Читать книгу Dirty Little Secret - Jon Stock - Страница 8

Dhar sat against the rocks, watching through narrowed eyes as the man descended towards him. The noise of the yellow Sea King helicopter was deafening, the downcurrent from its blades instilling a sudden panic in him. It took all of his self-control to stay where he was, pinned to the ground like quarry beneath a hovering hawk. His instinct was to run, along the foreshore, into the sea, anywhere. The helicopter brought back too many memories: his hasty departure from the Atlas Mountains, the unnecessary killing of the Berber messenger.

The winch man was almost with him now, spinning on the rope like a dangling spider. He had a luminous orange stretcher under one arm and his feet were out to the side, to protect himself from the cliff face. Dhar checked for the handgun in his pocket. Earlier, he had dragged the Russian back to the boat and ordered him to remove his outer clothing. Then he had shot him, a double tap to the forehead and a prayer for the thousands of Muslim brothers slain by the SVR in the Caucasus. Struggling with his injured leg, he had climbed out of his flying suit and put on the Russian’s jacket and bloodied trousers, watched by his hollow stare.

If the dead Russian had seemed to disapprove of Dhar’s new outfit, his distorted features had formed a smirk when he had reached for the vodka bottle and, for the first time in his life, tasted alcohol. He had closed his eyes as the liquid burnt against the back of his throat. You who believe, intoxicants and games of chance are repugnant acts – Satan’s doing. Allah would forgive him, would understand how important it was that his rescuers thought he was drunk. It was only drinking from the grape that was haraam, wasn’t it? And hadn’t the caliph Haroun Al-Rashid occasionally indulged?

Dhar sat perfectly still now as the winch man touched down beside him, unhooked the stretcher and leant in close to his face. The alcohol’s alien effects made Dhar’s head spin when he closed his eyes. He hoped that his breath carried its sinful traces. Why hadn’t he thrown the half-empty bottle away, instead of slipping it into his inside pocket?

‘Can you hear me?’ the winch man asked, checking for vital signs. Dhar had decided that unconsciousness was the most credible state after a drunken cliff fall. The winch man had seen the bloodstains on his leg, the ripped trousers and the dark bruising below, and was now checking the wound. Tentatively he pulled back the material and spoke into his helmet mike.

Dhar couldn’t catch the exact words, but he heard something about an incoming tide. Five minutes later his head was whirling like a dervish as the stretcher lifted into the sky. It was a relief when he was finally eased in through the side door of the Sea King. Then, after slipping his arms free of the stretcher straps, he was on his feet and pointing the gun at the winch man and his colleague.

‘Remove your helmets,’ Dhar said, glancing up towards the cockpit. He had intended to shoot them both, but something made him change his mind. He hoped it wasn’t the vodka. The two men exchanged nervous glances and looked back at Dhar. Did they doubt him? Dhar felt another wave of panic, and raised the gun to their heads.

‘Remove your helmets!’ he barked.

It would be so much easier if they were dead, he thought. Without hesitating, the men unfastened their helmets and dropped them to the deck. Dhar motioned at the open door and they edged towards it. Had they realised who he was?

He watched as the winch man stood with his legs bent, head down, like a nervous child on a high diving board. The helicopter had arced out across the sea after picking up Dhar, and was heading towards the shore again. They would be over land in a few minutes. The winch man held onto the side, bent his legs further, and this time he was gone, dropping away in the darkness with a fading scream. The second man glanced at Dhar, at his gun, then he jumped too.