A Devil Is Waiting (23 page)

“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.”

A
mira 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.

Ali Selim sat at a table by the window to catch the light, and the wood-burning stove produced a certain amount of heat. In spite of that, he wore a large sheepskin against the cold as he sat there, still holding his mobile phone in his right hand.

His bodyguard, Ibrahim, a fearsome creature in black robes and over six feet tall, stood impressively at the door, an AK-47 automatic rifle slung across his chest.

Ali Selim said, “That was Wali Hussein to tell me the English are returning to London. He comes to see me bringing his cousin Malik and his intended bride, Zara Khan. What would you say to that, old friend?”

“That Allah is merciful if he allows the dead to walk, master, for Malik Hussein and Zara Khan were killed in the Raga bombing six months ago.” Ibrahim spoke excellent English. Ali Selim nodded. “Wali is a clever young fox to fool them like that. He is obviously under duress. We must be prepared.”

“I’ll go and see to it, master.” Ibrahim went out.

Ali Selim sat there, thinking about it, then tapped a long
number into his phone. In bed at his Park Lane apartment, Owen Rashid groped for his mobile in the dark.

Ali Selim said, “Ah, there you are, Owen. This is Abu.”

“I was asleep. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Ah, pardon me, I’m in a different time zone. I just wondered how the reception went at Parliament.”

“Rather crowded, and it rained. They had to put the canopies out.”

“Did Jean Talbot enjoy herself?”

“She certainly did. The President had a word with her.”

“Was he in good form?”

“He seemed so, though his day was busy. He’s gone now, off to Berlin.”

“So there were no problems, then, no disturbances?”

“No, nothing at all. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason, just curious. Sorry I bothered you, Owen. Go back to sleep.”

Selim nodded to himself and switched off his mobile, thinking about his niece and Jemal, wondering what had gone wrong.
But that would have to wait. He had enough on his plate right now.

A
t the aircraft hangar, Sara said, “Ali Selim’s voice on the phone was so different from when he delivered that speech in Hyde Park. He sounded so benign.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Holley said.

Wali Hussein said, “Did I do well?”

“Yes, I have to admit you did,” Ferguson said. “Now you’d better get changed, all of you, so we can be on our way.”

Sara went off with her bag, and Ferguson, Hamza, and Dillon watched as Holley picked up his clothes and went, followed by Miller. Greg Slay had been leaning out of the Raptor, watching, no need for him to change. Only Wali Hussein was left.

“Can I get my flying gear?” asked Hussein.

Dillon said, “I’ll go with him. Whatever he puts on, I’ll have to do the same, if I’m going to have any chance of looking like him,” and he followed Wali Hussein upstairs.

Ferguson said to Colonel Hamza, “You don’t trust Hussein, do you?”

“Not even a little bit, which is why I’ve decided to go along for the ride,” Hamza told him.

“My dear chap,” Ferguson said. “You’ve been absolutely splendid, but I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

“He’s my responsibility, General, so there’s no argument here. I’ll stay in the helicopter when we get there and keep an eye on him. I’ll leave Hamid here with you, of course. Use him in any way you see fit.”

Miller came in wearing combat fatigues, his head and face wrapped in black-and-white checkered cotton, and Holley moved in after him. The costume was perfect, and as Sara had suggested, he had wound a cotton headcloth about his head, its folds falling to his shoulders.

“They’d love you in the bazaar,” Miller told him.

Wali Hussein came down the stairs with a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, a blue cotton scarf wound around his neck.
He wore a black flying jacket and a khaki shirt and trousers. Dillon was wearing identical khaki.

“I’ll fly like this and steal his flying jacket and the baseball cap when we get there.”

“My spare shirt and trousers,” Wali said.

“You should he honored,” Dillon told him.

All conversation died at that moment, as Sara drifted in, moving out of the gloomy shadows like some dark ghost in her black robes.

“Will I do?” she asked.

“Most certainly,” Colonel Hamza told her. “You fit the part perfectly.”

“Then let’s get going.” She went to the Raptor and reached for the helping hand that Gregory Slay offered her.

W
ali Hussein had discussed the flight with Greg Slay before they left. Short flights to towns and villages by his three Raptors were commonly accepted by air traffic control at Peshawar. The one he had filed for a twenty-mile run to Dimla aroused no comment; nor did the fact that at five hundred feet and ten miles south, it swung west across the border with Afghanistan. Greg Slay at the controls, they set course for Amira.

The weather was atrocious, heavy rain mixed with those large wet snowflakes, the mountains in the distance shrouded in mist. The landscape below, in the heat of summer arid and barren, stretched to a gray and miserable infinity, patchy with snow. Here and there, what had once been fissures in the ground were now swollen with water.

They passed the occasional mud house, sometimes four or five such dwellings huddled together. Occasionally two or three people would appear and stand together, staring up, although,
muffled as they were in winter garments, it was impossible to tell if they were male or female.

Harry Miller, who was wearing an old sheepskin robe over his uniform, stood by the machine gun, peering out. “What a bloody awful place. The backside of the world.”

“That’s why they call it the Wilderness,” Hamza shouted. “Tribal laws alone apply here. They can do what they want.”

Miller crouched beside him. “I’m trying to imagine Ali Selim fitting in here. In London a couple of days ago, now here in some mud hut, living a primitive life.”

“But with a mobile phone, don’t forget—that’s all he really needs,” Hamza reminded him.

“Why is it so important for him to be here, of all places?” Miller asked.

“Al Qaeda reigns supreme in areas like this. The tribesmen from these mountains are warlike by tradition and easily recruited for the training camps in Waziristan. To them, Osama bin Laden was the next best thing to the Prophet himself. A great man who made them proud to be Muslim, proud to see Americans and British humiliated by what the West calls terrorism, but they regard as a holy struggle.”

“So when Ali Selim appears in their midst, it’s like the Second Coming?” Miller asked.

“A Christian concept, that, and quite different,” Hamza said. “But he has enormous power and respect.”

Miller shook his head. “I still think religious differences are a poor reason to kill someone. I’m sure most people would agree if pressed, whatever their religion.”

Wali Hussein turned and scrambled down, leaving Greg Slay on
his own, and said to Miller, “Not long now. You and the colonel will stay well back out of sight, and Slay must join you. They will expect to see only me at the controls, and my cousin and the woman.”

Hamza said, “All right, we’re not fools. Raise your arms.”

“Not again,” Wali Hussein said, but did as he was told.

Hamza searched him, running his hands everywhere, and found nothing. Wali Hussein said, “Can I go now?”

“Just get on with it.” Hamza turned to Miller. “He’s such a devious little bastard, I always expect him to try to pull a fast one, because so often he has.”

A few moments later and a mile away, they saw Amira nestling at the edge of the plain, a great sloping snow-covered hillock rearing a couple of hundred feet above it, the mountains swallowed by the mist behind.

“We’re starting our approach,” Wali Hussein called, and Slay dropped down from his seat and found Miller and Hamza at the rear of the cabin. He peered out a porthole with binoculars he’d brought from the flight deck.

The Raptor went straight on, turning at the last moment, flying parallel to the village, finding no sign of people, turning in again and starting to descend thirty or forty yards away from the edge of the village, for the streets between the mud houses were extremely narrow.

I
nside the crude porch of his house, Ali Selim peered out at the heavy rain, watching the helicopter descend.

He was holding a mobile in his left hand and said in English,
“Stay online, Omar, but tell the crew of the second Raptor to take off when I call. Hold the other in reserve and fly that yourself if needed.”

“As you order, master,” came the reply.

Ibrahim said, “They come, lambs to the slaughter, and the Jewish woman in a burka.”

“I have plans for her, a very valuable young woman. Once she’s in your charge, it will be your responsibility to see that no harm comes to her. Now step outside so that they can see you, beckon to them and tell them to come here,” Ali Selim told him.

Ibrahim obeyed and stood in the rain, watching them approach, a formidable figure in black headcloth and plaited dreadlocks, black robes, a bandolero about his waist, and holding an AK-47.

They stopped dead, looking at him, and at that moment, shots rang out inside the helicopter.

W
ali Hussein was responsible for everything that followed. As he landed the Raptor and switched off, he instantly removed his flying jacket and baseball cap and threw them across the cabin to Dillon.

“There you are, then. Let’s see how you get on being me.”

Dillon put them on, reached up and yanked the scarf from around Wali Hussein’s neck, and put it on. “Will I do?”

The resemblance was remarkable, and he picked up a bag. Wali Hussein frowned and said, “What’s in the bag?”

“You wouldn’t want to know.” Dillon jumped down to the
ground, reached up to help Sara, who was followed by Holley, who had found a large black umbrella in the helicopter and opened it, pulling Sara close to him in the pouring rain as they walked.

Inside the Raptor, Slay, Hamza, and Miller were still holding back, and Wali Hussein said, “What’s he got in the bag, Colonel?”

Hamza ignored him and focused on Ibrahim farther up the street. “A very nasty-looking piece of work has just appeared, black robes, armed to the teeth. He probably doesn’t kill anyone, just scares them to death.”

Wali raised his voice. “I’m not interested in that. I asked you what’s in the bag.”

Greg said, “What do you think? A special thank-you present for Ali Selim.”

For a moment, Wali sat there staring down at them, his face working, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not having it.”

He felt under the center of the instrument panel, pressed, and a flap fell down with a .38 snub-nosed Colt held by a clip. He turned, and Hamza tried to pull his Browning out of his holster. Wali fired wildly, hand shaking, missed Hamza but shot Miller in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet.

At the same moment, Greg Slay drew the .25 Belgian Leon from his ankle holster and shot Wali Hussein between the eyes, killing him instantly. He reached up, caught him by the belt, heaved him down, and rolled the body out under the machine gun to fall to the ground.

Hamza turned from examining Miller. “What now?”

“God knows what effect the sound of shooting will have on this place, but you’ve got the machine gun, and I’ll fly this damn thing, so be ready for anything,” Slay said.

D
illon, Holley, and Sara paused in the middle of the street at the sound of the shots, and ahead of them doors opened, and tribesmen, with AK-47s at the ready, emerged. Holley dropped the open umbrella to the ground, obscuring them for a moment. Sara reached inside Dillon’s bag, grabbed a pineapple grenade in each hand, pulled out the pins with her teeth, then held them up, holding each release bar tightly.

“See the gift I bring you,” she called in Pashtu. “I’ll kill myself and my friends, but also every man in a fifteen-meter radius.”

She released the bars, and there were cries of dismay. They turned and fled as she lobbed the grenades, chasing them. The effect was catastrophic, men blown from their feet. Dillon had her by the arm and across the street, kicking the nearest door open, Holley following them.