Jack Higgins - A Devil is vaiting

Are you okay? Holley asked with concern.

Just the damn leg, love. She managed a smile.

It could be a lot worse. That firefight I thought we were finished. She reached up and grasped Hamza s hand. Until you decided to intervene. What happened here, and where s Wali Hussein?

His body s somewhere close by. We re in a different spot than when you left. You ll notice Major Miller feeling sorry for himself in the corner. Wali shot him, so Slay shot Wali dead and threw him out.

She turned to look up at Slay in the pilot s seat. He shrugged. I didn t have much choice. He suddenly turned angry with all of us and produced a shooter from up here somewhere. That was what started heating things up.

Harry Miller said, Sara, would you mind checking the medical unit for morphine? After all, I have been shot in the shoulder. He winced with pain. And may I suggest to you, Captain Slay, that we get the hell out of here?

Hamza said, I suspect Ferguson is the kind of man who prefers bad news sooner rather than later.

You re quite right.

Miller pulled out his Codex with a bloodstained left hand and called Ferguson, who responded immediately.

Harry, where are you? How did it go?

Wali Hussein turned out to be completely untrustworthy, so we found ourselves juggling with three Raptors, not one. There was a brisk firefight, but we ve come through, thanks to some brilliant flying by Gregory Slay and some good work from Colonel Hamza, who shot down a Raptor for us with an RPG. And I mustn t forget Sara, who started playing bowls with a couple of pineapple grenades.

And Ali Selim?

Flown off to God knows where in the worst weather imaginable. Can we leave this dreadful place as soon as possible and come home?

Sara grabbed the Codex and said, He has a bullet in his shoulder, General, which I m trying to do something about, so I ll pass you to Colonel Hamza.

Which she did, cutting Miller s shirt open, the medical kit at her side. She took out a couple of morphine ampoules and jabbed them in his left arm and then explored the wound.

There appears to be an exit hole, which is lucky, but you ll need a doctor to confirm it.

Thanks, Sara, you re an angel. He managed a smile, waiting for the morphine to take effect.

Hamza was still talking to Ferguson. I ll call in and arrange for Major Miller to be patched up at the military hospital, but then I think it would be better for all of us if you got back in that Gulfstream and returned to London as soon as possible.

And how will this affect you?

Why should it affect me at all? Wali Hussein, a man who has long been suspected of making illegal flights over the border, filed a flight plan to Dimla and has gone missing. There is no sign of his helicopter in Pakistan territory, crashed or otherwise, so the inescapable conclusion must be that he s finally met with a bad end out there in the Wilderness.

How unfortunate, Ferguson said.

Not my jurisdiction. It s tribal territory and in another country, Hamza told him. I ll have an ambulance waiting for Miller, and we ll have a surgeon see to him discreetly. No need to make a fuss. Bullet wounds are common enough in these parts. I ll also have a word with your pilots and suggest they make ready for a quick departure.

And Captain Slay will need a return to Hazar.

No problem. He can go back to Hazar the way he came in. I ll see you soon.

Ferguson sat there in the hangar trying to come to terms with his disappointment. Hamid came in from the kitchen with a tray. Would you care for a cup of char, General?

To be frank, after the news I ve just had I d have preferred something stronger, but in the circumstances tea will be just fine. He called Roper and gave him a summary of events.

Roper said, So where s he off to now, that s the thing.

I think Colonel Hamza might be helpful there.

He s certainly come up trumps so far, Roper said.

The Prime Minister s going to be furious, especially about Harry being shot, Ferguson said.

As long as it doesn t kill you, there s always a slightly heroic thing about taking a bullet, Roper told him. I ve been there, remember, before the bomb? On top of that, the PM will enjoy being able to say I told you so.

Which I don t look forward to at all.

So what happens now? Will you call him personally, or do you want me to speak to Henry Frankel at the Cabinet Office?

Well, at least that would be following protocol, and it would give me time to get my act together here for the return home. You don t mind?

Why should I? It will quite make his day. Henry loves being the bearer of bad news.

Not long after leaving Amira in the Raptor, Ali Selim spoke to the chief pilot of the Hawker that had delivered him to Peshawar after his flight from London. It had been waiting at Peshawar Airport while he considered his next move.

Having discussed where the Raptor should meet the Hawker, he stood and leaned up to the flight deck, where the pilot, Omar, sat alone. He gave him a destination and flight instructions, then sat down again.

Thirty minutes later, they came to a village in ruins named Herat, a crumbling runway beside it, a concrete control tower and some flat-roofed buildings. It was a relic of the Russian occupation, totally uninviting, no signs of life, brooding in the rain as if waiting for something.

The Raptor was different from the other two in that there was no machine gun and only the one pilot. Omar was a young and energetic man in his twenties, in a brown flying jacket and jeans. He was obviously overawed by Ali Selim, who told him to land by the tower and switch off.

Ibrahim stayed impassive, a sinister figure in dark robes, an AK-47 beside him, a bulging bag at his feet. Ali Selim took a book from his briefcase and read, and Omar, on the flight deck, stirred uneasily.

Finally, Ali Selim looked up and said, If you want to smoke, do it outside. Go now, I can t abide your twitching.

Yes, master. Omar scrambled down, slid back the door, dropped to the runway, then ran through the rain to stand in the doorway of the control tower, where he lit a cigarette.

There was the sound of an engine approaching, and the gold Hawker dropped in below gray clouds, descending through the heavy rain, rolling to the end of the runway, turning and taxiing toward them, and stopping some little distance away. Omar hurried back to the Raptor, the airstair door opened on the Hawker, and a uniformed pilot came down, opening a large umbrella.

A handsome, bronzed-faced Arab, he smiled and inclined his head.

It is an honor to see you again, he said to Ali Selim.

Good to see you, Abdul, but get me inside, this rain bothers me. He ignored Omar but nodded to Ibrahim, went off with Abdul to the Hawker, and followed him up the steps.

Omar said, Where do I go now?

Inside, and I ll tell you, Ibrahim said.

Omar pulled himself into the Raptor, turned, and Ibrahim, already holding a Beretta in his right hand, shot him in the head, knocking him back into the hold. He opened the bag, took out a magnesium night flare, pulled the toggle, and tossed it inside. As the flames took hold, he turned and hurried to the Hawker, went up the steps where Abdul waited, and ducked inside. He sat down on the opposite side of the cabin from his master and waited.

Ali Selim looked up from his book. Captain Feisal has had a word. We can forget winter in northern Afghanistan. In Rubat it s hot, with enough sun to satisfy even you.

Ibrahim made no reply, simply nodded, clicked his seat belt into place, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

In London, Owen Rashid, unable to sleep, was sitting by the terrace window in his dressing gown, a glass of red wine by his hand, as he worked his way through a report on the current finances of Rashid Oil.