Thunder

  “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. “Fuck 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 po
sition.” 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.