A Devil Is Waiting (20 page)

“But, Prime Minister, the whole thing will be quite simple, I can assure you. I shall be at our Peshawar base to handle matters, the Pakistan authorities will look the other way, and I have arranged for a clandestine helicopter flight with a trusted pilot to take in Major Miller and my two best operatives to assess the situation.”

“Of course, he may not be there at all.”

“We’ll only know that by taking a look at the place. I doubt young Jemal is lying. He’s too distressed,” Ferguson said.

“I accept that,” the Prime Minister said. “But on the other hand, Amira may be a nest of Taliban, who would like nothing better than laying hands on my personal representative here. Harry has years of experience in British intelligence that would make him liquid gold to Al Qaeda.”

Ferguson was badly thrown as he tried to think of the right thing to say, and it was Harry Miller who intervened. “On the other hand, nothing is ever wholly certain in this business. I’m willing to take a risk as long as my friends appreciate the danger.”

The PM said to Ferguson, “Do you, Charles?”

“Of course I do, Prime Minister.”

The Prime Minister sighed. “All right. Then I can only wish you Godspeed,” and he shook hands with both of them.

Sitting in the rear of the Daimler as it turned into Whitehall, Ferguson said, “What on earth was all that about? Stirring it up a bit, weren’t you?”

“Nothing to do with me,” Miller told him. “I got a call from Henry Frankel changing the time of the meeting. When I arrived, I was surprised to find you weren’t there.”

“Bloody Henry, sticking his nose in again.” Ferguson was annoyed.

“He was only doing his job as cabinet secretary,” Miller said. “He saw an element of danger in the plan.”

“And that’s your opinion, too?” Ferguson demanded.

“Yes, but I also think it’s worth taking the risk. I want to make sure both things are made clear to everyone. Is that agreed?”

“Yes, damn you, I suppose it is,” Ferguson said, and spent the rest of the trip scowling out the window.

W
hen they arrived at Holland Park, Ferguson went straight to his office, and Miller to the computer room, where he found Gideon and Holley talking to Roper and Dillon.

“What’s happened to the general?” Roper asked.

“He’s in a black mood. We’ve just been to see the PM at Downing Street, who was having second thoughts about what we intend.”

“And why would that be?” Holley asked.

So Miller obliged. Dillon said cheerfully, “For once, a politician
is acting like a human being. He actually cares what happens to us, folks, it warms my heart.”

“Well, it didn’t exactly please the general,” Miller said. “I’ve made it clear I’m willing to take my chances, but I don’t think anyone should be ordered to do this one, and there’s one thing I want you all to remember. Al Qaeda terrorists have taken many people hostage, and they have had a bad track record of not only keeping them for a long time but occasionally beheading them on video.”

“Yes, we had heard,” Dillon said. “Anything else?”

“Yes, I’d be remiss not to point out what would happen to a good-looking London lady who fell into their hands, particularly when they discovered she was Jewish.” There was a heavy silence. “I just want you all to consider these facts.”

Sara said to Roper, “Giles, I believe you have quite a collection of costumes here for people going into the field?”

“Yes, we do,” Roper said. “I’ll lead the way.”

She turned and put a hand on Holley’s arm as he stirred, ignoring everyone else. “No, love, I’d rather do this by myself.”

S
he followed Roper’s wheelchair as he coasted along the corridor, taking a remote control from a pocket in his chair and activating it. A broad door slid back at the far end and revealed a theatrical treasure-house.

There was anything one could ever need. Full makeup facilities at mirrored tables ranged against the rear wall; there were changing- and shower-room facilities; and walk-in wardrobes
with sliding doors contained a wide selection of clothes and uniforms, both military and police, as authentic as could be wished for.

“All this is amazing.” She emerged from one wardrobe, holding up a uniform. “A captain in the GRU. I could wear this in Moscow and be totally accepted.”

“But not in the wilderness of North Afghanistan,” he said. “What would you wear?”

“I’ve already seen it, Giles. Wait here.”

She vanished into a wardrobe she’d paused at earlier; he lit a cigarette and sat there waiting. The shock when she appeared was considerable, for she drifted toward him, a strange and ghostly figure, wearing a head-to-toe black burka and a black face veil that left only the eyes exposed.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Perhaps a little dark eye shadow to reinforce the illusion, but first I would recommend a black cowl over that flaming hair of yours, just to make sure. Let’s take another look.”

They went back to the particular wardrobe, where she found what he’d suggested and held it up. “The very thing.”

“Now to the armory down here. The end wardrobe.”

When she slid back the door, she found a selection of body armor on display, starting with heavy flak jackets. She took one in particular down.

“I wore this in three different wars.”

“Put it back. You need something a bit more sophisticated.” He pointed to one that looked rather flimsy. “That will suit you very well.”

“Why, it’s so light,” she said in wonder.

“Nylon and titanium, we all have one. It will stop a Magnum round at point-blank range. I’d wear it at all times now, if I were you.”

“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.

F
our 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.

T
wo 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.

T
he 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.