Читать книгу A Devil is Waiting - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

A veteran of both Vietnam and the Secret Service, Blake Johnson had served a string of presidents as personal security adviser and was something of a White House institution. He’d known Ferguson and Miller for years.

Now he joined them in the rear of the limousine, closing the window that cut them off from the driver. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,’ he said. ‘Things are pretty rough for all of us these days. I wonder how the Prime Minister would cope if he didn’t have you.’

‘Oh, he’d manage, I’m sure,’ said Ferguson. ‘But my team is always ready to handle any situation with the appropriate response.’

‘Which usually means general mayhem,’ Harry Miller put in. Miller was the Prime Minister’s main troubleshooter and an under-secretary of state.

‘Well, you should know,’ Ferguson told Miller. ‘Mayhem is your general job description. When you’re not being used to frighten other Members of Parliament to death.’

‘A total exaggeration, as usual,’ Miller told Blake. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the President will be happy with our security arrangements for his brief visit to London. We wish it could be longer, but I know he’s expected in Paris and Berlin.’

Ferguson said, ‘I’m surprised he can find the time at all with everything going on in the Middle East and Africa.’

‘And Al Qaeda threatening worldwide spectaculars in capital cities,’ Miller put in. ‘In revenge for the death of bin Laden.’

‘We can’t just sit back and wait for things to happen,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ve got to go in hard, find those responsible for running the show these days, and take them out.’

‘Well, I think you’ll find that’s exactly what the President wants to talk to you about,’ Blake said. ‘You know he supports action when necessary. But I think you’ll find he favours a more conciliatory approach where possible.’

Ferguson frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

Miller put a warning hand on Ferguson’s knee. ‘Let’s just see what the President says.’

The general pulled himself together. ‘Yes, of course, we must hear what the President has to say.’

In the Oval Office, the President and Blake faced Ferguson and Miller across a large coffee table. Clancy Smith, the President’s favourite Secret Service man, stood back, ever watchful.

‘London, Paris, Berlin, Brussels – it’s going to be quite a stretch in four days,’ said the President. ‘But I’m really looking forward to London, particularly the luncheon reception at Parliament.’

‘It’ll be a great day, Mr President,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ve completely overhauled our security system for your visit. Major Miller is the coordinator.’

‘Yes, I’ve read your report. I couldn’t leave it in better hands. What I actually wanted to ask you about was your report of the inquiry into the Mirbat ambush in Afghanistan that cost us so many lives. It seems you were right when you supposed that British-born Muslims were fighting in the Taliban ranks.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That’s bad enough in itself, but the fact that the man leading them was a decorated war hero, that he was chairman of one of the most respected arms corporations in the business – it defies belief.’

‘Talbot was a wild young man, hungry for war,’ Miller said. ‘Originally his supplying illegal arms to the Taliban across the border was strictly for kicks, but that led to Al Qaeda blackmailing him.’

‘As you can see from our report, he had Dillon’s bullet in him when he crashed his plane into the sea off the Irish coast,’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘An act of suicide to protect the family name.’

‘So his mother knew nothing about this Al Qaeda business?’

‘No. And she’s now chairman of Talbot International simply because she owns most of the shares.’

‘And in the world’s eyes, he just died in a tragic accident?’

Ferguson said, ‘Of course, Al Qaeda knows the truth, but it wouldn’t be to their benefit to admit to it. Nobody would believe such a story anyway.’

‘And thank God for that, and for the part you and your people played in bringing the affair to a successful conclusion, particularly your Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley. I see the Algerian foreign minister has given Holley a diplomatic passport.’

‘The Algerian government is just as disenchanted with Al Qaeda as we are,’ said Ferguson. ‘That passport makes him a very valuable asset.’

‘Who in his youth was a member of the Provisional IRA, as was Sean Dillon. Men who are the product of extreme violence tend perhaps to believe that a violent response is the only way forward.’

‘International terrorism is the scourge of our times, Mr President, powered by fanatics who insist on extreme views. It’s like a cancer that needs to be cut out to stop it spreading.’

The President said, ‘As you know, General, I believe in necessary force. But you can’t kill them all. The only way forward is to engage in dialogue with people with extreme views and attempt to reach a compromise. With Osama out of the way, I have great hopes for such an approach.’

‘I agree,’ Ferguson said. ‘But what about those who believe in the purity of violence and are willing to bomb the hell out of anyone who refuses to agree with them? Wouldn’t it be better to have people like Dillon and Holley stamp out such a fire before it spreads?’

‘Can such actions ever be condoned?’ the President asked.

Ferguson said, ‘In 1947, a brilliant commando leader named Otto Skorzeny was accused of war crimes because he had sent his men into action behind American lines wearing GI uniforms. Many of these men, when captured, were executed out of hand by the American forces.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘The chief witness for the defence was one of the most brilliant British Secret Service agents operating in occupied France. He admitted he’d been responsible for many operations in which his men had fought and killed German soldiers while wearing German uniforms. He also spoke of his superiors handing out such orders that could only be concluded by assassination. He told the court that if Skorzeny was guilty of a war crime, then he was just as guilty.’

There was a brief silence, and the President said, ‘What was the verdict?’

‘The case was thrown out of court. Skorzeny was acquitted of all charges.’

There was a long silence, and then the President said bleakly, ‘So what is the answer?’

‘That the kind of war we now face is a nasty business,’ Miller said. ‘And you can only survive if you play as dirty as the other side. That’s what twenty years of army service during the Irish Troubles taught me.’

The President sighed heavily. ‘I suppose I could have picked a better time to take up the highest office in the land, but here I am and, by God, I’ll see it through.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We’ll meet again on Friday.’

Blake insisted on returning them to the hotel personally. In spite of the rain, there were a number of people outside the White House gates, mainly tourists by the look of them.

‘I told you how it would be,’ Blake said. ‘This is America, land of the free. The President has a difficult path to tread. We tried the Guantánamo Bay solution and received hate mail from all over the world. And there are even those who disapprove of the way we handled Osama.’

‘We know that, Blake. The trouble is that you can say what you want about universal freedom, individual liberty, the rule of law, but when you get into power, the intelligence services pass confidential dossiers across your desk full of information that proves how bloody awful the threat really is. More 9/11s have been foiled by the skin of our teeth than the public could imagine.’

‘And often because the Sean Dillons and Daniel Holleys of this world are prepared to act in the way they do,’ Harry Miller said, ‘and take responsibility for it in a way other people can’t.’

‘And thank God for it,’ Ferguson said. ‘You know, we’ve been good friends with the French Secret Service for some time now.’

Blake said, ‘I’m surprised. I thought you used to be at odds with them?’

‘Not any more. Their agents, some of whom have Algerian Muslim roots, infiltrate Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the information gained has enabled the French to crush many terrorist cells in France since 9/11. But not only in France.’ Ferguson laughed grimly. ‘They call our capital city Londonistan – did you know that? From time to time, they pass over information to us of crazy plots to blow up Nelson’s Column, Tower Bridge, Harrods. You get the picture?’

‘I surely do,’ Blake said. ‘I suppose in Paris it’s the Eiffel Tower.’

‘I’d hate to be a Muslim living in Paris,’ Miller said. ‘I remember how the French reacted in the Algerian War. Nobody would want that.’

‘Al Qaeda would,’ Ferguson said as the limousine turned in to the hotel. ‘It would suit them down to the ground to return to the bad old days, so they could produce a few martyrs who’d been fixed up for sound.’

‘Dillon and Holley would seem tame by comparison,’ Miller said.

The limousine drove away with Blake and they watched it go. Harry Miller said, ‘What do you think?’

‘That I’d like a large bourbon on the rocks, but I’ll leave it until we’re on the Gulfstream. Let’s get our things and go,’ Ferguson said, and he led the way into the hotel.

When Captain Sara Gideon boarded the plane at Tucson for her flight to New York, she wore combat fatigues. This was America, where patriotism ruled and the military were received with enthusiasm, especially when the wearer was a good-looking young woman with cropped red hair. The shrapnel scar that slanted down from the hairline to just above the left eye made her even more interesting-looking. She was five foot six with high cheekbones in a calmly beautiful face that gave nothing away. It was as if she was saying: This is me, take me or leave me, I don’t give a damn. She had a window seat in first-class, and people glanced curiously as a flight attendant approached to offer her a glass of champagne.

‘Actually, I think that would be very nice,’ Sara Gideon told her.

‘Oh Lord, you’re English,’ the young woman said.

Sara gave her a smile of unexpected charm. ‘I’m afraid so. Is that all right? I mean, we’re all fighting the same war, aren’t we?’

The flight attendant was totally thrown. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. My older brother is a Marine, serving in Afghanistan. Sangin Province. I don’t suppose you’ve been there?’

‘I have, actually. The British Army was in Sangin for some time before the Marines took over.’

‘I’m so glad,’ the attendant said. ‘Let me get you your drink.’

She went away and Sara stood up, took her shoulder bag out of the locker, removed her laptop, and put it on the seat beside her. She replaced the shoulder bag and sat down as the flight attendant returned and gave her the champagne.

‘This Sangin place? It’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, Ron always says there’s not much going on.’

A good man, Ron, lying to his family so they wouldn’t worry about him. She’d been through two tours attached to an infantry battalion that suffered two hundred dead and wounded, herself one of them. But how could she tell that to this girl?

She drank her champagne down and handed the glass to her. ‘Don’t you worry. They’ve got a great base at Sangin. Showers, a shop, burgers and TV, everything. Ron will be fine, believe me.’

‘Oh, thank you so much.’ The girl was in tears.

‘Now you must excuse me. I’ve got work to do.’

The attendant departed, and Sara opened her laptop, feeling lousy about having to lie, and started to write her report. At the Arizona military base, location classified, she had been observing the new face of war: pilotless Reaper drones flying in Afghanistan and Pakistan but operated from Arizona, and targeting dozens of Taliban and Al Qaeda leaders.

It took her around two hours to complete. When she finished, she replaced the laptop in her shoulder bag. It had been a hell of an assignment – and where was it all going to end? It was like some mad Hollywood science-fiction movie, and yet it was all true.

Her head was splitting, so she found a couple of pills in her purse, swallowed them with some bottled water, and pushed the button for attention.

The young flight attendant appeared at once. ‘Anything I can get you?’

‘I’m going to try to sleep a little. I’d appreciate a blanket.’

‘Of course.’ The girl took one out of the locker and covered her with it as Sara tilted the seat back. ‘Sweet dreams.’

And how long since I’ve had one of those? Sara thought, and closed her eyes.

The dream followed, the same dream, the bad dream about the bad place. It had been a while since she’d had it, but it was here now and she was part of it, and it was so intensely real, like some old war movie, all in black and white, no colour there at all. It was the same strange bizarre experience of being an observer, watching the dream unfold but also taking part in it.

The reality had been simple enough. North from Sangin was a mud fort at a deserted village named Abusan. Deep in Taliban territory, it was used by the BRF – the Brigade Reconnaissance Force – a British special ops outfit made up of men from many regiments. The sort who would run straight into Taliban fire, guns blazing.

It was all perfectly simple. They’d got a badly wounded Taliban leader at Abusan, a top man who looked as if he might die on them and refused to speak English. No chance of a helicopter pick-up, two down already that week, thanks to new shoulder-held missiles from Iran. Headquarters in its wisdom had decided it was possible for the right vehicle to get through to Abusan under cover of darkness, and further decided that a fluent Pashtu speaker should go in with it, which was where Sara came in.

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.