Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  Drew nodded his head.

  'Good,' Sami replied. 'Ismail will not want to risk being seen with me, not in public. I have to go now.' He opened the car door. 'Good luck.'

  He climbed down from the car, walked nonchalantly to the end of the deserted street and disappeared around the corner. 'That's the last we'll see of him,' Anderson muttered.

  'He's a good fixer,' Will said. 'He's thought of everything. OK, let's go. Remember, not too close.' He opened up the back of the truck and jumped out.

  Kandahar had a certain smell to it, he noticed as he headed down the street. The smell of rotting rubbish, of food cooking, of sewers; and the blanket of snow that had fallen over the city could not hide the unpleasantness of it. As he walked, snowflakes settled on his clothes and he reached the end of the street with a light dusting already covering him. He knew that by now Anderson and Kennedy would have exited the vehicle, but he didn't look behind to check - it wasn't necessary, and he didn't want to draw attention to his trail.

  To his right, he saw a large makeshift wall across the road, constructed of what looked like bags of concrete. Armed men were questioning anyone who wanted to drive through, as well as a fair number of ordinary Afghan pedestrians. Will was pleased Sami had directed them round that and he turned left to follow the rough pavement that surrounded the main square.

  The square itself was lined with bombed-out buildings, but the centre, separated from the buildings by the road that was still almost empty of cars, was crowded: a huge market place was laid out and despite the relentless snow, crowds of Afghan women, some dressed in warm robes, others completely covered by the burka, gathered round talking in little groups. Stallholders stood guard over stalls that held small amounts of sorry-looking produce and the whole thing was covered by a large canopy that looked almost precarious under its heavy blanket of snow.

  There was a sudden roar as a plane flew overhead. Will looked up and recognised a Harrier patrol aircraft, but nobody else, it seemed, paid it any attention. Clearly these people, inhabitants of a war-ravaged country for so long, had seen so many air patrols that they had ceased to be a curiosity.

  Will gave himself a moment to get his bearings. The north side of the square, Sami had said. He glanced in that direction, over the top of the heads of the women in the bazaar; there seemed to be a crowded area on the other side, so he started walking round the edge of the square to see if that might be his place.

  He had only gone a few paces, however, when his path was blocked. Two men - burly with dark rings under their eyes - blocked his way. They both carried ancient AK-47s. Neither of them was in military uniform. Just a couple of thugs, Will realised, intuitively. One of them spoke harshly to him in a language he didn't understand - Pashto, no doubt - but the tone of his voice made it clear he was demanding something.

  The muscles around Will's eyes tensed up slightly and he felt his right hand brush instinctively to his waist where the Sig was concealed. The last thing he wanted now was a fight. He felt sure his contact would be looking out for him, but if there was a scene, he might be frightened off. Moreover, a gunfight would undoubtedly attract the attention of the heavily armed troops dotted around.

  The man spoke again, more aggressively this time. Without looking, Will knew that Anderson and Kennedy would have their hands firmly round their gun handles now, ready to react with swift, brutal force if anything went wrong.

  And it looked to Will as if that was just what was about to happen.

  From behind him, he heard a familiar sound - the metallic click of a safety catch being removed. The men looked behind Will with an expression of distaste; he turned round to see two armed soldiers brandishing their weapons. One of them pointed his gun at the Afghans, then jabbed the barrel to the side to indicate that they should move on. The Afghans hesitated, but after a moment they did as they were told, walking down the street away from Will, but still casting a threatening gaze over their shoulder as they went.

  'You shouldn't be walking around here by yourself,' one of the soldiers said in an American accent. 'What are you doing in Kandahar?'

  Will had to think quickly. 'Private security,' he said with brash confidence. Beyond the soldiers he clocked his colleagues. Anderson was on the side of the road, his hand under his woollen overcoat; Kennedy had taken up position in the centre of the square. Both of them, Will could tell in an instant, were ready to react.

  'Are you armed?'

  He nodded.

  'OK.Well we advise that you see to your business and get back to an area of safety as soon as possible.'

  Will suppressed a sigh of relief. 'I intend to,' he said.

  With a nod, the two soldiers walked away. Will saw his colleagues' arms fall to their side as the tension of the situation diffused, but he didn't make eye contact with them. He just turned and continued on his way.

  As he reached the north side of the square it became clear to him where the meeting point was, just as Sami had described it. The café had large glass windows at the front, but these had been taped over with some kind of thick gaffer tape to prevent them from shattering, then covered with large sheets of metal mesh, which made it difficult to see inside. The door was open, however, and the snow on the ground around it had melted from the warmth emanating from within. From several metres away Will could hear the noise of voices and smell the thick, sweet tobacco that pervaded the air.

  He glanced at his watch. Five to eleven. Stepping up to the doorway, he looked inside.

  It was dimly lit and crowded. There were no women, just men, all sitting at rickety wooden tables or congregated around a bar area where a harassed-looking barman provided coffee in tiny white cups. As Will stepped inside, there were a few suspicious glances in his direction, but before long everyone found themselves drawn back into their animated conversations, allowing Will to sidle up to the bar - the only place where there seemed to be any room. He pointed at one of the small cups of coffee, then handed over one of Sami's notes when he was presented with his drink.

  He stood there against the bar for five minutes, maybe ten - long enough, certainly, for the coffee he didn't really want to go cold. When he looked at his watch it was five past eleven. It made him uneasy that nobody had made contact yet. Perhaps he was being too surreptitious. He turned round and faced out to the centre of the room, so that his white skin would be on better display. As soon as he did that, he heard a voice next to him.

  'Do you have the time?'

  Do you have the time? The first phrase of the double password. Will turned his head slowly to see who was speaking. The man was short and fat, his face clean-shaven. Hadn't Sami said that Ismail was a devout Muslim? Wouldn't he be wearing a beard? But that was the opening line, so he responded, word for word, in the way he was supposed to.

  'My watch runs slow these days.'

  The man nodded. 'My friend is a good watchmaker in Kabul.'

  Will stopped. He knew the correct response - Kabul is a long journey in the winter - but the man's words had not been correct. 'I know a good watchmaker in Kabul.' That was the wording, and this guy had got it wrong. Alarm bells started to sound. If Ismail had been rumbled by the Taliban, he might well have given them the wrong password; and Will had been suspicious of this man the minute he set eyes on him.

  There was only one option. He had to walk away. Immediately.

  Will stepped from the bar and headed briskly to the door. No one seemed to pay any attention to him leaving, but he could tell that the man he had just spoken to was following him. For the second time in ten minutes he felt his hand moving towards the gun strapped around his waist. He upped his pace and stepped out from the warm, smoky interior of the café on to the chilly, snow-laden street.

  The first thing he did was scan for Anderson and Kennedy. He saw them immediately - Kennedy still in the square but facing on to the café, Anderson about fifteen metres to his left, standing in the street. In front of Will, parked just outside the café,was a small car. Its engine w
as turning over and, unusually given the weather, the window was wound down. The man from the café brushed past Will and spoke to the driver, a lanky, bearded individual with a white turban. It was a quick conversation, conducted in Pashto, and from the way the man kept looking at Will, he could tell that it concerned him.

  On the periphery of his vision, he could sense Anderson and Kennedy closing in.

  The man from the café stepped aside and the driver from the car put his head out. 'Will Jackson?' he said hesitantly. Will narrowed his eyes, but didn't answer.

  'You must get in the car. Now.'

  Will hesitated. Anderson and Kennedy were only metres away now. He only had to say the word and both these men would be looking down the barrel of a gun. But then he looked at the driver: his face was nervous, his eyes wide, but he didn't look as though he was trying to pull a fast one. He just looked scared.

  He looked up at his colleagues and briefly shook his head. They stopped in their tracks. Will strode to the car, opened the back door and climbed in. It was cramped inside, and the heaters were blowing full blast. He pulled his Sig from under his jumper and deftly put it to the man's head. Immediately the driver started to shake.

  'Drive,' Will told him. 'Now.'

  With shaking hands, the driver tried to put the car in gear, but he seemed too nervous and the engine crunched loudly as he failed to manage it.

  'I said drive!'Will barked. The driver tried again, this time managing to knock the car into gear.

  'Go round the square,' Will instructed, and the car moved off at a stuttering pace.

  'Please, do not shoot me!' the driver begged.

  'Then do exactly what I tell you,' Will replied. 'What's your name?'

  'My name?' He sounded surprised. 'My name is Ismail. You were meant to be meeting me, yes?'

  'I'm asking the questions. What was that pantomime back there in aid of?'

  'What is pantomime, please?'

  'Just tell me what was going on,'Will growled.

  Ismail breathed deeply. 'It was to make sure you were the right person. Passwords are not foolproof. If the Taliban suspected me and learned what the passwords were, they might pretend to go along with the mistake to get proof, then abduct me. Only the right person would walk away if they heard the wrong password.'

  Will found that he, too, was breathing heavily, in anger; but there was a curious logic to what the terrified Afghan in the front seat had said. He lowered his gun. 'Stop the car,' he ordered.

  Ismail pulled over on the side of the street.

  'Turn off the engine and hand me the keys. Then get out.'

  The trembling Afghan did as he was told. Will stepped out of the car, too. He slipped the Sig back into its holster, but kept his hand firmly around the handle under his jumper. 'If I see anyone following us, I'll shoot you right here,' he said, quietly, so that none of the passers-by would hear.

  'No one is following us,' Ismail assured him. 'I promise you.'

  'You'd better be right. 'Will looked around. Sure enough, Ismail's parked car was the only one in the street. 'OK, walk. And just in case you're thinking of running, you might like to know that we're being covered by two men who can shoot a bullet through a coin at fifty metres. Understand?'

  Ismail turned to look at him. Although his eyes were still frightened, there was an open honesty in his face. 'You do not perhaps understand how I have risked my life to do this,' he said, quietly,'and the life of my family. Every second I spend with you, I risk our lives even further. If I wanted to run away, I would have done it long ago.'

  Will stared at him and felt the stirrings of a grudging respect. But respect or no respect, he had to cover himself and his unit.

  He nodded in the direction they needed to go.

  'Walk,' he told Ismail, curtly. 'Now.'

  EIGHT

  Once they had RV'd back at the truck, Drew took the wheel, Kennedy sitting beside him. Ismail was bundled roughly into the back by Will and Anderson.

  'You sure this is the right guy?' Anderson asked, once they were all inside.

  Ismail looked anxiously at Will, knowing that his safety was hanging on the words of the man he had so clearly just pissed off.

  Will stared coldly back at him. 'Yeah,' he said, finally. 'I'm sure.'

  'Looks like a fucking Fundie Jundie to me,' Kennedy muttered from the front.

  'Shut up, Kennedy,' Will snapped. 'Ignore him,' he told Ismail. 'For now, at least.'

  Having perfectly memorised the route Sami had taken into Kandahar, Drew retraced it as the others sat silently in the back. Anderson and Kennedy eyed Ismail with distrust; Ismail, in turn, looked as though he was wondering what the hell he had got himself into, stuck in a vehicle with these dangerous men.

  Will was certainly angry with the frightened Afghan, but he couldn't quite pinpoint why. The guy was only being careful, after all. Maybe he just didn't like the fact that Ismail had pulled the wool over his eyes. In situations like this, you want to be control and for a few moments back there, Will hadn't been. It had given him a bad feeling.

  Once they reached the outskirts of the city, Will spoke. 'OK, Ismail,' he said. 'You'd better start talking. Where are we going and how long will it take us to get there?'

  Ismail's eyes flickered anxiously to each of the SAS men in turn before he answered. 'The village where the woman you are searching for is being held is a day's drive from here. The main road south will take you most of the way, but the snow will have blocked off the smaller road that leads to the village itself. You will have to make your way there on foot.'

  'Lovely,' Kennedy murmured. 'A walk through the snow in the dark. Maybe we can attack the Taliban with snowballs.'

  'I'll fucking attack you if you don't shut it,' Anderson growled, 'and not with snowballs.'

  'I'd rather engage the Taliban under cover of night anyway,' Will said. He wasn't worried by the sniping between them - it often happened when adrenaline was running high. As long as they could rely on each other in battle, that was what counted.

  He turned back to Ismail. 'Are you sure you'll be able to lead us there?'

  'Positive,' Ismail said, confidently. 'It is the village where I was born. That is the reason I know what is going on there.'

  'What's the main road south like?' Anderson asked.

  Ismail raised an eyebrow. 'Like all roads in Afghanistan,' he said, simply. 'It is very dangerous. There will not be many cars, not in this weather. But we may encounter roadblocks. Some of them will be military, others will have been set up by bandits who will want to take all the money we have. And if we don't give it to them, they will try to take it by force.'

  The SAS men maintained a grim silence. Will knew exactly what they were thinking.

  11.35. They had been driving for perhaps half an hour and the last remnants of the urban sprawl of Kandahar had finally dissolved into nothing, when Will instructed Drew to pull over. 'What is wrong?' Ismail asked.

  'Nothing's wrong,' Will told him. 'We need to get our weapons ready. If we come across trouble, we don't want to be scrabbling around looking for guns.'

  'But I thought you had your gun,' he said. 'You pointed it at me.' He sounded so concerned about this, that the others could not resist a smile.

  'We've brought some back-up,' Will told him, opening the compartment in the floor of the truck to reveal the weapons cache. Ismail's eyes widened slightly as the Diemacos came out and he fell silent - though from that moment on, Will kept noticing that Ismail would glance anxiously at the guns from time to time. Each time he did so, Anderson looked at him with a certain distaste.