, I mean. I’m small enough to pass as Wali Hussein wrapped up. You could play the lover boy, Daniel.”

  There was silence for a while, everyone considering it. Sara took Holley’s hand under the table and squeezed it hard, and he knew that what she said was as much for him as anyone else.

  “I’m a soldier and I take a soldier’s risks. Ali Selim is as bad as it gets, so I say let’s take him out.”

  Greg Slay said, “Well, you get full marks from me, Sara.”

  Ferguson turned to Hamza. “How do you feel about this, Colonel?”

  “I’m in complete agreement with Captain Gideon. We’re doing the world a favor by disposing of this wretched man. Let’s have Wali Hussein in, and I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse. You speak to your pilots, and I’ll apply the right pressure to make sure the Gulfstream flies out within the next hour. I would also suggest trying to arrange the flight to Amira for as soon as possible. I see no reason why it should not be this afternoon.”

  “Then by all means get Wali Hussein back, and let us do what has to be done.”

  Hamid produced Hussein, still in his handcuffs. He looked a sorry sight and was obviously terrified. Hamza said, “Do you remember what I said before? I could send you to the military prison, not even book you in, just allow it to swallow you up until you die from abuse.”

  Hussein moaned, shaking his head. “In the name of Allah, don’t do this.”

  “On the other hand, we could put you on a flight to Florida with your American passport in your hand, and a thousand dollars to tide you over, as long as you never come back.”

  Which stopped Wali Hussein dead in his tracks. He stared at Hamza. “What would you expect of me in return? Just tell me. I don’t care what it is—I’ll do it.”

  “I thought you might say that, so now we will have the truth. When you were on the phone talking in Pashtu, was this to Ali Selim?”

  “No, to Ibrahim, his bodyguard. Ali Selim prefers to speak to me in English. I was to call back. He was at his prayers.”

  “Then you must try again, but first we must get your story straight.”

  To Wali Hussein, deceit and low cunning were second nature, and he was actually smiling when Hamza finished planning what he had to do. “That’s really very clever,” he said. “You’ve got it right about the value of a mullah’s blessing. There are parents who’d pay through the nose for one of those, but from Ali Selim”—he shook his head—“you couldn’t put a price on it. Mind you, the things I’ve done for him, I could ask him this favor, but it would have to be for relatives. My mother’s Italian American, so it’d have to be one of my father’s cousins. Selim is an amazing guy, he knows everything about everybody who works for him. I’d have to use real names.”

  “But that wouldn’t matter,” Hamza said. “If everything goes according to plan, Ali Selim would be dead.”

  “You’ve got a point.” Wali Hussein smiled strangely. “Or maybe we could be the ones to end up dead. But okay. I’ll say my cousin Malik is marrying Zara Khan. The families have been arguing about it for years.”

  “Excellent. What happens now?” Ferguson demanded.

  Hamza said to Hamid, “We’ll need suitable clothing for Mr. Holley, Sergeant. You go and see to that.” He turned to Ferguson. “Come into the office with me, and we’ll arrange for the Gulfstream to take off for a simulated trip to Islamabad.”

  “Of course,” Ferguson said, and followed him to the office, leaving a disconsolate Wali Hussein sitting with his wrists still handcuffed.

  Sara and the three men sat talking about the situation at one of the tables, and Dillon glanced across.

  “Are you all right there, Wali, me ould son?”

  “What do you bloody think?” Wali Hussein replied.

  Dillon peered out to the rain falling outside and wet snowflakes drifting in it. “Just look at that weather and think how lucky you are to be returning to the place where you were born. Good ould Florida—oranges, blondes on the beach, and tourists to fleece. You’ve got it made. Remember that, so be a good boy and don’t cock it up.”

  The clothing Hamid returned with was what you’d expect in winter: boots, long shirts, baggy trousers, a three-quarter-length sheepskin coat, and a choice of headcloths in various colors and with loose ends to wrap around the neck and face against the bitter mountain cold. Every so often there was the sound of a plane landing or taking off, and suddenly, Ferguson’s Codex sounded.

  He answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Excellent, Squadron Leader, let’s hope everything goes to plan.”

  “Was that Lacey?” Greg Slay leaned out of the Raptor.

  “Yes, on their way, but with any luck, they might be able to turn back without landing at Islamabad, so let’s get this show on the road.”

  Hamid unlocked Wali Hussein’s handcuffs, and Ferguson said, “Everybody stay well back, please, and keep absolutely quiet. He’s going to make this call using my Codex on speaker. Sara, you stand close.” He handed the Codex to Wali Hussein. “Get on with it.”

  I’ve been expecting to hear from you. Tell me what Ferguson and company are up to.”

  The voice was dry and precise, the English perfect. Wali Hussein said, “Good news, master, they’ve gone.”

  There was a pause, and then Ali Selim said, “Gone where?”

  “Back to London. The Gulfstream has just left.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about this?”

  “Of course. You may confirm it at the airport. There were many phone calls, which led to a great deal of talk amongst Ferguson’s people. It seems the British Prime Minister has changed his mind about the whole thing and ordered they return.”

  “How amazing,” Ali Selim said. “What else do you recall?”

  “Many things, master, but I’m not sure what is important and what is no
t. Perhaps I could come and see you. I’d like to try the Raptor out. The pilot they brought with them has given the engine an overhaul. I was going to give it a test flight anyway.”

  “An excellent idea. Come, by all means.”

  “I would beg a favor,” Wali Hussein said. “My cousin Malik and Zara Khan are to be finally wed. A mullah’s blessing is the most precious gift, but one from you would give them a lifetime’s happiness. Forgive my impertinence.”

  “No need to beg,” Ali Selim said. “You have served me well. Bring them with you, by all means. Come as soon as you like.”

  Amira was a typical frontier village on the edge of a plain at the foot of soaring mountains that were invisible behind a curtain of gray mist. It was raining here, too, the same mixture of large wet snowflakes. There was an air of poverty and decay to everything—the crumbling flat-roofed houses, the water streaming down the center of the streets. No sign of people, no sign of life, not even a dog, but there was smoke drifting out of the stovepipe poking up from the largest house.