Читать книгу Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan - Peter Cave, Peter Cave - Страница 9

‘So, what’s your gut feeling on this one?’ Davies asked Piggy after he had helped install his electric wheelchair in the lift down to the high-security underground car park.

Piggy let out a short, explosive sound halfway between a grunt and a cynical laugh. ‘You know my views on anything to do with the fucking Russians,’ he replied. ‘And I’m not too sure about the bloody Chinks, either. Personally, I’m inclined to the view that every takeaway in London is part of a plot to poison us all with monosodium glutamate.’

Davies grinned. ‘You’re a bloody xenophobe.’

Piggy shook his head, a mock expression of indignation on his face. ‘That’s a vicious rumour put about by those jealous bastards at Stirling Lines. I take my sex straight.’ He paused to flash Davies a rueful grin. ‘At least, I do when Pam hasn’t got a bloody headache these days.’

Davies smiled back. ‘Christ, are you two still at it? You dirty old man.’

‘Lucky old man,’ Piggy corrected him. ‘Actually, I think it’s just the delayed effect of all those hormones I was taking for forty years.’

Davies’s eyes strayed briefy to the wheelchair, and Piggy’s truncated torso. ‘You never had any problems, then?’ he asked, a little awkwardly.

Piggy grinned again. ‘No, the old Spitfire still flies. They may have shot the undercarriage to hell, but there was nothing wrong with the fuselage. The hormone treatment did the rest.’ His face suddenly became serious again, almost sad. ‘No kids, of course – that’s the only part that still hurts.’

Children were a sore point with Davies as well. ‘Count yourself lucky,’ he muttered. ‘Mine hardly ever bother to even talk to me these days. Now they’ve got a new dad and a new baby-sister, I’m just a relic from the past.’

‘You never bothered to remarry, then?’

Davies laughed ironically. ‘Like the old cliché – I married the job,’ he said. ‘And the SAS can be a jealous bitch. Besides, there aren’t that many understanding women like your Pam around these days.’

They had reached the car park level. Piggy looked up into Davies’s eyes as the lift doors hissed open, a wry smile on his face. ‘We’re still doing it, aren’t we?’ he murmured.

‘Doing what?’ Davies didn’t quite understand.

‘The bullshit,’ Piggy said, referring to the casual banter which virtually all SAS men exchanged before operations.

Davies gave no reply. He helped steer the wheelchair through the doors into the underground car park. Instinctively, he began to walk towards his own BMW, suddenly pausing in mid-stride and looking back at Piggy somewhat awkwardly.

‘Look, I’ve only just realized that my car isn’t equipped to take that chariot of yours,’ he muttered in embarrassment.

Piggy smiled easily. ‘No problem, I do have my own transport, you know.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Davies relaxed, feeling a bit better about his near-gaffe. ‘So, where would you like to go for a drink? I’m afraid I’m not really up on London pubs these days.’

Piggy looked at him with a faint look of surprise. ‘Who said anything about a London pub? There’s only one place for a pair of old troopers like us to have a drink – and we both know exactly where that is.’

It was Davies’s turn to look a little bemused. ‘The Paludrine Club?’ he said, referring to the Regiment’s exclusive little watering-hole back at Stirling Lines in Hereford.

‘And why not?’ Piggy prompted. ‘We can do it in just over two hours, given a following wind. Besides, we’re going to have to do some serious planning, and where better than the Kremlin?’

Davies glanced at his BMW again, the sense of embarrassment returning. ‘Two hours flat out is some hard driving – even for me,’ he pointed out awkwardly.

Piggy followed the direction of his gaze and then broke out into an open laugh. ‘Christ Almighty, Barney, do you think I’m driving a fucking three-wheeler or something?’ He fingered the controls on the arm of his electric wheelchair, steering it over towards a black and silver Mitsubishi Shogun. Pulling a small remote control panel from his pocket, he activated the door lock and automatic winching gear. As the lifting plate sighed down to ground level, Piggy rolled the wheelchair onto it, locked the wheels in position and set the controls again. Effortlessly, the powerful motor hoisted wheelchair and occupant up into the driving cab.

Davies looked up at him, impressed. ‘Last one there buys the drinks,’ he said, grinning. ‘I assume you’re planning to stay at my place for a couple of days?’

Piggy smiled down as the wheelchair started to slide into the driving position. ‘You assume correctly, my old friend. Everything’s already packed in the back.’

He pulled the door closed behind him. Seconds later the Shogun roared into life and lurched away towards the exit with a squeal of rubber on concrete.

Laughing like a schoolboy, Davies broke into a run towards his own car. They were off. But he could already feel the surge of adrenalin in his system which told him he was setting out on something far more challenging than a race up the M4. And something potentially far more dangerous, he reminded himself as he slipped in the ignition key and gunned the powerful BMW into life.

Davies walked away from the bar after paying for the drinks – a small brandy for himself and a double gin and tonic for Piggy. He had not deliberately let Piggy win, he told himself. Perhaps it was just that he was a little more cautious these days, with a little more respect for things like speed limits. Or perhaps it was simply that Piggy still had that extra something to prove to himself. Either way, he actually felt quite good about buying the drinks. Reaching the table, he set them down and sat eyeing Piggy over the rim of his balloon glass, waiting for him to open the conversation.

Piggy picked up his cue. ‘First thoughts?’ he queried.

Davies sipped at his brandy. ‘Two four-man patrols, over the same route but spaced about two hours apart.’

His companion nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sweep and clean. And back-up if necessary. Makes good sense. Any thoughts on personnel yet?’

‘Mike Hailsham springs to mind.’

Again, Piggy seemed in general agreement. ‘Yeah, Major Hailsham’s a good CO. Any special reasons?’

‘Two main ones. Firstly he has intensive experience of anti-bacteriological equipment and techniques from the Gulf War. He skippered the frontline undercover raids on the Scud bases when we still thought Saddam was going to start dumping anthrax on the Israelis.’

‘And second?’ Piggy wanted to know.

‘And he has fluent Russian,’ Davies said. ‘Although how much use that’s likely to be, I’m not too sure at this point.’ He broke off to look questioningly at Piggy. ‘You’ve studied the region. What’s likely to be the most common language?’

‘Russian’s probably as good as anything,’ Piggy said. ‘The native Kazakhs do have their own tongue, basically derived from Turkish, but most of the younger ones have probably been taught Russian as a second language by now. You can forget the older generation. Before 1917 they didn’t have a written language at all – no books, no schools, no permanent records of any kind. It was just a very simple nomadic culture, and basic storytelling or folk song were about the only ways of communicating information.’ He tailed off, realizing that he was starting to ramble a bit. ‘Anyone else in mind?’

‘Andrew Winston would be a good bet, I think,’ Davies said. ‘Again for the basic reason that he was with Hailsham in Iraq and knows the score. ‘And he’s a tough bastard. If anyone can nip up a mountain with a full bergen on his back, that big black sonofabitch can. In fact, he’d probably beat everybody else just so he could have ten minutes on his own to sit on the top and write a couple of poems.’

Piggy listened to his friend’s eulogy without really understanding it, not knowing the mild-mannered but combat-lethal Barbadian sergeant. Soldiers like Winston were the members of a new breed of SAS men – thinkers and idealists rather than the hardened death-or-glory boys of his own early years.

‘And Cyclops, of course,’ Davies was going on. ‘If you’re right and we’re going to have shoot down bloody eagles to stay alive, then I want the best sniper in the Regiment.’

Again, Piggy was not personally familiar with the man, but his shooting prowess was legendary. Already five times Army sharpshooting champion, Corporal Billy Clements was the undisputed king of the L96A1, otherwise known as the Accuracy International PM. In his hands the 7.62mm calibre weapon was as accurate and as lethal at 800 yards as a stiletto is at six inches. It was a skill born of almost fanatical practice on the firing range, and one which had given Clements his odd nickname since he appeared to be almost constantly squinting down the eyepiece of a telescopic sight. However, stories that he was incapable of reading even the largest print at less than arm’s length remained unproven, since no one had ever actually seen Cyclops trying to read anything.

‘Well, that’s three names to conjure with for a start,’ Davies said as he turned his attention back to his brandy. ‘I’ll issue recalls this evening and we’ll set up a prelim briefing in the Kremlin for 09.00 hours the day after tomorrow.’

He drained his glass after swilling the last few droplets around the bowl and inhaling the fumes with genuine appreciation. Placing it back on the table, he pushed it in Piggy’s direction.

‘Your round, I think. If we’re going to get religiously pissed, we’d better get a move on.’