- -
- 100%
- +
She reported as ordered, wearing an old sheepskin coat over combat fatigues, a Glock pistol in her right pocket with a couple of extra magazines, a black-and-white chequered headcloth wrapped around her face, loose ends falling across the shoulders, leaving only her eyes exposed.
The vehicle that picked her up in the compound was an old Sultan armoured reconnaissance car, typical of many such vehicles left behind by the Russians when they had vacated the country. Three banks of seats, a canvas top rolled back over the rear two, and a general-purpose machine gun mounted up front. It was painted in desert camouflage.
The three members of the BRF who met her looked like local tribesmen. Baggy old trousers, ragged sheepskins, and soiled headcloths like her own. They carried AK-47 rifles, were decidedly unshaven, and stank to high heaven.
One of them said, ‘Captain Gideon?’
‘That’s right. Who are you?’
‘We dispense with rank in our business, ma’am. I’m the sergeant in charge, but just call me Frank. This rogue on the machine gun is Alec, and Wally handles the wheel and radio. You can use the rear seat. You’ll find a box of RPGs to one side, just in case, ma’am.’
‘Sara will be fine, Frank,’ she told him, and climbed in as the engines started up and the trucks nosed out of the gates in procession.
‘Convoy to supply outposts in the Taliban areas,’ Frank told her. ‘Best done at night. We tag on behind, then branch off about fifteen miles up the road and head for Abusan, cross-country.’
‘Sounds fine to me.’ As she climbed into the seat, he said, ‘Have you done much of this kind of thing before?’ Another truck eased up behind them.
‘Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and this is my second tour in Afghanistan.’
‘Forgive me for asking.’ He climbed into the second bank of seats. ‘Get after them, Wally.’ He lit a cigarette and shivered. ‘It’s cold tonight.’
Which it was – bitter winter, with ice-cold rain in bursts and occasional flurries of wet snow. The canvas roof offered a certain protection, and Sara folded her arms, closed her eyes, and dozed.
She came awake with a start as Frank touched her shoulder. ‘We’re leaving the convoy soon and going off to the left.’
She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that an hour had slipped by since leaving the compound. As she pulled herself together and sat up, a tremendous explosion blew the lead truck apart, the sudden glare lighting up the surrounding countryside.
‘Christ almighty,’ Frank said. ‘The bastards are ambushing us.’ As he spoke, the rear truck behind them exploded.
Passing through a defile at that part of the road, the convoy was completely bottled up and the light from the explosions showed a large number of Taliban advancing.
Guns opened up all along the length of the convoy, and Alec started to fire the machine gun as Wally called in on the radio. There was general mayhem now, the tribesmen crying out like banshees, firing as they ran, and several bullets struck the Sultan. Sara crouched to one side in the rear seat and fired her Glock very carefully, taking her time. Frank leaned over, opened the box of RPGs, loaded up and got to work, the first grenade he fired exploding into the advancing ranks. There was a hand grenade hurled in return that fell short, exploding, and Sara was struck by shrapnel just above her left eye.
She fell back, still clutching her Glock, and fired into the face of the bearded man who rushed out of the darkness, the hollow-point cartridges blowing him back, and the man behind him. There was blood in her eye, but she wiped it away with the end of her headcloth and rammed another clip into the butt of the Glock.
Wally, behind the wheel, was firing his AK over the side into the advancing ranks and suddenly cried out as a bullet caught him in the throat. Alec was standing up behind the machine gun, working it furiously from side to side, while Frank fired another grenade and then a third.
The headcloth pressed against the shrapnel wound stemmed the blood, and Sara fired calmly, making every shot count as the Taliban rushed in out of the darkness.
Frank, standing behind her to fire another grenade, cried out, staggered, dropped the launcher, and fell back against the seat, hit in his right side. Above him, Wally was blown backwards from his machine gun, vanishing over the side of the Sultan.
Sara pulled off her headcloth, explored Frank with her fingers until she found the hole in his shirt and the wound itself. She compressed her headcloth and held it firmly in place. As he opened his eyes, she reached for his hand.
His eyes flickered open, and she said, ‘Can you hear me?’ He nodded dimly. ‘Press hard until help comes.’
She scrambled up behind the machine gun, gripped the handles, and started to fire in short bursts at the advancing figures. The gun faltered, the magazine box empty. There weren’t as many out there now, but they were still coming. Very slowly, and in great pain, she took off the empty cartridge box and replaced it with the spare. There was blood in her eye, and she was more tired than she had ever been in her life.
She stood there, somehow indomitable in the light of the fires, with her red hair, and the blood on her face, and glanced down at Frank.
‘Are you still with me?’ He nodded slightly. ‘Good man.’
She reached for the machine gun again and was hit somewhere in the right leg so that she had to grab the handles to keep from falling over. There was no particular pain, which was common with gunshot wounds – the pain would come later. She heaved herself up.
A final group of Taliban was moving forward, and she started firing again, methodically sweeping away a whole line of them. Suddenly, they were all gone, fading into the darkness. She stood there, her leg starting to hurt.
There was a sound of helicopters approaching fast, the crackle of flames, the smell of battle, the cries of soldiers calling to one another as they came down the line of trucks. She was still gripping the handles of the machine gun, holding herself upright, but now she let go, wiped her bloody face with the back of her hand, and leaned down.
‘It’s over, Frank. Are you all right?’
He looked up at her, still clutching her headcloth to his body. ‘My God, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of you, ma’am,’ he croaked.
She reached down, grabbing his other hand, filled with profound relief, and then she became aware of the worst pain she had ever experienced in her life, cried out, and, at that instant, found herself back in her seat on the plane to New York.
3
The flight attendant was leaning over her anxiously.
‘Are you okay? You called out.’
‘Fine, just fine. A bad dream. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I think I’ll go to the restroom and freshen up.’
She moved along the aisle, limping slightly, a permanent fixture now, although it didn’t bother her unless she got overtired. She stood at the mirror, ran a comb through her hair, touched up what little make-up she wore, and smiled at herself.
‘No sad songs, Sara Gideon,’ she said. ‘We’ll go now and have a delicious martini, then think about tonight’s reception at the Pierre.’
At Kennedy, her diplomatic status passed her straight through, and she was at the Plaza just after five o’clock. The duty manager escorted her personally to her suite.
‘Would you have any news on General Ferguson’s time of arrival?’ she enquired.
‘Eight o’clock, but I believe that’s open, ma’am.’
‘And his two associates, Mr Dillon and Mr Holley?’
‘They booked into the hotel yesterday, but I think they’re out. I could check.’
‘No, leave it. I think I’ll rest. Would you be kind enough to see that no calls are put through, unless it’s the general?’
‘I’ll see to it, ma’am. Your suitcase was delivered this morning. You’ll find it in the bedroom. If you need any assistance, the housekeeper will be happy to oblige.’
He withdrew, and she didn’t bother to unpack. Instead of lying down, though, she put her laptop on the desk in the sitting room and sat there going over all the material sent to her by Major Giles Roper, whose burned and ravaged face had become as familiar to her as her own, this man who had once been one of the greatest bomb-disposal experts in the British Army, now reduced to life in a wheelchair.
It would be after eleven at night in London, but experience had taught her that if he was sleeping, it would be in his wheelchair anyway, in front of his computer bank, which was where she found him when she called him on Skype.
‘Giles, I’m at the Plaza and just in from Arizona. My report on Reaper drones will curl your hair.’
‘I look forward to reading it, Sara. You’re looking fit.’ They’d already become good friends. ‘Are you likely to enjoy tonight’s little soirée?’
‘There will be nothing little about it. No word from the general yet?’
‘I’ve spoken to him. He and Harry Miller have met with the President and should arrive at Kennedy around eight, if the weather holds. I was going to call you anyway. Your boss, Colonel Hector Grant – boss until midnight anyway – would appreciate you being there before eight.’
‘Happy to oblige him. I haven’t seen Dillon and Holley. They’re apparently out at the moment.’
‘Yes, they’re seeing to something for Ferguson.’
‘In New York? Is that legal?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
She shook her head. ‘This whole business is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. That General Charles Ferguson could take over my military career by Prime Minister’s warrant, which I never even knew existed, and make me a member of his private hit squad, which I’d always heard rumours about but never believed in.’
‘Well, it does.’
‘And I find myself in your hands, face-to-face on screen with a man who sits in a wheelchair, hair down to his shoulders, smokes cigarettes, constantly drinks whiskey, and seems to eat only bacon sandwiches at all hours, day and night.’
‘I can’t deny any of it.’
Tony Doyle, a black London Cockney and sergeant in the military police, appeared beside Roper with a mug of tea. He handed it to him and smiled at Sara. ‘Good to see you, ma’am.’
‘Tony, just go away.’ He laughed and went out.
‘It’s like a movie, Giles. I only see what you want me to. I have to take your word for everything.’
‘My dearest girl, all that I’ve told you about Holland Park is true, and you’ve got photos of everyone who works here, the details of their lives, their doings.’
‘So Dillon trying to blow up John Major and his Cabinet in London all those years ago, that’s true?’
‘And he got well paid for it.’
‘And Daniel Holley really was IRA and now he’s a millionaire and some sort of a diplomat for the Algerian foreign minister?’
‘Absolutely. He’s not just a pretty face in a Brioni suit, our Daniel.’
‘I didn’t say he was.’ She shrugged. ‘Obviously, he’s killed a few people.’
‘A lot of people, Sara, don’t kid yourself. And he’s too old for you. By the way, I went to hear your grandfather give a sermon.’
‘You what?’
‘I looked him up online. Rabbi Nathan Gideon, Emeritus Professor at London University, and famous for his sermons, so I went to hear one. I saw him at a synagogue in West Hampstead. Tony took me in the van. People were most kind, loaned me a yarmulke for my head and provided one for Tony, also. He thoroughly enjoyed the sermon. Human rights and what to do about its failures. I introduced myself and told him I worked for the Ministry of Defence and that we were going to be colleagues. He asked us back for tea. Whether this broke the Sabbath ruling, I’m not sure, but he did also provide some rather delicious biscuits.’
‘And this was at the Highfield Court house in Mayfair?’
‘That’s right. Tony was fascinated. Your grandfather gave him a book on Judaism, and he talks of nothing else.’
‘Are you completely mad?’
‘I sometimes think I am, but one thing is certain – Nathan Gideon is a wonderful man, and I’d be privileged to have his friendship.’
‘Is there anything else I should know?’
‘Yes, since you appear to be interested in Holley. His father was a hardline Protestant who didn’t like Catholics, but happened to fall in love with one who came from an equally hardline IRA family.’
‘So that explains his foot in both camps?’
‘Yes. And it led him as a young man to take refuge with the IRA, who sent him to a terrorist training camp in the Algerian desert, from which he emerged a thoroughly dangerous individual. So be warned. Anything else?’
‘Holland Park. What’s its purpose?’
‘To keep watch over terrorism. London is the dream destination for any jihadist. He can speak openly about intending to destroy our way of life and even involve himself in a plot or two.’
‘But the security services and the police are there to do something about that.’
‘Like arrest him and then discover that because of human rights laws, he can’t even be deported when he entered the country illegally?’
‘It’s hard to believe that.’
‘You’ll take worse things than that in your stride when you work for us. A couple of years ago, an Al Qaeda-based unit caused a terrible accident to happen to Harry Miller’s limousine on Park Lane. Unfortunately, Harry’s wife was using the car that morning. She and the chauffeur were killed.’
‘That’s terrible. What happened then?’
‘The bombmaker was traced. It was an IRA sleeper living in London. He was dying of cancer and fingered his Al Qaeda paymaster. After he died, Dillon called in a disposal team.’
‘Disposal team?’
‘A quick bullet solves most problems, but you need our personal undertaker, Mr Teague, and his associates to clean up and take the body away. A couple of hours later and it’s six pounds of grey ash.’
‘What happened to the paymaster?’ Sara asked.
‘Harry made that personal. Went round to the Al Qaeda guy’s house, shot him dead, and left Al Qaeda to clear up. I mean, they wouldn’t be likely to call in the police, would they?’
‘I wonder if I’m going to be able to cope with Holland Park.’
‘You’ll do fine. I’ve seen your file. There were at least twenty Taliban corpses around that Sultan.’
‘That was war.’
‘And so is this, sweetheart. By the way, I’m told you’ve been awarded a Military Cross for Abusan.’
She was reeling now. ‘But that can’t be true.’
‘The Intelligence Corps couldn’t resist putting their golden girl up for a medal for bravery. Of course, people like us don’t get medals, it’s too public, so Ferguson isn’t pleased. But don’t worry, you’ll get it. Just don’t expect a fuss.’
‘Giles, why don’t you go to hell and take Ferguson with you?’
‘I’ve been there, Sara, and it wasn’t good. Enjoy the Pierre, give my best to Sean, and watch it with Daniel.’
‘Just go, Giles.’ And he did.
She checked on the screen again, thoroughly annoyed, and brought up Daniel Holley. Medium height, brown hair that was rather long, the slight smile of a man who didn’t take his world too seriously and who looked ten years younger than he was.
In spite of the tattoos on his arms, common to convicts who’d spent time in the Lubyanka Prison, there was no sign of the killer on that handsome and rather attractive face, and yet that was exactly what he was. It was all there, his record in the field, meticulously put together by Giles Roper.
She went and unpacked, just the essentials since she was accompanying Ferguson to London, but she’d made sure to bring her dress uniform for tonight’s reception. The Yanks would be there, but they were friends. The Russians were another matter, and she had heard that Colonel Josef Lermov of Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, head of station at the London Embassy, would be present. His book on international terrorism had become essential reading in military circles.
She hung up her uniform tunic with the medal ribbons, the neat skirt, shirt and tie, high-polished shoes, the dress cap. Good old khaki splendour. Just like graduating at Sandhurst, except for the medals. Ten years of her life.
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sara,’ she murmured, then went into the splendid bathroom and started to fill the tub.
At seven-thirty that evening, Dillon was sitting at a corner seat in the bar at the Pierre, dressed in a black velvet corduroy suit and enjoying a Bushmills whiskey, when Holley entered, wearing a beautifully tailored single-breasted suit of midnight blue, a snow-white shirt, and a blue striped tie.
‘Daniel, you look like a whiskey advert. You’ve excelled yourself. What about our new associate?’
Holley waved to the waiter and called for a vodka on crushed ice. ‘I tried to get through to her room, but the duty manager said she was resting. Roper’s put everything online, though.’
‘Is there much there?’
‘The usual identity card photos that make anyone, male or female, look like a prison officer. She has red hair.’
‘I look forward to that,’ Dillon said. ‘I love red hair.’
‘There was one unusual thing. Some video footage of her undergoing therapy for her wounded leg at Hadleigh Court.’
‘The army rehab centre?’ Dillon said.
‘I found it a bit disturbing.’
‘What’s her birth date?’
‘Fourth of September.’
‘Virgo.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘The only zodiac sign represented by a female. Still waters run deep with one of those, and you being the wrong sort of Leo, with Mars in opposition to Venus, you’ve got nothing but trouble on your plate where the ladies are concerned.’
‘Thanks very much, Sean, most helpful, particularly as I’m not in the market for a relationship.’
‘What did Roper have to say about Sara Gideon?’
‘She’s a bit bothered about being dragooned into Holland Park. And apparently she’s up for a Military Cross for Abusan. He read me the details.’
‘Impressive?’
‘You could say that. I had a call from Harry. They’re about to land, and they’ll see us here.’
‘And Sara Gideon?’
‘I’ve just checked at the Plaza desk. She left in a military vehicle.’
‘Seems a bit excessive, since we’re only a few blocks away.’
‘It seems her boss, this Colonel Hector Grant, was in the car.’
‘Well, there you are,’ Dillon told him. ‘Privileges of rank. Probably fancies her. Let’s drink up, go upstairs, and see if we can ruin his evening.’
The UN reception was all that you might expect: politicians from many countries, plus their military, the great and the good, and many familiar television faces. Waiters passed to and fro, the champagne flowed, and a four-piece band played music, helped out by an attractive vocalist.
A few couples were already taking a turn on the floor, among them Sara Gideon with a grey-haired colonel in British uniform who, at a couple or three inches over six feet, towered above her – at a guess, Colonel Hector Grant.
Holley said, ‘That red hair is fantastic.’
‘A lovely creature she is, to be sure.’ Dillon nodded. ‘I’d seize the day if I were you, while I go and embarrass Ferguson and Harry. I can see them over there queuing up with Josef Lermov, waiting their turn to shake hands with the ambassador.’
He walked away, and Holley stayed there, watching. Colonel Grant was smiling fondly, and she was smiling up at him with such charm that it touched the heart. They were dancing slowly, and the limp in her right leg was apparent, but only a little, and she laughed at something the colonel said.
At that moment, they turned and she was facing Holley. She stopped smiling, frowning a little as if she knew him and was surprised to see him there. The music finished. She reached up to speak to the colonel, then turned, glanced briefly at Holley, and moved towards the exit leading to the ladies’.
A voice said, ‘Heh, I bet that colonel’s more than just her boss. I love a girl in uniform, and that limp is kind of sexy. Maybe I could do myself some good here.’
There were two of them, middle-aged, well-dressed and arrogant, and already drunk. They made for the exit, drinking from their glasses as the music started up again, and Holley went after them.
At that moment, the corridor happened to be empty, just Sara Gideon approaching the restroom door, and the one who was doing all the talking put his glass down on a stand in front of a mirror, moved up fast behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Hang on there, young lady. I know you soldier girls like a little action. We know just the place to take you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said as Holley approached behind them. ‘I think my friend wouldn’t like that.’
‘And which friend would that be?’ the second man asked.
Holley punched him very hard in the kidneys and, as he cried in pain and doubled over, kicked his feet from under him and stamped in the small of his back. The other man reached into his inside breast pocket and tried to withdraw what turned out to be a small pistol. Sara put her elbow in the man’s mouth, then twisted his wrist in entirely the wrong direction until he moaned with pain and dropped the weapon. Holley picked it up. ‘Two-shot derringer with hollow points. I didn’t know there were still any of these around. Very lethal.’ He smacked the man’s face. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Leo,’ the man gasped. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
‘The NYPD would just love to catch you with one of these. You’d be in a cell in Rikers tonight and, what’s worse, the showers in the morning. So I suggest you pick your friend up by the scruff of the neck and get out of here while I’m in a good mood.’
‘Anything you say, anything.’ Leo was terrified and reached down to his friend, hauling him up.
Holley said to Sara, ‘I get the impression you know who I am.’
‘Let’s say I’ve seen you on screen.’
‘Do you still need the loo?’
‘No, I think that can wait. I could do with a drink, but I’d prefer to go to the hotel bar for it and catch my breath.’
‘The bar it is, then.’ He offered her his arm, and, behind them, Leo managed to get his friend on his feet, and they lurched away.
They sat at a corner table and waited until a waiter brought a martini cocktail for her and a large vodka for him. She picked up her glass.
‘You don’t take prisoners, do you?’ she asked.
‘I could never see the point. The way you handled that guy with the derringer, though, suggests you could have managed quite well on your own.’
‘I have a black belt in aikido. Giles Roper warned me about you, you know.’
‘So you’re familiar with my wicked past?’
‘And Holland Park,’ she said. ‘And what goes on there. I’ve been given full access. I must say he’s very thorough.’
‘He’s that, all right.’
‘That horrible man.’ She sipped her martini. ‘He was afraid for his life. You frightened the hell out of him.’
‘I meant to, he deserved it.’ He took his vodka down in a quick swallow, Russian-style, and she watched him gravely, waiting for more. ‘Look, I was involved in a terrible incident years ago that makes it impossible for me to stand by and do nothing when I see a woman in trouble.’
‘Being familiar with your file, I understand why.’
‘Well, there you are, then,’ Holley said. ‘Anything else you’d like to know?’
‘I saw you watching me dancing with Colonel Grant, but you looked startled for some reason.’
He shrugged. ‘Just astonished at finding the best-looking woman I’d seen in a uniform for years.’
She smiled. ‘Why, Daniel, you certainly know how to please a lady.’
‘No, I don’t. I’ve never had much time for relationships, not in my line of work. Here today and possibly gone forever tomorrow, if you follow me. What about you?’
‘If you’ve immersed yourself in my career, you’ll know that the past ten years have been one bloody war after another. There was a chap I got close to in Bosnia who was killed by a Serb sniper. Then there was a major in Iraq who went the same way, courtesy of the Taliban.’