Also by Duncan Falconer
The Hostage
The Hijack
The Operative
The Protector
Undersea Prison
Mercenary
Traitor
Non-fiction
First Into Action
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12223-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Duncan Falconer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
To Jamie Seward: a rich
pirate to be sure but one
of the good guys!
Contents
Also by Duncan Falconer
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Prologue
Dinaal Yusef had lived in Bogota for five years before he learned why he had been ordered to begin a completely new life there. He first arrived in the Colombian capital on vacation: or at least that was the way his leaders wanted it to look. In reality he was there to carry out a preliminary assessment of the city. And to ascertain what he needed to do to be able to apply for a resident’s visa. Yusef was a tall, handsome and athletic man in his late twenties, and he was well educated, having attended university in Barcelona, where he had lived for fifteen years. He’d been born and grown up in a small town on the Kashmir border in Pakistan. But a wealthy uncle living in Spain had adopted Dinaal and brought the boy to live with him after his mother and father, a policeman, had been killed in a dawn raid by the Indian army.
In the second week of Dinaal’s month-long visit to Bogota he met a young local girl. He frequented the street café where she waited on tables. After just a few days he’d charmed her, completely turned her head. It had been easy enough for a man of his looks and intelligence to convince the girl, who had left her village only a few months before to find work in the city. It was almost as easy convincing her parents. After a brief but passionate affair, he flew back to Spain promising to return to marry her. Three months later he was as good as his word.
It was a union of love for the Colombian only. For Dinaal, it was one of convenience. It meant he acquired his permanent resident visa. And completed the first stage of his assignment. Dinaal had been sent to Colombia to set up an undercover operations cell. So he needed to be married. It was a necessary tool. It allowed him to stay in the country for as long as he wanted and to travel abroad at will and return at will. Without having to deal with the usual visitor’s visa complications.
He waited a year before he travelled out of Colombia. Dinaal went back to Pakistan for the first time since his youth. On arrival he took the first of many trips into Afghanistan to meet his bosses. These visits, mostly into Kandahar, never showed on the pages of his passport. Because he was always guided in and out through the mountainous, arid borders by people who knew how to avoid Pakistani troop patrols and Western Coalition forces.
It took close to three years to get the Bogota active unit numbers up to operational strength. The secret cell was made up of six other men, all of whom had been recruited from madrassas in various parts of the world that taught an extreme form of Islamic jihad. The seven men had subsequently attended jihadist training camps once a year for weeks at a time, and on one occasion for two hard months straight. They’d learned the art of terrorism. They’d taken weapons and explosives training and been drilled relentlessly on how to conduct themselves undercover. Only one of the men was a native Colombian. The others were from Pakistan, Indonesia and Saudi Arabia. In the final weeks of training they’d focused on the skills required to conduct independent and unsupported attacks in foreign countries. By now they had solid small arms skills. They could handle pistols and assault rifles. At this point they learned how to construct simple but lethal explosive devices using locally purchased materials.
When Dinaal was sent to Colombia to set up the active service unit, the leaders didn’t tell him why. He would have to wait another two years before learning of its purpose. But he had been able to wait because he was a patient man.
In truth, the men who had recruited and sent Dinaal to Bogota didn’t know what the task would be either. They were following a directive that came down from on high. They had been ordered to set up as many active service cells as possible in just about every significant country in the world. The cells were to remain asleep until given orders to become operational.
It was during one of Dinaal’s visits to Islamabad, while receiving training in the use of wire-guided missiles and anti-vehicle mines, that he got called to attend a meeting. The gathering, which included other cell commanders, was held on a country estate a few miles inside Afghanistan on the Kandahar road beyond the Spin Boldak border checkpoint. Much to his surprise, Dinaal’s bosses were men he had never seen before. It was like there had been a complete changing of the command guard. Many of the new leaders were younger than their predecessors and were far more politically savvy. They were also ruthless and ambitious.
The meeting lasted a whole day. One by one the cell commanders were called to give account of their units. When it came to Dinaal’s turn, he described his men, their enthusiasm and their eagerness to do anything they were asked in the name of Islam. He also emphasised they were all willing to die for the cause. At the end of it, Dinaal was given what seemed a strange sequence of instructions. But he was not permitted to question them nor to divulge them to any living person outside the members of his cell.
On his return to Bogota, Dinaal assembled his team at the first opportunity and relayed the instructions. His men were equally bemused. He assured them that ultimately it would lead to a significant task: all he could say was that they were taking part in a truly global operation, one that would have a greater impact than the Twin Towers assault on 11 September 2001. Dinaal also warned the six men not to ask questions about the task nor to discuss any aspect of it beyond the walls of the secret cell headquarters. He didn’t lie to them: if they disobeyed the order they would be killed.
The Colombian, the Indonesian, the two Pakistanis and the two Saudis assumed Dinaal knew the real purpose behind the weird task. He did not let them think otherwise. He was well aware that information was power and that if you didn’t have any, it was always best to let others think that you did.
He spent a week carrying out day and night reconnaissance of the target area on his own. He looked at it from every position until he was satisfied. When he had decided on the location and timing, he took his two best men out on the ground to explain the plan in detail. He showed them where it would take place and precisely how they would carry it out.
He had one relatively minor obstacle in the preliminary plan: the procurement of a rifle. Dinaal wasn’t worried about ammunition being a majo
r issue since he required only one bullet. And getting hold of a rifle was easy enough in Colombia. But it had been impressed upon him that the acquisition of the firearm had to be as clinical as every other part of the operation. It had to be a clean weapon, untraceable back to them. No member of the cell could be associated with a firearm in any way, shape or form. This was vital to the future of the cell. Dinaal knew he had to take it extremely seriously.
It was the Colombian who managed to achieve this level of secret acquisition, quite by chance. He stole the weapon from the military without them knowing who had done it. He was driving towards a country road checkpoint late one night, common enough just about anywhere around the Colombian capital, and the barrier was up. He was waved through by a single soldier and noticed a dozen or so others asleep, weapons out of hands. Instantly inspired, he drove for about another hundred metres, around a couple of bends and pulled the car off the road. He crept back through the bush on foot. He took not only a rifle but a pouch full of magazines.
After detailed questioning of the Colombian, Dinaal was satisfied that security had been maintained and that it would remain so as long as the weapon was never found in their possession and they kept it hidden until they needed it.
Finally the night of the task arrived. The seven men climbed into a van and they drove into the city. The van belonged to Dinaal, a second-hand Transit with windows at the front and in the back doors only. It was rusty in places and looked well worn but Dinaal ensured the engine was always in good condition. The Colombian was at the wheel. They kept to the highways and after a while they hit Calle 17 and headed into the much less populated agricultural area to the north-west. The traffic had been heavy in the city but as soon as they turned on to the farm road it disappeared. The surface of the road was hard-packed crushed stone that wound through small, cultivated fields. A handful of farm houses were dotted about. The land was as flat as a billiard table in every direction.
Less than a kilometre along the lane, the vehicle turned into an even narrower track and came to a stop under some trees, which provided complete cover from the moonlight. The Colombian turned off the lights and the engine.
The two Pakistani men climbed out of the back of the van and skipped into the bushes. They looked at the few houses in sight, their lights on inside. Otherwise they couldn’t see any sign of life.
Dinaal hardly took his eyes off his watch. The others waited quietly and patiently. ‘Let’s go,’ he said finally.
The double doors at the back opened and the men climbed out. Two of them were carrying a long wooden box. Dinaal and the Colombian driver joined them.
‘You have three minutes to set up,’ Dinaal said.
One of the Saudis and the Indonesian climbed over a low, wooden fence and took the box that was handed to them. Then they all hurried along the edge of a ploughed field. The ground began to slope away a little as they reached the end of the field, where they stopped. Beyond them they could see a wide trough of marshy water that reflected the moonlight.
‘One minute,’ said Dinaal.
They placed the box on the ground and opened it. Inside was the rifle, a standard 5.56mm ball Galil IMI. The Saudi who had been elected weapon preparer lifted the weapon out of the box. He was handed a magazine and he pushed it into its housing, cocked the breach that loaded the chamber and handed the weapon to the Indonesian, who was standing ready and waiting to receive it. He was short and stocky, low centre of gravity. He took it, placed the stock into his shoulder and looked directly at Dinaal.
‘That way,’ Yusef said, holding his arm out. The Indonesian adjusted his position so that he was aiming the rifle into the sky in the direction indicated.
‘Hold him,’ Dinaal hissed at the Saudi.
The man took a tight hold around the Indonesian’s waist.
‘Safety catch,’ Dinaal said.
The Indonesian removed the safety catch.
Dinaal searched the skies behind them, in the opposite direction to the aim of the rifleman.
After about fifteen seconds they could all hear the distant sound of an approaching aircraft.
The rifle pair didn’t move, they just remained focused skywards, their backs to the oncoming aircraft, while Dinaal and the others stared into the black star-covered sky.
‘There,’ said the Colombian, finding a couple of tiny, piercing lights moving together through the thousands of stars. A large, commercial passenger plane soon took shape, increasing in size as it descended directly towards them, its headlights searching ahead.
Dinaal glanced at his gun team, who remained in position. ‘Get ready,’ he said.
The Indonesian regripped the weapon that he held tightly into his shoulder. His number two squeezed him slightly harder, arms clamped around the man.
The scream of the jet engines grew rapidly louder as the craft began to fill the sky. Dinaal could see the cockpit windows now. He felt a fleeting satisfaction with his timing and positioning perfectly beneath the large craft’s flight path. As it roared overhead the Indonesian aimed at its underbelly, which was not difficult – it practically filled his vision.
‘Now!’ cried Dinaal above the deafening shriek of the turbines.
The Indonesian fired a single shot. The report, like Dinaal’s shouted command, was consumed by the intense high-pitched whine of the big bird’s huge engines.
The Indonesian lowered the barrel but his partner still held him and they all stared at the tail of the thundering airliner as it continued to descend towards the bright parallel lines of airfield approach lights in the field before the runway.
‘Quickly!’ Dinaal shouted.
The Indonesian shoved his partner away and placed the gun back inside the wooden box. They picked it up and hurried along the field to the fence, which they scurried over. The two lookouts held the doors of the van open for them. The team stepped up and inside and pulled the doors closed. Dinaal joined the driver in the front and the engine burst to life. The Colombian reversed the vehicle out of the narrow track on to the stone lane, turned on the lights and drove them back the way they had come.
A line of suitcases of various shapes and colours oozed from beneath a curtain of twisted black rubber strips. They lay on a well-worn conveyor track that looped through the drab and humid baggage hall of Bogota International Airport. A porter plucked one of them from the line, placed it on a rickety trolley and followed a tall, casually dressed man to the customs desk. The man showed the official his diplomatic passport and was promptly ushered through to the arrivals hall.
On the street outside, the Englishman was led to a smart bulletproof limousine. He climbed inside, his suitcase was placed in the trunk and the vehicle drove off.
Forty-five minutes later it arrived at the entrance to the British Embassy, where it passed through several layers of robust security to gain entry. A few minutes after that the man wheeled his suitcase into a large second-floor office in the three-thousand-square-metre building. The room was well appointed, had everything such an office should have, including a big ornate lump of a desk. An older man in a dark suit sat behind it.
‘Ah. He has arrived,’ the man behind the desk said, grinning and getting to his feet. ‘Good flight?’
‘Bearable,’ the Englishman said, letting go of his suitcase and placing a laptop bag on a chair. ‘You’ve caught a bit of sun since I left.’
‘A round of golf with the American Ambassador.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Tried hard not to but his putting was frightful. Whisky?’
‘Yes, but this one’s on me. And I have a treat for you.’
The tall Englishman placed his suitcase on a chair and opened it. He took out a couple of shirts and looked at them. They were wet in his hands. He put them down and picked up the wooden box nested in the centre of the case. The contents of the box tinkled, made the sound of broken glass. The man turned it in his hands and an amber-coloured liquid dribbled from a hole in the side of the box.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh dear,’ the old embassy man said as he approached. ‘What a waste.’
With his index finger, the Englishman probed the two neat holes on either side of the wooden box. It led him to investigate the lid of the suitcase. It had a neat hole in the centre. He lifted the case to discover a corresponding hole the other side. ‘It’s a bloody bullet hole,’ he muttered.
‘So it is,’ the other man said, looking quizzically at his colleague.
1
Stratton sat in complete darkness on a grey rocky slope in a treeless, moonscape wilderness. He was wearing an insulated jacket and hard-wearing trousers, heavy boots and a thick goat-hair scarf wrapped around his neck to keep out the chilly night air. He looked like he had been camping in the outback for days without a clean-up.
He was in a comfortable position, his back against a rock, knees bent up in front of him, elbows resting on them, supporting a thermal imager in his hands. He was looking through the electronic optical device at a house half a mile away. It was one dwelling among a cramped collection of them, practically every one small, single-storey and built of mud bricks or concrete blocks. He slowly scanned the village, pausing each time the imager picked up a human form.
A mile beyond the village the land abruptly ended in a dead-straight horizontal line across his entire panorama, beyond it a vast black ocean and a lighter cloudy sky.
Stratton lowered the optic, letting it hang from a strap around his neck. He picked up a large pair of binoculars and took another view of the area. There was enough light coming from some of the houses for the glasses to be effective. Headlights suddenly appeared beyond the village, coming from the direction of the highway that followed the coastline. He shifted the binoculars on to them.
‘Vehicles approaching from the south-east,’ a voice said over Stratton’s earpiece. ‘Looks like two Suburbans.’ The communications were encrypted and scrambled should anyone else try to listen in.
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