Andy McNab - Exit wound

‘Jim, I don’t think…’

‘Just do it, Ali!’

He climbed out reluctantly onto the pavement.

‘Walk slowly past. Tell me what you see. Does the building have a name, a number, anything? I need to know if the Merc stays or leaves. I’ll meet you further down this road. Now go!’

I drove off, watching him walk back towards the square, shoulders down and scared. Fuck it, I’d had no choice. There’s no time for debate when this stuff happens. All you can do is grip the body and make it do what you want. Only afterwards can you give it a hug and make up.

I was able to turn back towards the square at the next junction and park up – a tactical bound, which meant the Paykan was out of line-of-sight from the square. I kept my head down and sun-gigs on.

I glanced at the construction site two hundred further down. A cloud of dust billowed around the base of some rickety scaffolding that framed a couple of minarets. They looked for a moment like a couple of missiles taking off.

Ten minutes later Ali slumped his way towards me. He couldn’t even look me in the eye as he got back in. ‘The car has gone. It was coming out as I got to the square. The building has no number or name.’

He collapsed into his seat, close to tears, as I hit the ignition. I needed to get a trigger on the target. I still had to find out who was inside that building, and why. ‘It’s all right, mate. You’ll get the car back and everything will be OK. Not long now.’

I knew he didn’t believe a word of it.

1905 hrs

Last light would be with us in less than an hour.

With the brown PVC seat of the Paykan tilted back, I could see straight through the windscreen towards the target. It was a two-floor, drab concrete cube, an office building, much like the rest around the patch of dirt and dust, surrounded by high walls. CCTV covered the gate, walls and even the building itself.

No one else had left or entered it since I’d stagged on. But there was at least one body inside. A couple of minutes after we’d moved into position, a ceiling fan had started to turn in a first-floor room. I’d scanned the place through Ali’s binos but couldn’t see who’d switched it on. With the wall so high and me so low, my perspective was limited.

There had been a great deal of coming and going. Trucks piled high with rubble had pulled out of the construction site every few minutes. The last one had left more than an hour ago. About fifteen others loaded with steel reinforcing rods were now parked up in the square. An old guy in a leather jerkin and flat Afghan-style hat had done his best to direct them but the drivers totally ignored him and did their own thing. Even Ali managed a smile as we watched them moving through the gate, oblivious to the old boy’s complaints, with their rolled-up blankets tucked beneath their arms.

Young women had paraded constantly through the square all afternoon. Some were in Western dress, some a mixture, some totally covered. Those in burqa s had trainers and jeans on underneath.

The construction site had already achieved iconic significance for the local population. It was an extension of the campus for what the mullahs intended to become the Islamic world’s foremost seat of learning. Aisha studied medicine here; there were more mosques and classrooms on the far side of the plot.

The cicadas were going ape above the distant drone of traffic. A slight breeze rustled the dry leaves of the near-dead palms. I glanced across at Ali. He was feeling more of a prisoner now than a friend. He was scared of leaving his dad’s car with me, but even more scared of staying.

It was time to let him off the hook. ‘Listen, mate, you can go soon – and with the car. OK?’

He sat up slowly, eyes straight ahead, hardly daring to believe what I’d just said. ‘Thank you, Jim, thank you. I will not say anything to-’

‘It’s all right, mate. Listen, I need you to know something. I’m not going to bullshit you. I’ll do my best with the job. But it’s a long shot…’

He turned very slowly towards me. His eyes bored into me. ‘You are not a journalist, are you, Jim?’

‘No, mate. But you’ve helped me do something important. I’m not exactly sure where it’s going to lead yet, but we’re doing our best to stop what happened to your dad happening to a whole lot of others.’

He nodded, but I knew he was far from convinced.

‘I’m sorry, Ali.’

He raised his hands and slowly massaged his temples. It was some time before he spoke. ‘Can I go home now?’

‘Yes, mate.’ I paused. ‘But I need one last favour.’

This area didn’t have streetlighting. I wasn’t complaining – I always felt safer in the dark. I stood against the fence, trying to get some pitta bread down my neck. There was no curtain across the target window, and the fan kept going. Somebody had turned the light on but I still hadn’t been able to see who.

Another light came on, somewhere on the ground floor this time. Weak light spilled over the wall.

I now understood how difficult it must have been for the women in the Emirates food hall to hoover up their Big Macs. Getting anything through the hole in Ali’s mum’s old burqa was proving very difficult indeed. Most of it seemed to miss and tumble down the black material.

No way could I have got away with what I wanted to do tonight without some sort of cover. Burqa ’d up, I passed for a very chunky university girl. If Arab men could cover up and get through airport security on their sisters’ passports, I should be able to mince about at night in this kit to my heart’s content. If not, I’d soon find out.

Snatches of waffle and banter filtered through from the far side of the tall plywood sheets that encircled the building site. I looked through the gap where two sheets didn’t quite meet. Blankets were spread out round a fire, with pots and pans rigged over the flickering flames. The wood spat and split, completing the western campfire effect. It could have been a scene from a John Wayne movie – except that these boys, truck drivers, I guessed, were in dishdash es and had a TV perched on top of a pile of concrete blocks, next to a fat extension reel. The other end of the lead disappeared in the direction of a genny I could hear ticking away in the distance.

A couple of students walked hand in hand across the far side of the square, giving the odd giggle along the way. I stayed in the shadows and thought about Ali. I wondered what he was going to do. Tell the police? Tell his sister, and she’d tell the police? She was going to be really pissed off with me. I didn’t know, and I tried not to care. Whatever, it was out of my hands. All I could do was what I was doing now – keeping eyes on the target and trying to identify whoever was in there.

I’d had no choice in my treatment of Ali, but that didn’t stop me feeling sorry for him. First his dad’s illness had screwed up his university plans, and now I’d done the same with his dreams of a journalistic career.

Fuck it, there was nothing I could do but cut away from all that and get on with the job.

I needed to get a trigger on the target and find out who was in there. Altun had to be somewhere with the Pakistan delivery. Whether he was sitting under that ceiling fan or not, I still needed to find a way of making entry on target tonight. Short of bursting straight into M3C’s airport HQ, I had nowhere else to go.

I needed to find a good OP, ideally high up in an unoccupied building that was still under construction and looked right down on the target. The closer of the two minarets fitted the bill. My only problem would be getting into it. I couldn’t just sashay past the lads round the campfire – it wasn’t that kind of party. Nor could I get over the fence. I’d checked. It wouldn’t happen. The only way was to head for the uni and see how I could make my way from there.