‘Anyone on our side hurt?’ asked Shepherd.
‘A few flesh wounds but nothing to write home about,’ said the captain. ‘We’re trying to get the lights on in the barracks so I’ll take Dean to the other side first.’ He looked over at Jacko. ‘You and the Carrot can start trawling for intel,’ he said. ‘We need to go through all the bodies checking for ID, any paperwork and any phones. We’ve found computers and a whole stack of filing cabinets so that’s all got to be bagged and taken with us.’
‘Right, boss,’ said Jacko and he and Garrett headed off.
Gearie smiled at Shepherd. ‘So far so good,’ he said. ‘So long as Khaled is among the dead, this has been pretty much the perfect op.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ said Shepherd. He headed for the tunnel as Gearie took Martin across the main cave. Shepherd ducked his head down to shuffle along the tunnel and emerged to find Shaver Hughes holding a torch in his left hand and a digital camera in his right. Creepshow was checking the pockets of the dead and collecting their personal effects.
Shepherd had a Maglite torch in his pocket. He flicked his night-vision goggles away from his eyes and switched on the torch. He checked the two nearest corpses; they were both bearded Asians but he hadn’t seen either of their faces before.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Shaver.
‘Hoping to cross a few names off the most-wanted list,’ said Shepherd.
He went over to check three corpses splayed out over sleeping mats but again they were all new faces.
‘Right, I’ll leave you guys to it,’ he said, and went back through to the tunnel to the main cave. There were a dozen bodies there, also being photographed and searched. Four of them had been shot in the face, which meant identification was impossible, seven he didn’t recognise, but he knew the final one, an overweight Asian with a short beard and bushy eyebrows who had been shot in the heart and probably died instantly. His name was Mohammed Arshad and he was from Leeds, where his parents were GPs. It was Arshad’s father who had brought his son to the attention of the police after worrying that he was becoming radicalised at his local mosque. He had started to wear traditional Muslim clothing, grown his beard and pinned up inflammatory quotes from the Koran all over his room. The tipping point had come when the teenager had taken a hammer to his father’s expensive wine collection. The parents were practising Muslims but Mohammed’s mother never covered her head and his father had always been partial to a good bottle of wine. As Mohammed’s radicalisation deepened he had more and more arguments with his parents, which ended when he stormed out of the family home vowing never to return. MI5 had identified him as fighting with ISIS in Syria from various social media postings and as far as anyone knew that was where he still was. Shepherd had no sympathy for Arshad – he deserved his fate – but he was sorry for his parents, two people who had done their best for their son, giving him a life in a country where everyone was allowed to practise whatever religion they wanted free of persecution, only to have him betray them and take up arms in a fight that served only to terrorise and oppress. It made no sense to Shepherd that someone like Arshad, British-born and able to avail himself of all the advantages that the country offered, would end his days in a cave in Afghanistan learning how to kill and maim innocents.
He straightened up and went to the rear of the cave. As he approached the tunnel leading to the barracks, it filled with a soft yellow light. The tunnel was tall enough to walk through without bending his head and opened out into a cave some fifty feet long and almost as wide. There were a dozen or so camp beds and a line of four bunk beds, each sleeping three. More jihadists had been sleeping on mats on the ground. There was a line of metal lockers against one side of the cave, their owners identified by names scribbled on pieces of tape. A trooper was using a knife to pry the doors open.
There were two troopers going through the bodies, their assault rifles slung over their backs. There were half a dozen light bulbs hanging from wires that had been attached to the roof of the cave, giving more than enough light to see by. Shepherd switched off his torch and clipped it to his belt.
Most of the occupants of the room had obviously been asleep when the first wave of troopers had gone in and they had all died either in their beds or standing next to them. Shepherd was impressed by the accuracy of the shooting – each jihadist had been double-tapped twice in the chest and from the look of it not one had managed to get off a shot. He did a quick head count. Thirty-two dead. The fact that none of the jihadists was holding a weapon didn’t worry him in the least. If they had, they would have had no hesitation in shooting at the SAS – they were in a war zone, a war zone where one side had no interest at all in abiding by the Geneva Convention, a war where it was considered acceptable to hack the heads off prisoners and to kill captives by burning them alive. Like Arshad, they deserved what they got.
He began checking the faces of the dead, looking for matches to the MI5 watch list.
Chapter 80
Present Day, Afghanistan
C aptain Gearie took Dean Martin along a tunnel that looked as if it was man-made. Off to their right were a series of rooms, fronted by planks of roughly hewn wood.
‘These were used as offices, probably,’ said the captain. ‘And at the far end there’s a sleeping area and an area that was used for prayer. Most of the jihadists here were older, so they were probably the instructors and senior officers. They have their own washing area, too.’ He grinned. ‘Rank has its privileges the world over.’
There were scratches made by rounds and damage from flash-bangs and the air was still foul with cordite. Their feet crunched on cartridge cases as they walked.
‘They heard us coming, obviously,’ said Gearie. ‘The fighting was fiercest here. But the flash-bangs did the trick.’ He pointed at the room to the right. ‘There’s three in there.’
Martin stepped inside. There was one man slumped in a chair, his chest wet with blood. There was an AK-47 on the floor by his feet. If it wasn’t for the blood, he could have been taking a nap. The man was overweight and bearded but it wasn’t Khaled. Two other men were on the floor, a thin one wearing a white skullcap lying face down and a short stocky Asian with a moustache who was lying on his side with the back of his head missing.
‘No,’ said Martin.
Gearie took him along to the next room. There was a map of London taped to the wall of the cave with various markings on it and Arabic writing. A trooper was sitting at a wooden desk, going through the drawers. ‘Don’t forget that map,’ said the captain and the trooper nodded. ‘Got it, boss.’
There were two bodies on the floor, big men with bushy beards, one wearing a grubby salwar kameez, the other a pale blue thawb. Both had been shot five or six times in the chest. Neither was Khaled.
There were six dead jihadists in the sleeping area but all were in their seventies, old men with faces wrinkled from the sun, their beards grey and their fingernails yellowed and gnarled. Despite their age, all had been holding AK-47s or pistols when they died.
‘Khaled is younger,’ said Martin.
‘How about him?’ said the captain, pointing to a body in an area off to the side where there were six threadbare prayer mats, all pointing in the same direction, presumably towards Mecca. Sprawled across the mats was an obese man, a pistol still clutched in his right hand. He was wearing only baggy shalwar pants and there were several holes in his chest that from the look of the blood around the body were mainly through-and-throughs. The face was unmarked and Martin could tell straight away that it wasn’t Khaled. He shook his head. ‘Okay, let’s check the other main prayer area,’ said the captain. ‘There are some older guys there.’
The prayer area was a circular sub-cave accessed through a wide entrance. The roof was about twenty feet high and domed. A single bulb had been fixed to the middle of the roof and the walls had been lined with prayer rugs and tapestries. There were more prayer rugs, several dozen in all, on the floor, all pointing in the same direc
tion. There were seven dead jihadists on the ground, their clothing glistening with blood. Jacko was gathering up the weapons the hostiles had been using while Garrett was going through their clothing.
‘Have they been LiveScanned yet?’ asked the captain.
‘No, boss,’ said Jacko.
The captain muttered under his breath and headed off to the main cave.
Martin went over to the nearest body. It was a bearded Asian in his fifties but it wasn’t Khaled. The second body he checked was too old and the third was the right build but it wasn’t Khaled’s face.
Jacko stacked the weapons against a tapestry on the wall and frowned when the tapestry bowed inwards. Figuring it might be hiding something, he grabbed it with both hands and pulled it away from the wall. It came away with a tearing sound and crumpled to the floor in a shower of dust. The dust got into Jacko’s eyes and he turned away coughing.
Martin jumped back as he saw an Asian man standing in an alcove that had been hidden by the tapestry. Martin recognised him immediately. It was Khaled. And he was wearing a nylon vest covered with pockets of explosives linked by red and blue wires. Khaled was holding something in his left hand and a pistol in his right. Martin’s AK-47 was hanging from its strap across his back and he grabbed for it.
Khaled lunged forward and grabbed Martin around the neck with his left arm and jabbed the gun into his throat.
‘Drop your weapon!’ screamed Khaled.
Martin did as he was told and his AK-47 clattered to the ground.
Jacko moved towards Khaled but Khaled screamed at him. ‘Come near me and we all die!’
Several troopers heard the commotion and rushed forward but stopped short when they saw the suicide vest and the gun against Martin’s throat.
Martin twisted his head and caught a glimpse of something metallic in Khaled’s left hand. ‘Stay back!’ shouted Martin. ‘Everybody stay back!’
Jacko aimed his weapon at Khaled but firing was out of the question, so long as Khaled was using Martin as a shield.
‘You’re Hakeem Khaled?’ said Martin.
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you?’
‘We met a few years ago,’ said Martin. ‘In Queens.’
Khaled frowned. ‘Queens?’
‘New York,’ said Martin.
‘You are the officer in charge?’
Martin stared stonily ahead. ‘No, I’m no officer.’ His eyes focused on Jacko. ‘Shoot him, Sarge,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what happens to me, just shoot him.’
Chapter 81
Present Day, Afghanistan
S hepherd heard shouting echoing off the cave walls and he looked around, wondering where it was coming from. There was a rapid footfall in the distance and Shepherd headed towards it. Ahead of him was a group of troopers, standing with their carbines in their hands but looking at each other as if they weren’t sure what to do.
He kept close to the cave wall as he approached the group, then peered around to see what they were looking at. His jaw tensed when he saw the large Asian man with a gun jammed against Martin’s neck. He was facing more than a dozen troopers. They all had their guns levelled at the Arab but weren’t pulling their triggers because Martin was in the line of fire.
The man was Khaled, and he was wearing a suicide vest. It looked as if the trigger was in his left hand and if he pressed it he would kill everyone in the vicinity. There was a chain of Muslim prayer beads wrapped around his right wrist.
‘Where is the officer in charge?’ shouted Khaled. ‘I demand to see the officer in charge. If you do not step forward I will kill us all.’
Shepherd figured that Khaled had already decided to kill himself, and his hostage, but what he really wanted to do was to take an officer with him. SAS officers went into combat dressed the same as their men so that they couldn’t be targeted on the battlefield, and the ranks never saluted. Khaled had no way of knowing who was in charge, and Shepherd hoped that Gearie would be savvy enough to realise what was going on. He didn’t see the captain among the troopers but more men were turning up all the time.
‘Stay back guys!’ shouted Martin. ‘He’s ready to blow.’
‘I mean it!’ shouted Khaled. ‘The officer in charge needs to step forward now.’
Shepherd squinted at the man’s left hand, the one holding the trigger. The thumb was clearly visible, which suggested that it was an active trigger operated by pressing the thumb down. Suicide vests generally had one of two trigger systems, active or passive. With an active trigger the vest was detonated by pressing the trigger to complete the circuit. With a passive system the trigger was already pressed and it was releasing the pressure that completed the circuit. A passive system didn’t usually involve the thumb; it was pressure from the hand that kept the trigger closed. Shepherd felt his heart pounding. If the trigger was passive then even if he killed Khaled with a single shot the vest would detonate and kill everyone in the cave. If it was an active trigger then there was a chance – albeit a slim one – that a killing shot would take out Khaled before he could press the switch and detonate.
Khaled took a step towards the troopers and tightened his grip around Martin’s neck with his left hand, the gun pressed under Martin’s chin. Shepherd got a better look at the trigger hand. The thumb was definitely pressing against something metallic. He let out a slow breath. It looked like an active trigger. But even if it wasn’t he didn’t really have a choice because Khaled was going to blow himself up whatever happened. If Shepherd was wrong and Khaled was using a passive system then it was just about possible that one of the troopers could reach the trigger and apply pressure to stop it from going off.
‘Who is the officer?’ Khaled screamed, clearly close to breaking point.
More troopers were coming into the prayer area. Now there were more than twenty, all pointing their carbines at Khaled. Creepshow was there. So was Shaver. Sergeant Smeed hurried in and then stopped when he saw Khaled and the gun jammed under Martin’s chin.
‘Guys, you need to back off!’ shouted Martin. ‘If that blows we’re all dead! Sarge, shoot him through me. You have my permission, just do it.’
From where Shepherd was standing, pressed against the wall to his right, there was no way he could raise his gun, not without moving to the side and revealing himself. He lowered his weapon and slowly changed it so the butt was against his left shoulder. He took a long, slow breath to steady himself, then sighted along the barrel. It felt awkward but he knew he had no choice. He slid his finger on to the trigger.
Everyone else was facing Khaled; only Shepherd had the side view and he was pretty much hidden from Khaled by the curve of the cave wall. He had about three inches of Khaled’s head to aim at but the face was obscured by Martin’s head. In an ideal world he needed Martin to move his head forward, but shouting a warning was out of the question.
Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger. It was a difficult shot but not an impossible one, though it would be a lot easier without the distractions of the Kevlar helmet and body armour.
Two more troopers walked in and stopped dead when they saw what was happening. They raised their weapons, fingers on the triggers, but it was clear from their faces they were as confused as everyone else. There was no way any of them could take a shot, not without hitting Martin. Shepherd was the only one with a chance of making a shot.
‘Just fucking do it!’ shouted Martin. ‘If you don’t, he’ll kill us all!’
Shepherd was just about to squeeze the trigger when Khaled moved, taking half a step forward. Now he could see only a few square inches of the man’s skull. Shepherd gritted his teeth, knowing that he was running out of time. He had no doubt that Khaled intended to kill himself, the only question was how many soldiers could he take with him. As soon as he calculated he would cause the maximum number of casualties he would detonate the vest. And that time was fast approaching.
‘If your officer does not reveal himself, I will press the switch!’ Khaled shouted.<
br />
Shepherd smiled to himself. At least he knew now that it was an active trigger and that if he could take out Khaled’s brain there was a good chance the vest wouldn’t go off. Small mercies.
Martin’s head was now obscuring all of Khaled’s. Shepherd did have another option, one that he hated himself for even considering. The Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle he was holding would fire its 5.56 × 45mm NATO cartridge at something approaching 900 metres a second and because Shepherd was so close the round would almost certainly pass right through Martin’s skull and still have enough momentum to kill Khaled. Two birds with one stone. Except that Martin was one of the good guys.
Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger, knowing that he was fast running out of time. If Khaled pressed his trigger, more than thirty men would die. If Shepherd made the shot that he was trying not to think about, only two of them would die and one certainly deserved it.
His mouth had gone dry and it hurt when he tried to swallow. He forced himself to block out all feeling of discomfort. The only thing he could afford to think about was the shot. His finger. The round. The barrel. The target. All had to become one. He took a slow breath and then let half of it slowly escape between his pursed lips.
Khaled was shouting something but Shepherd was so focused on the shot that he didn’t hear the words. Shepherd looked to his left. Captain Gearie had arrived, his Heckler clutched to his chest. He took in the situation with one glance and shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Everyone out! Just get the hell out now!’
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