Assassin (John Stratton) (16 page)

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.

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.

By nine he estimated he had covered about half the circumference of the town’s outer reaches. He went a way up the next track and lifted the bike off the road, up a short bank and through some bushes to take another break. The air had chilled noticeably. He noticed fires had been lit in every occupied house. A noisy vehicle passed by along the main road. As he ate he stared at the distant mountains. They were always impressive. Jagged teeth in black gums.
The stars shone brightly in the heavens. Clear and crisp. He felt the chill as a breeze found its way through his open jacket.

As he buttoned up his front, the sound of engines drifted to him on the night air. Whatever it was turned off the main road and onto the dirt track he was sitting alongside. Lights flicked across a nearby house and the treetops beyond it. He decided he was fine where he was. There was a low wall not far away, beyond that open country. The engine grew louder, the lights stronger. The track was suddenly bathed in a strong white light as the vehicle came around the bend.

It was a 4×4. A Suburban. And it was not alone. There were two of them. They were dark, probably black, with tinted windows. The second had a light on inside and he saw figures, or their foggy outlines. It also had some kind of technological apparatus on its roof.

There was a third. The same as the others but without the roof apparatus. They had to be coalition troops. His thoughts flashed to the vehicles he had seen earlier in the day, driving out of the back of the black Globemaster. The convoy continued along the road, its headlights illuminating the trees and houses ahead. Stratton walked down onto the road to watch the red tail lights disappear around a bend. They weren’t going into the camp. The track was headed in the wrong direction.

He quickly went back for the bike and dragged it onto the road and pedalled after the Suburbans. Quite quickly he couldn’t hear the sound of the engines but he could
still see the glow of the rear lights, moving further away. They weren’t going that fast but after a few moments the lights disappeared too. He kept up the speed as well as he could, hoping to see the lights again. His ears were pricked for any distant sound but there was nothing.

As he took a wide bend he stopped pedalling when he saw a red glow up ahead, about a couple of hundred metres away. The light went out and he eased on the bike’s brakes, which squeaked, released them and dropped his boots to the road to stop the bike.

He didn’t get off right away and remained still. All he could hear was a distant aircraft taking off. Whoever they were, and whatever they were up to, despite their proximity to the camp, they were still in hostile territory. They would take the usual precautions, like sentries to cover obvious arcs and routes into their position.

Stratton got off the track and hid the bike, before moving deeper into the open ground. A low wall appeared to follow the track for a distance and he crossed over to the other side of it, walking lightly, his ears and eyes focused as far ahead as he could. His first worry was thermal imagers. Any sophisticated lookout would be scanning their arcs with one. But the vehicles had only just stopped. Perhaps the sentries hadn’t deployed yet.

He focused his attention on a large spread of bushes and small trees that he estimated the vehicles to be just beyond. He wanted to be in among them as soon as he could. He speeded up a little, stepping silently across the dry earth. As he approached the dark foliage, a goat bleated and
scampered off a stone’s throw to his right. It paused him. Judging by the direction the animal was going, it had been disturbed by something other than him.

He eased himself down and made his way quietly into the bushes. He heard a metallic sound from half-left ahead. He stopped. He realised he was close to the road and could see the rear of a vehicle about twenty metres away. The back doors were open. There was movement, figures walking on the road, one of them heading in his direction. He eased himself back into cover. The man came to a stop in front of Stratton’s position. Then he stepped off the track into the bushes towards Stratton. He stopped again, only a couple of metres away. Stratton was surprised the man couldn’t see him. He remained still as he studied the silhouette. It was someone holding an assault rifle in one hand. The man took a step forwards, then another, and his boot came down directly on top of Stratton.

Stratton reacted like a snake that had been stepped on, grabbing the leg. He got his entire weight behind it and twisted violently around so that the man fell under him, then he pulled himself on top, forcing a hand onto the guy’s mouth to stop him squealing. The soldier went for a knife in a sheath on his thigh. Stratton planted his knees onto his chest as he grabbed the knife hand and they struggled with it. The man was strong and had the point up towards Stratton’s gut, so he released his mouth hold and hammered on the soldier’s throat with the heel of his hand. The man made a gagging sound and his limbs
stiffened and he dropped the knife. Stratton hit him again and he shuddered before going limp.

Stratton felt for his carotid artery, concerned. He’d not intended to be discovered and certainly not to kill anyone. This man was more than likely an American. An ally, for Christ’s sake. All he could hope for was that he wasn’t dead. He searched for a pulse and when he couldn’t find one, he kept searching. It wasn’t always easy to find. He was also unable to fully concentrate, his senses were all about him. Someone might have heard. The others weren’t far away. He would have been in deep trouble for being in Afghanistan beforehand. Now he’d gone and bloody well killed one of his own side.

Stratton kept his hand on the man’s throat but could feel nothing. He felt around the soldier’s equipment. He was wearing the usual webbing and belt order, the pouches stuffed with magazines, a pistol in a holster. He had a larger pouch on his hip, a radio clipped to the webbing. A wire led to his earpiece which had come off in the struggle. That would be a problem when the team controller asked for a communications check.

Stratton was curious about the large pouch and opened it. It held a gas mask. An odd piece of kit to carry. He went back to the man’s uniform, which wasn’t usual camouflage material but it felt familiar. The gas mask provided the clue. The man was wearing a chemical warfare suit. The material was made of several layers of carbon-impregnated cloth designed to absorb highly toxic vapour elements in the air. Stratton felt for a pulse again just to be sure.

Nothing.

‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself. It could easily have been the other way around. But that didn’t justify it. The soldier was only doing his job. Stratton removed the radio, put it in one of his pockets and clipped in the earpiece. He eased his way through the bushes until he was close to the edge of the road again.

He could just about make out all three vehicles. Most of the movement was happening beyond the furthest one, where a dozen or so men stood. All of them seemed to be wearing the same outfits as the man he’d just killed. Stratton took a good look at the centre vehicle with the unusual gantry fitted to its roof. It looked like a couple of metre-long probes. They were white and could best be described as giant cigarettes. One was pointing straight up and the other across the track into the darkness.

Two or three people sat inside the vehicle. It contained some kind of control panel with dozens of LEDs. Someone climbed out of the back and hurried to the lead vehicle. There appeared to be a brief conversation with the occupants, who then got out and walked to the back of the central vehicle and leaned inside. After a couple of minutes one of the men went up the track to the group. His conversation with them was brief. Whatever it was, they were suddenly energised.

Stratton watched as several of the men broke away and went to the backs of the front and rear vehicles. They collected several items each, the size of wine bottles, and headed along the road in both directions away from the
vehicles. Two of the men were heading towards Stratton. He ducked back as they walked past. One paused a few metres away before continuing on for another thirty metres. They were placing the objects onto the track at intervals. When they were finished, they headed back to the vehicles.

Stratton strained to look at the object nearest to him. It looked like a canister. That might explain the gas masks. He plucked a piece of grass and released it into the gentle breeze. It blew from his back and across the track. His radio suddenly came to life, a man’s voice asking for a communications check. Three other voices replied in sequence. They were all American and each used the letters Tango, Quebec and November. There was a silence followed by the controller asking a Victor call-sign to report. That had to be the man lying nearby.