He noticed a metal box lying beside one of the dead Afghans, his eyes attracted to the flapping paper sticking from it. He took a few steps closer. The box looked robust, the size of a shoebox, with large brass hinges. It had been hit and the lid was partly open.
Stratton crouched to get a better look. He picked it up. Inside the box was a booklet. The pages fluttered in the breeze. It was a typeset document written in Urdu. He couldn’t read the text but he’d seen it often enough to be able to tell the difference. He began flicking through the booklet, seeing in the middle a page of letters and numbers in bolder, larger font than the rest. It looked like a code of some kind.
As he examined the document he was aware of footsteps approaching. He looked round as a hand shoved him forcefully away while another grabbed the box and booklet at the same time.
‘Where the hell did you get that?’ growled Wheeland. ‘Did you take it from the operations room?’
‘You know I didn’t,’ he said, squaring up to the spook. Spinter appeared and raised his weapon, aiming it at Stratton’s face.
Stratton’s blood came up at Spinter’s audacity. ‘Lower your weapon or I’ll shove it up your arse,’ he said.
‘You stick your nose in places you shouldn’t, Stratton,’ Wheeland said as he examined the papers. ‘You should know better than most that’s not a wise thing to do.’
Jones placed the end of his assault rifle inside Spinter’s ear. ‘If you don’t lower your weapon away from my friend, there’s going to be a sudden case of death by friendly fire.’
Spinter didn’t move, giving Jones only the slightest of glances. Stratton thought he could sense hesitation in the American, but couldn’t be sure.
‘Put your gun down, Spinter,’ Wheeland said.
Spinter lowered the weapon, as Burns saw the kerfuffle and came over. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’
‘Hey, look, I’m sorry,’ Wheeland said, looking from Burns to Stratton. ‘You have no idea how important this operation is. When I saw you with this’ – he held up the booklet – ‘I lost it. I apologise.’
Burns glanced at the box and papers, none the wiser.
Wheeland put the booklet back inside the box and closed it. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done. I’m sorry. No hard feelings.’ He held out a hand to Stratton.
Stratton’s blood was still up. As he fought against his instincts and leaned forward to shake Wheeland’s hand, the sound of an approaching jet helicopter interrupted them. All eyes went skywards.
A sleek, white, civilianised Bell hovered to land fifty metres away.
‘That’s my ride. You guys enjoy the rest of the day,’ Wheeland said. ‘Hope to see you again somewhere soon.’ He seemed to be directing this last at Stratton. Wheeland winked at him before departing.
The two Americans made their way over to the helicopter, which had not reduced its power as it sat lightly on the dusty ground. A side door opened and the spooks climbed inside. As the door closed the helicopter rose up and powered away, a couple of hundred metres below another helicopter on its way into the hamlet. This one was a Chinook, huge in comparison to the Bell. It came in slowly, its dual rotors thudding out a percussive tattoo as it manoeuvred overhead before descending.
‘What was all that about?’ Burns asked Stratton.
Stratton shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
The Chinook landed close to the complex and within a few minutes the squadron was piling aboard.
As the helicopter left the ground, Spooky turned away from the mountains, on its last task of the day, heading back towards the buildings, keeping them to one side of its flightpath. When it went over it unleashed pure hellfire. It was like the crew had decided to fire everything they had left at the complex, which burst into flames. Walls collapsed. Roofs caved in. Entire structures shattered outwards as bombs exploded inside.
Spooky and the squadron exited the valley, leaving behind a billowing black plume reaching into the skies.
3
General Javas Mahuba stood on the edge of a winding dirt road halfway up Sheraghund Mountain, looking in the direction of the highway between Islamabad and Peshawar. He couldn’t see the road from where he was but it was visible in his mind’s eye. It crossed east–west seventy kilometres to the south. He was thinking how he would soon be driving along it on his way into Afghanistan.
It was almost midnight. Lights from the small town named after the mountain sparkled in the distance, way below where Mahuba was standing. Winter was still a good month or so away. But the air was already bitterly cold. He recollected the unusually heavy rainy season that year, which often meant a hard winter would follow. He put his hands inside the deep pockets of his black, woollen Savile Row overcoat and buried his grey, bearded chin in the delicately woven pashmina wrapped around his neck.
He felt calm, though his nerves were tingling a little. He was quite used to nervous tension. He was usually good at bringing it under control. Over twenty years in the military had seen to that. But nothing in the past could begin to compare with his present. Not the long and rocky road that had brought him to the side of this mountain, to his current position.
A pair of lights appeared, slowly strobing through the trees as they climbed the road. He heard the sound of the heavy diesel engine labouring to drive the truck up the steep incline. Mahuba looked over his shoulder to a white Hilux Toyota pick-up truck parked off the road and a man with a black book-shaped beard sprinkled with grey. The Afghan climbed out of the Toyota. He wore a brown pakul and a thick chapan over a long woollen shirt that was tucked into a pair of baggy, woollen trousers. His dark eyes looked between his boss of many years and the approaching truck. Mahuba took a small flashlight from his pocket and turned it on. The end was covered in red tape. As the truck rounded the corner and came out from behind the trees, he went to the edge of the road, waving the torch from side to side.
The brakes of the aged Bedford four-ton truck squealed as the driver applied them. The heavy vehicle rolled to a halt about ten metres from Mahuba. As he walked over to the driver’s side of the cab, the door opened and the driver leaned out to look down at him.
He didn’t recognise Mahuba. He’d never seen the face before. His instructions had been simple enough: drive up the Sheraghund Mountain road until you are stopped by a red light. If the man you meet bears a letter of authorisation signed by the head of the Pakistani Army, obey every order he gives you from that moment forward. Defy these orders on pain of death.
Mahuba took a letter from inside his breast pocket and reached it up to the driver. The man opened it, turned on his cab light and read it slowly and carefully. When he got to the end he nodded, more to himself, before handing it back. He seemed satisfied with the credentials.
‘Turn off the engine,’ Mahuba ordered. He delivered his orders without effort, as though accustomed to total obedience.
The heavy diesel engine stuttered before reluctantly shutting down with a throaty rumble. The air was still once again.
‘Get out,’ Mahuba said. He walked to the back of the canvas-covered bed. The canvas flap had been tossed up onto the roof. Inside the truck he saw a dozen armed soldiers seated on the two benches that ran down both sides. They looked half-frozen. But on seeing the immaculately dressed man outside who was clearly of some importance, they stiffened a little.
‘Get out,’ Mahuba said.
The driver unpinned one side of the tailboard, while one of the soldiers unpinned the other. They gave it a shove and the tailgate came down with a loud slam. The men quickly jumped down onto the road. They all wore fatigues and carried rifles. They had pouches attached to their belts, filled with ammunition. None of them seemed to know where they were.
Mahuba’s eyes were fixed on a crate at the back of the truck. It was everything to him now. ‘Put it on the back of the pick-up,’ he said.
The driver barked an order and several of the men scrambled back into the truck to the box. They gave it a heave and slid it
along the floor of the bed to the rear.
Mahuba hadn’t taken his eyes off it. He’d never seen the thing it held before but he knew all of its mysteries.
‘Easy with it, you idiots!’ he shouted as they lifted the crate out of the truck, struggling to take its weight.
Whatever was inside was heavy, easily as much as two men. The soldiers took heed and steadied the weight between them, shuffling with it down the side of the truck towards the pick-up. The driver directed them to load it onto the bed and push it all the way to the back, up against the cab. When it was in place, Mahuba’s servant covered the box in a canvas tarpaulin, securing it with a rope.
‘Back inside the truck,’ the general said.
The soldiers made their way back to the truck and piled inside but the driver stood where he was, as if waiting for his own instructions.
Mahuba looked at him. ‘Join your men,’ he said. ‘In the back. Wait for me to tell you to leave. Do not move from the truck until you hear from me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the driver said and he went to the back of the truck and climbed up and inside.
Mahuba gave his man a look that was a clear command.
The Afghan walked around the front of the pick-up to a trolley loaded with boxes. With a great effort, he managed to get the heavy load moving. He wheeled it along the road to the truck and manoeuvred it so that he could push it beneath the Bedford. It fitted snugly to one side, though not quite completely underneath. It didn’t matter.
The Afghan returned to the cab of the pick-up. He brought out a large cloth bundle and carried it to the truck, inside which the soldiers were chatting. He opened the bundle and placed the charred fragments that had been in it around the road, before returning to Mahuba.
‘Let’s go,’ the general said.
They climbed into the pick-up and the Afghan started it up and pulled onto the road, heading down the hill towards the Islamabad–Peshawar highway. After they had passed the stand of trees that shielded their view of the truck, Mahuba raised a hand. ‘This will do,’ he said.
The Afghan brought the pick-up to a stop but kept the engine running. Mahuba removed a mobile phone from his pocket. He punched in a number. Pressed the send button.
A tremendous explosion shattered the night beyond the trees. The sky lit up with a momentary flash. Miles away the sudden light might be mistaken for a lightning bolt, the sound of the explosion rolling thunder.
The ninety kilos of high explosives on the trolley had done their job. The soldiers could never have survived the blast, never mind the shrapnel that would have torn through them.
The Afghan released the brake and they drove on down the hill. Mahuba removed the back of the phone and took out the SIM card. He opened the window and tossed the phone into the wind. He chewed the SIM card until it was destroyed and tossed it out too.
The following day the bomb site would be roped off by the police and closely examined. The investigators would find pieces of a weapon familiar to them, especially to those with experience of air attacks on Taliban commanders. The pieces Mahuba’s servant had distributed were parts of a Hellfire laser-guided missile commonly launched from US military Predator drones. It was a simple way of getting rid of the witnesses and muddying the waters at the same time.
When the Toyota pick-up reached the Islamabad–Peshawar road forty-five minutes later, they turned right and headed west, towards the Afghan border. Mahuba’s nervous tension had not subsided. But overall he felt pleased with the recent transition and was all the more confident he would complete the rest of the operation.
This was it. The mission that had taken all this time to plan was truly into its final stages. But one thing still bothered him greatly. And he wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with it.
4
Stratton leaned against the old, polished wooden bar top in the St Stephens Inn across the road from the Houses of Parliament. It was precisely twelve forty-five in the afternoon as he sipped his first pint of the day. Big Ben took up the majority of the view through the large windows on that side of the bar. It was difficult to miss the time.
‘Quarter to the hour,’ the Polish bartender politely informed him in a strong accent as he poured a pint in front of Stratton for another customer. ‘Beautiful soundings,’ he added with a smile.
Stratton nodded politely. The man spoke in a manner that suggested he was practising his new language. That he was telling his customers the obvious seemed unimportant.
It was unusual for Stratton to partake in an alcoholic beverage at that time of day. His decision was based on the knowledge that the afternoon would more than likely degenerate into a lunchtime sesh, as per the Naval vernacular. He was there to meet someone. A former SBS commanding officer, to be precise. Berry Chandos. Who had a reputation for drinking heavily whenever he met any of his old lads from the SBS. Either in a pub or if they called on his cottage in the verdant hills east of Warminster. Be they officer or ranker. And he didn’t care to drink heavily alone and took offence if he was left to do so.
As Stratton took a sip the saloon lounge door opened and a man in a three-quarter-length winter coat, scarf and crumpled tweed hat stepped into the bar. Stratton recognised the inscrutable figure of Chandos as he felt the blast of chilly wind that accompanied his arrival. The breeze ceased as the door closed behind Chandos on its spring return.
He paused in the room. His eyes went directly to Stratton. But he looked around the entire place without taking another step. His gaze finally returned to Stratton.
The operative thought he could detect a level of concern in his old boss’s eyes. They looked tired. He’d been ready for the usual loud and gregarious salute. But there was no sign of it. Chandos walked over, making an effort at a smile but it lasted seconds. ‘Good to see you, Stratton,’ he said.
‘You too,’ Stratton said. ‘Pint?’
Chandos paused as if to consider his answer. This was another uncharacteristic response to the offer of an alcoholic beverage. It was to get worse still. ‘I might just have a soda water for now,’ he said.
‘Are you not well?’ It was all Stratton could think of that might explain this behaviour.
Chandos took off his hat and placed it on the bar. Ran a hand through his scruffy, greying, full head of hair. ‘I wouldn’t have ventured to meet anyone else,’ he said. ‘But I had to see you.’
Stratton scrutinised his former boss. There was something intense about him. It could almost be described as fearful, although that had to be rubbish. Chandos was nearly sixty but he had been one of the more accomplished commanders of the SBS. A tireless worker. Determined and highly intelligent. He’d achieved one of the highest scores in staff college for his generation. In his heyday he was superbly fit. The kind of officer who expected every one of his men to be operationally ready at a moment’s notice. Any time of the day or night. Weekends or holidays. He’d also been prepared to put that to the test. He became famous, or infamous, throughout special forces for doing just that, calling in the men on a priority alert when they least expected it and putting them through their paces.
Chandos glanced around quickly to ensure neither the bartender nor anyone else was listening. ‘Do you know why you were selected for SIS operations?’ he asked.
‘I’ve always understood that every operative in the SAS and SBS was secretly reviewed for possible recruitment,’ Stratton replied. ‘I was lucky enough to be selected, I suppose.’
‘Do you know of any other members of the SBS or SAS who’ve served in the SIS? I’m talking about long-term service employment like yours, not for the occasional task.’
Stratton paused to think. He shrugged. ‘How would I? That role is essentially secret.’
‘Most members of the SBS know you work for the SIS.’
‘Some suspect you do too.’
‘Just because you’ve seen me in the stables doesn’t mean I’m one of the jockeys.’
Stratton knew what he was getting at.
When Chandos retired from the Service he’d disappeared completely. No one seemed to know where he’d gone, not even the most senior officers. Some thought he’d retired to the Scottish highlands. Another rumour was he’d gone to Africa, Kenya perhaps, and was living a quiet and private life in the countryside. But then Stratton saw him at MI6. It was only the second time he’d been there himself since his own secret recruitment to operations, and there was Chandos talking to a mandarin in one of the corridors of ‘Legoland’, as the spooks called headquarters. Chandos saw Stratton too. They hadn’t seen each other for five years and his only acknowledgement was a wink as he walked away. Stratton remembered how his morale had been lifted. He’d always felt that Chandos had left the Service prematurely. The man still had so much to offer. He remembered feeling suddenly encouraged by the organisation. If it employed the likes of Berry, then it had people who knew what they were doing.
‘What’s your point?’ he asked. ‘If you don’t mind me pushing you to get to it?’
‘There’s never been a full-time dual SBS or SAS and SIS operative before you,’ Chandos said. ‘You’re the first.’
‘And how would you know that, if you weren’t connected to the organisation?’
‘Because I made you,’ Chandos said.
It was an interesting comment. And Stratton believed him. But he didn’t feel impressed by it. In fact he suddenly doubted his mentor. His character more than what he actually said. He wasn’t himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Chandos said, seeing the doubt in Stratton’s eyes. ‘I’ll explain. In a minute.’ He looked towards the end of the bar. ‘Bartender?’
The bartender walked down the bar to stand opposite the men. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, smiling. ‘How can I be in service?’
‘A bottle of that Mont Ventoux,’ Chandos said, pointing to a line of bottles on a shelf behind the bar. ‘That one. The red.’
Assassin (John Stratton) Page 4
