Aggressor (34 page)

‘It's a bit late, isn't it? Wherever he goes, the Sword's message is pain.'

‘You have written much about his message, and now you are here, his prisoner. But you know so little about him...' He studied Girling's bruised face. ‘Was it worth it?'

‘I think I came here to kill him,' Girling said.

The blue eyes regarded him. ‘Does peace come from the barrel of a gun?'

The question was asked softly, and Girling thought he detected a hint of a smile on the mullah's face. When he finally answered, Girling's tone, too, was soft.

‘Why didn't you tell me who you are?'

‘Your heart was too full of anger to see the truth.' The Sword paused. ‘The things you wrote... Beirut Airport, murder in Cairo, hostages... none of it true.'

‘But they happened.'

‘Not on my orders.'

‘Then perhaps your Angels of Judgement are operating beyond your control.'

‘I may be an old man, Mr Girling, but you should know that none of my men moves without a word from me first.'

‘If it wasn't you... then who?'

‘I was hoping you would tell me. Why do you think I brought you here? I need answers, too. I thought you knew...'

The muezzin's song rose. For a long time the two men watched each other in silence. Girling felt his tiredness leave him. The puzzle was almost complete. It had been since his journey to Qena. He just hadn't been watching it closely enough.

‘Stamen's article said you were in Afghanistan, that you were a Mujahideen group, that you had seen action...'

‘A long time ago. Things were different...'

‘In what way?'

‘We were less sold on the ways of peace.'

‘Why such a long way from home? I thought the struggle was here.'

The Sword looked up. ‘The struggle is everywhere, Mr Girling. But I am an Uzbek, born and raised in a village south of Samarkand.'

Girling nodded. ‘Samarkand, Uzbekistan?'

‘Yes.'

‘The Soviet Union.'

‘Islam knows no borders.'

But Girling was far, far away. ‘The Russians... There's no rescue... it's a trap.'

‘A trap?'

‘Three days ago I watched a Soviet-American task force destroy a valley identical to this one. I thought it was a dress-rehearsal for a rescue. But if the hostages aren't here, those helicopters were on a mission to search and destroy.'

The Sword nodded slowly. ‘It's me they want, Mr Girling.'

‘How could I be so blind? It was the Russians all along. How many Muslims

are there in the Soviet Union and Russia? Sixty million, more even? Sixty million Uzbeks, Kirghiz, Tadzhiks, Tatars, Kazakhs, and Azeris all united by a common faith. Sixty million.' Girling paused as the picture became complete. ‘You're their worst nightmare. They think you're going to take the Holy War to the heart of Russia.'

‘But like you, Mr Girling, they were wrong. I called the Shura to tell Jibril and his kind there will be no Jihad. The next Soviet revolution, when it comes, must be a peaceful one.'

‘I'm afraid it's too late. For you, for me, for the Americans...'

‘The Americans?'

Girling thought back to his meeting with McBain and Ulm. They thought he knew. They had been in the dark then, just like everyone else. Hostages. The Russians took the hostages. Stansell knew, so the Russians killed him. They'd told Al-Qadi to kill Girling too; after the Reuters story he'd be just one more victim of the Angels of Judgement. Jesus, the fucking Soviets had known which buttons to press all along.

He turned to the Sword. ‘When the helicopters leave, this valley will be littered with the dead bodies of Arabs and Americans, unless we do something first.'

As they stepped outside into the air there was an ear-splitting roar and a helicopter the size of a trawler rose up from behind the outhouse. Girling grabbed the Sword's hand and ran for an irrigation ditch in the lee of the cliffs.

Three more helicopters shot into the valley, one of them so low it had to climb sharply to avoid the roof of his cell.

A movement at the edge of his vision made him turn. A helicopter was heading straight for them, its guns firing.

Girling jumped into the ditch, pulling the Sword with him. The Pave Low's downwash clawed at their heels and bullets spattered around them. Sand stung his skin as the Sikorsky thundered overhead.

A nearby flak gun opened up, but the shots went wild. The Sikorskys twisted and weaved through the air, buzzing the defenders from all directions.

Girling looked for cover. There were some boulders, sixty yards away. They began to run, but a Pave Low prowling in the valley spotted them and did a hundred-and-eighty degree turn.

Girling threw the Sword behind the rocks. The helicopter roared past, its momentum so great that it overshot. Girling saw the pilot wrestling with the controls as he fought to bring the helicopter back.

Thirty yards away was a path leading upwards.

Girling heard the whoosh of an SA-9 launch. He turned to see the missile streaking across the valley towards the nearest Sikorsky, but the machine was too low for the seeker to engage and the missile buried itself into the ground, exploding harmlessly.

Like a stuck bull, the helicopter wheeled.

Girling saw their chance. ‘Come on.'

The Sword hesitated. ‘My people...'

‘They need you alive, Sword.' He pulled the old man after him.

They were almost at the top of the path when Girling snatched a glance into the valley. Jibril's missileman was in the open, defenceless, his empty launch-tube discarded. The MH-53J was hovering left and right, intercepting his every attempt to reach the safety of the caravanserai. Suddenly, the machine rotated, giving the ramp gunner unrestricted aim. There was a belch of flame and the Sikorsky moved on to some new hunting ground.

The Sword's breathing became more laboured. Girling pushed on to scout the ground up ahead.

The clifftop was a plateau littered with outcrops and boulders - the first sign of a place to hide.

He turned to encourage the Sword, but the old man had collapsed face down on the path. He was clutching his right side. When Girling rolled him over, he saw a face gouged with pain. Girling's hand moved down to the bullet wound. Blood seeped between his fingers as he lifted the Sword's arm from the sticky red stain spreading across his robe.

A helicopter passed close by, just below the level of the path. Girling had to bend lower to hear what the Sword was trying to tell him.

‘You must go...'

A burst of machine-gun fire swallowed his words.

‘Save yourself.'

Girling slipped his hands under the Sword's body. He managed to carry him as far as a group of rocks just beyond the top of the path. He laid him down in the shade of an overhang.

‘You are free now,' the Sword said. ‘Start your life again. Leave me.'

Girling shook his head.

‘I will die with my Angels of Judgement.'

‘You're the only person who can tell the truth. Die and your people will declare a Jihad against the Americans. There will be more hijackings, more Beiruts...'

Using the smoke and the dust for cover, Girling made his way back down to the outer walls of the caravanserai. One of the gates had a hole blown in it, just large enough for him to squeeze through. He stepped between the bodies and the guns littering the courtyard. He knew what he had to do; he just didn't know where to begin.

They came in low towards the patch of scrub designated as the landing area, Shabanov's Pave Low in front, Ulm's just feet behind. Ulm could have been in a combat simulator back at Kirtland, watching images on a screen, his headphones filled with computer-generated sounds of weapons and war.

The bullet that snapped through the windscreen and buried itself in the door above his head was a sudden reminder that this was no high-tech exercise.

Bookerman threw the helicopter around the narrow sky between the valley walls, responding to reports of incoming fire. Ulm gave few orders. Every man knew what to do. The scene was almost identical to the dummy camp outside Wadi Qena.

Everywhere people were running for cover. He could see old men and women cowering under the eaves of the caravanserai. A gunner was slumped over the breech of a flak gun on a truck in the middle of the courtyard.

The Pave Low jinked and weaved as Bookerman responded to the calls of his gunners. At last Ulm spotted the outhouses that held the hostages.

Suddenly they were down. Ulm threw off his straps and headed for the ramp. Someone chucked him his Heckler and Koch and a moment later he was out of the helicopter, feet pounding the earth. The swirling downwash from the rotors screened them from enemy fire. Ulm made it across the open ground just as the two-man explosives team were putting the finishing touches to the plastic around the hinges of the outhouse door. He pressed against the wall and waited for the synchronized detonation.

When it blew, Shabanov was first through the smoking doorway, followed by Bitov and Jones. Ulm took a deep breath and rolled in behind them.

A pall of smoke hung in the room. It was impossible to see more than a few feet. He could make out the three soldiers in front of him, but beyond that only shades of dark and light. Ulm's every nerve-ending tingled. A stray shot from any of them would mean the difference between success and failure, life and death for hostage and captor. He waited for the first bullet, the first scream.

A gust blew in through the door, parting the smoke. The cell was empty. Ambassador Franklin and Minister Koltsov were gone.

Ulm pulled the Balaclava off his face. He sucked in the musty air, trying the suppress the stirrings of a feeling that before meeting Shabanov he had not had in almost four years.

‘They must have been moved to the caravanserai,' the Russian said. His voice bore no trace of surprise.

Ulm stared at him. ‘Do you realize what our chances are?'

‘We have to try, Elliot.' Shabanov pulled a walkie-talkie from his uniform and barked orders for a helicopter to deploy further down the valley.

An explosion outside rocked the foundations of the outhouse. Through the doorway, Ulm saw a crater burst close to the helicopters. Someone had managed to rig up a mortar.

Ulm ordered the machines to get airborne and patrol the sky above the caravanserai. Their miniguns would give them covering fire as they raced towards the ruins of the Sword's hideaway.

With the assault team divided into two-man search parties, Ulm and Jones reached the first door leading off the courtyard.

They flanked the entrance way. Ulm had pulled his Balaclava down around his neck. Jones, still wearing his, lifted his eyes and nodded.

Ulm kicked down the door and threw the flash-bang into the room. The second it hit the floor and detonated, Jones was moving, Ulm right behind him. Inside, light streamed through a window close to the ceiling. It was a store-room, a silo; bags of grain and rice stacked to the roof.

The next room was exactly the same; dark and cool, like a church. The thick stone walls drowned the noise of battle, allowing the two men to stop and listen. Inside there was no sound, no movement.

They turned and moved outside, stealing beneath the eaves of the balcony towards the third silo. Jones stopped before they even reached the door. Without saying a word, he signalled Ulm. It was ajar, swinging gently on its hinges. Jones threw the stun grenade and Ulm careered inside. He rolled, coming to his feet in a crouch on the far side of the room.

Another larder. One of the rice bags had split, scattering grains across the floor. In the echoing silence, it was like walking across broken glass.

Ulm looked at Jones, covering him from the door. He heard a high-pitched note, like an ultrasonic alarm in his head. There was someone else in the room, someone besides Jones. He could feel something, a presence...

He began to turn when the gun barrel hit him in the base of the spine.

Ulm froze.

Jones took a step into the room. He squinted against the light. ‘Sir...?'

Girling came up from behind the sacks of grain. He moved the pistol up Ulm's spine and held it between his shoulder blades. ‘Drop your weapon, Sergeant.'

Jones looked at Ulm.

‘Do it now!' Girling shouted. ‘You, too, Colonel.'

Ulm flinched. ‘Girling!'

‘Drop the gun, Colonel.'

There was a clatter as Ulm let his MP5 fall to the floor.

Seconds passed, then Jones did the same.

‘Don't say anything, Colonel. Don't say a fucking word. Just listen and listen good.'

Girling stepped out from behind his cover. He kept Ulm's body between himself and Jones. ‘You've been set up. There are no hostages. No Franklin. There's only one reason Spetsnaz are here. The Sword's an Uzbek, a Muslim from Soviet Central Asia. They need him dead, and they need you to take the fall.'

Ulm gritted his teeth. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Girling?'

Girling's voice rose to a shout. ‘Don't you ever learn, Ulm? The Sword wants out, but the Russians don't know that.'

‘This is bullshit,' Jones said. ‘There are terrorists with fucking surface-to-air missiles out there.'

‘They're Palestinians, Hizbollah,' Girling said. ‘The Sword got them here to say the deal's off.'

‘The Russians have hostages, too, Girling.'

‘Colonel, they've gone to a lot of trouble to make this work. And unless you want another Panama here, we've got to stop that happening.'

Jones was about to speak again but Ulm silenced him. ‘You'd better talk fast, Girling.'

‘The Sword's been shot, Colonel, and there's a good chance he'll bleed to death unless - ‘ He hesitated. ‘If he dies, Washington carries the can for this whole operation. Those are American helicopters up there.'

‘With Russian soldiers on board!'

‘Are they wearing red stars on their uniforms?'