London
“What is Tin saying?” asked Greere.
Ellard looked over the partition. “They’re in Herat – as if we didn’t know – but haven’t located Ebrahimi yet and are going off-line for up to six hours. I’d guess they’re going to use darkness to scout the immediate vicinity.”
Greere raised his eyebrows at his subordinate. “They seem to be doing their damnedest to disappoint you, Ellard,” he said pointedly. “Them behaving like professionals and all that...”
Ellard grunted dismissively.
“If they’re going dark for a while, I’m going to head over and brief Sentinel in person.” Greere stood up and started pulling on his jacket. “Call me if anything changes.”
Ellard nodded without looking away from his screen. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged indifferently.
~~~~~
Herat
I’m half dozing, with my head propped against the passenger door window, when the noise of the other door handle being jerked upwards startles me, and in a blink of an eye I’m awake and pointing the long barrel of my silenced pistol toward the opening door.
“It’s me,” says Jack from the darkness and slips into the driver’s seat, dragging with him a gust of chillingly cold night air.
He’s swapped his Mujahideen Cap for a long, dark brown, Dupatta scarf which winds round his head so that only a narrow strip of green-eyed face is visible. He reaches up with one arm and starts to unwind it.
“I’ve found the house,” he reports. “It’s about a hundred metres up the street from that tea house. There are two or three locations we can observe it from at street level and, even better, a couple of rooftops.”
“See anyone,” I grunt.
He shakes his head. “No-one. If they’re there, they must be asleep inside. We should do the same. You sleep. I’ll keep watch for a while, then you can take over. We need to monitor the place for other occupants tomorrow.”
“No nasty surprises this time?” I ask.
He smiles ruefully.
~~~~~
We creep out from the car, a few short hours later, before dawn, and Jack leads the way through dark and deserted alleyways, then up and across a series of flat rooftops before depositing me here, where I am right now.
“Stay put,” he’d whispered before heading off on his own. “Don’t move unless I tell you to. I’ll be over there.” He’d pointed to another rooftop across the street. “Cover yourself with this,” he’d handed me a tightly bundled camouflage sheet. “Watch the house front, and keep an eye on my position to make sure no-one can approach me unawares. I’ll do the same for you from over there.” I glance up briefly at the underside of my sheet with its abstract grey, brown and beige patterning. I’m glad of what small relief it has provided from the afternoon glare and once again am amazed at how effective it is at fooling the eye. Even though I know where he is, I can barely make out where Jack is hiding on the other side of the road. “We’ll withdraw back to the car, after dark,” he’d concluded and tapped his earpiece as he vanished silently into the predawn darkness.
I edge forward slightly, mainly to shift position – this rooftop is hard and uncomfortable and I’ve been sprawled on it for several hours – and return my attention to the nondescript house front I’ve been staring at all day. It’s a rough breeze block cube, two floors high, with three square windows and a doorway in its front wall. The upper floor windows are bigger than the one on the ground floor. The door, barely describable as planking, stands gaping like it has all day long. Murat Nagpal left it like that, when he dragged it open and stepped out at sometime around nine o’clock this morning.
I remember the flush of adrenalin I’d felt when I saw him come out. He’s grown a beard since whenever the photos we’ve studied were taken, but it was definitely him: short, overweight, and with a face that looks too small for his head. He looked very ordinary, very unexciting, very unlike how you’d imagine a premeditated mass-murderer to appear. It’s hard to think that someone like him could have orchestrated such atrocity.
I had then watched with mounting frustration and anger as this monster ambled casually away toward the city. Why should he be breathing, living, existing, when you are gone? My fury almost got the better of me. I could have shot him, right there and then but one thing stopped me: there are two of them...
The final two...
And we want them both.
Ebrahimi has not appeared. At least not from the front door.
From time to time, I catch glimpses of a man passing behind the upper floor windows. It looks like he’s standing and stretching. Sometimes with an open book dangling loosely from one of his hands.
There have been no other visitors, no other gangs of local hoodlums going in or coming out, and Nagpal has not returned.
My earpiece hisses with static and I glance across at Jack’s position on the other rooftop. He can’t see the house front, but can see the approaches and, if he moves position, he could also see down to the rear of the property. I can see him shifting stealthily now.
“Stay alert,” his voice hisses quietly in my ear. “Tango One is back. Entering tea house.”
I click my transmit key once to acknowledge his transmission.
Nagpal has reappeared.
~~~~~
Murat Nagpal could see that Gulyar bin Imraan was sitting at a table in the corner of the veranda. He strode along the street and purposefully up the two planking steps, then made his way across the rickety decking to join him. His friend seemed to be looking pleased with himself.
~~~~~
Another burst of static. “He’s meeting someone,” Jack whispers.
~~~~~
Gulyar rose from his seat and stepped out from the table to embrace his former comrade.
“So why the urgent summons?” asked Murat as they seated themselves. “I had much planned for this afternoon.”
Gulyar smiled, “God is great, Murat. I have good news. Well worth a short diversion. Fate has delivered the object you wanted much earlier than I’d expected. It is like you were meant to get it quickly!”
Murat’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That is good news.”
~~~~~
“I don’t recognise the other man,” Jack’s voice mutters in my ear.
~~~~~
On the opposite rooftop, Jack carefully powered up his compact digital camera. The sun was behind him so there was little chance of lens flash, nonetheless he moved very slowly until he could see the distant tea shop in the device’s view finder.
He zoomed in on the men.
Nagpal was facing toward him, so Jack took two quick shots of his recently bearded countenance.
The stranger was facing away. At the moment he could only see the back of his head.
He waited.
~~~~~
London
Greere snatched up his cellphone. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, as he pressed it to his ear. He was on his own in the office. Ellard was away grabbing some sleep in one of the rest rooms scattered here and there throughout the building’s labyrinthine complex. Round the clock working was normal for all of the occupants of the surrounding corridors. Sleeping facilities were as common as washrooms.
“I’ve just picked up something from my ‘channels’,” said Sentinel, his booming tone bullying the cellphone’s tiny speaker. “Might be relevant.”
“Yes, sir,” said Greere. He suspected his boss was only trying to make himself feel useful.
“The Afghan military has reported, to the Americans, that they’ve lost one of their latest spec KRX9000 series scanner units from a small border unit in Badghis Province.”
Greere’s brows furrowed sharply. Badghis Province neighboured the Herat District on its eastern side.
Sentinel continued. “The American’s are rightly pissed at the news. The unit was one of a few similar devices, on loan for field trials, following manufacturer language upgrades etcetera. The Afghans seem to be quite embarrassed by the incident, and have reported they’ve identified the offending soldier and are interrogating him.”
“I’ll bet,” Greere muttered. ‘Torturing more like,’ he thought to himself.
Sentinel huffed, it sounded like he was of the same unspoken opinion. “The soldier was reported as having, and I quote, ‘a hitherto unidentified substance abuse problem’. They believe the scanner was passed to a local drug dealer.”
Greere felt his jaw muscles clenching. That would have been a big ticket payment, even if the unsuspecting addict hadn’t inadvertently handed over an object that was being closely monitored as part of a bigger international arms deal. This wasn’t some petty transaction. This was premeditated. “Do they have a name for the dealer?” Greere asked carefully.
“One, Gulyar bin Imraan,” Sentinel replied and Greere felt his face go cold. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing, sir,” Greere tried to keep his tone as casual as possible. “I have a couple of dormant assets in the region. Perhaps we can help out?” One of these assets was already moving toward Herat, but Sentinel didn’t need to know that.
“I don’t think so,” said Sentinel brusquely. “Let’s not raise our profile there until the current mission is done and, well and truly, dusted. The Yanks can afford to lose a scanner. As I see it, the risk is a different and more obvious one.”
“And what’s that, sir?” asked Greere, pretending to be the good little dumb soldier.
“I’m wondering if our targets might still be trying to find out if they’re bugged,” said Sentinel imperiously.
Greere scowled, of course that was what they were doing. His boss was, typically, miles behind the curve but, right now, he needed to find a way to use this unexpected twist to his advantage. “Hmmm,” he made it sound like he was thinking carefully about Sentinel’s blatantly obvious suggestion. “I hadn’t considered that,” he lied. The fact was, he knew Bin Imraan... Well, his asset did... Months ago, the drug dealer had been the one who helped put names to three of the terrorists – Nagpal, Sikand and Hossein – and had been remarkably forthcoming in return for a suitably sizeable wad of hard cash. Greere himself had been roundly applauded for so quickly and accurately providing identities for three of the five grainy CCTV images circulating after Victoria.
At the time there had been no questions asked, nor any answered – Greere hadn’t revealed his sources – but he did know how Bin Imraan had been able to put names to the images: the men had all served together. So Greere knew full well, that if Bin Imraan had secured this scanner it could only be for one person – Murat Nagpal.
“Will this KRX scanner find one of our latest sub-dermal implants?” Greere asked, seemingly innocently. He already knew the answer.
“I believe so,” said Sentinel.
“Then I’m not sure we can take the risk of ignoring this, sir. You could very well be right. If they find the device, and move again, we could lose them forever.” Greere smiled to himself. This could work out nicely. Very nicely indeed. “But if we move on them now, then it’s going to be at extreme risk for Tin and Mercury...”
~~~~~
Herat
Gulyar slid a small aluminium case along the floor under the table. “I would appreciate it back, when you are done with it,” he said deliberately.
Murat Nagpal nodded. “Manual?” he asked.
“In the case but, for the most part, it looks easy to use.” Gulyar glanced away down the street.
~~~~~
“Got you,” hissed Jack, taking several photos of the other man’s profiled face.
Nick’s voice appeared in his ear. “Say again?”
“Just getting some pictures for our photo album,” he explained.
~~~~~
“I tried it out,” Bin Imraan continued. “Switch it on, and it immediately seeks transmitting devices within a fifty metre radius. It has a small screen which shows the location of the sources, together with basic information on the type of device and level of threat.”
Nagpal nodded his understanding.
“For instance, when I tried it, it immediately picked up my cellphones, laptop, and a small radio transmitter of the type I use occasionally for monitoring my delivery vehicles.”
“You bug your own people?” Nagpal asked.
“Sometimes,” Bin Imraan replied. “Or the packages. To find out where they end up. It can, on occasion, be enlightening... Anyway, I doubt you will need the book and, like I said, it would be very useful to get this item back again.”
“I understand,” said Nagpal carefully. “If the house proves clear...”
“Which it will, you paranoid old goat” interjected Bin Imraan.
Nagpal smiled. “I am indebted to you my friend. You can have it back as soon as the house is proved clear,” he said, correcting himself.
“Two days then?”
“Two days should be enough,” said Nagpal, and stood to leave.
~~~~~
“They’re moving,” Jack reports into my ear. “Stay sharp.”
I click transmit once.
“It looks like a delivery of some sort,” Jack continues quietly. “Tango One is holding a small, metal, flight case.”
“He’s heading for the house,” I say as Murat Nagpal strolls into my line of sight. “I can see the case. You didn’t see him carrying it earlier, when he arrived?”
“Negative. He’s picked it up at the tea house. I have a picture of it.”
“He’s going in,” I report.
“Stay there and watch the house,” he says. “I’m going to withdraw back to the car and report this in.”
“Trouble?” I ask.
“Might be,” he says.
~~~~~
Sergei heard someone come into the house and then noisily shove the planking front door closed. Quickly he threw his textbook to one side, grabbed his pistol, and moved to the gap in the floor above the staircase.
It was Nagpal.
“You’re back early,” he called down.
Nagpal was pulling off his coat and Sergei saw him pause, glaring up at him, before he tossed the jacket onto one of the wooden chairs. “What of it?”
Sergei shrugged, placed his gun back on his bedroll, and proceeded down the stairs. “What’s that?” he asked.
In the gloomy half light, Nagpal was opening the lid of a small metal case which he’d set down on the solitary table. Inside were a mass of switches and a couple of screens. Nagpal had placed a thick booklet beside the case, and was carefully studying the electronics.
“Can I?” asked Sergei, reaching out for the thick manual.
Nagpal nodded. “Find out where the ‘on’ switch is.”
Sergei flicked through the opening pages. “Like this,” he said, offering an illustration round to his ally.
Nagpal checked the picture, returned to the case, and flicked a switch.
Several coloured lights cycled across the opened clamshell, and the screens blinked into life.
Almost immediately the case started to make loud bleeping noises.
“Is that right?” asked Sergei, alarmed at the noises.
Nagpal was standing there, staring at him, with obvious fury in his eyes.
~~~~~
London
Greere needed to rouse Ellard, but he had a job to do first. He called up a number on his phone, selected the full encryption option, and dialled it.
“Joker,” a thickly accented voice answered.
“Ace,” replied Greere. “Sky blue,” he used a formal challenge protocol.
“Sea green,” Joker replied without hesitation.
Greere nodded. His agent had responded correctly, and was clear to talk. “Sit-rep?” he demanded.
“Have moved to the new location as instructed. Awaiting further instructions.”
“Get a discrete message to our dealer friend. Indirectly. Tell him that there is a rumour something might be about to happen in your location.” Herat. “Tell him to be on alert. Possible timeline twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Tell him that the rumour suggests that it involves something which would be considered very valuable to several potential bidders.” Greere paused waiting for a response.
“Is that it?” asked his agent emotionlessly.
“Yes. For now. Remember: keep it discrete and untraceable.”
“Understood.”
~~~~~
Herat
Murat’s anger boiled over inside him. It was just as he’d suspected all along!
He stormed toward Sergei, and grabbed the younger man by the arm.
“What?” yelled Ebrahimi.
Nagpal pulled him roughly toward him. “Where is your weapon?” he shouted into the young man’s face.
“Upstairs,” replied the startled youth.
‘Good,’ thought Nagpal.
Inside the case, one of the screens displayed a series of concentric circles. One bright green dot of light shone within the roundels. He pushed Sergei hard, flinging him across the gloom toward the kitchen area, and grabbed the grip of the Makarov pistol tucked into his waistband.
“Have you gone mad?” shouted Ebrahimi as he stumbled and fell, his initial shock turning to anger. “What are you doing?”
The dot didn’t move.
Nagpal stood silent, looking at it.
Ebrahimi picked himself up off the dirty floor, and moved cautiously back to the table.
They stood for a second, studying the screen, then Ebrahimi moved back around to where he’d been originally standing, reached down, and plucked up Nagpal’s coat.
Nagpal watched him suspiciously.
Sergei reached into one of the pockets, fished Nagpal’s cellphone from it, and tossed it onto the table next to the scanner.
The green dot moved to the bullseye of the display.
There were no other signals.
Ebrahimi shook his head, threw the crumpled coat back onto the chair, turned, and stomped off back up the open staircase. “It was your cell,” the younger man said coldly.
~~~~~
Jack ghosted through the streets and back to the car, where he recovered the EMT laptop from where it was hidden, along with his small arsenal, under the rear bench seat. He inserted the camera’s MMC card into a slot on the EMT’s side, and prepared a message for his handlers.
~~~~~
Sergei kept silent for the next few hours. Now he knelt in the bedroom area, next to Murat, on one of the parallel prayer mats. He maintained perfect time and mantra alongside the other man. All around, he could hear the calming ringing sounds of devout worship. Inside, however, he churned with anger. It was clear that Nagpal was looking for any excuse to blame him for the loss of Azat and Jeyhun. Possibly even blaming him for them being stuck here in Afghanistan. Probably blaming him for the British and Turkmenistan government reactions to Murat’s horrific terror attack in London.
Sergei knew that he had to get away, somehow.
He was sure, now, that he was in as much mortal danger here, with this man, as if he just went home... And in much more danger than if he made his way back to the Caspian Sea and vanished, another nameless wanderer, into the Russian fishing fleet...
Tomorrow, Sergei decided.
In the morning.
When Nagpal left the house.
Sergei would leave too.
~~~~~
London
Ellard rubbed at his eyes. “Who’s that with Nagpal?” he muttered sleepily, staring at the pictures Tin had sent over and which were displayed on Greere’s laptop screen.
“No idea,” said Greere bluntly, hoping Ellard would not ask too many more questions about Bin Imraan. “They all look the same in their turbans and beards.”
“What’s in the flight case?”
“An unfortunate development,” Greere replied. “Seems our little friends have secured themselves a high spec scanner. Read this for me.” He pushed his main screen round so Ellard could see the reply he had drafted:
‘Eyes Only – read and delete – urgent mission instruction update – be aware: imminent and extreme risk that tracer device compromised – expecting targets to fly the nest – 2 (two) times deadly-force strike missions approved for targets Tango One and Tango Two – initiate immediately and with greatest urgency – tracer signal frequency will be set to one second intervals from next satellite pass, estimated 00:23 hours location-local – insurgent support suspected but unconfirmed – under no circumstances must targets be allowed to leave current location – good luck and Godspeed. A.’
Ellard’s eyes widened as he read the message. Then he glanced across at his boss.
Greere nodded sternly. “Sentinel has approved it. He was the one who found out that the scanner was in play.”
“Now or never then,” said Ellard bluntly. “Because when that tracer goes hot...”
“Which it will, whatever happens, sometime in the next few hours! Even if just to ping its location on its current protocol,” Greere interrupted forcefully. “Got any better suggestions?”
“No, sir,” Ellard stood up and walked round to his terminal.
Greere pressed ‘send’ and watched as the message encrypted itself and sent. “What do you reckon to their chances?”
Ellard scrunched up his face. “F*ck knows,” he said. “They might get the targets, but I’m wondering if this geezer is part of some larger local force?” Ellard prodded at the photo showing on his display. “Because, if he is, all hell’s likely to break loose.”
Greere watched him carefully. “Do you care?” he asked.
“Not really,” said Ellard. “I’m surprised they made it out of Hungary.”
“Then don’t waste time,” Greere said sharply. “It’s out of our hands now. Get the satellite signal uploaded.”
~~~~~
Herat
Jack has taken over on the rooftop and is watching the house although, to my knowledge, no-one has been or gone from it since Nagpal went inside. Jack had looked tense when he’d arrived, creeping up alongside me, under my camouflage sheet. “The mission is on,” he’d said quietly. “Brought forward. We are to move as soon as we can.”
“Reason?” I’d asked simply.
“Ace says that there’s a significant threat to the bug. We need to deal with the targets here, while we know where they are.”
“After dark?” I guessed.
He’d nodded. “Yep, get yourself kitted up, and pack your camouflage gear in your rucksack.” I’d noticed his old carrier bag was bulging, presumably with his own. “We’ll make sure we’ve got them on, over these civvy clothes, before we move.”
Now I’m squashed into the back of the Toyota, rolling the aforementioned trousers and battle jacket, and thrusting them into the backpack on top of Vengeance. It’s probably pointless having the bow in my bag, but it feels reassuring somehow. Folded down as it is, it would take me a few moments to re-rig it. Hardly handy in a tight corner. Especially given that I’ve only managed to smuggle two arrows with me from Lesvos – a couple of my favourite mechanised tipped ones. They’re nestling in the two tubular steel pipes of the bag’s frame.
Pistol, silencer, spare magazines... I eye the rifles, but conclude there isn’t much point me trying to lug one along, especially as I need to get back to the rooftop in daylight. Nope. I have what I have, and it will have to do.
I squat, and press myself up against the low roof, so I can pull the bench seat back into place.
~~~~~
Less than four hundred metres away, Gulyar bin Imraan poured himself another shot glass of illicit Jack Daniels whisky, and examined the amber liquid against the rouge-tinted evening sunlight that was pouring through the windows. Around him were scattered a few of his many luxuries: heavy carpets sprawled over the floors, fine furniture, a polished oak table on which he carefully placed the bottle, comfortable chairs, including the one in which he now reclined, large glazed and clean windows, a door which both fitted properly and locked. It was all so much better than the hovel he had so graciously loaned to Nagpal. Well, it was only right. To the victor the spoils.
Nagpal would be grateful, whatever conditions he had to tolerate, and if he started to make trouble then he could easily be dealt with, or sold to the military again. Gulyar smiled as he remembered how much money his friend had already earned for him and, if by some chance, the man managed to succeed in his ridiculous ambition to forge his own nation state, then Gulyar would not only call in his many debts but also knew he’d have the perfect base for his ongoing operations. An unlikely outcome, perhaps, but more than worth him maintaining some semblance of support for the man.
There was a polite knock on the door.
“Come,” he said.
The door swung smoothly open and his personal bodyguard, a monster of a man, stepped inside and bowed his head respectfully. “There is a child here,” the man reported. “Says he has a message for you.”
Gulyar sat himself up, feeling irritated by the interruption, placed his glass next to the bottle and covered both with an ornately decorated box. Spirits remained frowned upon in Afghanistan, especially those that had been secured from the infidels. Best to keep them out of sight. “Send the boy in,” he said. “And stay there.”
The guard nodded and gestured outside.
A small, skinny child of about ten years appeared in the door frame and nervously approached. The child’s eyes widened as they scanned the opulent interior. His clothes and skin were caked in dusty dirt.
“You need to wash, youngster,” grumbled Gulyar. “If you ever dream to find richness like this,” he swept one hand around him, “you must present yourself with pride and not as a beggar.”
The child paused several feet away, nervous to come any closer, and nodded furiously in response to this sage advice. The mighty Bin Imraan was well known for his wisdom.
“You have a message for me,” said Gulyar.
The child jabbered at breakneck speed through his carefully memorised script.
Gulyar smiled and shook his head. “And now again, slowly, so I can hear you.”
The child looked mortified, but he repeated the message more slowly.
“Do you know who said this?” asked Gulyar, frowning.
The child shook his head. “A stranger,” he replied.
“You can go,” Gulyar instructed, knowing he would glean little else from the boy. “Give the child something,” he called to his guard.
The bodyguard waved a twenty Afghani note in the air, which the child snatched from his grasp, as he hurtled out through the door trailing a thin cloud of dust motes in his wake.
“What do you make of that?” Gulyar asked his trusted escort.
The bodyguard shrugged, “Not much to go on. I heard that a couple of strangers were spotted wandering around yesterday. Maybe something is happening?”
Gulyar nodded, “Stay alert. Put the word around. The priority is to make sure our ‘goods’ stay safe. Double the guards on the store houses.”
“And the squatters?”
Gulyar glanced across as he recovered his drink from under the ornate box, he knew the other men did not hold Nagpal and Ebrahimi in high regard. “They can look after themselves,” he replied.
~~~~~
Night fell across the city like a huge sable drape had been thrown over it. One moment everything was a patchwork of browns, reds, blues and greens, the next there was nothing but grey or pitch black. Off to the right, the city centre lay faintly glowing under its street lighting. Out here, on the outskirts, there was nothing more substantial than a scattering of random bulb-lit windows to lighten the labyrinth.
On the rooftop, Jack and Nick were huddled beneath one of the camouflage sheets. Nick was holding a small torch, shielding it with one hand to prevent the glow from shining out too brightly. Jack was drawing with a stick on the dusty rooftop.
“So the building probably looks something like this,” he whispered, scratching a couple of rectangles. “Upstairs is a single room.”
“Yep,” said Nick. “It looked like there were more windows at the back.”
“Downstairs may well be subdivided but, given the general simplicity of the architecture, is unlikely to be a complex layout. There must be a staircase leading upward or, worst case, a simple ladder.
“There are two exits,” he continued. “Front and back. The back one leads to a shared courtyard. The only way in and out is through one of the surrounding houses. We need to cover both, so I’ll make my way to there.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Not sure yet. I may have to climb down from the roofs, but I’ll scout the houses first.” He rubbed one hand through the dust to erase his diagrams, and then redrew the street. “This is the house front.” He prodded the picture. “There’s a small alcove here, where you can wait until I’m in position.” He pointed to a place on the opposite side and a little further along the road from the house. “It should provide sufficient cover for you to stay completely concealed. Be weapons-ready throughout. If they come out and try to make a run for it, just shoot them as they leave the door, and withdraw immediately to the car. I’ll verify the hits and join you – then we scram. If I’m more than ten minutes after you, or if I instruct you to, or if you’re threatened in any way, you are to leave.” He looked across, eyes set hard. “No arguments.”
Nick nodded.
“Assuming they stay put, we’ll go in together, from both doorways.”
“Don’t shoot me,” said Nick.
Jack shook his head and sighed. “I’ll try not to,” he said calmly. “Though the temptation is ever present.” Nick made to reach over and thump him on the shoulder, but Jack grabbed the incoming fist in his hand. “Be careful in there,” he whispered tensely, still gripping his partner’s knuckles. “We take no chances. If we see a body – wherever – shoot it. No questions. No interrogations. The minute we start shooting they’ll start to react. If at all possible we need to take them at the same time. Upstairs. While they’re asleep.”
“Not a fair fight,” rumbled Nick.
Jack grimaced. “No,” he agreed. “Not fair.”
~~~~~
London
Ellard stood and stretched on his side of the partition. “Satellite’s about thirty minutes away,” he said, and sat down again.
Greere pulled various windows, displaying feeds from a raft of comms system sniffers, up onto his monitors. “Check the tracer responds, then join me monitoring for chatter,” he said calmly.
~~~~~
Herat
One by one the surrounding windows have darkened, noises have faded to silence and now there is almost nothing. Nothing except our mission. Nothing except closure.
I think about a grey morning in London, our final happy conversations on the train, and Lizzie laughing in her buggy when a random pigeon fluttered past her as we crossed the crammed concourse. I think about the worm, Omid, in his fiery chair. I think about Sikand kissing his bloody motorbike tank.
The epicentre of this dreadful tsunami lies in peaceful ignorance a few scant metres from me.
Time to close this final gap.
Time to finish this.
“Thirty minutes. Let’s go,” Jack whispers, and rises, swiftly folding the camouflaged sheet and tucking it under a nearby stone. He raises his face to me – his green eyes shining bright, from amongst charcoal-blackened skin, topped with a black beanie hat pulled tight onto his head – and smiles, and nods his head confidently.
This is it.
I lift my almost empty pack onto my shoulders, and follow his shadowy form along the empty rooftops.
~~~~~
Beneath Sergei’s skin, the tracer counted down to itself.
Three hundred and eighty-four.
Three hundred and eighty-three.
Three hundred and eighty-two.
~~~~~
Nagpal stirred. He was not sleeping well tonight.
He had a bad feeling...
That bastard Ebrahimi was a liability. He knew it. He just couldn’t prove it.
The boy was lying there, somewhere across from him in the darkness, snoring like a baby whilst he tossed and turned...
~~~~~
Jack crept quietly into one of the surrounding houses. He could see right through the building to the courtyard he needed to get to. His luck was in again: both the front and back doors of this house had been standing wide open. He was pleased. He hadn’t fancied trying to shimmy silently down crumbling masonry.
Moving in absolute silence, like a mottled grey wraith, he moved one foot at a time into the shadowy interior. In front of him, a wide treaded ladder led to the upper floor. The occupants must be up there, asleep.
Half way...
~~~~~
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The tracer activated.
“&&[[[\\+==]]]**962727-GJhyG-888-805674895-GW,” it whispered into the night.
~~~~~
The scanner downstairs squawked once, angrily.
It was still lying, open on the table where Nagpal had left it.
He sat up in his bedroll and peered over the line of packing crates. There was a dull red glow from the gap above the stairs.
Ebrahimi lay as a dark bundle in the corner, and continued to snore ignorantly.
~~~~~
The sudden bleep from my PDA makes me jump. The tracer isn’t supposed to start sending for another few minutes. I scrabble to mute it.
~~~~~
Jack froze.
He was about five metres from the back door.
‘F*cking, shit, idiot, wanker!’ he thought angrily to himself, whilst straining hard to listen in the surrounding silence. ‘I should have f*cking muted the PDAs!’
Rustling sounds started upstairs.
‘Don’t bleep again,’ he prayed silently. ‘Please don’t bleep again...’
~~~~~
Nagpal rose quickly and, dressed only in his night shirt, crept down through the darkness to the machine.
A new red dot showed on the screen.
Nagpal picked up the box and moved around the room until the red dot was centred. He was in a corner.
The corner was empty.
~~~~~