Assassin (John Stratton)

by Falconer, Duncan

  She smiled ever so slightly before climbing back into the Lexus. ‘Good luck,’ she said, closing the door. She started the engine and turned the car around, before driving back the way they had come up the lane.

  Stratton stood watching until the rear lights disappeared. His head was full of the notion of these ultimate assassins. And she was right. He was curious about them, and also slightly miffed at the thought of the existence of such supermen. But she wasn’t entirely correct in her assessment of his idea of a challenge. There was enough to put him off doing the task. The bomb put it on a knife edge. This assassin stuff was more than enough to put him over the other side.

  Or perhaps not quite enough.

  He climbed into his Jeep, started it up and headed back along the lane towards the US air base.

  13

  Stratton walked down the ramp of the C-17 Globemaster transport aircraft along with a couple of US Navy SEALs. He’d called an old SEAL buddy in Virginia to ask if there were any flights into Bagram he could jump on. He was in luck. He knew he could have done the same through the Brit system but someone might have asked questions. A message could have been left for him at the SBS HQ. Any number of small things like that could have ended up with someone at the Service wondering what he was doing. The Yanks were far more laid back about that sort of thing and the old boy network worked well.

  He had spent most of the flight talking to lads from SEAL Team Two, out of Norfolk, Virginia. They had friends in common. They were on their third rotation to Afghanistan, replacing a couple of injured buddies who had been caught in a roadside mine. The injured guys had been lucky and would be back in a couple of months.

  They headed across the tarmac of Bagram Airfield towards the terminal. It was early afternoon and there was a distinct chill in the air. Stratton decided it was several degrees colder than it had been the week before. In the distance snow-capped mountains made up practically the entire surrounding panorama beyond the Shomali plains. It was dramatic. Sparse. Vast and with a feeling of isolation, despite being on a busy air base.

  He watched another C-17, painted completely black, taxi to the far side of the pan. It had no markings other than a series of numbers, unreadable from where he was without binoculars. The ramp lowered and he watched two Suburbans drive out of the belly, one behind the other, away from the terminal. Whoever they were, they were a law unto themselves.

  Stratton carried on to the terminal building. The processing was conveniently short, made simpler for him with his special forces ID pass. After he was through, he headed out into the vast camp. Bagram Air Base was a sprawling mass, nearly ten square miles of barracks, hangars, offices, dispersal areas and two giant runways, home to over a hundred different US and NATO units. But there was still space and large gaps of nothing between some of the organisations that occupied the place. Stratton was not entirely sure where he was going, other than eventually to the checkpoint nearest to Bagram Town. He had a loose plan, but to execute it he had some urgent requirements, namely clothing and transport.

  There weren’t an abundance of Afghans on the camp. Not simply because of security issues. Stratton knew the US military and the civilian contract construction companies had initially hired as many locals as they could manage – an obvious source of cheap, unskilled labour, and politically a good idea – but the numbers eventually had to be reduced because of theft. Some companies got rid of Afghans entirely because anything of value that could be stuffed inside clothing or into a vehicle without being seen would be. On a previous visit, Stratton remembered a construction engineer in the PX store complaining bitterly that his entire operation had ground to a halt because just about every single vehicle they had in their compound had had its battery stolen during the night, despite the compound being surrounded by a high fence topped with a twirl of razor wire.

  Stratton guessed Afghans would still hang around the civilian media centre. It was separated from the more sensitive parts of the base by fencing. Journalists hired Afghan drivers and translators who often stayed in the camp while their employers went on trips with the military, often for days at a time. He had been there only once before.

  It was a long walk around various perimeters, some of which had changed since his last visit. Half an hour later he saw the media building, a lone brick structure two storeys high with a flat roof, the colour of sand like most of the offices on the base. The nearest buildings to it were a line of hangars a hundred metres away. He was covered in a film of grey dust by the time he reached the location.

  He stood opposite a fenced compound of rows of military ten-man tents. The tents were used to quarter journalists, many of whom turned up in numbers for significant press conferences or visits from US officials. Much to his disappointment he could see no activity at that moment. It all looked quiet, almost deserted. He could hear a distant aircraft taxiing.

  He walked in through the door of the media building and stepped along a dusty corridor in the direction of voices he could hear. He went through a door into another corridor, glass-panelled to waist height on one side. Through it he saw a woman in BDUs head from one room to another. He didn’t want to meet any soldiers. It was of no consequence if he did: he would simply flash his ID if challenged – but questions would require answers and it could get tedious.

  He walked to the end of the corridor, to an open door into a large room with a few tables and chairs. Ragged maps were taped to walls in places. A few Army signs, clearly ignored, asking for the place to be kept clean. He guessed it was the civilian media room where journalists hung out. There was a stack of military ration boxes against one wall and a corner table with tea and coffee, and an electric kettle. A cheap tin cooker.

  He headed back outside and scanned around, focused on the only movement in front of him. The tents. They weren’t completely empty, it seemed. Three Afghan men came out of one and headed away. They were wearing long linen shirts with linen trousers underneath and thick jackets on top, and heavy scarves wrapped around their necks. He watched them head to the far end of the compound and through a gate and along the road towards some far buildings. When they were out of sight, Stratton swung his bag over his shoulder and crossed the deserted road to an open gate in the fence.

  The tents were air-conditioned as well as heated, with a wooden-framed airlock door as an entrance. He walked to the one the Afghans had just left and paused at the door to listen. All was silent. He knocked.

  There was no reply.

  He pulled open the rickety door and walked in. Another door was immediately in front of him. He pushed it open and paused to look inside. Warm air bathed him. There were a dozen beds and no sign of life. On three of the beds he saw open suitcases. Stratton moved quickly. He found a shirt big enough for him and trousers to match. He had a rummage in another suitcase and found a scarf. He took a heavy Afghan coat from a coat hook, inspected it and pulled it on. It was a little tight under the arms but would do. He bundled up his booty into his bag, which was just big enough to take it all, and stepped out of the tent.

  He managed to find his transport within minutes of leaving the tent compound. As he walked along a broad dirt road towards one of the base’s main entrances, he saw a bicycle leaning against the wall of an office building, just a few metres from the front door. It was precisely what he needed.

  A convoy of civilian fuel trucks headed towards him, kicking up a minor dust storm, the sound of their heavy engines growing louder. There were hardly any pedestrians around, but there were plenty of vehicles, parked or moving. Mostly civilian, a few military. The brick building stood all alone and had no signage to indicate its purpose. It looked run-down and behind it ran an endless internal barrier of HESCO containers. Stratton knew it wasn’t the perimeter because it had no watch towers. There were literally miles of HESCOs throughout and around the camp. Bomb-proof, bulletproof, ram-proof, and topped with hundreds of miles of razor wire.

  As he got closer he could see a yard alongside the building of emp
ty, folded HESCOs and piles of metal stakes, and a bulldozer with a large bucket. The first of the fuel trucks rumbled past, coughing out black fumes that mingled with the dust cloud they kicked up. Stratton upped his pace without running, hoping anyone wanting to leave the building at that moment would wait until the trucks had gone.

  He threaded both his arms through the handles of his holdall and pulled it onto his back like a pack. He grabbed the bike, turned it around and slung a leg over it and got going. It wasn’t the finest example of its make but it worked. He rode along the edge of the road as more trucks passed him, heading in the opposite direction into the camp. He had to squint to keep the dust out of his eyes and spat gritty particles from his dry lips.

  The road here was open and there were few structures either side. After several hundred metres he saw an opening in the HESCO wall – a deserted yard, rubbish everywhere. He cycled in, then jumped off and ran the bike into the yard out of sight of the road. He leaned the bike against the dusty HESCO wall, took his holdall off his back and dug out the clothes and, other than keeping on his trousers, exchanged the rest for his own. He wound the scarf around his neck a couple of times. He was reasonably confident he could mingle with the Afghan populace without drawing attention to himself. He had done it many times before and as long as he didn’t have to open his mouth he’d get away with it. He could have done with a few more days’ worth of stubble. His hair was dark enough, although his complexion was pale, but then, so were many Afghans, especially at that time of year.

  He stuffed the holdall under a board and piled on dust and rubbish. He planned to be back for it no later than the following day. Satisfied, he wheeled the bike back onto the road and headed for the camp exit. Going into a local Afghan community in disguise was going to be different this time in several ways. In the past he’d been armed and had the support of people on the end of a radio. In the event of a situation, they were never far away. This time the only emergency plan he had for a serious incident was to use his mobile phone. He would make contact if his life depended on it, of course. But the response would be slow and then there would be the aftermath. London, and indeed the SBS, would want to know what the hell he was doing in Afghanistan, let alone outside the secure base on his own disguised as a local. He wouldn’t know what to tell them. It got to the point where it didn’t bear thinking about and so he put the whole contingency plan idea to the back of his mind in the hope he’d never need it.

  He had cycled less than a kilometre when he arrived at the back of a line of vehicles waiting to leave the base. Beyond it, to one side of the checkpoint, he saw dozens of Afghans. The checkpoint was a complex construction of walled channels for incoming and outgoing vehicles and pedestrians. It had buildings for ID processing, a bypass for military vehicles, and isolation bays where vehicles could be parked to one side for inspection, with a soak area beyond packed with trucks. It was bustling with US soldiers and trusted Afghans in US fatigues who acted as interpreters and traffic coordinators.

  Stratton joined a line of pedestrians, which included a couple of other people with bikes. Egress from the camp looked far less complicated than entrance. There were still inspections of personal ID cards and bags and vehicles for any stolen items, but otherwise it looked a formality. As he closed on the exit, an Afghan in BDUs shouted at him. It was the one thing he wanted to avoid. His Farsi was pretty poor despite the amount of time he had spent in Afghanistan.

  Unable to speak English in front of everyone, he didn’t say anything. The guard kept shouting, walking briskly over and demanding something, by now inches from his face. Stratton groaned as if he couldn’t talk, then pointed to his ears. The guard was gesturing for an ID card.

  A US soldier, dressed in full camouflage fatigues, helmet, webbing, body armour and cradling an M4 assault rifle in his arms, came over to see what was going on.

  ‘He looks to be a mute,’ the Afghan guard said.

  ‘Where’s his ID?’ the soldier asked.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to get from him.’

  ‘Well, he got into the camp so he must have an ID. Let’s see your ID,’ the soldier said to Stratton. ‘ID,’ he repeated and formed his gloved index fingers and thumbs into a rectangle.

  Stratton smiled at the soldier and began to fumble around his pockets as if looking for it. He moved his bike away from the line and placed it down on the ground. He continued his pantomime of searching his pockets. The Afghan guard walked away to remonstrate with another of the people on foot. Stratton kept it up until he was happy the guard wasn’t coming back and the line of locals were no longer taking much notice of him. All looked eager to get out of the camp themselves.

  He produced his ID and handed it to the soldier, hoping he wouldn’t give him away. For an instant the soldier looked surprised, but he held his composure as he compared the headshot to the man in front of him. He looked into Stratton’s eyes and Stratton looked right back at him, unmoving but asking for calm.

  The soldier handed him back the card. ‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re dumb, deaf or stupid,’ he said, getting louder the more he talked. ‘When you come to this gate you have your ID ready! Now get the fuck outta my camp!’

  Stratton humbly obeyed.

  14

  Stratton rode through a crowded marketplace of makeshift wooden stalls and unfinished buildings and as soon as he was able turned off the main base road towards the residential part of Bagram Town.

  It was a kilometre or so square, with several hundred mud houses organised haphazardly on its winding streets. He saw a few concrete block compounds and others that were a combination of both. Most had been finished off in plastered mud. There was a lot of exposed blockwork. The main road through the town had been tarmacked but the rest were dirt or gravel.

  He kept to the side streets, which were mostly empty of people. He saw a few pedestrians and another cyclist. No one gave him a second look. He decided to be systematic and cycle across the town from one end to the other, north first, then south, skirting the perimeter to the next street and across the town again, until he’d covered all of it. At the same time he would take Bullfrog’s advice and focus on the compounds and the largest of the houses. He guessed it would take him until the evening.

  He stopped outside the first gated home he came to. It had a front courtyard and a few pots of flowers. There seemed to be little in the way of flora anywhere in the town other than geraniums. Red flowers on the ends of long, straggly, knuckle-like limbs. Most of the homes seemed to have some of them, in pots or growing from patches of dry soil that melded seamlessly with the roads. There were no clues that suggested it was occupied by anything other than a small family.

  After several hours he’d made a dozen runs across the north section of the town and had found nowhere with any signs of Mahuba and the bomb, like suitable vehicles or a guard force.

  He came across a gap in a wall with open ground on the other side and decided to take a break. He walked the bike behind the wall, sat down and dug down inside his Afghan trousers to the side pocket of his own trousers. He pulled out a fruit drink bladder and a nutty bar, care of the US Air Force inflight lunchbox. He had packed a similar meal into the same pocket on his other trouser leg. They’d do him for the day.

  He decided if he hadn’t found the place by morning he wasn’t going to and would head back. An untethered goat walked over to investigate, watching Stratton munch on the nutty bar. He wasn’t in the mood to share. Beyond the animal the endless line of unassailable, snow-capped mountains hovered. The sky was clear. It would be a cold night, he decided. He didn’t even want to think where he might spend it.

  The goat walked off and Stratton emptied the bladder of fruit juice into his mouth, then buried all his litter. He looked at the sun and took a guess at the time. It was well off-centre and towards the western horizon. Around 1600, he decided. He checked his watch. It was 1623. Not bad, he thought. He got to his feet and looked around the edge of the wall to check it was
clear.

  It took him another half-hour to complete the northern and largest section of the town, after which he crossed the main tarmac road and began to criss-cross the southern section. As the sun went behind the mountains and the light started to fade he headed along the first of the outgoing roads to check the few lone houses on the edge of this part of town. He could see a number of isolated compounds of various sizes, some of them medieval-looking. He knew many families built their houses close together and shared the safety of a single high wall and gated entrance. There were quite a few here and he was prepared for a long night’s work.

  He stopped outside the metal gates of the first compound to have a look inside. There was no one about. The gates were buckled where they met, as if someone had forced an entry without removing the chain that held them shut. The place had no outside lights and only a handful inside the houses that he could see. It didn’t possess the credentials and he moved on.

  Darkness fell quickly. Without street lights, he felt safer in the glow from just the distant houses. The brightest lights came from the base, which glowed like a city, its perimeter marked by powerful spotlights on the top of tall poles. After going a few hundred metres beyond the compound it became obvious there was nothing else along the track so he turned around and went back. This next phase of the search would be like exploring the spokes of a wheel. He would go to the end of one, turn around, go back down it to the town and find the next one.

  When he reached the main road again, he turned left and kept going until he came to another track heading away from the town. Within a few hundred metres he saw another compound. It didn’t look promising so he carried on. Another compound appeared half a kilometre after, but it was also disappointingly small. Once again, a few hundred metres beyond it the darkness took over and he turned back towards the town.

  He continued methodically in a clockwise direction around the town’s periphery. In some ways, he thought, it should be easier checking for the place at night. He’d expect it to have security lighting for a start. He wondered if Mahuba was clever enough to avoid anything that might point a finger at him. Such as lights and guards. If so, Stratton had little chance of finding him.