Читать книгу: «State Of Honour»

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

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Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

Hindu Kush. North-west Pakistan.

The shoot-to-kill order came through at zero one fifteen, relayed over a satellite radio. It’d been just three hours since the two-man reconnaissance team had reported the sighting.

They lay in a shallow dugout on a windblown ridge, the leeward slope falling away steeply to an impassable boulder field. A desert-issue tarp all but covered the hole, protected from view on the flanks by thorny scrub. Shivering, they blew into their bunched trigger-finger mitts. The daytime temperature had dropped twenty degrees or more, and fine sleet was melting on their blackened faces.

Darren Proctor extended the folded stock of his L115A3 sniper rifle. He split the legs of the swivel bi-pod and aligned the swivel cheek piece with the all-weather scope. Flipping open the lens cap, he glassed the terrain cast a muted green by the night vision. The tree line was sparse, a smattering of pines and cedars shuddering in the biting wind. Glimpsing movement on a scree slope fifty metres or so beyond, he focused in. The eyes of a striped hyena shone like glow sticks. He watched as the scavenger ripped at the carcass of an ibex or wild sheep. A second later it sniffed the air, ears pricked, and scampered off.

Too late, you’re dead, he thought.

Lowering the stock onto a wrapped poncho liner, he glanced to his left. “You see anything, Mike?”

“Nothing apart from that weird-looking dog,” Mike Rowe replied, his eyes fixed to a LION, a lightweight infrared observation night-sight. “This place goes into lockdown after dark.”

He’d served alongside Proctor in Iraq and Helmand Province; elsewhere, too. But their presence here, a few miles east of the Af-Pak border, was illegal. The drone strikes had ceased three months ago in response to the spike in civilian casualties, and the withdrawal of all but advisory ISAF personnel in neighbouring Afghanistan had been implemented as planned. With the West resorting increasingly to using private military contractors for black ops in the region, they now earned ten times what they had as regular British soldiers. If they died in the process, the politicians wouldn’t get flak from the media, or have to answer difficult letters from grieving parents. They were deemed to be expendable shadows, and they knew it.

Proctor shook his head. “It’s a hyena, genius.”

“Whatever. Fucking thing looks like it crawled up from hell. Even uglier than you, and that’s not easy,” Mike replied, snickering.

“Thanks, mate.”

They’d grown wiry beards and wore local tribal dress beneath their ghillie suits: baggy pants, long cotton shirts and sheepskin vests. Otherwise, the two men were physical opposites. While Proctor was six-two with a clean-shaven head and bull-like shoulders, Mike was five-six and bony, his matted brown hair reaching past the nape.

Mike placed the LION onto a kitbag, took off his camouflage helmet and picked up a Gerber tool. Using the small blade, he began to strip the bark from a twig, clearly bored.

They’d been on an unrelated mission, shadowing a small group of Haqqani network fighters suspected of the murder of a US diplomat in Islamabad. Once that operation had been aborted, they’d maintained their position high up in the foothills. The target was a priority. But they’d agreed that it could take days before he showed again.

Proctor grasped the bolt-action rifle once more, his eye glued to the scope, scanning.

The target – a phlegmatic Muslim cleric called Mullah Kakar – was hiding out in a cave complex a mile away. The area was riddled with them, used for decades as bombproof bolt holes. Earlier, they’d seen frail plumes of light-grey smoke curling over the craggy overhang above the mouth. Now there was nothing. If he’d been alone, they’d said they’d have risked an assault. But he was protected by four Afghan bodyguards and hadn’t come out since they’d spotted him. When he did, they’d decided to take out everyone, using fragmentation grenades, if necessary. They had to authenticate the kill. That meant close-up digital photographs, and mouth swabs and blood samples for DNA. With a seven-figure reward on the mullah’s otherwise elusive head, Mike had commented that this was going to be the last time he slept in the open.

“You want a brew?” he said.

Proctor put an open hand to his ear. Freeze and listen. He chambered one of the five rounds and flicked off the safety.

“Ninety metres at three o’clock. Rocky outcrop,” he whispered, aiming the seven kilograms, long-range weapon.

Mike snatched up the LION. “Terry?” he asked quietly, army slang for Taliban.

Proctor raised his open-palmed left hand across his chest and pointed to the right. Move there.

Mike slipped the LION into a cargo pocket, picked up a suppressed Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle fitted with a thermal imaging sight, and eased himself out of the hole. Proctor followed him with his night-scope. The body moved in a low crawl, inching diagonally towards a cluster of stunted bushes; a vantage point from which he could spy behind the mass of jagged rock. Proctor lay perfectly still, controlling his breathing. He should have had his scope trained on the outcrop, making sure Mike wasn’t in danger. But he’d lied to him. When he was some ten metres away, Proctor fixed the illuminated mil-dot reticle onto the back of Mike’s bare head. At this range, the 8.59mm round would pulverize the skull.

“Sorry, Mike,” he whispered.

He placed the ball of his forefinger on the trigger as he prepared to squeeze. A second later there was a muffled discharge, the noise and flash minimized by the fixed suppressor. Mike’s body bucked as if he’d been Tasered, a thick spray of blood erupting from his head. He didn’t move again.

Proctor removed his camo suit and put on a pakol, a woollen round-topped hat. Crouching, he sent an encrypted distress message to a Special Forces signaller in Kabul. Decoded it read: Target down. Spotter down. Situation critical.

Once sent, he wrapped up the tarp and shut down the portable SATCOM, GPS and VHF radio. Using a short-handled shovel, he hacked at the plastic and metal until he was sure the systems were inoperable, and shoved them into two canvas kitbags. He scooped them up and began filling in the hole with the relatively loose earth they’d dug out earlier. When he’d finished, he shouldered his rifle and walked slowly to the corpse. Kneeling down, he removed Mike’s two-way radio, sidearm, and wristwatch. He thought about his friend’s four kids, and his wife, Debra. Then, pushing aside the HK, he zoned out.

He spent the next half an hour digging a grave. After heaving the body in, he covered it with stiff clods of soil. That done, the equipment and gear had to vanish, too. He trudged along the ridge to a remote crevice, just wide enough to swallow the bags, and flung in all trace of their existence. Exhausted, he crouched down and lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo, telling himself that he’d earned it. He glanced up. The sleet had turned to snow. Trembling, he inhaled the smoke deeply, felt the frigid wind slice to his bones. The overcast skies rendered high-altitude recon drones useless, and it could be hours before a rescue team could be put together. He had time to spare.

A few minutes later, he zigzagged down the windward slope, using the metre-long rifle to steady him. Below, the land was farmed in terraced plots. He’d seen the hamlet on the drone feeds, the timber houses stacked one above the other. But Mike had been right. The place went into lockdown at night.

Reaching flat ground, he walked to the bank of the turbulent river, the rapids exploding like geysers against domes of smooth rock. It was warmer in the valley floor and the wind had dropped to a cool breeze. He bent down, cleansed his hands of bloodstains and cupped the icy water onto his face. Lighting another cigarette, he heard the vehicle before he saw it. Braced himself. As it pulled into the hamlet along a mud track peppered with potholes, the lights were killed. He made out a red Toyota pickup truck with five men hugging AK-47s sitting in the rear. It stopped a couple of metres from him. He let the cigarette fall from his fingers, stubbed it out with his boot.

A man opened the passenger door and strolled over. He wore shabby sneakers and a dark-green flak jacket. His face was pitted, the grey beard extravagant. Proctor thought he looked older than the photograph of him he had hidden in his pocket. Being a fugitive doesn’t suit him, he concluded.

They shook hands.

“Asalaam Alaykum,” Proctor said. Peace be upon you.

“Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam,” Mullah Kakar replied. And peace be upon you also. He looked up at the surrounding foothills, as if he were recalling time spent here. “Are we officially dead?”

Proctor nodded.

“Then get in. We ghosts have much work to do.”

“Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.”

William Shakespeare, Richard II

1.

Islamabad was a city that reeked of fear. Martial law had been imposed by the Pakistani generals, and terrorist attacks were escalating. As a result, the US Embassy compound in the Diplomatic Enclave resembled a modern supermax, ringed as it was by security bollards, floodlights, high-definition surveillance cameras, blast walls and heavy fencing. To add to the deterrent, three Marine rifle companies guarded it in rotation day and night.

Halfway down one of its tiled corridors, two men stood either side of a soundproof, brass-inlaid door, their tailored suits masking holstered SIG Sauer P229 handguns. On the other side of the door, the US Secretary of State, the forty-three-year-old Linda Carlyle, worked alone in a windowless office.

“I heard the generals ordered all women to wear the hijab,” Steve Coombs said, running his hand through his receding sandy hair, his broad back nestling against the wall. “It’ll be the burqa next. My eldest, Cathy, is studying law at Yale. Beats the hell outta me.”

“Me too,” the younger man replied.

His name was Tom Dupree. He’d spent twelve years overseas guarding embassy staff. After another three in the office of investigations and counterintelligence, he’d reached a career summit for a special agent in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security: head of the secretary’s protective detail. It had been his time. The scars on his body – a two-inch knife slash on his bicep and a chest seared by mortar shrapnel – were testament to his dedication. But now his time leading the protective detail was almost over.

“So you’ll be stuck in DC, huh, Tom?” Steve said, picking sleep from his eye.

“Yeah. Chief nursemaid to the good, the bad and the ugly.”

“Foreign dignitary detail ain’t so bad. At least you’ll get to snuggle down in your own bed some. When you gonna get yourself a little lady to share it with?”

“Who says I don’t?” Tom said, adjusting his stance.

Truth was, Tom hadn’t had a girlfriend in over a year. Not since Carrie, an analyst in the DS’s passport and visa fraud division, had told him she couldn’t deal with dating a man she saw less than her dentist.

“’Bout time you became a one-woman man, you ask me,” Steve said, his tone preachy.

Knowing his friend was a Catholic, who’d been married since his nineteenth birthday, Tom chose to ignore the comment. He checked the time on his wristwatch: 08:36. They would be on the move soon, but he was dreading it.

“It’ll get hotter than a habanero chilli out there,” Steve said, yawning. “I sure hope that kids’ hospital got AC.”

“The kids’ hospital is a bad idea,” Tom replied, his brow furrowing.

“So why don’t Lyric drop the line-up?” he said, using the DS’s pro-word for the secretary.

“A photo op. Who knows? But it’s making me twitchy as hell, I know that much.”

The advance detail had carried out a security profile on the location of the kids’ hospital, which was basically a threat and risk assessment: what could happen and the likelihood that it would. It was a dynamic process, and the additions Tom had made since arriving a few days before had been some of the most comprehensive he’d produced in his career. But after distributing the operational orders to his team, he’d realized that half of the countermeasures that would be required if security was compromised would be down to the host Pakistanis.

“Paranoia keeps you sharp. Don’t forget that, Tom.”

“Yeah. Paranoia till stateside.”

It was the most important mindset DS special agents were taught. If any place made it a healthy disposition, it was Islamabad, Tom thought. The city attracted violence as Palm Springs attracted pensioners. He was constantly briefed on hot spots, and this one had been at the top of the list for months. But apart from his six-strong protective detail, there were eight back-up agents in the tactical support team. Part of the Mobile Security Deployment, or MSD, they travelled in armour-plated SUVs, and carried Colt 9mm sub-machine guns and Remington 870 pump-action shotguns. The drivers were experts in defensive and evasive techniques. They’d studied satellite imagery of the surrounding road network, so, if they had to evacuate the secretary at speed, they knew alternative routes back to the safety of the embassy, or the nearest hospital or police station. Still, Tom knew a hundred things could go wrong. Compromises had been made. A fleet of up-armoured Humvees shadowed by a squadron of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters would have been the ideal way to travel, but he knew that was as likely as Steve turning into the laconic type.

“A perfect record and only a week to go. It had to be here, huh.”

“That’s real helpful, Steve,” Tom said, unbuttoning his charcoal-grey suit jacket.

But he’s right, he thought. Back home, the advance detail would have been thorough. Local extremists and publicity-seeking whackos monitored. Pipe-inspection cameras poked into every cranny. Storm drains checked for explosives. The dumpsters removed. Manhole covers bolted, the public trash cans sealed. Then, on the day of her visit, scores of local P.D. would’ve been on the periphery and tried and tested counter snipers on the roofs. All vantage points covered. Discarded bottles and lumps of loose concrete removed within an appropriate radius. The Belgian Malinois bomb sniffers would’ve swept every inch.

“Corridor duty is as boring as those TV reality shows, ain’t it, Tom?” Steve said.

“Can’t argue with that.”

Tom watched Steve weaving his head in what appeared to be a figure of eight. “The hell you doing?”

“My doc said it’ll help with my headaches. Relieves neck tension.”

“Didn’t know you suffered from headaches,” Tom said, a little concerned that his friend hadn’t mentioned it to him before.

“They started a couple months back. Sometimes when I wake up at night, it feels like I’m wearing a vice.”

“Get it checked out again. You got a physical coming up.”

“Sure I will, Tom.”

A couple of seconds later, Tom coughed into his fist and gestured with his eyes. But Steve’s head was still animate. A stocky man with a weather-beaten face and short silver hair had entered the corridor from an elevator twenty metres behind Steve’s back. He carried a bundle of papers in a manila folder under his arm, and walked like an ex-military type. When the man’s footsteps became audible on the tiles, Steve stood ramrod straight. As he got closer Tom recognized him, and moved over to knock on the door before opening it.

“Thank you, son,” he said. He turned to Steve, gestured towards the clear wire spiralling down from his earpiece. “That wire attached to an iPod, Agent?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s good,” he said as he disappeared inside.

Tom closed the door, worried. He wondered if he’d missed something important in terms of the assessment. But the training his team underwent continually was based on repetition, the type that created confidence and long-term muscle memory. If an attack of whatever nature happened, be it a flung bag of flour or a multiple-armed assault, they would act instinctively, almost without conscious effort.

Steve sniffed. “The paper shuffler thinks he’s a comedian.”

“He’s a deputy director of the CIA,” Tom said, “and he ain’t here to tell Lyric a joke.”