Assassin (John Stratton)

by Falconer, Duncan

  Hetta evidently didn’t have the same philosophy as he did about moving among a recently fallen enemy. She marched towards the fire. One of the nomads moved and she took care of that immediately and fired once into his head. She stopped among the bodies and Stratton watched her. She shot another nomad, who’d apparently shown a sign of life. She was clearly aware of the dangers and had a simple solution to it. She continued to the box.

  Stratton moved forward, past the men he’d felled. They were dead. He kept an eye on the tents in case anyone inside felt like coming out to have a go, and joined her to look inside the box. It looked like the same device to him – cable still attached to the battery, inspection plate screwed shut and a faint glow of LED light visible through several pin holes in it.

  She closed the box lid and glanced at him. He couldn’t say he saw approval in her eyes, but the look of disapproval she’d worn since they’d met seemed to have mellowed a little.

  ‘Bring the pick-up over here,’ she said.

  The adulation was over.

  He suppressed his irritation and walked over to the pick-up, wondering what she was going to do.

  It was a Toyota Hilux. He wasn’t surprised since it was the most popular vehicle in Afghanistan for both the Taliban and Afghan civilian security forces. The key was in the ignition, so he put his weapon inside, climbed in and started the engine, which fired first time and sounded in good condition.

  He put it into gear, steered it around towards the fire, and reversed up to the box. Then he went round to the back, where she was unlatching the tailgate and dropping it open. She took hold of the handle on one side of the box and waited for him to take the other.

  They lifted it together. It felt like a couple of hundred kilos and they had to put all their effort into it. She managed her end, though only just. After a massive effort they got a corner of the box onto the bed and Stratton quickly repositioned himself to take some of the weight off her end and together they heaved it into the back.

  They took a moment to catch their breaths.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask a question?’ he said.

  She looked at him in a way that appeared to indicate permission.

  ‘What’s the plan now?’

  She looked at him as if weighing him up.

  He thought about pushing her a little, telling her he had a right to know what was going on. If he had been a real spook, by now he would have insisted on knowing who she worked for and by what authority she was in charge. But he didn’t want to give her cause to dig any deeper about him.

  And he doubted somehow it would get him anywhere.

  He decided to go for a nudge regardless. ‘Look, we know you’ve got a big gun that you like to shove against people’s heads if they say something you don’t approve of, but technically this device is my responsibility,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who you work for or what your job is, but considering all that’s gone on, I’d appreciate a little more respect.’

  ‘You talk a lot,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, not normally. But you don’t talk enough.’

  ‘I told you my job. It’s this device and nothing else.’

  ‘Except if anything gets in your way.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She said it as if to remind him. ‘Nothing gets in the way of that directive.’

  There she went with the directive thing again.

  A noise that sounded like crying came from one of the tents and Hetta called out something in Dari. Stratton got the gist of it and the crying instantly stopped.

  ‘Do you know why Wheeland wasn’t taking the warhead into Bagram base?’ she asked.

  He hoped he wasn’t expected to know the answer to that. She’d probably have her Magnum out again. But considering the spooks’ move along the Kabul road, Wheeland clearly had no intention of taking the bomb to the base by another route. If he was taking it to the US ultimately, which was only to be expected, Kabul would have been the next obvious choice. But why he hadn’t taken it to Bagram, Stratton had no idea. Unless there was something about Bagram that wasn’t like anywhere else.

  And then the answer struck him. It was something Bullfrog had said. There were radiation detection systems operating at Bagram. And Bagram was under the control of the Radiation Detection Agency, not the CIA or NSA. If any of those systems picked up radiation traces, the balloons would go up. This was a nuclear device and part of a highly secret operation. Wheeland didn’t want anyone in Bagram to know about the bomb.

  ‘The detection systems,’ he said. ‘Bagram would have discovered we had a nuclear bomb.’

  ‘That’s right. They don’t have radiation detection equipment in Kabul, and Wheeland and his vehicles could get the device through the security inspections without question and onto a cargo flight back to the US.’

  Stratton knew Kabul airport well enough. It was pretty much completely in the hands of the Afghan authorities and they liked nothing better than to make life difficult for the invaders, despite all that was going on. Wheeland clearly had the clout to overcome those obstacles. Most likely that meant money, and in the right hands.

  ‘So, we’re headed to Kabul?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Can you get the box through?’ she said.

  That single question told him a lot. She didn’t know the airport, so asking him must have been tough. It also suggested she didn’t know Afghanistan well. And it meant she didn’t have the same kind of authority Wheeland had to get the box through. He sensed an opportunity to wrest some control and also give himself some value. He didn’t know exactly why, but he wanted to stay in this game. He was intrigued. She was dangerous and, strangely, that intrigued him too. He wasn’t sure if it was the challenge. She certainly was.

  Yet there was something decidedly odd about her concept of operations. He felt he had some latitude to dig deeper. ‘Why don’t you just call in some help?’ he asked.

  ‘Because everyone involved in the operation was in that convoy,’ she said. ‘There’s only you and me left. There is no one in Afghanistan I can trust. Not right now. I could hold up for a few days until assistance arrives, but my orders are to get this back Stateside as quickly as possible.’

  He thought that was interesting. It confirmed a few points.

  ‘If you can’t be of help, I’ll find a way,’ she said, picking up her carbine and walking to the front of the vehicle. She climbed into the cab, shut the door and started the engine.

  For a second he thought she was going to drive off and leave him, but she looked out the window at him. ‘You seem to know this country,’ she said.

  He thought it odd she could speak Dari yet know so little about the place. But then, military language courses were often like that. Intensive without ever going to the country of origin. She’d probably only ever been to bases or camps. Like most of the coalition forces – only a relatively small percentage of them knew the ground in any great detail. And only special forces knew a wide variety of bases and operational arenas, things like the roads and country in many of the provinces.

  ‘Pretty well,’ he said.

  ‘Can you get the box into Kabul airport and onto a flight?’

  By now he’d thought about it. ‘I don’t have any contacts in Kabul right now. It would be high risk to try without the right assistance. Do you have any money?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not enough.’

  ‘Can you bring in a spook flight if we could find an airfield somewhere else?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to do it with as little assistance as possible.’

  He assumed that was because of the need for secrecy. ‘Then you need an air base with a Western civilian administration to fly this box back to the US.’

  ‘That would be best.’

  Stratton considered the options. A boat would obviously require crossing borders, which would be fraught with problems. Too long on the road in any direction meant too much exposure to the authorities and numerous bad guys. Air was the best way.

  It came to
him without much further thought.

  ‘Kandahar,’ he said. ‘It’s a large coalition base but also with a number of civilian contractors and commercial flights.’ He wondered if she knew how to get there and what to do when she arrived. Probably not. He could see she was uncomfortable about something. He thought he could guess what it was. ‘You ever been to Kandahar?’ he asked.

  She shook her head again.

  He guessed this was the tough part for her. If she accepted the suggestion, she would have to let him manage it. That would mean handing him the controls. She wouldn’t like that one bit.

  ‘I want you to come with me,’ she said.

  ‘We can’t take the Humvee,’ he said, not making a meal of it, though he knew how hard it had been for her to say it. ‘The Hilux will be perfect. We’ll need to get into local clothes, and I’ll drive. Outside the cities, you’ll only attract attention if you’re driving.’

  She didn’t waste any time deliberating his advice and turned off the engine. Everything fell silent except for the cold wind blowing across the open plain and the tents flapping louder than before. The wind was picking up. She climbed out, leaving her M4 in the cab, and walked over to the largest of the three tents and pulled back the entrance.

  He heard a woman beg for mercy in a loud wail. Hetta shouted back at her, telling her to shut up, and the hysterical voice went silent. Minutes later Hetta emerged carrying a pile of clothing, all of it black cloth and lace, and walked back to the Hilux, where she began to remove her webbing.

  Stratton went to the truck and looked inside the back. There were several crates and a couple of old suitcases. He climbed inside and set about searching for clothes. When he returned to the Hilux he was wearing a pair of light cotton trousers over his fatigues, a linen shirt over his T-shirt, and a large three-quarter-length goatskin jacket.

  Hetta had simply pulled a full-length burkha over the top of her fatigues, the hood thrown onto her back for when she needed it.

  Stratton was holding a small cloth bag. ‘I found this bag of Afghan passports,’ he said, taking a bundle from the bag. ‘The nomads were obviously in the false document business. I might need one if we get stopped by the police. Could you choose one for me?’

  He held them out to her – since she could speak the lingo, he expected she could read it too. She took the bundle and quickly went through them, flicking to the identity pages, comparing the photographs to Stratton.

  ‘This will do,’ she said, handing him one. ‘Your name is Mustafa Dinorani.’ She put the rest in the bag and gave it back to him.

  ‘Mustafa Dinorani,’ he said, making an effort to remember. Then he tossed the bag on the fire.

  ‘We should pack the vehicle with household items,’ he said. ‘And fuel.’

  They collected baskets, cooking pots and rope and piled them into the back, covering the large plastic box with a rug. By the time Stratton had returned from the truck with several cans of fuel, she was busy lashing down the contents of the flatbed with line.

  He topped up the Hilux’s tank and fitted as many spare cans as he could into the back. Kandahar was several hundred kilometres south of Kabul but they had enough to get there. Then his eyes fell on a water container, which reminded him to look for some sustenance. The more self-sufficient they could be the better. He felt suddenly hungry.

  He spotted some pots around the fire and a lamb stew of some kind, with unleavened bread. He made a quick sandwich and filled one of the smaller pots with bits of everything and brought it back to the vehicle. While he ate, he took another scan around in case there was anything else he’d forgotten. He realised she was looking at him with her usual blank expression.

  He wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps she was unhappy that he’d taken over, to a degree. Stratton didn’t doubt that when the opportunity came for her to take charge again she would. He held the pot out to her.

  ‘You want some lamb?’ he said. ‘It’s pretty good.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, walking around to the passenger side of the pick-up.

  He wondered how deep he’d have to dig to find a human side to her. He wasn’t particularly interested in making much of an effort. He climbed into the driver’s seat, placed his weapon muzzle to the floor with the butt on the seat beside his leg for easy access and covered it with a scarf. She climbed in beside him on the bench seat, sorted out her flowing burkha, placed her carbine beside her like he had and covered it in a cloth.

  ‘All right, dear?’ he said, starting the engine.

  She sat looking coldly ahead.

  He turned on the headlights, put the engine into gear and eased the vehicle along the hard ground, using the compass on his watch to provide a rough direction. Due west would cut the Bagram–Kabul road that ran north–south. He had little idea how far away it was – thirty, forty, fifty kilometres maybe. He looked ahead for any steep hills that would be better avoided sooner rather than later, but all he could see was blackness, with the far mountain range beyond. It would be nice to reach the road by sunrise.

  With his partner being such a bundle of fun, it was going to be a long drive.

  17

  Twenty-five minutes after the Hilux left the camp a dozen Taliban horsemen rode into the clearing. They were outriders, tasked with keeping the smaller, more remote villages in constant touch with the fanatical organisation. They achieved this by running hot and cold in temperament and understanding. They could be magnanimous one day and ruthlessly punishing the next, depending on what a particular village had been up to. If, for instance, a coalition military unit had passed through an area and the Taliban learned that the tribal elders had been tolerant of it, the Taliban would mete out punishment. And usually disproportionately to the crime. There would usually be executions, since they were the most effective instructional tool. These would include a draft from the families – men, women and children – and the method of execution would depend on the mood and taste of the Taliban leader.

  The commander of this particular squadron was Alba Tushani, an Iranian-born Pashtun. He liked to tear his victims apart using horses. He would use two, three or sometimes four of the animals, tethered to the limbs of his victim. It was a visually horrifying MO that Tushani found most persuasive when it came to convincing Afghans where to focus their loyalties.

  Tushani rode around the camp inspecting the place, in particular the dead nomads around the fire. One of his men called out and he rode over to inspect the still slightly burning Hilux with the bodies on it. His men confirmed it was one of theirs and they identified the men who weren’t too disfigured.

  Tushani had been waiting for his men to return from their ambush on the Bagram road. They should have been at the rendezvous by the time one of his men reported the distant fire. He was able to form a general idea of what had happened, but only up until the nomads were killed. He was well aware that nomads would take what they wanted from passing travellers regardless of whether they were Taliban or not. They had clearly made an effort to burn the evidence.

  Tushani wasn’t an excitable man. Everything had its course to take as far as he was concerned. A distant fire wasn’t something to get overly excited about, even if he had suspicions that all was not well. As soon as he’d finished his evening meal, he ordered his men to mount up and they went for a late ride to take a look.

  Another shout came from one of his men, who’d found the women and children huddled inside a tent. Tushani rode over and questioned the nomad leader’s wife.

  She told him what had happened, to the best of her knowledge, although she lied about her men killing the Taliban. She believed the people who’d killed her men, and Tushani’s, were Americans. All Westerners – especially military – were considered Americans by these people.

  Tushani asked her what had happened to the other Hilux. She explained that her men were helping the Taliban fix a flat tyre when the Americans attacked. Two of the Americans had left in the Hilux and headed west. Tushani asked how many
Americans there were altogether. The woman stumbled on the answer, mainly because she couldn’t tell him just two had done all of that killing, and especially that one of them had been a woman. So she told the Taliban commander she had no idea how many Americans there were altogether. She’d been hiding throughout and heard the fighting from within the tent.

  Tushani knew she was lying about something, but he didn’t have time to cross-examine her further or use more persuasive methods to exact the truth. The important facts were that Americans had attacked and they weren’t all that far away. His men found the tyre tracks, which went some way to proving what the old woman had said about the pick-up being stolen.

  Tushani loved to fight. Or rather, to kill. He particularly loved to capture Americans and torture them before executing them. That gave him immense pleasure. But revenge was even more important to him. They’d stolen his property. Killed his men. He knew exactly how far the Kabul road was. He knew how long it would take the Americans to reach it in the Hilux. If he was swift, he could reach them by the time they arrived at the Kabul road.

  He cried out to his men and they rode their horses along the tyre tracks made by the pick-up.

  The Hilux bumped along, its headlights seeing far into the darkness. Stratton steered it over and around a seemingly endless field of dips and bumps. The terrain was sometimes stony, sometimes dirt, with frequent patches of hardy plants.

  Stratton was able to maintain a westerly direction for most of the route, but some of the ground was so undulating or steep that he had to divert north or south to navigate around. At times the vehicle bounced from side to side so violently the pair of them had to hold on tightly to prevent bumping heads.