Читать книгу State Of Honour - Gary Haynes - Страница 24

The Ariana Hotel was in the Diplomatic Quarter, Kabul, near the US Embassy and the Presidential Palace. But it hadn’t been open to the public for well over a decade. The former hotel still housed the headquarters of the CIA in Afghanistan. The compound and the roads around it were some of the most heavily protected in the capital, following a day-long siege by insurgents in September 2011. Crane had grinned and had told Tom that to the average Afghan, the quarter was as inaccessible as a Playboy Bunny.

“It’s still off-limits to the local cops,” he said as they rode past a checkpoint with huge cement bollards in an adapted Land Cruiser. “For how long, who the hell knows these days?”

The boxlike, cream-coloured structure looked run-down. Tom saw more than three dozen armed guards on the perimeter, together with mobile rocket launchers. Two IAV Strykers, eight-wheeled, armoured fighting vehicles fitted with M2 .50-cal machine guns, were parked either side of the main gate.

“You’re not taking any chances, that’s for sure,” he said.

“Yeah, but looks are deceiving.”

“The Taliban breach this?” Tom asked.

“Green on blue nightmares. You can’t trust anyone in an Afghan uniform. And on the streets it’s worse than ever. We’ve lost a total of fifty-two core collectors since the military pulled out; fifteen in the last month alone. We stopped making that official a year back. You know, Tom, more people are killed coming down off a mountain than ascending it. Leaving an occupied country ain’t no different. They held off for a while there. To encourage us, I figure. But now they want as many dead as possible. I give it maybe three years before even what’s left of us are gone for good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I think.”

“You still got your gun on you?”

“Yeah. You want me to hand it in?” Tom asked.

“You’re a special agent, ain’t ya? You just keep it close. A SIG?”

“Standard-issue.”

“I favour the Kimber Eclipse Custom II,” Crane said, easing the handgun out of his shoulder holster and weighing it in his hand. “Now that barrel alone is five inches, but it’s a .45 ACP and is fitted with these here low-profile night-sights,” he went on, fingering the back of the gun where the sights were mounted in rounded dovetails. “And it’s only a four-pound trigger pull. I got it in 10mm, too, and that’ll take a man’s head clean off.”

“A good piece,” Tom said. “But mine allows an easy draw.”

“You wanna hold it?”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself,” Crane said, holstering it. He took out a slim cigar from his jacket pocket, lit it with a gold lighter. “You smoke, Tom?”

Tom shook his head. He looked at Crane. He took a long pull on the cigar before puffing little smoke rings out of the open window. He was a strange kind of guy.