Thunder (38 page)

Now I’m squashed into the back of the Toyota, rolling the aforementioned trousers and battle jacket, and thrusting them into the backpack on top of Vengeance. It’s probably pointless having the bow in my bag, but it feels reassuring somehow. Folded down as it is, it would take me a few moments to re-rig it. Hardly handy in a tight corner. Especially given that I’ve only managed to smuggle two arrows with me from Lesvos – a couple of my favourite mechanised tipped ones. They’re nestling in the two tubular steel pipes of the bag’s frame.

Pistol, silencer, spare magazines... I eye the rifles, but conclude there isn’t much point me trying to lug one along, especially as I need to get back to the rooftop in daylight. Nope. I have what I have, and it will have to do.

I squat, and press myself up against the low roof, so I can pull the bench seat back into place.

~~~~~

Less than four hundred metres away, Gulyar bin Imraan poured himself another shot glass of illicit Jack Daniels whisky, and examined the amber liquid against the rouge-tinted evening sunlight that was pouring through the windows. Around him were scattered a few of his many luxuries: heavy carpets sprawled over the floors, fine furniture, a polished oak table on which he carefully placed the bottle, comfortable chairs, including the one in which he now reclined, large glazed and clean windows, a door which both fitted properly and locked. It was all so much better than the hovel he had so graciously loaned to Nagpal. Well, it was only right. To the victor the spoils.

Nagpal would be grateful, whatever conditions he had to tolerate, and if he started to make trouble then he could easily be dealt with, or sold to the military again. Gulyar smiled as he remembered how much money his friend had already earned for him and, if by some chance, the man managed to succeed in his ridiculous ambition to forge his own nation state, then Gulyar would not only call in his many debts but also knew he’d have the perfect base for his ongoing operations. An unlikely outcome, perhaps, but more than worth him maintaining some semblance of support for the man.

There was a polite knock on the door.

“Come,” he said.

The door swung smoothly open and his personal bodyguard, a monster of a man, stepped inside and bowed his head respectfully. “There is a child here,” the man reported. “Says he has a message for you.”

Gulyar sat himself up, feeling irritated by the interruption, placed his glass next to the bottle and covered both with an ornately decorated box. Spirits remained frowned upon in Afghanistan, especially those that had been secured from the infidels. Best to keep them out of sight. “Send the boy in,” he said. “And stay there.”

The guard nodded and gestured outside.

A small, skinny child of about ten years appeared in the door frame and nervously approached. The child’s eyes widened as they scanned the opulent interior. His clothes and skin were caked in dusty dirt.

“You need to wash, youngster,” grumbled Gulyar. “If you ever dream to find richness like this,” he swept one hand around him, “you must present yourself with pride and not as a beggar.”

The child paused several feet away, nervous to come any closer, and nodded furiously in response to this sage advice. The mighty Bin Imraan was well known for his wisdom.

“You have a message for me,” said Gulyar.

The child jabbered at breakneck speed through his carefully memorised script.

Gulyar smiled and shook his head. “And now again, slowly, so I can hear you.”

The child looked mortified, but he repeated the message more slowly.

“Do you know who said this?” asked Gulyar, frowning.

The child shook his head. “A stranger,” he replied.

“You can go,” Gulyar instructed, knowing he would glean little else from the boy. “Give the child something,” he called to his guard.

The bodyguard waved a twenty Afghani note in the air, which the child snatched from his grasp, as he hurtled out through the door trailing a thin cloud of dust motes in his wake.

“What do you make of that?” Gulyar asked his trusted escort.

The bodyguard shrugged, “Not much to go on. I heard that a couple of strangers were spotted wandering around yesterday. Maybe something
is
happening?”

Gulyar nodded, “Stay alert. Put the word around. The priority is to make sure our ‘goods’ stay safe. Double the guards on the store houses.”

“And the
squatters
?”

Gulyar glanced across as he recovered his drink from under the ornate box, he knew the other men did not hold Nagpal and Ebrahimi in high regard. “They can look after themselves,” he replied.

~~~~~

Night fell across the city like a huge sable drape had been thrown over it. One moment everything was a patchwork of browns, reds, blues and greens, the next there was nothing but grey or pitch black. Off to the right, the city centre lay faintly glowing under its street lighting. Out here, on the outskirts, there was nothing more substantial than a scattering of random bulb-lit windows to lighten the labyrinth.

On the rooftop, Jack and Nick were huddled beneath one of the camouflage sheets. Nick was holding a small torch, shielding it with one hand to prevent the glow from shining out too brightly. Jack was drawing with a stick on the dusty rooftop.

“So the building probably looks something like this,” he whispered, scratching a couple of rectangles. “Upstairs is a single room.”

“Yep,” said Nick. “It looked like there were more windows at the back.”

“Downstairs may well be subdivided but, given the general simplicity of the architecture, is unlikely to be a complex layout. There must be a staircase leading upward or, worst case, a simple ladder.

“There are two exits,” he continued. “Front and back. The back one leads to a shared courtyard. The only way in and out is through one of the surrounding houses. We need to cover both, so I’ll make my way to there.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Not sure yet. I may have to climb down from the roofs, but I’ll scout the houses first.” He rubbed one hand through the dust to erase his diagrams, and then redrew the street. “This is the house front.” He prodded the picture. “There’s a small alcove here, where you can wait until I’m in position.” He pointed to a place on the opposite side and a little further along the road from the house. “It should provide sufficient cover for you to stay completely concealed. Be weapons-ready throughout. If they come out and try to make a run for it, just shoot them as they leave the door, and withdraw immediately to the car. I’ll verify the hits and join you – then we scram. If I’m more than ten minutes after you, or if I instruct you to, or if you’re threatened in any way, you are to leave.” He looked across, eyes set hard. “No arguments.”

Nick nodded.

“Assuming they stay put, we’ll go in together, from both doorways.”

“Don’t shoot me,” said Nick.

Jack shook his head and sighed. “I’ll try not to,” he said calmly. “Though the temptation is ever present.” Nick made to reach over and thump him on the shoulder, but Jack grabbed the incoming fist in his hand. “Be careful in there,” he whispered tensely, still gripping his partner’s knuckles. “We take no chances. If we see a body – wherever – shoot it. No questions. No interrogations. The minute we start shooting they’ll start to react. If at all possible we need to take them at the same time. Upstairs. While they’re asleep.”

“Not a fair fight,” rumbled Nick.

Jack grimaced. “No,” he agreed. “Not fair.”

~~~~~

London

Ellard stood and stretched on his side of the partition. “Satellite’s about thirty minutes away,” he said, and sat down again.

Greere pulled various windows, displaying feeds from a raft of comms system sniffers, up onto his monitors. “Check the tracer responds, then join me monitoring for chatter,” he said calmly.

~~~~~

Herat

One by one the surrounding windows have darkened, noises have faded to silence and now there is almost nothing. Nothing except our mission. Nothing except closure.

I think about a grey morning in London, our final happy conversations on the train, and Lizzie laughing in her buggy when a random pigeon fluttered past her as we crossed the crammed concourse. I think about the worm, Omid, in his fiery chair. I think about Sikand kissing his bloody motorbike tank.

The epicentre of this dreadful tsunami lies in peaceful ignorance a few scant metres from me.

Time to close this final gap.

Time to finish this.

“Thirty minutes. Let’s go,” Jack whispers, and rises, swiftly folding the camouflaged sheet and tucking it under a nearby stone. He raises his face to me – his green eyes shining bright, from amongst charcoal-blackened skin, topped with a black beanie hat pulled tight onto his head – and smiles, and nods his head confidently.

This is it.

I lift my almost empty pack onto my shoulders, and follow his shadowy form along the empty rooftops.

~~~~~

Beneath Sergei’s skin, the tracer counted down to itself.

Three hundred and eighty-four.

Three hundred and eighty-three.

Three hundred and eighty-two.

~~~~~

Nagpal stirred. He was not sleeping well tonight.

He had a bad feeling...

That bastard Ebrahimi was a liability. He knew it. He just couldn’t prove it.

The boy was lying there, somewhere across from him in the darkness, snoring like a baby whilst he tossed and turned...

~~~~~

Jack crept quietly into one of the surrounding houses. He could see right through the building to the courtyard he needed to get to. His luck was in again: both the front and back doors of this house had been standing wide open. He was pleased. He hadn’t fancied trying to shimmy silently down crumbling masonry.

Moving in absolute silence, like a mottled grey wraith, he moved one foot at a time into the shadowy interior. In front of him, a wide treaded ladder led to the upper floor. The occupants must be up there, asleep.

Half way...

~~~~~

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The tracer activated.

“&&[[[\\+==]]]**962727-GJhyG-888-805674895-GW,” it whispered into the night.

~~~~~

The scanner downstairs squawked once, angrily.

It was still lying, open on the table where Nagpal had left it.

He sat up in his bedroll and peered over the line of packing crates. There was a dull red glow from the gap above the stairs.

Ebrahimi lay as a dark bundle in the corner, and continued to snore ignorantly.

~~~~~

The sudden bleep from my PDA makes me jump. The tracer isn’t supposed to start sending for another few minutes. I scrabble to mute it.

~~~~~

Jack froze.

He was about five metres from the back door.

‘Fucking, shit, idiot, wanker!’ he thought angrily to himself, whilst straining hard to listen in the surrounding silence. ‘I should have fucking muted the PDAs!’

Rustling sounds started upstairs.

‘Don’t bleep again,’ he prayed silently. ‘Please don’t bleep again...’

~~~~~

Nagpal rose quickly and, dressed only in his night shirt, crept down through the darkness to the machine.

A new red dot showed on the screen.

Nagpal picked up the box and moved around the room until the red dot was centred. He was in a corner.

The corner was empty.

~~~~~

London

“Fuck,” said Ellard.

Greere’s head snapped away from his screens, “What is it?”

“The fucking tracer has just sent its random ping.”

“Still in the house?”

“Seems to be.”

~~~~~

Herat

Nagpal scuffed his feet in the dust. Nothing.

Then he turned his head upwards.

Above him.

In his bed.

Ebrahimi...

~~~~~

The rustling upstairs stopped.

Jack breathed a muted sigh of relief, rooted out his PDA, and clicked it to silent. Then he edged himself slowly toward the back door.

~~~~~

London

“Any minute now,” said Ellard.

~~~~~

Herat

Carrying the scanner like some divining rod in front of him, Nagpal climbed the stairs.

The red dot remained fixed where Ebrahimi lay sleeping.

Slowly he approached the young man’s prone and still snoring form.

~~~~~

My PDA starts buzzing in my pocket. On and off. One-second intervals.

I pull it out.

The signal is still in the house.

Where the hell is Jack?

I move out from my position, and cross to the planking front door.

~~~~~

Suddenly the box began to squawk again.

Again and again it squawked.

Nagpal stood there, staring at the screen flashing red in front of him, and suddenly his vision blurred red too. Pent up fury and frustration boiled through him. Pure, unbridled, anger. He slammed the lid shut on the machine.

Ebrahimi jerked up into a sitting position on his bedroll. “What is it?” he cried out in surprise.

Nagpal swung the flight case round in a circle, and smashed it violently into the young man’s face.

Sergei crashed backwards under the force of the sudden blow, but Nagpal fell to his knees next to him, and kept battering. Lifting the case up again, and again, and again. Smashing the brushed aluminium into the traitor’s head, until the young man’s body went limp.

Then, his rage vented, Nagpal calmly placed the bloodied case on one side, wiped his hands down his shirt and rose to his feet.

~~~~~

Feeling his PDA buzzing, Jack sprinted across the small courtyard to the back door of the terrorist’s safe house. Inside he could hear the sound of an angry bleeping alarm.

“In position,” he muttered into his microphone.

“Ditto,” came Nick’s response.