Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (10 page)

“Yes,” I said with all the assuredness of someone who had been called Willoughby since the day he was born.

He handed me my passport and gestured for me to proceed, which I did gratefully having been fearful of more questions. After immigration I came out from the airside and was greeted by a man in the arrivals hall. He looked like an expat, all Panama hat and linen jacket.

Taking care that no one around us could hear, he simply said, “Mr Willoughby?”

“Who are you?” I asked suspiciously.

“My name is Travers, Jim Travers,” he said as he shook my hand, “Guy told me you’d be coming. I’m from our Embassy. I’ll take you to your hotel.”

He led me to a car with a driver. After my bags were loaded we moved off. Travers and I sat in the back seat. The roads
around the airport contained the chaos of all human life: hawkers, beggars, urchins, roadside eateries and the idle merely watching everyone else. The place was congested and there was the incessant sound of car horns blaring. Despite all this, it was a pleasant spring day and the sun was shining.

“Can we talk?” I asked nodding towards the driver.

“Oh you mean Ismail. Yes he’s one of us. You can speak in complete confidence Mr Willoughby – or would you prefer Mr Collingwood?”

I looked at him startled, “Mr Willoughby – certainly when in the earshot of the locals.”

Travers just laughed, “You must relax Willoughby.”

He offered me a cigarette which I declined before he lit up his own with a lighter.

“What do you know about Zhukov and the Persians?” I ventured.

“Quite a bit I should say. Bad eggs the lot of them,” he began just after blowing a cloud of smoke from the first puff of his cigarette, “Faryab is of course the place to be. We can have you there tomorrow; it’s about 350 miles from here. Our embassy here in Kushanbay has been at the forefront of the intelligence gathering. There’s a remote valley in Faryab called the Bactria Valley. It’s there that the nuclear launch facility is located. Our informants tell us of large vehicle movements in and out of that valley from the only road that leads in to it – the North West Pass. Additionally, the JFF have been discouraging the local people from entering or even approaching the valley by placing gunmen at key entry points in to it. Of course they haven’t been 100% successful and naturally the local people resent such restrictions.”

“What’s the source for all this?
” I asked wanting to make sure the intelligence was above reproach.

“The information has been corroborated independently. Ismail has been there. Additionally, we have informants and locals to whom we ask open ended questions to reduce the chance that they are merely saying what they think we want them to say and then we cross check it against what others have said.”

“What’s the best way of thwarting these plans?”

Without hesitation Travers said, “Destroy the site so that nothing can be launched from it.”

“As simple as that?” I queried.

“Anything else will simply delay not actually thwart them. You could sabotage the vehicles bringing materials or attack the workmen and scientists at the site but they can be replaced.”

I could not fault Travers logic.

Initially my purpose was to exact justice against the killers of my friend and comrade in arms Andrew Sinclair. But what was justice? And how could one obtain it in a place such as this? Did I seriously think that if I went to the local police they would arrest Zhukov, anymore than the police in Moscow would have done? Even if the issue of the police corruption were not a consideration what evidence did I have? Solomon’s words to me in his hotel room – utter hearsay, or a recording of a conversation between him and Zhukov in English - a tongue not common amongst the local constabulary I should wager. If it wasn’t for this nuclear business than I in all candour would have told Guy that I had done all that I could and returned to England. But this scheme of the Persians I felt had to be stopped. That, I resolved was now my primary purpose here in Azakistan. I consoled myself that this was a selfless mission, much bigger than me, a mission that could save countless lives and prevent the world being changed for the worse and made my concerns regarding the death of one man, trifling by comparison. I concluded that “justice” for me, to all practical purposes meant killing Zhukov, but only if the opportunity presented itself and it wasn’t incompatible with the mission that I had now awarded myself of destroying the nuclear capability that the Persians were trying to establish in the Bactria Valley.

We arrived at my hotel in an affluent part of Kushanbay. It was a white building with a colonial look about it that had clearly seen better days. The pistol and tracking device that Edward had sent from London had been sent in the diplomatic bag from Moscow to Kushanbay. I was to pick it up the next day. Travers dropped me off and informed me that he would come by in the evening for dinner, at which point the German I was to meet would be introduced to me. In the afternoon I went for a stroll and stumbled upon this enchanting bazaar, where I came upon a shop selling all manner of weaponry, most of it antique. I don’t doubt that many of the pieces had once been taken into battle in the 19
th
century. I purchased a rather new 6 inch knife which came with its own holster, to augment my Glock. It was large enough to be effective, but not so big as to be cumbersome when concealed. I spent the remaining time before dinner reading a guide book to Azakistan, learning a few words of the language and poring over some maps.

Casually dressed, I went down to the hotel bar in the evening where I met Travers as arranged. We ordered a couple of beers and then sat at a table away from the other guests, of which there were only four.

“Why are the Germans so keen to foil Persia’s plans here in Azakistan?” I asked.

“The fact is we don’t know for sure,” began Travers, “But my hunch is that the German government and ours are probably in the same position. They’ve both discovered that some of their companies have supplied materials for this base. I know our government and almost certainly the Germans want to eliminate this base for that reason. It’s also an illegal base constructed without the knowledge of Azakistan’s government which violates its sovereignty and it could all trigger a nuclear conflagration in the region - the consequences of which would be incalculable and contrary to both British and German security interests.”

“Half the region could go up in flames?” I asked.

“Worst case scenario, yes,” Travers answered grimly. Suddenly neither of us was smiling.

He continued, “It won’t make either government look good if this gets in to the public domain, and that’s even before any missile is launched from the site
,” he concluded with typical Foreign Office understatement.

We both took a sip of our beers and there was a moment’s silence.

“What can you tell me about this German?” I piped up

“Based on what I’ve heard from the German embassy here he sounds very impressive.”

“They probably won’t make much of me,” I said in a mixture of self deprecation and doubt.

“Nonsense Captain Collingwood, you’ll be his equal,” chastised Travers gently.

“Well?”

“Ah yes. He started initially in the Bundeswehr - the German Army...........”

We heard a different booming voice interject “....Where he rose to the rank of Major within 11 years of joining the army before joining the Kommando Strategische Aufklrung.....”

I and Travers turned around startled and saw this tall, athletic, casually dressed European man in his late thirties, with dark blond hair swept back, wearing a jacket and cravat, carrying on where Travers left off, speaking excellent English with the occasional turn of accent betraying his German antecedents.

“.................where he served for 4 years before transferring to the Bundesnachrichtendiesnt BND. Served in the Balkans, Cambodia and Somalia. Have also taken part in covert operations in the Middle East and engaged in espionage in Eastern Europe. I have participated in exercises with the Norwegian Army in the Arctic and the US Marines in the Horn of Africa. I am Major Rudolf Hoffman von Weizsacker at your service.”

He gave a little bow with a nod of his head. The only thing missing I thought, was him clicking his heels together.

Travers and I stood up and in turn we both shook his hand and I proffered the greeting, “Guten Tag, freut mich,” to which von Weizsacker smiled in appreciation, whilst Travers introduced me as Captain Tarquin Collingwood and the three of us sat down.

“Vell we meet at last Herr Collingwood,” smiled von Weizsacker as he looked me directly in the eyes, “A Lieutenant of mine was due to come on this mission, but he got injured. So imagine my delight, when I vas told that the British had a man who could replace him.”

“I hope I am equal to the task,” I said meekly.

“I have no doubt of it! It should be a great adventure!” he continued jovially, “We are in the service of our respective countries: you for the Queen and I for the Vatterland. If we succeed it will be for the glory of our countries and our names will be revered. If we fail we should almost certainly die, but think what a noble death it will be. Remember your Horace
? Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

Travers called over a waiter to whom the Major muttered something in the local tongue and in a moment what appeared to be a martini arrived. Travers and the German then fell into conversation.

Initially I felt somewhat overawed by his military credentials, which he had so theatrically enunciated to Travers and I. He outranked me. Spoke excellent English - Azaki and heaven knows how many other languages. I did not doubt his courage or his ability in covert operations, weapons handling and sabotage. In fact I should have been reassured and comforted at the thought of undertaking such a mission in the company of someone so clearly well qualified. However his glory or death speech alarmed me. He might want to laugh at death and even welcome it, so enamoured was he of a place in Valhalla, but I would rather be around for a few more years yet. Whil
st I was under no illusion that this was a dangerous undertaking, I still felt that with good planning, expertise and luck we had a decent chance of making it out of this uncivilised backwater - so much so that I could see myself sipping a Pimms back in England and laughing at my folly in ever coming here.

CHAPTER 13 – BAND OF BROTHERS.

The next morning after breakfast I checked out of my hotel and Travers picked me up with Ismail driving up front. Except this time Ismail was wearing native headdress and clothing. I was wearing a native frock coat, a shawl and a scarf called a Keffiyeh; which resembled more of a teacloth than haute couture. Travers gave me my gun and tracking device and thus saved me the journey to the Embassy. We drove out of Kushanbay in a north westerly direction, where just outside the city we would rendezvous with von Weizsacker. The buildings thinned out as we got further from the city centre. This country was so wretchedly poor that it was quite common to see beasts of burden on the roads: bullock carts, horse drawn carriages and even the odd camel for the love of god. The weather was cool, although the sky was a brilliant bright blue and sunny.

“Ismail will be your personal guide and bearer. He’s also rather handy with a gun. You will find him indispensable,” Travers advised as we drove.

If Travers could vouch for him then I was content. After all, if I had to venture into these desolate places the least I could do is have a native to fetch and carry for me.

Soon we were out of the city and there was barely a building or a vehicle to be seen. One could see mountains and large hills in the distance on either side of the road - the terrain for which Azakistan was famed. We turned off the main highway and drove down to what amounted to little more than a dirt track. I noticed that the road was descending, after a few minutes the ground before us opened out in to a large clearing nearly 200 metres across. We had entered what looked like a former quarry or certainly some kind of depression with the rocky walls rising to varying degrees all around us. Ismail stopped the car and turned the engine off. We got out of the car and looked round; initially I could see no one. There was not a sound to be heard but for the light breeze of the wind. Then just behind an outcrop of rock over yonder to our right appeared von Weizsacker. He called out to us and then walked towards us and pointed to his watch. As he got closer I could see that he was wearing boots, cargo pants, sunglasses, and a desert camouflage jacket under which we wore a shirt and cravat.

“Good morning Major,” said Travers smiling.

Major von Weizsacker looked annoyed, “Good morning, you are I am sorry to say late.”

Travers looked pained, whilst Ismail was indifferent.

“We are here now meine Kamaraden,” said I attempting to defuse the German’s irritation.

He looked at me sternly for a second and then as if he realised the crassness of his reprimand smiled and said, “Forgive my manners. You are right.”

I reciprocated his smile and we shook hands. Just then I heard a car engine start. A 4 wheel drive (4WD) Toyota appeared from the rocky outcrop behind which the Major had appeared a moment earlier. It drove slowly towards us; its roof rack was holding cargo covered by tarpaulin. The vehicle stopped when it got to us and two men got out. One was a local man with turban like headgear a shirt and baggy trousers. He had a pock marked face and had a swarthy look about him - god only knows from where von Weizsacker found such a roguish looking individual. From the other side of the vehicle a fair skinned stocky European man appeared, wearing trousers and a Khaki jacket.