by Jack Higgins
‘My friend has discussed our problems with Khan, who’s willing to help. We’re in your hands.’
‘All right, we’ll go and see him. May I assume that you are both armed?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ferguson told him.
‘Good.’
Dak Khan’s house was a mile further down the river, a rambling old bungalow with a tiled roof. The courtyard was large, with a Jeep and a medium-sized truck parked there. Four men in soiled and dusty clothes, wearing turbans, sat against the wall smoking. They ignored Salim and the others, and when Salim was close enough, he kicked a man with a walleye.
‘Get on your feet, you dog,’ he said in English. ‘Where is your master?’
‘No need for that, Captain,’ a voice called from inside the open door. ‘I shall give him the whipping he deserves. Please come in.’
Dak Khan was of medium height, but squat. He wore a soiled white shirt and a shabby fawn suit with a red cummerbund. His hair was greasy, his face brown, and he had a thick black moustache which somehow looked false.
The room was surprisingly sparse; an empty fireplace with a couch on either side, a couple of coffee tables, several cane chairs, and a desk, where Khan now seated himself.
‘Please be seated, gentlemen, and tell me how I may help you.’
‘Don’t let’s beat about the bush,’ Ferguson told him. ‘My friend, Daniel Holley, tells me that when it comes to what’s going on over the border in Afghanistan, you’re the expert.’
‘True, but what’s in it for me?’
‘I’ll pay well. What’s your price?’
‘That depends on what it is you want to know.’
‘Shamrock,’ Ferguson said. ‘Who is he and, more to the point, where is he? Do you know these things?’
‘Of course I do.’
Ferguson was so surprised that he paused, and it was Miller who said, ‘How much?’ ‘Ten thousand pounds.’
Captain Abu Salim said, ‘What a creature you are, Dak Khan. Don’t listen to him, General.’
‘No, let him speak,’ Ferguson said. ‘How do I know you would deliver?’
‘I would come with you: this I promise.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Salim said.
‘You can accompany them, bring your men.’ He shrugged. ‘I can only do one more thing to prove myself. As I doubt that you have ten thousand pounds in your wallet, I will accept your word that you will pay me later.’
Ferguson looked at Miller, then Salim. ‘What can I say, except let’s do it.’
Dak stood up. ‘Then let us, as you English say, shake hands on it.’ His palm felt limp and sweaty and Ferguson withdrew his hand quickly. ‘So what happens now?’
‘You come back for me in two hours. I must put my affairs in order. I will go with you then, I promise.’
Ferguson nodded reluctantly, and he and Miller went out. The four men had departed; the Jeep had gone. Dak Khan came to the door, and Abu Salim prodded him with his swagger stick.
‘Let us down and I’ll put you out of business for good.’ He went across to the Sultan, joined the others and was driven away.
Dak Khan spat in the dust and went back inside, where he called Colonel Atep on his mobile. ‘They’ve just visited me.’ ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Ferguson asked me if I knew Shamrock and I told him I did, which I don’t. In fact, I’ve never heard of him.’ ‘So what do you intend?’
‘I’ll take them to a house I know in the back country, where I believe I can guarantee a hostile reception. Let’s face it, it happens all the time these days in the border area.’
‘This is the most important task I have asked you to perform, given to me by Osama’s personal representative in London, the Preacher. So, it is very, very important that you succeed.’
‘Of course. I know exactly what I’m doing. There is only one problem. Captain Abu Salim and his two Sergeants will certainly be in the line of fire: is this acceptable?’
‘As you say, things happen all the time in the border area. Salim is a nothing. He sees things entirely differently from you and me. With Osama’s blessing on you, your success is assured.’
Noon: the sun high in the sky, with a wind that stirred the sand. On leaving the city, they joined a convoy of civilian trucks, many of them garishly decorated, military or police vehicles constantly overtaking each of them on the short stretch up to the Khyber Pass. Some time before they got there, under instructions from Khan, Sergeant Nasser turned off on to a well-worn track.
Salim, seated beside Khan, half turned to Ferguson and Miller. ‘Federal law only applies on the main road and ten yards on either side. Elsewhere, tribal laws apply.’
Dak Khan said, ‘I call this the wilderness.’ They passed a small village of four or five mud houses. Two robed men stood by a well watching them, showing no emotion, staring. ‘These people are very poor, they have nothing, so they would kill you if they had the chance.’
‘Never mind that,’ Salim said. ‘Where are we going?’
‘About eight miles more.’ Dak turned his head and added, ‘Our destination is very close to the border.’
It was a barren, undulating plain drifting towards the mountains. Dust rose from the burnt, parched land, and Ferguson, holding a handkerchief to his mouth and coughing, said, ‘God in heaven, how can anyone live here?’
Khan was wearing a battered Panama hat and a long cotton scarf around his neck, which he occasionally pulled up to his nose.
‘It is the will of Allah, it is all they know, General, and we are here.’
Over to the left, the ground lifted to a hillock on which stood a sizeable two-storeyed house that had been painted white at some time. There was an extended wall of mud bricks around it, and windows with wooden shutters, partially open.
A man in blue-and-white robes stood in the yard beside a well, a bucket in one hand and some goats beside him. He looked, turned quickly, opened the front door and stepped inside. The goats came out on to the hillock, bleating, and two or three rough-looking sheep appeared around the side of the house.
A line of stones on either side marked the track up to the house, and beside the entrance, from what passed as a road, was a thorn tree, burnt black by the sun, a dead monument to a dead world.
As Nasser turned the Sultan into the track, Khan said, ‘Stop here by the tree.’
Said stood up at the machine gun and charged it, leaning on the frame, looking up towards the house, and Dak Khan took out his mobile and dialled a number.
He spoke in English. ‘It’s me. Everything is okay. We want to come up to the house.’ He listened and then turned. ‘He’s afraid of the machine gun; he’s not certain of our good faith.’ He paused, listening again, then said, ‘Okay, if that’s the way you want it.’
‘What’s happening?’ Ferguson asked.
‘He’s suspicious. He wants you to stay here and me to go up to the house to establish my credentials.’ He shrugged, ‘That’s the only way he’ll do it, otherwise he says you can go away.’
Ferguson turned to Captain Salim, ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, as we’ve come this far, let’s humour the man.’ He said to Said, ‘Swing the machine gun on its pivot to cover the house.’ He opened the door and got out, and Khan followed him. ‘It’s all yours. We’ll cover you.’
Dak Khan took off his Panama, wiped his face with the scarf and managed a smile. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’
He started up the track, and three of the goats came to meet him. Salim, binoculars around his neck, raised them and scanned the house.
‘The inside of the place is very dark. No sign of any movement.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I think there’s someone there.’
Dak Khan had reached the house, paused, and the door was opened. As he stepped inside, there was a brief flash of white, and then the door closed again.
‘So now we wait,’ Ferguson said, and Miller opened the door on his side to get out.
As he did so,
a shot was fired, a sharp and peculiar cracking sound that echoed in the desert heat. It caught Sergeant Said in the side of the head, his scarlet turban flying into the air as he was catapulted over the side of the Sultan. Nasser’s reflex action was to open the door at his side and attempt to scramble out. Three very quick shots, all making that same peculiar cracking sound, hit him in his neck and back, driving him down to collapse over the body of his comrade.
There were three more quick shots, two smashing the windscreen, flying glass cascading over Abu Salim as he crouched beneath the machine gun, another deflected by armour plating.
There was blood on his face from several cuts, and Ferguson slipped out of the rear seat and joined Miller, crouching behind the Sultan.
‘Do you know what that thing is?’ Miller demanded.
‘Another relic of the Soviets in Afghanistan. A Dragunov automatic sniper rifle. Absolutely deadly with a competent marksman.’
‘What in hell do we do?’ Ferguson asked.
‘Let’s try this.’ Crouched right down, Salim reached up to the handle of the machine gun, swung it round in the general direction of the house, and gave it a long burst.
Then he scrambled across and found the others. There was another shot from the Dragunov and, as the echoes died away, Salim flattened himself against the ground and peered cautiously round the Sultan to the house.
Ferguson said, ‘What the hell is going on?’
The Dragunov fired again, several times, and was joined by another weapon, a different sound. ‘An AK47,’ Miller said. ‘I’d know that anywhere.’
Salim said, ‘Help me drop the back flap. I think you’ll find I have a surprise for them.’
There was additional ammunition for the machine gun, and flares of one kind and another, but, most important, half-a-dozen rocket-propelled grenades.
‘You’re familiar with this weapon, Major?’ Salim asked Miller.
‘Yes, and I can’t wait to try it out.’
They crouched together, aided by the fact that the canvas roof covered the back-seat portion of the Sultan. Salim helped him adjust the tube over his right shoulder, Miller straightened and fired. The grenade exploded to the right of the front door. There were flames, and smoke billowed, but there was also another burst from the Dragunov.
‘My turn,’ Salim said. Chancing it, he stood up, took careful aim, and the grenade went straight through the front door.
They went up the track cautiously and paused a few yards away. The house was a total wreck, half the roof gone, and parts of it were still burning. The first dead man they came to, lying on his back, was the man with the walleye from Khan’s house, and it was obvious that the other three were his companions, although damaged so badly that no one could have recognized them.
The rest of the room had suffered badly but, as they stood there, there was a groaning sound from the very back by a door that led to the rear of the house. Legs were sticking out from under a mass of debris and, when Miller and Salim cleared it, they found Dak Khan.
He was soaked in blood, obviously dying, and yet he still spoke, gasping a little. When Abu Salim knelt to check him, Khan grabbed him by the front of his uniform.
‘It’s all that bastard Atep’s fault.’
Salim knelt on one knee. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s the one. Acting on orders from an Al Qaeda man in London. Someone called the Preacher.’
Ferguson said, ‘Does he know what he’s saying?’
‘It would seem so,’ Abu Salim said, and returned to Dak Khan. ‘You’re certain of this?’
‘He pressured me again and again to do his dirty work. Who can say no to Al Qaeda?’
He was weakening, and Salim continued, ‘What about Shamrock?’
‘He exists. Atep told me. Also said General Ferguson was being too nosy and needed dealing with.’ He looked up at Ferguson and Miller. ‘He said you’d done a great deal of harm to Al Qaeda.’
‘So he definitely wanted us dead,’ Miller said.
‘Oh, yes, and not only you two.’ He glanced at Abu Salim. ‘I asked about you and your men getting in the line of fire. He told me there was no problem. He said you were a nothing.’ He seemed to swallow and whispered, ‘He said with Osama’s blessing, success was assured.’
There was no death rattle, he simply closed his eyes and died. Salim stood up and Ferguson said, ‘What the hell happens now?’
‘Let’s go back to the Sultan and talk before we leave,’ Salim said. ‘We need to get our story straight.’
‘Do we?’ Charles Ferguson said, glancing at Miller. ‘Well, that should be interesting.’
Indeed it was as, back at the Sultan, Salim called Colonel Atep on his mobile and reported in. ‘Bad news, sir. That swine Dak Khan sold us out. Took us to a house up country where he insisted Shamrock would be, and we were attacked by four of his men.’
Seated at his desk, Ahmed Atep managed to control himself. ‘What happened to General Ferguson and Major Miller?’
‘They’re fine, Colonel, and – except for being cut up a bit – so am I. I lost my two Sergeants, but we managed to kill Khan and four villains in his employ.’
‘And he’s definitely dead?’
‘I’m afraid so, Colonel, but it does mean we avoid the fuss of a public trial, which means that, considering the importance of our guests, it will be much easier to treat the whole unfortunate matter as if it had never happened.’
With considerable relief, Colonel Atep grasped at the straw. ‘Excellent, you’ve done well, Captain. I’ll have a medical Chinook with you in thirty minutes.’ The mobile went silent.
‘You’re a marvel, Captain,’ Ferguson said. ‘This means we can make our return this evening. You handled the call to Atep brilliantly.’
‘Thank you, General. Excuse my presumption, but I had got the impression you wanted to keep this whole Shamrock business as low-key as possible, and so I told the Colonel what I knew he wanted to hear under the circumstances. I’m only sorry your journey has been in vain.’
‘But it hasn’t,’ said Miller. ‘We now know about that Al Qaeda man in London known as the Preacher.’
‘Which could be useful.’ Ferguson smiled and glanced up at the noise of the approaching helicopter. ‘How’s that for service? There must have been one in the vicinity.’
Ahmed Atep had come himself, in the helicopter, all affability and charm and concern. The ambush by Taliban, which is what it swiftly became in the retelling, reflected well on his command, and he accompanied them to the military hospital, where they were checked thoroughly, Abu Salim needing twenty stitches, the windscreen having done its worst.
After consultation with Lacey, it was decided that a suitable time to leave would be ten o’clock. Colonel Atep insisted on giving them a farewell dinner at the Palace. The news that they had been attacked in the border country had leaked, as these things do, and Hamid had pulled out all the stops to give them the most extraordinary meal on the terrace.
Ahmed Atep was bonhomie itself, the life and soul of the party, while Abu Salim, with his scarred face, was much quieter.
The Colonel patted him on the shoulder. ‘Come, my boy, cheer up. You’re quite the hero. They’ll be impressed in Islamabad. Who knows, a promotion could be in the offing.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so, Colonel, I was only doing my duty,’ Salim said.
Atep glanced at his watch. ‘Ah, you must be on your way. You’ll forgive me for not seeing you off to the airport. I have another appointment. I trust your luggage is being taken care of?’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Salim said. ‘Excuse me.’
He got up and went out and the bill was discreetly presented to the Colonel, who waved it away to be put on his account. They all went out to the hall, where Salim waited, and said their goodbyes.
Colonel Atep went down the steps to where his Porsche 911 was parked. He waved, got in and drove away.
‘He loves that car above all things,’ Salim said.
‘It’s his virility system. He will drive it from here for exactly thirty minutes to that “appointment” at his favourite house of pleasure.’
‘How interesting,’ Ferguson said.
‘Isn’t it?’ Abu Salim smiled. ‘And now let me see you off.’
It wasn’t particularly busy, and they walked through the concourse towards the private departure section for VIPs, where they could see Parry waiting, talking to some security man in uniform.
‘There he is,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ll be on our way before you know it. Have a little champagne when we get on board, Harry, eh? That’ll be nice.’
The security man’s mobile sounded. He answered it and seemed to go rigid, then turned at once to Salim. ‘Terrible news, Captain, that was headquarters. Colonel Ahmed Atep has just been blown up in his car!’
Salim barely managed a frown with his scarred face. ‘Tell them I’ll be there at once. But first I must see our guests off.’
The security man nodded, then hurried away, speaking into the mobile. Ferguson said to Parry, ‘Lead the way.’ They passed outside and walked towards the Gulfstream, which waited, steps down. ‘Do carry on, Parry. We’ll only be a moment.’
He and Miller turned to face Salim, and Ferguson looked at him gravely. ‘A terrible business, Captain.’
‘Car bombs are one of the curses of our age,’ Abu Salim said. ‘A block of Semtex, a fifteen-minute timer.’ He shrugged. ‘No one is safe any more.’
‘I suppose not. You’re a remarkable young man,’ Ferguson told him, and went up the steps.
Miller held out his hand and Salim took it for a moment. ‘I’ve always remembered one thing in particular from your counter-terrorism lectures at Sandhurst, Major.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘That in the world of today, the only rule is that there are no rules.’
He walked away. Miller turned and went up the steps, the door closed, and a few minutes later the Gulfstream moved away.
