Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (41 page)

‘How long do we have this picture?’ asked Button.

‘An hour at most,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s moving and we can’t alter its trajectory. We can move the camera, though, so we can stay on this view.’

Singh leaned over and tapped one of the buildings on the screen. ‘That’s the one,’ he said.

Button nodded. ‘When are the SEALs going in, Richard?’

‘Minutes,’ said Yokely in her headset. ‘We should have a perfect view.’

A white shape moved into the screen and pulled up next to the target building. ‘Richard, are you seeing this?’

‘I am, Charlotte. That’s Al-Haznawi’s SUV.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not as far as I can see. As I said, the SEALs are on their way in.’

As Button stared at the screen the SUV’s door opened and a figure moved towards the front of the house.

‘We believe that’s Al-Haznawi,’ said Yokely in her ear.

‘Where are the SEALs?’ asked Button.

‘Just out of view,’ said Yokely. ‘Don’t worry, they’re there. They’re about to go in.’

‘I want you to tell me how you are connected to Manraj,’ said Al-Farouq, holding the machete under Raj’s chin. Tears were running down Raj’s face. The strength seemed to have drained from his entire body and he swung back and forth, all the weight on his arms. Al-Farouq took the machete away from Raj’s throat and slashed down at his left leg. Raj screamed and blood spurted across the basement floor.

‘Stop!’ shouted Shepherd.

‘Then talk,’ said Al-Farouq.

Shepherd opened his mouth to speak but then they heard rapid footsteps on the stairs and the door was thrown open by a man in a long grey dishdasha carrying an AK-47. He said something to Al-Farouq in what sounded like Arabic. Al-Farouq frowned and replied. The man nodded excitedly and said something else. Al-Farouq leant the machete against the wall. He said something to the two men holding Shepherd and they nodded. The other two men followed Al-Farouq out of the room. The fighter with the AK-47 closed the door and stood with his back to it.

‘What just happened?’ Shepherd asked Raj.

Raj didn’t reply. His head was down and sweat or tears were running down his face and dripping on to his shirt.

‘Raj! Can you hear me?’

Raj mumbled something. His eyes were closed and all his weight was still on his arms.

‘Raj? I need you to tell me what just happened,’ shouted Shepherd.

‘There’s a visitor,’ mumbled Raj. ‘From Islamabad.’

‘Did he say who?’

Raj shook his head. ‘Just that it’s important.’

The man with the AK-47 barked at Shepherd.

‘He wants you to shut up,’ said Raj.

‘Do you think?’

‘Sierra Five, we’re at the rear. There’s a door here, and it looks open.’

‘Roger that,’ said Drake. ‘How close are you?’ He was at the wall, looking over at the three buildings. There were lights on in the target house. The two smaller houses appeared to be unoccupied. To his left were Henderson and Sanders, to his right were Peterson and Croft.

‘Sierra Five, about fifty feet. We’re behind a wall. Four feet high. We can go right over it.’

‘See any hostiles?’

‘Sierra Five, negative on that.’

‘Sierra Seven, I’m at the power line.’

Drake looked over at Woody. He was crouched behind the wall close to one of the poles supporting the wire that carried power to the building.

‘Sierra One, can you get up there and cut the wire?’

‘Sierra Seven, I don’t think so. I’m not even sure it’ll take my weight.’

‘Can you blow it?’

‘Sierra Seven, absolutely. A small C4 charge will bring it right down.’

Drake nodded. The C4 would make noise, but it would do the job. If the pole falling didn’t break the wire, Woody would be able to cut it. ‘Do it,’ he said.

Al-Farouq smiled when he saw Saeed Al-Haznawi. He walked over to him, embraced him, and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘
As-salaam alaykum
,’ he said. Peace be upon you.

‘
Wa alaykum salaam
,’ replied Al-Haznawi. Upon you be peace. He handed Al-Farouq a carrier bag. ‘I brought you cakes,’ he said.

Al-Farouq sniffed the bag. ‘Coconut?’

‘Coconut cupcakes. And there is a semolina cake that is especially tasty.’

Al-Farouq waved his visitor to a low table surrounded by red cushions. The door opened and a man appeared, an AK-47 slung over his back, holding a brass tray on which there was a brass teapot and two beakers. The gunman put the tray down on the table and left the room. Al-Farouq waited until Al-Haznawi had sat down on one of the cushions before joining him. He poured tea, then opened up the carrier bag and set out the cakes that Al-Haznawi had brought.

‘So, brother, what brings you out here at such short notice?’ he asked, as he took a slice of the semolina cake.

‘I have news,’ said Al-Haznawi. He toyed with a cupcake. ‘Bad news, I am afraid. You have to move. And soon.’

Al-Farouq raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

‘The sister who is close to the MI6 officer spoke to him earlier today,’ Al-Haznawi continued. ‘He is set to return to Islamabad because he has been told that a rescue operation is being planned.’ He sipped his tea.

Al-Farouq frowned. ‘Planned by whom?’

‘By the SSG.’

‘The SSG know where I am? If that was the case, they would be here already surely.’ He popped a piece of semolina cake into his mouth.

‘He told Salma that he was returning on Wednesday so that he would be ready to take care of the British soldier. And presumably the other hostage.’

Al-Farouq steepled his fingers under his chin as he frowned. ‘When did she tell you this?’

‘A few hours ago, immediately after she had the conversation with him. She came to see me and I drove straight here.’

‘Brother, are you sure you were not followed?’

Al-Haznawi smiled. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘I was checking constantly for a tail.’

‘What about the skies, brother?’

Al-Haznawi looked confused.

‘Drones. Satellites. The eyes in the sky.’

Al-Haznawi looked even more confused. ‘The Pakistanis do not have drones. Or satellites.’

‘No, but the Americans do. And we are only twenty miles from the border with Afghanistan.’

‘Why would the Americans be involved?’ asked Al-Haznawi. ‘The hostages are British. The MI6 man is British. This has nothing to do with the Americans.’

Al-Farouq held up his hands. ‘Perhaps I am worrying about nothing,’ he said. Al-Haznawi smiled and sipped his tea. Al-Farouq was certain he had not been tracked from Parachinar to Peshawar. Once ensconced in the house he had not been outside, nor had the hostages. All the neighbours were known sympathisers of the Taliban and none was in any way loyal to the Pakistan government. It made no sense that the Pakistanis had tracked him down already. He sipped his tea.

‘Why was this MI6 man sent back to the UK?’ he asked.

‘He was summoned. By his bosses.’

‘He was a junior?’

Al-Haznawi nodded. ‘He is quite young.’

‘Do you think they blamed him for what happened at Parachinar?’

‘That’s what he thought, yes. He told Salma they were ordering him back to London to punish him.’

‘But now they are sending him back?’ asked Al-Farouq.

Al-Haznawi shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was wrong. They summoned him back to London to brief him about what was to happen next.’

Al-Farouq broke off another piece of semolina cake. He had punished people in the past. That was what leaders did. They rewarded good behaviour and they punished bad behaviour. But if the spy had been called back to London to be punished, why the change of heart? Something didn’t feel right about this.

‘You seem troubled, brother?’

Al-Farouq forced a smile. ‘I shall have to move, and quickly,’ he said.

‘I can assist you,’ said Al-Haznawi. ‘I have friends, not far away.’

‘The worry is, how are they finding me so quickly?’ asked Al-Farouq. ‘We have never used this place before. It is surrounded by friendly faces. The government has no friends in the area.’

Al-Haznawi shrugged and sipped his tea. ‘It is a mystery to me,’ he said.

Al-Farouq picked up his beaker. He was just about to raise it to his lips when he heard the rat-tat-tat of automatic fire outside and he flinched. He jumped to his feet, knocking over the tea and cakes. The man at the door raised his AK-47 and turned to stare at the door. Al-Farouq had opened his mouth to speak when the light went out and the room was plunged into darkness.

Woody realised he’d been spotted only when rounds began ricocheting off the wall behind him and he heard the distinctive sound of an AK-47 being fired on fully automatic. He’d had his back to the building as he was attaching the C4 charge to the base of the pole and he was just inserting the detonator when the bullets hit the wall. He grabbed for his Heckler and as he turned he slipped his finger on to the trigger and brought the carbine up to his shoulder. The shooter was standing by the white SUV, holding his AK-47 at waist height, which is probably why he’d missed. Woody fired three shots and the man went down. He scanned the area to reassure himself that the shooter was alone and then turned and finished attaching the detonator. He activated the five-second timer on the detonator and hurried away. ‘Sierra Seven, fire in the hole,’ he said.

‘Sierra One, in we go,’ said Drake in his earpiece. ‘Join us at the building, Sierra Seven.’

Woody dropped behind the wall and tensed for the explosion. He heard a burst of gunfire from the rear of the building and then a dull thud as the charge exploded. The pole cracked and fell. Woody looked over the wall and saw that the power line had snapped. He stood up and ran towards the building, which was now in complete darkness.

Shepherd had recognised the first shots as coming from a Kalashnikov but the return of fire had been from a suppressed Heckler, possibly a 416, which almost certainly meant that it was Americans outside. They must have cut the power to the building so they would probably be coming in wearing night vision goggles.

The man standing to Shepherd’s left released his grip on his arm, obviously disoriented by the darkness. Shepherd moved quickly. With his left hand he grabbed the wrist of the hand that was on his right arm, twisting it as he stood up. He heard the man grunt and he increased the pressure as he ran his right hand up to the man’s neck. As soon as he felt the bony trachea he pulled back his hand and lashed out. The cartilage cracked and the man dropped, gasping as his throat filled with blood. Shepherd let him go, ducking down as he turned and reaching out with his hands to feel for the other man. He brushed against a leg and moved forward, straightening up and keeping his hands against the man’s clothing, fingers splayed as he reached for the throat. The man struggled but it was too late; Shepherd’s fingers fastened around his neck and squeezed. He felt the man claw for his nose and Shepherd twisted his face away as he increased the pressure. The man fell to the floor and Shepherd went with him, his fingers clamped around his neck like a vice.

Shepherd heard shouting from across the room, presumably the guard with the AK-47. And he heard more gunfire outside, a mixture of suppressed semi-automatic fire and Kalashnikovs on fully automatic, but he was totally focused on squeezing the throat of the man underneath him. Eventually he went still. Shepherd maintained his grip for another ten seconds and then let go and stood up.

The guard shouted again. He couldn’t see anything and Shepherd doubted that he’d be stupid enough to fire the Kalashnikov in the dark. Shepherd moved on tiptoe towards the door, arms outstretched. His photographic memory kicked in and he knew exactly where he was and where the man with the AK-47 was standing.

His fingertips brushed the wall and he stepped to the side. He took three short steps to his right, and then turned. He could see nothing. The man at the door started shouting in Pashto, clearly wanting to know what was happening outside. There were more shots upstairs, once more the pop-pop-pop-pop of a Kalashnikov being fired on fully automatic.

Shepherd took a breath, held it, and walked forward, slightly crouched, his hands outstretched but slightly bent, his right hand at shoulder height, his left at stomach height. He widened his eyes to maximise his night vision but there was still nothing to be seen, just blackness. He had his head cocked to the side, listening intently. He could hear the man’s panting, and the scrape of his sandal against the floor. Shepherd’s right hand brushed against rough material and a fraction of a second later his left hand touched metal. The AK-47. His brain performed the mental gymnastics necessary to convert the physical sensations into a mental picture in a fraction of a second. The man was standing facing the door, the gun to his left, barrel up. Shepherd took another step closer, then slapped his right hand across the back of the man’s head, thumb down, fingertips close to his left ear. At the same time his left hand moved from the barrel, fingers splayed, reaching for the man’s bearded chin.

The man grunted and began to move but he was too late; Shepherd already had his left hand cupped around the chin and his right hand gripping the back of his head. He pulled hard, twisting the head to the left so quickly that the neck snapped with the sound of a breaking twig. The Kalashnikov fell to the floor. Shepherd held the head tightly and let the body down gently, then dragged it over to the wall and picked up the AK-47. He felt for the sling and slung it over his back.

‘Raj, are you OK?’ he asked.

‘What’s happening? Who’s shooting?’

‘The Americans are moving in. You need to do exactly as I say, this could get messy.’

‘What’s happened to the guards?’ asked Raj.

‘I’ve taken care of them,’ said Shepherd. He moved through the dark towards the sound of Raj’s voice. He reached out with his hands and touched a leg. Raj flinched. ‘It’s OK, it’s me,’ said Shepherd. He flashed back to when Al-Farouq had placed the machete against the wall. He’d left it leaning some six feet from the door. He moved to the wall and then moved along it until he found the machete. Then he moved back along the wall in the other direction until he found the rope tied to the hook.