by Chris Ryan
‘Target secure!’ he spoke into his comms. ‘Target secure! We’ve got the device and we’ve got Khan. Send in the choppers to extract!’
And then he looked down at Khan.
The man was gazing up at him. There appeared to be a flicker of a smile on his lips, like he was too crazy to know what was happening. It was too much for Jack. Rage took hold of him. He dropped his MP5 on the ground, and started to pummel Khan’s face with his fist until the bastard’s nose was broken and his features were mashed and bloody.
And even then the fucker wouldn’t stop smiling.
He grabbed him by the throat. ‘You’re going to tell me where the girl is,’ he hissed. ‘Now.’
Khan did nothing but smile, so Jack squeezed at his jugular.
‘The girl,’ Khan croaked, ‘is not important.’
‘She’s important to me. You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where she is.’
Khan stared at him. There was something calculating behind his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Go and find her. Kane Road, Tottenham. House number sixty-seven. In the basement.’
Jack immediately spoke into his radio, repeating the address. ‘Tell Carver,’ he instructed. ‘Tell him to send a team in now . . .’
He turned his attention back to Khan, but found he couldn’t look at his face any more, so he turned him on to his front and Plasticuffed his hands behind his back. ‘If you’re lying to me, Khan, I swear to God you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
‘I think,’ Khan replied, ‘that is most unlikely.’
Jack paused, his eyes boring into the back of Khan’s head. The man sounded like he knew something. He stood up and put a boot on his neck, then looked around. The inside of the boat was strangely still.
Strangely calm.
It was over. They’d captured Khan. They’d captured the device. London was safe. A team was on its way to get his daughter.
Why, then, did Jack feel that something wasn’t quite right?
Thames House operations room. ‘Target acquired, target acquired. The dive team have Khan. The device is secured. Bomb disposal on their way.’
A cheer went up. High fives from the technicians. David Colley’s voice above the hubbub: ‘Keep your minds on the job, damn it. Keep your minds on the job!’
But nothing he said could dispel the atmosphere of relief that had suddenly descended on the room.
It took about two minutes before one of the Agustas was hovering over the boat. Jack pulled the Plasticuffed Khan by the scruff of his neck, then forced him out of the cabin and on to the deck. The dirty water of the Thames sprayed over them in the wake of the chopper’s downdraught; Khan faced the spray with his eyes open.
A rope tumbled from the Agusta. At the end of it were two blue harnesses with metal links. Khan didn’t even put up a fight as Jack strapped him into one of them; and as the loadie in the chopper winched them both up, his body remained limp and submissive.
As soon as they were in the body of the chopper, Jack unclipped them both, then looked out to check that everything else was happening as it should. The second Agusta was getting into position to winch up the boat’s skipper; and he saw three RIBs cutting their way through the Thames towards the vessel – bomb disposal guys, no doubt, there to work their magic with the device.
He turned his attention back to Khan, put one hand on his shoulder, then kicked him in the right knee so that he collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane. The Agusta veered off to the right. Jack didn’t know what their destination was: a facility somewhere, he supposed, where Khan could be questioned. No good cop, bad cop routine for him. It would be bad cop all the way, and Jack hoped he’d get the chance to ask a few questions of his own.
Fly was on board. Apart from him, just the pilot. Jack’s colleague gave him a look. ‘Easy, Jack. He’s not going anywhere. They’ll want him in one piece when he lands.’
Jack barely heard him. He knelt down where Khan was lying, grabbed his hair and whispered into his ear. ‘It’s over, Khan. You’re fucked.’
And again, a smile played around Khan’s lips. ‘It is not over, Jack Harker,’ he whispered. ‘It has only just begun.’
‘What’s he saying, Jack?’ Fly shouted over the noise of the aircraft.
Jack held up one hand. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.
Khan just smiled again, a smile that filled Jack with such fury that he unclipped his MP5, then pulled Khan to his feet and hauled him to the still-open door of the Agusta. Jack pushed him so that he was teetering on the brink of the helicopter, then placed the MP5 against the back of his head. ‘The safety’s off and it’s fully loaded,’ he roared as the river snaked beneath them. ‘Tell me what you’re talking about!’
‘Go ahead and shoot me!’ Khan yelled above the wind. ‘It is all you can do, and I woke up this morning expecting to die!’
Jack felt his finger twitching. He wanted the satisfaction of feeling the rounds pump into the fucker’s body; of seeing him fall dead into the river below. But something stopped him. He pulled Khan back again, then whacked his weapon against the man’s face. A satisfying crack of breaking bone; a flash of blood; Khan fell to the floor once more. Jack could sense that Fly was unsure whether to restrain him or not; but for now, his fellow soldier was giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Khan’s blood was flowing freely, but still he seemed unmoved. ‘Without your gun,’ he smirked, ‘you are nothing.’
Jack felt fire in his veins. He beat Khan’s head once more with the metal of his MP5. More blood. This time, Khan’s eyes remained closed and he took a deep breath, as though absorbing the pain. Finally he spoke again. Jack had to strain his ears to hear him. ‘Without your gun,’ he repeated, ‘you are nothing.’ Another deep breath. ‘A long time ago, my grandfather taught me something. It is with your weapon that you win the battle, he said, but with your mind that you win the war.’
Jack stared at him. Khan’s words seemed to glow like coals in the air, and his smirk grew wider.
‘What did you say?’
‘You think that with your weapons you can do anything, but you do not use your minds,’ Khan hissed.
Jack continued to stare.
The fire in his veins had turned to ice.
Khan’s words had taken him back. It was only days previously, but it seemed like a lifetime. He was imprisoned in a dark room, having been captured in the heart of enemy territory in Afghanistan. A man was talking to him. He stank of greasy sweat, wore desert camo. And he was missing a finger on one hand. In his mind, Jack could see him as clearly as he could see Habib Khan in front of him. And he could hear his voice, too.
When I was very small, my grandfather told me something. I have never forgotten it. It is with your weapons that you win the battle, but with your mind that you win the war. And that is why this war, for you, is already lost.
Farzad Haq’s words echoed in his mind as the helicopter swerved again. Jack looked in horror at Khan. At the smile of satisfaction that remained on his head even though the blood continued to drench it.
And then he was elsewhere. The ops centre in Bastion. That goon Willoughby showing off his intel.
When the Iraqis invaded Iran later that year, Haq’s younger brother was killed by Saddam’s forces . . . he’s obsessed with our American cousins. Blames them for supporting the Iraqi regime that killed his brother. There’s a videotape somewhere in the archives of him promising to eliminate any American he comes across, just like they killed Adel.
Adel . . .
A long time ago, my grandfather taught me something . . .
Farzad Haq’s younger brother wasn’t dead at all. He was very much alive. And he was lying on the floor of the Agusta as it continued to speed through London airspace.
Jack looked at him.
‘Your name is Adel.’ It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.
Khan’s eyes opened. He blinked rapidly because of the blood flowing over his brow. ‘You’re too lat
e,’ he hissed.
But Jack’s mind was racing ahead. Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had been floating around in his head suddenly started dropping into place.
O’Callaghan’s importation line. The old man had admitted, just before Jack dealt with him, that Khan had sent a number of packages into the country that weren’t related to the O’Callaghan drugs operation.
Boxes. I don’t know what they are. Nothing to do with me. I just see that they get shipped where he wants them.
Jack was hitting the Taliban stronghold in Afghanistan, fast-roping into the compound where Haq had held him captive. But he hadn’t been after Haq himself. He’d been after something else.
‘The Stingers . . .’
A look of triumph in Khan’s eyes.
‘Jack!’ Fly shouted. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Jack’s brow was furrowed. A final memory shunted through his brain. He was in a helicopter. Not an Agusta, this time, but a Black Hawk. It was making a fast extraction, away from the kill zone in the Helmand desert, north above the cliff that was home to the cave system they’d just hit.
But on top of the cliff there were enemy.
Waiting for them.
Lying in ambush.
Ready to bring the chopper down.
These were Haq’s tactics. This was the way he fought his wars. And he was doing it again.
Now.
Time slowed down.
Jack pushed himself up on his feet. He turned to face the front of the chopper. The pilot was wearing a helmet and headphones. Jack switched his radio on. He didn’t know who was listening in, but he shouted anyway.
‘TURN THE CHOPPER ROUND!’ he yelled at the top of his voice, feeling his throat rip as he did so. ‘IT’S AN AMBUSH. IT’S A FUCKING AMBUSH! TURN THE CHOPPER ROUND! THEY’RE ABOUT TO TAKE OUT THE PRESIDENT!’
29
It was not in Farzad Haq’s nature to smile often. But he did so now, like his brother – a brief flicker as he gazed upwards.
There were few people enjoying the evening air in Hillingdon Park – just a couple of dog walkers and, loitering around a litter-strewn bandstand about 200 metres from where he was standing, some youths smoking cigarettes, or more likely something stronger.
Haq himself was standing next to a battered white van that was parked just by an old cricket pavilion. The numbers on the scoreboard were faded; some of them hung at an angle by only a single hinge. There was obscene graffiti on the wall. It was clear that nobody had used this pavilion for months, perhaps even years. Which was why it had proved to be the perfect hiding place for the missiles once they had completed their long journey from Helmand to the southern tip of Ireland and into the UK. Adel had set things up well. Very well. Farzad felt a sense of pride in his younger brother.
How pleased, he thought to himself, Grandfather would have been.
The sky opened up above him. A vast, clear expanse. Here, on the perimeter of RAF Northolt, one would not usually have to wait long to see an aircraft. But today, the British and the Americans had cleared the skies. It was predictable of them. Foolish. But Haq wasn’t going to complain about that. Especially now that he saw, in the distance, three dots approaching in the sky.
‘It is time!’ he shouted.
Two other men appeared from inside the pavilion. They were young, but had the serious expressions of older men. And they carried their weapons with them.
The Stinger systems were bulky, but light. A thick tube, a little over a metre and a half long, with a sight mounted on the top and the firing mechanics underneath. They were already loaded. One of the men handed his weapon to Farzad Haq, before returning indoors and appearing with the third.
All three of them now looked into the sky.
The three dots were coming gradually closer, swapping positions as they approached like dancing birds.
Farzad felt an unfamiliar pang of regret. He wished Adel could be here to witness the fruition of their carefully laid plan. But that couldn’t be. For him, there would have been only two possible outcomes. Either he had managed to detonate his chemical weapon and was even now enjoying the embrace of God while the radiation spread around the centre of London, infecting its infidel citizens and causing the President’s helicopters to use their well-documented operating procedures and evacuate their way into Farzad’s trap. Or, he had been discovered and the Americans, in their cowardice, had evacuated the President anyway. Whichever of the two outcomes had materialised, the Americans would have had only one option: to airlift the President to where Air Force One was waiting. And Adel had known, from his meeting with the foolish American ambassador, that it was waiting at Northolt.
The plan had been simple in its conception but complicated in its execution. The three birds dotting their way towards him, however, meant they had succeeded.
Haq raised the viewfinder to his eye and the others did the same. Three minutes, he estimated. Three minutes and it would all be over.
A voice. ‘What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?’
Haq lowered the Stinger system. A man had approached. He was old, maybe seventy, with a small dog on a lead and a sturdy walking stick in the other hand. His wrinkled face was angry. Haq put the weapon on the ground, then plunged his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a handgun. The old man’s eyes widened and he took a step backwards. Haq didn’t hesitate for a moment. A single shot, aimed precisely at the man’s forehead. The top half of his head blew away, rendering him unrecognisable, and the force of the round flung him to the floor. The little dog started to whimper and paw at his dead master; almost as an afterthought, Haq dispatched the animal too.
The youths at the bandstand ran away as Haq raised the Stinger system once more. He wasn’t worried about the police – they wouldn’t be here in time. Marine One and its two decoys came into view on the high-powered scope. Which was which, Farzad couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter. Three helicopters. Three Stingers.
The President was coming.
The world was about to change.
‘On my instruction, lock on to the aircraft as we arranged,’ he said.
The helicopters continued to approach.
The noise in Jack’s earpiece was a riot of confusion. ‘Turn the President round!’ he yelled. ‘Turn him round!’
‘Negative,’ a voice crackled in his ear. ‘Secret Service are evacuating him.’
Jack cursed. ‘Then turn us round! Get us into Marine One’s airspace!’
A pause. Then . . .
‘No can do, Jack. It’s a no-fly zone for anyone except—’
Jack had stopped listening. He bustled to the front of the chopper. ‘Northolt!’ he yelled. ‘Fly to Northolt!’
The chopper swerved, following Jack’s instruction. As it did so, the pilot’s voice came over the comms. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Jack was crazed. Confused. Without even thinking, he pressed his MP5 against the pilot’s helmet. ‘Northolt!’ he screamed.
‘Jesus, Jack!’ Fly shouted. ‘He’s doing what you wanted!’
Jack moved his weapon round to point at Fly, who had already started to raise his own MP5. ‘Don’t fucking move, Fly,’ he shouted. ‘I mean it. Don’t fucking move.’
Fly lowered his gun. He licked his dry lips slightly, obviously about to say something. To talk the sense into Jack that he so obviously needed.
He never got the chance.
Habib Khan didn’t care that Jack had a submachine gun in his fist. He had already pushed himself up and was even now preparing to launch himself at his captor. Jack opened his mouth to warn him off, but Khan’s body slammed against his. What the man was trying to achieve, Jack didn’t know. His puny, Plasticuffed frame was never going to be up to the task of fighting him. Jack swatted him away and Khan fell by the open doorway before pushing himself up on his feet again and, with a wild, insane look on his bloodied face, taking another step inwards.
It was almost a reflex action that caused Jack to shoot him; a
nd although it all happened with sudden, brutal speed, every millisecond seemed long and drawn out. The burst of fire from his gun slammed directly into Khan’s body. A sudden explosion of red burst from the cavity of his chest, and the force of the ammunition knocked him backwards.
Khan staggered, buffeted by the wind and the movement of the chopper. He teetered on the brink of the doorway.
And then he fell into the almost darkness, slipping silently from Jack’s sight and plunging to the ground below.
Jack didn’t even have time to be pleased that he was dead. Just as Khan disappeared, he felt Fly’s weapon pressed against his neck. ‘Get on the fucking floor, Jack. Now. I mean it. You’re out of control . . .’
‘The President!’ Jack roared. ‘They’re targeting the Pre—’
He didn’t finish, because Fly used all his strength to press him to the ground. Jack was sideways on, looking out of the chopper door, a boot on his back and an MP5 pointed at his head.
The chopper swerved, back on to its previous bearing.
‘You’ve got to believe me!’ he shouted over the thunder of the helicopter. ‘You’ve got to believe me!’
And then he fell silent. Because in the distance he saw a sight that made it feel like all the blood had drained from his body.
It didn’t last long. Not long at all. A brief flash, exploding in the evening sky with a sudden orange glow.
‘Jesus!’ Fly shouted. ‘What the fuck was that?’
Jack didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He just watched as the glow faded as quickly as it had come, back into nothingness.
The birds had continued to dance, but now they were settling as they started to lose height on their descent into RAF Northolt. They were close, and Farzad Haq had all his attention on the westernmost helicopter. He trusted that his two accomplices would each have locked on to the others. They had their instructions and they were scared of him. Fear was a great motivator. ‘Activate the weapons!’ he instructed in his harshly accented English.
He pushed the activation lever on his own weapon forward. A click, and then a spinning noise as the weapon warmed up.