Kashmir Rescue

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain as Operation Takeaway by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1996

Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1996

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover photographs © Nik Keevil/Arcangel Images (soldiers); Shutterstock.com (textures)

Doug Armstrong asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008155483

Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008155490

Version: 2015-11-02

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

OTHER TITLES IN THE SAS OPERATION SERIES

About the Publisher

1

There were many kinds of exile. The old man realized that now. In fact, he wondered whether he had been unfortunate enough to experience them all in the course of his long life. As he ambled along the pavement bordering the busy road, the surface glistening with drizzle, he hunched his shoulders into the motionless cold and found himself thinking of his boyhood. That had been the first one. When he had been very small he had never been able to work out why he was exiled from the company of the other boys in his neighbourhood. Of course, he had heard the rumours of his parents, uncles and aunts, all speaking of Hindus and Muslims, and on holy days he saw how his own family went to pray at a different temple from the one attended by the other people in their street.

A passing lorry sprayed him with a fine film of muddy water as it shot by, heading south for the junction of the M4, which would already be thickening with traffic, even at such an early hour. By 9 a.m. it would have ground to a virtual standstill, clogged like an artery, the flow gradually stiffening to a halt in the moments before his death.

He hated his new country. He still thought of it as new, even though he had left the land of his birth nearly fifty years before. That had been another exile, more obvious than his boyhood solitude but stifling and bitter nonetheless. He looked around at the grey, sullen landscape of concrete, tarmac and red brick. It was barely light, and every house was closed as tight as a fist. Their owners had made pitiful attempts to differentiate their property from the one next door: a glass panel, the colour of woodwork, a cursory stab at flamboyance with a winding pathway. More noticeable, however, were the similarities, apart from the most obvious one of the houses’ identical design: a front garden concreted over to provide parking for a clutch of cars; burglar alarms to keep at bay the increasing number of have-nots; and the satellite dish clinging under the miserly eaves like an extraterrestrial orchid, its brainwashing duties long completed but still reflexively cleansing the occupants of original thought.

The bench he usually rested on had been vandalized in the night. He stood before it, surveying the efforts of the mental giant who had spray-painted a swastika and racist slogans across the seat.

‘If only I could go home,’ he muttered to himself as he read the misspelt words. ‘If only I could.’

He tested the paint with one cautious fingertip, and finding it dry, eased himself down, feeling a stab of satisfaction as his buttocks pressed into the swastika. He wondered briefly if the youth had been aware of the symbol’s Indian origins. He smiled at the irony and took out a cigarette.

Against the background noise from the motorway he could hear the car alarms starting to go off around the district, each one welcoming its owner with the faithfulness of a dog, bleating an answering toot as a keyring was fired at it. Soon their drivers would be sitting in traffic jams and feeling the tension knot in the solar plexus at the prospect of being late for work.

The old man sat back and drew on his cigarette, glad to be out of it all, yet unable to resist the slightest twinge of regret that his own participation in the conduct of life was at an end. He had never become used to retirement, another one of the many exiles. Had his wife still been alive there might have been some solace in the spread of empty hours that extended from dawn to dusk. But she was dead – yet one more exile that he mentally ticked off on the tally he kept.

A growing roar overhead heralded the approach of the first morning flight into Heathrow. Moments later the fat silver fuselage broke through the low, swirling clouds like a bloated fly, sinking down to settle on a new-found corpse. The old man smiled grimly. He had seen plenty of those in his time. Too many. But that was all such a long time ago. He wondered sometimes if it had been a dream. Nightmare might be a better description.

He watched the plane disappear behind a prim row of houses, its great belly touching down out of sight on the soaking runway. The day had begun pretty much like every other since he had arrived in Britain. Perhaps later on he would go to the temple near his home in Southall, but he never knew whether or not he would actually go inside until he was mounting the steps and walking through the tinsel-adorned entrance hall. More often than not he simply passed by, unable to drum up the courage to face his conscience. He didn’t believe in the gods any more. That had died a long time ago, but the temple had proved to be a place of brutally frank reflection and of late he found he preferred the cinema.

When he had finished the cigarette he contemplated smoking another but decided instead to heed his doctor’s warning and cut down. By evening he would have finished the packet which had been new when he had got out of bed, unable to sleep, to dress and set off on his walk.

So how would he spend the day? He could go and visit any one of the restaurants, but then his son-in-law would think he was interfering and by midday his daughter would be on the phone, whining at him to give them space. They were so bloody sensitive, the younger generation. They had no concept of respect. All they thought about was themselves and their own selfish fulfilment. Self-sacrifice was an unknown land, and the notion that age had a certain wisdom to offer was as alien as the other planets.

If not the restaurants, what then? He was beginning to regret handing over the management of his little empire to his son-in-law. But he had to admit that the lad had improved their efficiency more than he would have thought possible. He was always spouting the jargon gleaned from the MBA course he had attended after university. ‘Total quality management’, ‘customer care’ – stuff like that. In the old man’s day it had been enough simply to be the best in the neighbourhood, to crush the opposition by fair means or foul and fill the resulting power vacuum. Now it was all graphs and figures. There didn’t seem to be any room for intuition.

He pushed himself off the bench and set off for home. As he walked the drizzle began to harden into rain and he cursed himself for not taking his umbrella. He was a creature of habit and always liked to return by a roundabout route past the cinema, but as he felt the sting of cold water lash against his cheeks he decided to go back the way he had come, taking the shorter path through the park. ‘Park’ was a grand description for a miserable patch of grass, largely trampled to mud at this time of year. From the far side a narrow path crept between the side of an old Victorian terraced house and a row of fenced-off garages, beyond which a single road cut in front of his own house. He glanced at his watch, trying to shield the glass from the rain. It would take him at least fifteen minutes, enough time to get thoroughly soaked. Perhaps he would go back to bed once he got home. That would solve the problem of what to do with himself. But no. That way lay a quick death. He would take to his bed only when he knew his end was near, and not before.

He approached a row of shops. Built in the early 1960s, they exuded all the charm and grace of an empty cornflakes packet. White wooden boards coated the upper floor and the lettering identifying each of the shops was in stark black plastic, the occasional letter missing. There was a launderette, a newsagent who served also as confectioner and postmaster, a greengrocer, a hairdresser and a chemist, every one of them Indian. It was extraordinary, the old man reflected. If their noble ancestors could see them now and witness what they had become, making their living in such an unpleasant foreign land. They had forsaken the wide, sweeping continent of their forebears, the ancient land of gods and sagas, of princes, fables and legends, to retreat to a dank, miserable corner of the globe that had been civilized for barely a millennium.

The newsagent was winding up his metal blinds and squinted suspiciously at the old man in the gloom.

‘You should keep your spectacles on,’ the old man called across. ‘One day you’ll be robbed.’

The newsagent grinned with relief as he recognised the old man’s voice. ‘You’re up early, Mr Sanji.’

‘As ever, as ever,’ the old man said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

‘You should get some sleeping pills from Dr Gupta.’

‘Why hasten matters? We’ll all be sleeping soon enough, and for as long as any man could wish.’

The newsagent shook his head in bemusement. ‘You are always joking, Mr Sanji. Always joking.’ He went inside and reappeared seconds later with a paper. ‘Do you want to take this with you?’ he asked. ‘You know what that delivery boy is like. Quite, quite useless. Always late, always idling.’

The old man nodded appreciatively and accepted the paper, glancing briefly at the headlines and then folding it away inside his coat out of the rain. ‘Thank you. I expect it’s all bad news anyway.’

Chuckling to himself, the newsagent wagged a finger at him and went inside. A moment later there was the flicker of neon and the inside of the shop was illuminated in the garish whiteness. The old man walked on.

By the time he reached the edge of the park the rain had become too heavy for him to ignore it. For a moment he toyed with the idea of pressing on and accepting the inevitable drenching, but his daughter would scream with horror at the sight of him and then fuss for the rest of the day. His son-in-law would likewise protest, but more from a sense of good manners. In his heart, the old man knew, his son-in-law would be wishing upon him a speedy death by pneumonia. There was no love lost between them. Politeness concealed their mutual hatred.

The entrance porch to an old church provided partial shelter from the rain. The old man squeezed up against the shuttered door and turned up his collar, but the rain slanted in, soaking the toes of his shoes. He turned them in like a pigeon but the water still found them, feasting on the cheap leather until he felt it penetrating to his socks. Strangely, the cold moistness between his toes reminded him of walking barefoot as a boy during the monsoons in the backstreets of Delhi. It was comforting now, knowing that warmth and proper shelter were a short distance away. Not that he had been deprived as a child. But confronted with the poverty of others, he had never felt the security he now took for granted.

Up above, the grey sky was lightening almost imperceptibly. Great swathes of cloud banked and rolled overhead, seeming so close he felt he could reach out and touch them. Another jet loomed out of the sky, the undercarriage down, lights blinking at the wingtips. Inside, he could imagine the passengers tut-tutting at the British weather, peering grimly through the thick windows at the disastrous-looking scene beneath them. The pilot would perhaps have made an attempt at humour and would now be concentrating on the path of lights before him, peeling open as he steadied the aircraft into its lowering approach run, and, perched on their seats, the stewardesses would be touching up lipstick and eye-shadow in readiness for the chorus of farewells by the exit door.

However dark the sky, when he looked back at the surrounding streets the old man felt as if night had fallen again by comparison. It seemed there was not going to be any let-up in the rain and suddenly he felt exasperated at the delay. It was so pointless. So much was pointless these days. He stepped out of the porch and set off as briskly as he could towards the park entrance, darting across the street and passing between the bent railings and the notice warning of the fine for owners who allowed their dogs to foul the pathways. Pointless.

The next instant he thought of his granddaughter and smiled. She at least gave some meaning to his life. She at least would be bright on this dismal, depressing day. But even there all was far from perfect. Her parents had consented to her wishes to be allowed to go to university. The old man had protested. Eli was the delight of his old age, he had said. Her place was at his side. Naturally it had been his son-in-law who had countermanded his order. Theirs was a modern family, he said proudly, not bound by the traditions of the past. Eli would go to university and that was an end to it.

Of course the old man knew that his son-in-law didn’t care a jot for his daughter’s emancipation. He was simply taking delight in thwarting the old man and depriving him of the only pleasure he had left. But Eli had come to see him and had promised to write at least once a week, and deep down he realized that, however much he resented it, the times had changed. He would be the last one to hold her back. They would see how modern and British his son-in-law was when Eli came back one weekend and announced her own choice of husband. The old man could well imagine the uproar that would create, and then he would be the one to support her decision. Then he would delight in the torment of his son-in-law.

He was about to emerge from the path at the far side of the park when he noticed the car. The windows were clouded with mist and it was impossible to recognize the people inside. He could just make out two figures, both in front. It was some kind of Ford, cheap-looking and obviously an unmarked police car. He smiled to himself. Perhaps his son-in-law had been cooking the books as well as the curry and the Inland Revenue was about to haul him away for interrogation. The old man prayed it would be a long and brutal affair.

More likely, he imagined, it was part of another of the anti-terrorist exercises that the police conducted from time to time on the outskirts of the airport. The idiots had left their windows tightly shut and the engine and heater turned off, until the car looked as though it had just been removed from a giant fridge. They couldn’t possibly see through the glass. The buzz and hiss of a radio receiver from inside the car confirmed his suspicion that they were policemen. He sighed and started towards the park exit.

The sound of another engine stopped him. Although he had nothing to fear from the police, having always kept out of trouble, he drew aside into the inadequate cover of the scrawny bush and watched, more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Sure enough, the grubby white Ford Transit that cruised slowly round the corner at the top of the road seemed to be involved in the same exercise. Unlike the car’s occupants, the driver of the van had kept the windows clear, and the old man could see the face peering at the houses as if searching for a particular number.

A cold drop of rain found its way down the old man’s neck and tumbled down his spine, but the shiver that wriggled through his bones was caused by something altogether different. The van had stopped outside his own house, and through the back of the vehicle he could just see another man leaning over the driver’s shoulder. They appeared to be arguing, and behind them he could make out other figures, perhaps half a dozen in all.

He looked anxiously at the unmarked police car again. What was going on? Perhaps he hadn’t been so far from the truth about his son-in-law after all. But there was something very wrong, although he couldn’t put his finger on it. For a moment he considered crossing the road and going straight indoors, ignoring the police and leaving them to get on with their exercise. But before he could move he heard the rear doors of the van opening and the sound of booted feet jumping to the ground. He watched in horror as the men moved purposefully towards his house and went to the front door, three of them striding down the pathway and the other four or five jogging down the drive. He almost cried out as one of them kicked open the side gate and disappeared towards the kitchen door, which gave on to the back garden.

In the police car the figures didn’t move. Then one of them leaned forward and scrubbed a hole in the mist. Through the circle of misted breath the old man could see the surprise on the face and with another bolt of horror he realized that though they were indeed most likely policemen, they were nothing to do with the intruders breaking into his house.

He looked back at the van, where the man next to the driver was stepping on to the road. The engine was still ticking over and the man signalled for the driver to gun the accelerator and prepare for a speedy departure. Until then his face had been turned away from the park, but as the man gave the order to the driver, the old man saw him clearly and his heart missed a beat. There was something about the features that alerted him to the man’s lineage. He had hoped to have done with the lot of them but it was obviously not to be. After all these years they had found him at last. Now it would begin all over again.

‘Was that you?’

Colin Field grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. It was that curry last night.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Paul Robins screwed up his face and opened the car window a crack. Instantly a gust of frosty, damp air buffeted its way in, relieving the strain on his nose but reminding him that they had been freezing all night in an unheated vehicle. Reluctantly he closed the window again.

‘What a bloody night.’ He reached for the glove compartment and hunted around until he found his pack of cigarettes. It was empty. He scrunched it up and tossed it over his shoulder on to the back seat.

‘What time do we finish?’ Colin asked.

‘Don’t ask me. Ask that pan-faced git from Hereford. He’s supposed to be running the package.’

‘Do you reckon he’ll give us the run-around again? You know, pretend the exercise has ended and then fuck us off to another task?’

‘If he does I’ll tell the force they can stick their sodding job. I’ll volunteer to go back on the beat and leave special duties to heroes like you.’

Colin nodded sagely. ‘Beats me why our own training organization can’t run the course. Why do they have to bring in outsiders?’

‘Haven’t you heard? They’re sodding bloody supermen. I guess the boss is hoping some of it’ll rub off on us.’ He stared hard at Colin, appraising him. ‘Some bloody hope.’

‘Here, what do you mean?’ Colin asked, an expression of confused hurt on his face.

‘Nothing.’ Paul decided it was best to let it go. They had already had a couple of set-tos during the night and with tempers frayed from lack of sleep he could do without another. Colin eased sideways on his seat cushion and Paul noticed the tell-tale signs. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’

‘Give us a break. It’s either this or I’ll have gut-ache for the rest of the day.’

‘Make it gut-ache then, but one more of those and you’re out in the rain.’

Muttering under his breath Colin sat upright. He looked at his watch. ‘Couldn’t we call in? Perhaps the ex is over and they’ve forgotten to tell us.’

Paul laughed. ‘Don’t be a bigger dick than you already are. Can you imagine Don sodding Headley screwing up like that?’

The radio crackled and a terse message was sent to one of the other teams. Spread in a vast ring around Heathrow, they were taking part in an anti-terrorist exercise that had already been going on for nearly three days. The floor of the car was littered with all the detritus of a stake-out: cigarette packets, hamburger cartons, newspaper reeking of old fish and chips, drink cans, crisp packets, sweet wrappers and heavily thumbed copies of several tabloids, the pages no longer in any sort of order and not one crossword more than a third completed.

Captain Don Headley of the SAS had kept them on the go ever since his initial briefing, and all the teams were longing for the exercise to end. Those who passed were due to proceed to the next stage of training, but Paul and Colin were having serious doubts about their original decision to transfer to the new anti-terrorist squad that was being set up.

‘You know what I can’t stick?’ Colin said after a while.

‘What’s that?’

‘The way Don manages to go without sleep for days on bloody end and still keep his cool.’

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Me, I feel shagged after one night out.’

Paul grinned. ‘He’s a right smooth bugger, isn’t he? Still, with a little luck he’ll sod off back to Hereford soon and leave us in peace.’

The rain lashed against the car window and drummed on the roof. Colin shivered and slid deeper into his leather jacket. The zip was open to the waist and his stomach bulged over his belt. Paul looked at him with distaste.

‘In a way it’s kind of cosy in here, isn’t it?’ Colin said, hunting around on the back seat for a paper to read.

‘Speak for yourself.’ Paul eyed the debris. ‘If this is your idea of cosy I can imagine what your house looks like. It explains why your wife left you.’

‘Nah, silly cow was worse than I was. You should have seen the kitchen. Looked like a shagging bomb had hit it.’

Paul could well imagine. He had seen the food stains on the walls and ceilings of Colin’s office. The man was a walking disaster area.

He rubbed a hole in the breath misting the windscreen. Outside it was starting to lighten. Rain came down vertically, bouncing on the tarmac and rushing in the gutters. He sighed, misting the peep-hole, then looked at his watch for the umpteenth time.