Assassin (John Stratton) (15 page)

‘Somewhere along the way,’ Bullfrog continued, ‘around the time the Americans declared the end to their assassination programme, the integers were employed to fill that gap. No one knows who requested the first assassination from an integer. Or when. But it happened.’

‘You’re going to say an integer killed Chandos, aren’t you?’

‘They are the best there is. When it comes to assassins there is no finer academy. None more accomplished. In fact, they never lose. It’s an explanation that fits the puzzle. Betregard was at a high enough level in the intelligence services to have first-hand experience of integers. I wanted you to know,’ she said.

‘That’s the kind of story that might talk me out of doing this job.’

‘Some, Stratton. But not you. In fact, if my instincts are
correct, a part of you is more than just curious about these individuals who challenge your lofty opinion of yourself.’

He didn’t deny it.

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.

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 empty, 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.