‘Howes for Riz. Can you talk?’
I swerved to avoid a massive pothole and veered across the carriageway. I wrestled the taxi back onto the right hand lane. ‘Evening sir. Yep, just about. Can you inform Colonel Mahoney that me and Holly are out, and can you let the guardroom know we’re driving in in a yellow cab, and we should be at the gate within two hours?’
‘Got that.’
‘Thankyou. Be advised that I’ll be wearing a Dagger system, so you won’t recognise me. You could tell the guardhouse to phone up for a photo of Holly.’
‘We’re ahead of you on that one. Your office sent over photos of both of you from your Afghan IDs, so we know what you’ll look like. See you there.’
I silently thanked Toots and the Colonel for being on the ball.
‘That’s a relief. See you soon.’
I closed the phone down and took the battery out. Bang-Bang clocked what I was doing and did the same. Then I took the sticker with the Embassy phone number off the phone, rolled it into a ball and ate it.
‘You nutter.’
I just chewed and grinned at her.
She shook her head, stowed her carbine under her seat, and tuned the radio into something cheesy and Arabic-sounding.
An hour and a half later we were in northern Kabul. I’d stopped just outside the city limits to put the Dagger disguise on, so now I was an old handicapped Pashtun with his young, headscarved wife. What I hadn’t been expecting was the sheer volume of night-time traffic. Our three-lane road had backed up and we were stop-starting between lines of concrete and the odd street-vendor. Up ahead, over the palm trees, were buildings lit by in blue and red neon. It was like some half-arse Vegas. Bang-Bang was navigating and I thanked the stars they’d put the military-spec TOPO database in the GPS, as commercial stuff would have been useless. There were no postcodes, no street names, no numbers. Just roundabouts, donkey carts, police cars and chaos. We were trying to keep the windows up as the dust and fumes were ridiculous.
The traffic concertinaed to a stop again underneath a massive billboard for a local phone provider called Me2U, as far as I could work out.
‘One klick, babes. Nearly there’ said Bang-Bang and looked around nervously. Next to my door a hand-pushed icecream cart was belting out a crap electronic version of My Heart Will Go On through a plastic megaphone held together with packing tape. He was grinning at me. I mentally willed the vendor to fuck off, but no dice.
The traffic jerked forward and I saw the reason for the stoppage. A police checkpoint. Three men in grey uniforms, with fluorescent batons and AKs. She looked at me. ‘Talk or shoot?’
I tried to say “talk” but it came out wrong and she laughed.
‘I think you just said “talk”. OK. Here goes. If I see a biometric scanner I’m shooting.’
We wound down our windows as we came level with the cops. Flashlights were shone in.
The cop on my side said something. I drooled a smile and produced my I.D. Bang-Bang leant over and said something back. He responded with a question. She replied and he laughed as she handed over her I.D.
We waited.
He handed the I.D.s back and patted the taxi roof.
The traffic cleared ahead of us. We drove away, and waited a good minute before we both breathed a sigh of relief.
Bang-Bang glanced my way. ‘I don’t know whether he understood me but he certainly understood the twenty-dollar bill in the I.D, as it seems to have disappeared. And so has the bill in your I.D. How strange.’
We drove along a line of parked Humvees and melded with more traffic. It was smoother now. Bang-Bang consulted the GPS. ‘OK. This looks to be called “Forty-Metre Road”. Straight over the next two roundabouts and the Embassy is on the right.’
This was going to be tricky. There was a small army of tooled-up Nepalese G4S contractors inside the embassy, never mind the regular British Army and UK Special Forces. One wrong move…
I navigated my way round the final roundabout and there it was. Concrete blocks, watchtowers, sandbags, machine-gun emplacements. “Welcome home” I thought to myself and brought the taxi off the road and to a sedate stop by some massive steel gates under the glare of floodlights. I felt eyes on me. We stayed in our seats. From my position I could see at least five Nepalese guys in Osprey body armour, armed with AKs. And those AKs were all pointing at the car.
Bang-Bang murmured out of the corner of her mouth ‘Maybe we should have just checked in at the Sheraton?’
Before I could attempt a reply a squaddie jogged up to the car and tapped on my window. He too, had a rifle, a fully-tricked out SA80 with an underslung grenade launcher. I wound my window down and gave him my patent harelip grin. He looked at two photo printouts and back at us.
He turned to the watchtower and called up. ‘It’s OK, it’s them, lads.’
He turned back to us. ‘Evening you two. If you’d like to leave the car here and follow me? With the keys in the ignition if you don’t mind?’
Bang-Bang nodded and replied ‘You do know we’re both carrying, yeah?’
‘I do, and that’s fine. Let’s be quick though.’
We got out, retrieved our gear and followed him to what looked like a corrugated shed with a satellite dish on top. Bang-Bang held her carbine to one side, trying to be inconspicuous. Behind us, someone had jumped in the car and fishtailed it out onto the main road and away.
We came to a door and the squaddie rapped on it. A small poster of Lord Kitchener was stuck on it. He was sternly reminding us to carry our passes at all times. A slot opened in the door. The squaddie said ‘Op DEADBIRD, two pax.’
The slot closed and the door rattled open. We were ushered into the shed and our Afghan I.D.s were looked at. Without any further ado I removed the elements of the Dagger disguise and breathed a sigh of relief. As did everyone else in the shack.
A second door was opened and we were finally inside the compound. Brigadier Howes was standing before us. I recognised him from a photo I’d been shown at the office.
He smiled. ‘Welcome back to Blighty.’
22
The Brigadier shook both of us by the hand. Bang-Bang slung her carbine over her shoulder and looked around in astonishment. The Brigadier laughed and said ‘I know. “There’s some corner of a foreign field”, and all that.’
It was as though we were in a tennis club in Surrey. Before us was a large yellow building with aerials and an even more massive satellite dish on the roof.
‘That’s the main embassy building’, said the Brigadier. ‘We call it the Chancery. Come along. Colonel Mahoney is waiting for you on Skype.’
We followed him past more Portakabins converted into shops. A sign was advertising DJ night somewhere in the compound. Soon we were going up the steps of the main block and inside. We followed the Brigadier up the main stairs to the Special Forces liaison office. A PC terminal had Skype on standby. We crowded in. Onscreen the Colonel was drinking from his office mug. I tapped the microphone.
‘This holiday is shit, boss, I want a refund.’
There was booming laughter from the speakers.
‘So my young hooligans are back! Hello Riz, hello Holly.’
‘Evening Colonel’, she curtsied with a sly grin.
His expression changed to one of concern and he studied her more closely. ‘Are you OK Holly? Everything in one piece?’
She stood up and became more serious. ‘Not really, Colonel. They got me addicted to smack. But I know what to do about it, don’t worry.’
For a moment the Colonel’s face looked like thunder. I would not want to be London’s US Ambassador tomorrow. Then he sat forward.
‘Sure? Because I want you in Paris the day after tomorrow. Big NATO conference there next week, I’ll be there and we need to liaise with the French security people. Can you brief me in on the right-wing elements at Bagram, Holly? Will you be OK to talk?’
She shrugged. ‘Sure. Don’t see why not.’
‘Good. OK, now
you two go off and stand down for the evening. Everything is on the office account from now on and I’ve sent your travel stuff and your phones and laptops over by diplomatic bag. The Brigadier will show you to your room. You two deserve Paris, don’t you think?’
Bang-Bang smiled at him, then me. ‘I’ve seen death and Kabul, but I’ve never seen Paris.’
She turned back to the screen and tapped it gently. ‘That sounds lovely, Colonel Mahoney. Thankyou. See you there.’
I spoke to the screen. ‘Appreciate that, boss. By the way did Swallow and co get out OK?’
He nodded.
‘Good. See you in Paris.’
The Colonel saluted. I couldn’t remember whether we had to salute back or not, and then the Skype connection sighed and went out.
‘Right,’ Bang-Bang said, ‘dunno about you, but I’m going to have a rollup, a long hot bath with as much foam as I can get in it, wash my hair, and oh, first… Mr Brigadier Sir, have you got a phone I can use?’
He nodded at a deskphone. She went over to it and lifted the handset. ‘00 44 for Britain, yeah?’
We both nodded. I guessed she was phoning her mum.
She dialled a long number and waited. Then she spoke.
‘Salaam, ammi! You’ll never guess where I am!’
She looked at the handset and then replaced it to her ear.
‘Oh hello Dad. Yes. I’m in the embassy in Kabul. Have you been recording Citizen Khan for me? Waddya mean you forgot. Sorry? Mum’s done what?’
She looked back at us. ‘My mum’s just fainted.’
23
30th September
Next morning found us sitting at the compound’s outdoor café drinking tiny cups of sweet Afghan coffee, black and sticky as tar. The staff had found us some relatively clean Afghan clothes to replace the minging, dusty sets we’d arrived in. The day was already starting to get hot. Bang-Bang was wearing a ridiculously large pair of Sixties sunglasses and snickering to herself as she read a Barbara Cartland paperback she’d found on a bookshelf on the stairs. She was also inadvertently blowing heroin fumes over me from one of those nasty rollups.
‘Oi. Liz Taylor. Can you blow that smoke the other way?’
She gave me a look from over the tops of the shades.
‘Sorry babes.’
I craned my neck to read the book’s title. “The Reluctant Bride?”
‘That’s the one. It’s genius, doll. Whitbread Prize stuff.’
I shrugged. ‘Chick lit.’
Time passed and Sunday at the embassy began. Staff came for their lattes, a man came by pushing a lawnmower. Some lawn sprinklers went on. Our phones and laptops had, as promised, been waiting for us in the Special Forces annex last night. Also waiting had been the embassy medical staff to give us both a once-over to make sure we hadn’t contracted AIDS or hepatitis or Allah knew what. We’d come through clear to my considerable relief. Apart from Bang-Bang’s obvious hard drug habit. The staff had clucked at her trackmarks and given her a shot of vitamins, or echinacea or something.
My BlackBerry was on the table in front of me and buzzing as the backlog of texts, voicemails and emails came through. It was an MOD BlackBerry, managed by the Defence Communication Services Agency, so I could get secure comms almost anywhere in the world. Perk of the job. Fuzz had sent a text with a smiley emoticon. The gang was ecstatic.
Bang-Bang looked at me again. ‘Who are waiting for?’
I waggled my eyebrows. ‘The ambassador’s own CP team, no less. Machineguns, armoured 4 x 4s, the lot. We’re getting the VIP ride to the airport. And check this out…’
From a jiffy envelope I pulled two British diplomatic passports and two pairs of tickets for Etihad Airways…
‘Flyin’ in style, babe. Kabul to Abu Dhabi and then Abu Dhabi to Paris Charles De Gaulle. Economy from Kabul, but at Abu Dhabi we can get an upgrade to something called…’
I looked at the tickets.
‘…“Diamond First.” Plasma screen, bed, inflight bar… all mod cons.’
She grinned. ‘You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Mr Sabir.’
There was a discreet cough to our left. Three Royal Military Police soldiers, in casual dress but armed to the teeth with HK53s and a Minimi light machine gun were waiting. The lead guy spoke. ‘Morning people. I’m Dougie. Taking you to the airport. Ready Sir and Ma’am?’
We were. We stood. Bang-Bang reached under the table and brought up her carbine and checked the safety. I checked my pistol. Dougie looked at his team. They looked back at him. He gave an above-my-pay-grade shrug.
I spoke. ‘Guys. Me and my fiancée here have just fought our way out of an Afghan prison and these are our personal weapons. Tell you what. When you get us on that plane, we will relinquish them to you and you can put them in the next diplomatic bag back to Blighty. Good enough?’
Dougie was coming to a decision. ‘OK. Good enough, fella. Follow me, please.’
We picked up our meagre personal effects and followed them to a convoy of armoured black Toyotas. We got in the middle car, the Ghurkhas pulled the steel gate open and the convoy roared out of the compound at rocket speed into the Afghan morning.
Bang-Bang was squeezed in between me and a rather uncomfortable-looking CP guy who was trying to lay his Minimi out of harm’s way. She laid the barrel of her AKS-74U on his leg and said ‘Eeese… wanna know how many gringos I have keeled with thees?’
He shook his head.
She laughed and her nosering jangled. ‘I have absolutely no idea!’
I whacked her shoulder and gave her the “stop it” look.
24
The digital clock in the Diamond First cabin flicked over to midnight. I looked out of the nearest window. I couldn’t see anything but black. Still, this was an improvement on the plane I’d gone in on.
Bang-Bang was asleep in what we had discovered to be a single bed when we’d pressed the button that converted the couch. She had her own compartment down the aisle from mine, but I’d explained in vague terms to the chief stewardess where we had come from and what we were to each other, and now the whole cabin crew was cooing over us.
Bang-Bang was shivering in her sleep. I went and adjusted the covers. I reckoned we both knew that the next week or so was going to be hell for her. I stroked her hair and went back to the window and perched on the shelving. I flicked through the channels on the flatscreen.
There was onboard wi-fi internet on this flight. Since I couldn’t sleep I took advantage of it and got on my laptop and went through the huge backlog of social media and emails.
My first assignment was on Skype. I had a call to make to Teacher. The Skype connection booped in my headset. C’monnnnn, I willed the screen. The display came to life. And there was Teacher, smoking a fag.
‘Riz! What’s with the Taliban beard?’
‘Hello mate. I’ll explain when I get back…’
‘Get back? Where are you?’
‘With Bang-Bang.’
The cheer nearly sent me deaf. ‘Shit, Teach, dial it down,’ I laughed, ‘I’ve got her. We’re on a plane to Paris. But we have a problem…’
I explained. Teacher sat back and thought for a bit then went and got a notepad and pen and started writing. ‘Listen, I’ll type this up and Facebook inbox it to you. Follow the instructions and NO Methadone.’
‘Sure thang. I owe you. By the way… can you get a job-lot of acid blotters to the girls?’
Teacher raised an eyebrow but after a while, just nodded. He knew I wouldn’t have asked for something like that frivolously.
We clicked off. I checked my office emails. Toots had sent some updates and clippings. The first one concerned a wave of raids in Germany on neo-Nazi homes, squats, and clubhouses. The North Rhine-Westphalia interior ministry had come down hard on what was known as the National Socialist Underground, but, disturbingly, they’d found very little. The NSU was on the move. The second email was a report on one of Anders Breivik’s aides, who had finally co
me out of the shadows. He’d identified himself as being from the “Knights Templar Order 777” and had been emailing Norwegian politicians and news media outlets via the anonymous Tor network. The email read:
“I hereby present myself as cell two and representative of the European resistance movement. Me and my soldiers, with all respect to our people, our culture and ethnicity, will warn all supporters of multiculturalism against the war we are now deeply engaged in. No longer will we tolerate your ignorance, nor your derision of our people.
Never before have we been forced to commit this type of acts against our own people, and we will continue along this path until we succeed in waking up the Norwegian and European people from their psychosis, and undoing the brainwashing of our brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers.
Our Commander, Anders Behring Breivik, sacrificed his life and freedom for our people and our struggle. It will be unacceptable and inequitable to us if he continues to be ignored and is declared “insane” by the unjust and corrupt apparatus that is in power. If this is to be the case, all those who died by his sword will have passed in vain.”
I sat back. I could see the pattern. The networks were on the move, the leadership was coming to life. Damn.
The next job was to update my Facebook so that Fuzz and the gang knew where we were heading. Within a minute, Fuzz was inboxing me. The message read ‘Rizbhai! You’re not gonna believe this!’ and was followed by a link to a BBC local news feed. She was right. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was a video link to an Infidels flashmob in Derby yesterday. A shaven-headed man was speaking into the mic of a very large megaphone being held by… Duckie. Oh my God. She was in.
By 2am I’d done all I could online. Holly seemed mercifully asleep. I envied her. There was no way I could sleep on a plane. I kissed her cheek. She stirred and smiled. I spoke to her.
‘Shift up, crazy chica.’
She woke and looked up at me. ‘Are we there yet?’
Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus Page 25
