Читать книгу: «State Of Honour»

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

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Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

Hindu Kush. North-west Pakistan.

The shoot-to-kill order came through at zero one fifteen, relayed over a satellite radio. It’d been just three hours since the two-man reconnaissance team had reported the sighting.

They lay in a shallow dugout on a windblown ridge, the leeward slope falling away steeply to an impassable boulder field. A desert-issue tarp all but covered the hole, protected from view on the flanks by thorny scrub. Shivering, they blew into their bunched trigger-finger mitts. The daytime temperature had dropped twenty degrees or more, and fine sleet was melting on their blackened faces.

Darren Proctor extended the folded stock of his L115A3 sniper rifle. He split the legs of the swivel bi-pod and aligned the swivel cheek piece with the all-weather scope. Flipping open the lens cap, he glassed the terrain cast a muted green by the night vision. The tree line was sparse, a smattering of pines and cedars shuddering in the biting wind. Glimpsing movement on a scree slope fifty metres or so beyond, he focused in. The eyes of a striped hyena shone like glow sticks. He watched as the scavenger ripped at the carcass of an ibex or wild sheep. A second later it sniffed the air, ears pricked, and scampered off.

Too late, you’re dead, he thought.

Lowering the stock onto a wrapped poncho liner, he glanced to his left. “You see anything, Mike?”

“Nothing apart from that weird-looking dog,” Mike Rowe replied, his eyes fixed to a LION, a lightweight infrared observation night-sight. “This place goes into lockdown after dark.”

He’d served alongside Proctor in Iraq and Helmand Province; elsewhere, too. But their presence here, a few miles east of the Af-Pak border, was illegal. The drone strikes had ceased three months ago in response to the spike in civilian casualties, and the withdrawal of all but advisory ISAF personnel in neighbouring Afghanistan had been implemented as planned. With the West resorting increasingly to using private military contractors for black ops in the region, they now earned ten times what they had as regular British soldiers. If they died in the process, the politicians wouldn’t get flak from the media, or have to answer difficult letters from grieving parents. They were deemed to be expendable shadows, and they knew it.

Proctor shook his head. “It’s a hyena, genius.”

“Whatever. Fucking thing looks like it crawled up from hell. Even uglier than you, and that’s not easy,” Mike replied, snickering.

“Thanks, mate.”

They’d grown wiry beards and wore local tribal dress beneath their ghillie suits: baggy pants, long cotton shirts and sheepskin vests. Otherwise, the two men were physical opposites. While Proctor was six-two with a clean-shaven head and bull-like shoulders, Mike was five-six and bony, his matted brown hair reaching past the nape.

Mike placed the LION onto a kitbag, took off his camouflage helmet and picked up a Gerber tool. Using the small blade, he began to strip the bark from a twig, clearly bored.

They’d been on an unrelated mission, shadowing a small group of Haqqani network fighters suspected of the murder of a US diplomat in Islamabad. Once that operation had been aborted, they’d maintained their position high up in the foothills. The target was a priority. But they’d agreed that it could take days before he showed again.

Proctor grasped the bolt-action rifle once more, his eye glued to the scope, scanning.

The target – a phlegmatic Muslim cleric called Mullah Kakar – was hiding out in a cave complex a mile away. The area was riddled with them, used for decades as bombproof bolt holes. Earlier, they’d seen frail plumes of light-grey smoke curling over the craggy overhang above the mouth. Now there was nothing. If he’d been alone, they’d said they’d have risked an assault. But he was protected by four Afghan bodyguards and hadn’t come out since they’d spotted him. When he did, they’d decided to take out everyone, using fragmentation grenades, if necessary. They had to authenticate the kill. That meant close-up digital photographs, and mouth swabs and blood samples for DNA. With a seven-figure reward on the mullah’s otherwise elusive head, Mike had commented that this was going to be the last time he slept in the open.

“You want a brew?” he said.

Proctor put an open hand to his ear. Freeze and listen. He chambered one of the five rounds and flicked off the safety.

“Ninety metres at three o’clock. Rocky outcrop,” he whispered, aiming the seven kilograms, long-range weapon.

Mike snatched up the LION. “Terry?” he asked quietly, army slang for Taliban.

Proctor raised his open-palmed left hand across his chest and pointed to the right. Move there.

Mike slipped the LION into a cargo pocket, picked up a suppressed Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle fitted with a thermal imaging sight, and eased himself out of the hole. Proctor followed him with his night-scope. The body moved in a low crawl, inching diagonally towards a cluster of stunted bushes; a vantage point from which he could spy behind the mass of jagged rock. Proctor lay perfectly still, controlling his breathing. He should have had his scope trained on the outcrop, making sure Mike wasn’t in danger. But he’d lied to him. When he was some ten metres away, Proctor fixed the illuminated mil-dot reticle onto the back of Mike’s bare head. At this range, the 8.59mm round would pulverize the skull.

“Sorry, Mike,” he whispered.

He placed the ball of his forefinger on the trigger as he prepared to squeeze. A second later there was a muffled discharge, the noise and flash minimized by the fixed suppressor. Mike’s body bucked as if he’d been Tasered, a thick spray of blood erupting from his head. He didn’t move again.

Proctor removed his camo suit and put on a pakol, a woollen round-topped hat. Crouching, he sent an encrypted distress message to a Special Forces signaller in Kabul. Decoded it read: Target down. Spotter down. Situation critical.

Once sent, he wrapped up the tarp and shut down the portable SATCOM, GPS and VHF radio. Using a short-handled shovel, he hacked at the plastic and metal until he was sure the systems were inoperable, and shoved them into two canvas kitbags. He scooped them up and began filling in the hole with the relatively loose earth they’d dug out earlier. When he’d finished, he shouldered his rifle and walked slowly to the corpse. Kneeling down, he removed Mike’s two-way radio, sidearm, and wristwatch. He thought about his friend’s four kids, and his wife, Debra. Then, pushing aside the HK, he zoned out.

He spent the next half an hour digging a grave. After heaving the body in, he covered it with stiff clods of soil. That done, the equipment and gear had to vanish, too. He trudged along the ridge to a remote crevice, just wide enough to swallow the bags, and flung in all trace of their existence. Exhausted, he crouched down and lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo, telling himself that he’d earned it. He glanced up. The sleet had turned to snow. Trembling, he inhaled the smoke deeply, felt the frigid wind slice to his bones. The overcast skies rendered high-altitude recon drones useless, and it could be hours before a rescue team could be put together. He had time to spare.

A few minutes later, he zigzagged down the windward slope, using the metre-long rifle to steady him. Below, the land was farmed in terraced plots. He’d seen the hamlet on the drone feeds, the timber houses stacked one above the other. But Mike had been right. The place went into lockdown at night.

Reaching flat ground, he walked to the bank of the turbulent river, the rapids exploding like geysers against domes of smooth rock. It was warmer in the valley floor and the wind had dropped to a cool breeze. He bent down, cleansed his hands of bloodstains and cupped the icy water onto his face. Lighting another cigarette, he heard the vehicle before he saw it. Braced himself. As it pulled into the hamlet along a mud track peppered with potholes, the lights were killed. He made out a red Toyota pickup truck with five men hugging AK-47s sitting in the rear. It stopped a couple of metres from him. He let the cigarette fall from his fingers, stubbed it out with his boot.

A man opened the passenger door and strolled over. He wore shabby sneakers and a dark-green flak jacket. His face was pitted, the grey beard extravagant. Proctor thought he looked older than the photograph of him he had hidden in his pocket. Being a fugitive doesn’t suit him, he concluded.

They shook hands.

“Asalaam Alaykum,” Proctor said. Peace be upon you.

“Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam,” Mullah Kakar replied. And peace be upon you also. He looked up at the surrounding foothills, as if he were recalling time spent here. “Are we officially dead?”

Proctor nodded.

“Then get in. We ghosts have much work to do.”

“Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.”

William Shakespeare, Richard II

1.

Islamabad was a city that reeked of fear. Martial law had been imposed by the Pakistani generals, and terrorist attacks were escalating. As a result, the US Embassy compound in the Diplomatic Enclave resembled a modern supermax, ringed as it was by security bollards, floodlights, high-definition surveillance cameras, blast walls and heavy fencing. To add to the deterrent, three Marine rifle companies guarded it in rotation day and night.

Halfway down one of its tiled corridors, two men stood either side of a soundproof, brass-inlaid door, their tailored suits masking holstered SIG Sauer P229 handguns. On the other side of the door, the US Secretary of State, the forty-three-year-old Linda Carlyle, worked alone in a windowless office.

“I heard the generals ordered all women to wear the hijab,” Steve Coombs said, running his hand through his receding sandy hair, his broad back nestling against the wall. “It’ll be the burqa next. My eldest, Cathy, is studying law at Yale. Beats the hell outta me.”

“Me too,” the younger man replied.

His name was Tom Dupree. He’d spent twelve years overseas guarding embassy staff. After another three in the office of investigations and counterintelligence, he’d reached a career summit for a special agent in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security: head of the secretary’s protective detail. It had been his time. The scars on his body – a two-inch knife slash on his bicep and a chest seared by mortar shrapnel – were testament to his dedication. But now his time leading the protective detail was almost over.

“So you’ll be stuck in DC, huh, Tom?” Steve said, picking sleep from his eye.

“Yeah. Chief nursemaid to the good, the bad and the ugly.”

“Foreign dignitary detail ain’t so bad. At least you’ll get to snuggle down in your own bed some. When you gonna get yourself a little lady to share it with?”

“Who says I don’t?” Tom said, adjusting his stance.

Truth was, Tom hadn’t had a girlfriend in over a year. Not since Carrie, an analyst in the DS’s passport and visa fraud division, had told him she couldn’t deal with dating a man she saw less than her dentist.

“’Bout time you became a one-woman man, you ask me,” Steve said, his tone preachy.

Knowing his friend was a Catholic, who’d been married since his nineteenth birthday, Tom chose to ignore the comment. He checked the time on his wristwatch: 08:36. They would be on the move soon, but he was dreading it.

“It’ll get hotter than a habanero chilli out there,” Steve said, yawning. “I sure hope that kids’ hospital got AC.”

“The kids’ hospital is a bad idea,” Tom replied, his brow furrowing.

“So why don’t Lyric drop the line-up?” he said, using the DS’s pro-word for the secretary.

“A photo op. Who knows? But it’s making me twitchy as hell, I know that much.”

The advance detail had carried out a security profile on the location of the kids’ hospital, which was basically a threat and risk assessment: what could happen and the likelihood that it would. It was a dynamic process, and the additions Tom had made since arriving a few days before had been some of the most comprehensive he’d produced in his career. But after distributing the operational orders to his team, he’d realized that half of the countermeasures that would be required if security was compromised would be down to the host Pakistanis.

“Paranoia keeps you sharp. Don’t forget that, Tom.”

“Yeah. Paranoia till stateside.”

It was the most important mindset DS special agents were taught. If any place made it a healthy disposition, it was Islamabad, Tom thought. The city attracted violence as Palm Springs attracted pensioners. He was constantly briefed on hot spots, and this one had been at the top of the list for months. But apart from his six-strong protective detail, there were eight back-up agents in the tactical support team. Part of the Mobile Security Deployment, or MSD, they travelled in armour-plated SUVs, and carried Colt 9mm sub-machine guns and Remington 870 pump-action shotguns. The drivers were experts in defensive and evasive techniques. They’d studied satellite imagery of the surrounding road network, so, if they had to evacuate the secretary at speed, they knew alternative routes back to the safety of the embassy, or the nearest hospital or police station. Still, Tom knew a hundred things could go wrong. Compromises had been made. A fleet of up-armoured Humvees shadowed by a squadron of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters would have been the ideal way to travel, but he knew that was as likely as Steve turning into the laconic type.

“A perfect record and only a week to go. It had to be here, huh.”

“That’s real helpful, Steve,” Tom said, unbuttoning his charcoal-grey suit jacket.

But he’s right, he thought. Back home, the advance detail would have been thorough. Local extremists and publicity-seeking whackos monitored. Pipe-inspection cameras poked into every cranny. Storm drains checked for explosives. The dumpsters removed. Manhole covers bolted, the public trash cans sealed. Then, on the day of her visit, scores of local P.D. would’ve been on the periphery and tried and tested counter snipers on the roofs. All vantage points covered. Discarded bottles and lumps of loose concrete removed within an appropriate radius. The Belgian Malinois bomb sniffers would’ve swept every inch.

“Corridor duty is as boring as those TV reality shows, ain’t it, Tom?” Steve said.

“Can’t argue with that.”

Tom watched Steve weaving his head in what appeared to be a figure of eight. “The hell you doing?”

“My doc said it’ll help with my headaches. Relieves neck tension.”

“Didn’t know you suffered from headaches,” Tom said, a little concerned that his friend hadn’t mentioned it to him before.

“They started a couple months back. Sometimes when I wake up at night, it feels like I’m wearing a vice.”

“Get it checked out again. You got a physical coming up.”

“Sure I will, Tom.”

A couple of seconds later, Tom coughed into his fist and gestured with his eyes. But Steve’s head was still animate. A stocky man with a weather-beaten face and short silver hair had entered the corridor from an elevator twenty metres behind Steve’s back. He carried a bundle of papers in a manila folder under his arm, and walked like an ex-military type. When the man’s footsteps became audible on the tiles, Steve stood ramrod straight. As he got closer Tom recognized him, and moved over to knock on the door before opening it.

“Thank you, son,” he said. He turned to Steve, gestured towards the clear wire spiralling down from his earpiece. “That wire attached to an iPod, Agent?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s good,” he said as he disappeared inside.

Tom closed the door, worried. He wondered if he’d missed something important in terms of the assessment. But the training his team underwent continually was based on repetition, the type that created confidence and long-term muscle memory. If an attack of whatever nature happened, be it a flung bag of flour or a multiple-armed assault, they would act instinctively, almost without conscious effort.

Steve sniffed. “The paper shuffler thinks he’s a comedian.”

“He’s a deputy director of the CIA,” Tom said, “and he ain’t here to tell Lyric a joke.”

2.

Linda Carlyle looked up as the heavy door opened, hoping her rising sense of unease didn’t show on her face. The dimly lit room was fifteen metres square, the few pieces of furniture functional rather than decorative. Sitting at an oak desk, she lifted a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses off her aquiline nose. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d been speed-reading a departmental report she’d commissioned on the near-past disputes between Iran and Pakistan; all of which had stemmed from Islam’s major schism. While Iran was ruled by Shias, Pakistan was Sunni dominated. In the nineties, they’d backed opposing sides in the Afghan Civil War, and had sponsored sectarian terrorism in each other’s major cities. Now they were on the brink of a conflict that could ignite the whole region.

“Good morning, Madam Secretary,” the deputy director said, walking towards her, his hand massaging the folded skin at his neck.

“You’re not harassing my boys, are you, Bill?”

“Sometimes I forget I swopped fatigues for a suit.”

Forcing a smile, she said, “Take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

Deputy Director Bill Houseman, who had travelled to Islamabad with the secretary, together with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Under-Secretary of Defense, sat in a padded chair two metres from the desk and crossed his muscular legs.

Linda closed the marble-coloured lever arch file and tapped a remote. The room lit up. “So let’s have it,” she said, switching off the antenna-like arc lamp she’d been reading under.

“The switchboard operator just got a call. I think we should ask the head of your security detail to join us.”

“I’d like to hear what you have to say first. Please continue.”

“A threat has been made.” He clenched his teeth.

“I see.”

“The caller said the Leopards of Islam would ensure that the US Secretary of State never leaves Pakistan soil. We’re putting it down to a random individual. Low-level risk assessment.”

“And why’s that?”

Houseman cleared his throat, putting his hand to his mouth. “Because as a rule, the Leopards don’t make threats before an attack, ma’am.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better,” she said, shaking her head. “And the current situation here?”

“The Leopards are launching fresh attacks in Karachi, Bahawalpur, Lahore. The list goes on. There’ve been three bomb attacks in Islamabad in the past twelve days.”

“Is civil war on the cards?” she asked, fearing the worst.

“We have reports that Shia elements of the army are joining the insurgency, so it’s a possibility.”

“And the Leopards are definitely backed by Iran?”

Houseman nodded. “No question. But the Sunnis brought it on themselves. The atrocities against the Shia minority were bound to result in an armed response.”

“How serious is the Iranian threat?”

Houseman drew in an audible breath through his nose and shuffled his buttocks a fraction. “Satellite images and drone feeds show that Iranian Special Forces have already made incursions across the border. And there are three divisions of the Revolutionary Guard massed just four miles from the largest of Pakistan’s five provinces–”

“Balochistan.”

“That’s right. Our analysts believe that Iran is planning to occupy the port of Gwadar and help themselves to the huge resources of natural gas in the province if Pakistan becomes a failed state.”

“They’re hoping to take advantage of the chaos,” Linda said, leaning back in her chair and arching her fingers.

“They are, ma’am. But if the Iranians come over the southern border in force, the Pakistanis, despite their internal problems, are likely to go to war. They regard the Iranians as apostates.”

“It’s a mess.” She massaged her temples with her thumbs and forefingers.

“My view is we back Pakistan with muscle and–”

“That’s a decision for Congress.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Houseman said, nodding.

“Thank you, Bill. Send the agent in, will you? The tall one with the buzz cut.”

Houseman got up, said, “May I speak freely?”

“You may.”

“Don’t go to the children’s hospital this morning. Frankly, I don’t think it’s worth the risk; however small.”

He has a point, she thought.

Pakistan had been a Frenemy for years. But the new Prime Minister had requested her visit to discuss the possibility of the US taking temporary possession of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal if matters got worse. Although they’d been distributed over the country for security reasons, they’d been brought back to Islamabad in recent weeks. They were safe for now. But if the Pakistanis refused to allow them into US custody, her brief also extended to ensuring that the likelihood of them being used if the Iranians came over the border in force was zero.

This, she had to admit, was the real reason for her visit. Houseman knows that, too, she thought, which is why he’s advising against the trip to the hospital.

But, she said, “The president wants to show solidarity with the new regime on the issue of opposition to extremist acts of terrorism, if nothing else. Those children are their victims. I will ensure that the head of my security detail speaks with your people before we leave. Is there anything else, Bill?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, barely able to conceal his concern.

Tom saw the door open. The deputy director came out, scowling.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Tom asked.

“Just peachy.” He gestured behind him. “The secretary would like to see you.”

He put the folder under his arm and straightened his tie before strolling off towards the elevator, taking a call on his cellphone after a few steps.

Tom moved through the door left ajar and saw the secretary standing in front of the desk, a neat, navy-blue box in her hand. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was tied back with a flesh-coloured scarf. The scarf was a concession. Flowing hair was easily grabbed. Curtailing the possibility of that kind of embarrassing incident just meant one less thing to worry about. She also wore a ballistic pantsuit, as he’d asked her to, together with her specially made jewellery, a gold pendant shaped like a pear and a heavy emerald ring. The pantsuit was a pale hue of cameral. Soft body armour that could withstand a round from a handgun. The impact of the bullet was eradicated by a net of multilayered woven fabrics, which dispersed the energy over an extended area. Pure physics. He’d seen videos of Americans down in Columbia being shot at in their ballistic suits from close quarters. Something he wasn’t about to divulge. It was useless against a round fired by a high-velocity rifle.

She smiled and stepped forward holding out the blue box. “I’d like you to have this.” She handed it to him.

Tom opened the box. Inside was an expensive silver watch, an Omega with a large face studded with diamonds.

“I’ve had it engraved,” she said.

Tom took it out, turned it over. He read the inscription: To Tom with heartfelt gratitude. Linda G. Carlyle. US Secretary of State.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her gift.

“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“It’s been an honour, ma’am. But I still have a week before I leave the detail.”

“I know. I just wanted to give it you today… Oh, and I should tell you that a threat has been made,” she said, clearly doing her best to sound mundane.

“A threat. Why wasn’t I briefed?” he asked, his jaw muscles flexing.

“It’s not serious. An anonymous phone call to the embassy just a minute ago. The CIA will brief you before we leave this morning.”

“I’d like you to reconsider your visit to the hospital, ma’am.”

The faint lines on her forehead deepened. “The president gets ten threats a day. He got fifty on the morning of his inauguration. Where would we be if we succumbed to them all? Ensconced in a bunker at Fort Bragg, I imagine.”

“But, ma’am—”

“No, Tom. My mind is made up.”

He looked down at the watch. “This is very generous.”

“Don’t ask what the G stands for. I never use it, and no one knows apart from my parents. Don’t ask about my birth certificate, either.” She feigned a laugh.

His head snapped back up. “I’ll get you safely home, ma’am,” he said. “I promise.”

“Yes, you will.”

3.

Tom sat in the front passenger seat of the third MSD SUV, feeling agitated. The convoy was doing a steady sixty-five along the eight-lane highway leading from the embassy, police outriders front and rear. They were ten minutes behind schedule. The secretary had had to take an urgent call from the president on a secure landline. Sitting directly behind Tom, the safest place from a protective viewpoint, she discussed the speech she’d give to the army generals at Parliament House right after her visit to the hospital. The speech writer had a retro moustache and a servile tone, a skinny guy whom Tom considered a hindrance.

After they’d agreed on the final changes, the secretary said, “The president wants the visit to the hospital cut to twenty minutes tops.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom replied.

“That means no press questions.”

“Understood.”

“He mentioned the threat.”

Tom turned around in his seat. “If the agreed procedure is followed, your exposure will be minimal, ma’am.”

She nodded, slowly.

Tom double-checked that her seat belt was fastened securely, that the doors were locked and the windows closed. He ran through the various evacuation scenarios, depending on the nature of the attack and which vehicles might be taken out. She’d be plunged into the footwell. The driver would employ a full bootlegger’s turn or resort to ramming. They played out like video games in his head, priming him for a potential en-route ambush.

Next, he tested his push-to-talk, or PTT, radio. The PTT button was inline and ran between the radio connection and the earpiece. It could be used either via the button or as a voice-activated unit, providing a handsfree facility. The destinations they’d be travelling to today had codenames. The hospital’s codename was Cradle. He used them to communicate with his team, checking their radios were functioning in the process. Satisfied, he focused on the pre-planned arrival procedure. He’d alight first, opening the passenger door. The agents in the vehicle behind would form an open-box formation around her as she entered the building.

Check.

The Faisal Children’s Hospital was a few miles from the Saudi-Pak Tower, a contemporary landmark known for its Islamic tile work. Nineteen floors high, the tower was visible from the tinted windows of the SUV. Tom worried that the hospital was outside the so-called Blue Area, the commercial centre of Islamabad. Together with a couple of his team, he’d walked the route the day before, liaising with a group of ISI operatives, the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, the main Pakistan security service.

The lead operative had been called Awan. He was a beefy six-footer with leathery skin, who wore a sombre suit and black necktie.

“The road has been checked for IEDs. The hospital is clean, at least in terms of bombs,” he said, his wide face breaking into a crooked grin.

“What about all these people?” Tom asked.

“This isn’t the West. If they do not work, they do not eat.”

The street and those surrounding it lacked the Blue Area’s greenery and modern architecture. The hospital abutted run-down buildings on either side. Brick-built retail stores with whitewashed residential accommodation above. Opposite, bland concrete apartment and office blocks rose three storeys to flat roofs. They cast an unbroken shadow over a line of flimsy stalls, selling reams of brightly coloured cloth, second-hand cellphones, fruit and vegetables and halal meat on hooks.

“I don’t like it,” Tom said.

“Then tell her not to come,” Awan replied, shrugging.

Ignoring him, Tom said, “Your men ready for tomorrow?”

“As I told you on the phone, apart from yourselves, ten armed operatives will mix with the crowd. There will be fifty-two policemen. On the roofs, a team of snipers.” He pointed up to the sky. “And a police helicopter with elite commandos onboard.”

“Have the hospital staff been screened?”

“They were screened when they were employed. They’re all well-educated Punjabis. Our problems come from frontier hills people. Shia illiterates.”

Tom pinched his nose. “The main exposure is when the secretary leaves. A two-minute delay while she does her goodbyes to the official line-up,” he said, knowing that a couple of Grey Eagle drones would be monitoring the scene from above.

“Everything will be okay, Mr Dupree.”

Tom had wished he could’ve believed him.

He stood half a metre behind the secretary now, just to the right of her shoulder, his sense of unease unabated. The walls of the hospital ward were painted an insipid yellow. It was cramped with twenty small beds a fraction more than a body-width apart. If it had AC, it had been turned off. The competing smells of disinfectant and stale sweat were equally pungent. He figured the authorities were intent on making the experience both unpleasant and memorable.

A bearded doctor, with black bags hanging in folds like a bloodhound’s, explained to the secretary in detail the nature of each of the children’s injuries and what could and could not be done. Tom thought he looked like a coke addict, or a guy who drank a bottle of Jack a day, but put his jaded appearance down to a dedicated man who didn’t sleep much. He watched the secretary listen attentively, and speak with each child in turn via a government interpreter before moving sullenly to the last bed.

The undefined nature of the threat had left Tom feeling even more paranoid than he would’ve been normally in such circumstances. Beside the bed, a young female nurse with exquisite feline-like eyes, and a mouth so naturally generous that no amount of collagen could replicate it, checked a saline drip. Tom slid over to her and eased a ballpoint pen from her hip pocket stealthily, placing it onto a window sill just out of her reach. Two separate attempts on the life of President Ford had been by women who’d looked like grade-school teachers, and a pen was as deadly as a stiletto. His antennae were up.

“The Leopards have no regard for human life,” the doctor said. “Young or old. No matter.”

The bed was occupied by a small boy who was almost completely cocooned in bandages. With his wide-eyed stare and lack of visible skin, he resembled a fragile hybrid. The secretary bent over the bed and said a few words. As she went to touch him the doctor spoke.

“Please no. Ninety per cent burns.” He shook his head to emphasize that death was certain.

The secretary lowered her hand, looked close to tears but managed a closed-mouth smile. Tom fought the urge to wince.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but we’re due at Parliament House in thirty minutes,” a female aide said, bending towards the secretary.

Her thick red hair accentuated the paleness of her skin. She looked like a size zero, and what little make-up she wore had been applied with calligraphic precision.

“I visited a hospital just like this one in Iraq eight years ago,” the secretary said to her quietly, without turning around. “The only difference being the bombs were ours. But the children looked just the same. This can be an ugly world, Miss Hanson; please don’t add to the negativity with insensitive remarks.”

Tom glanced at the aide. She was flushed with embarrassment, her beauty suddenly diminished.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry, the TV cameras won’t pick that up,” the secretary replied, turning towards three news teams.

One was local, SAMAA TV, the other two from the States. There were half a dozen more in the corridor. Apart from the local crew, the teams had drawn lots. There just wasn’t enough room on the ward.

The secretary shook the doctor’s hand, thanking him and praising his work. She waved to the nurses and children, some of whom smiled and waved back, while others just carried on looking vaguely bemused. Tom retained his position, readying himself for the obstacle course that would no doubt occur in the corridors leading to the hospital lobby.

Once that had been overcome, she would shake hands with the security-vetted group and give a short statement to the news hounds. He would call up the tactical support team and usher her inside an SUV fitted with run-flat tyres. The windshields were made of glass-clad polycarbonate, which were both bullet-resistant and prevented glass fragments from showering inward. But the windows were constructed from layers of a laminated material known as one-way bulletproof glass. This prevented rounds from entering the vehicle, while at the same time allowing agents to fire out of it, as the unique combination of absorptive and flexible qualities of the layers responded accordingly. It was as safe a civilian vehicle as science could create.

But it was best practice to have the SUVs close to the exit point, parallel, in fact. In this instance they would block the view for the TV crews and the crowds, and Tom now knew that the secretary’s visit was essentially a PR exercise, despite her sincerity. He told himself it would be fine.

That done, he would breathe easily for a second or two before the whole routine would begin again.

This, at least, was his plan.

4

The lobby led to an incongruous-looking, clear-glass frontage set back about three metres from the narrow sidewalk. The excitable crowds were being held at bay by skinny, moustachioed policemen, wielding long wooden batons. Tom would’ve given a year’s pay just to have had them all swept by portable body scanners before they’d gotten within a hundred metres of the secretary. Regular procedure stateside.

But he consoled himself by thinking that the plan was simple, and in his experience simple was best. The police would create a secure funnel, which the secretary would move down to be met by the lead MSD SUV parked twenty metres to the right, flanked by police outriders. The protective detail would walk around her. If there was a hint of trouble, they’d form the closed-box formation, so that she’d be covered by their bodies for a full three hundred and sixty degrees, each agent within half an arm’s reach of her.

He stuck a couple of fingers inside his stiff collar, wishing he could loosen his dark-blue necktie. He put on mirrored shades. It was stifling, just as Steve had said it would be, even though it was only 10:13. He was to Tom’s right, his face glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. They exchanged tight nods.

Still positioned behind her right shoulder, he kept his head up. The secretary stepped back after brief contact, as he’d taught her to do, and moved steadily from hospital staff to well-wishing local dignitary. A second agent walked further down the line-up, while a third was shadowing her movement from behind it, watching for a drawn-back fist or leg, or worse. The split-second advantage could be crucial.

Seeing a rotund man in a blue pinstripe with his hand in his jacket pocket, Tom leaned towards him. “Excuse me, sir. Please remove your hand from your pocket.” He could speak good Urdu, but knew the majority of educated Pakistanis spoke fluent English.

The man looked bewildered, but removed it just the same.

“Thank you, sir,” Tom said.

He scanned those nearby looking for pre-attack indicators. Most were subtle movements, but they could be exaggerated. He knew that it didn’t matter if someone was smiling like a Baptist preacher, the average assailant exhibited at least one before an assault. A shifting body, rapid shallow breathing, trembling hands or dilating pupils. Traits brought about when the adrenal glands produced an adrenalin dump.

He stayed close to the line. The key distance was seven metres. Anything inside that and a trained operative had a chance to stop a person drawing a concealed handgun and discharging it; anything outside and the chances were they would get off a round. It didn’t matter how good a person was told or thought they were; it was a fact.

He was aware of everything around him. The details that most people missed or weren’t interested in even if they didn’t. If there was a security lapse, he’d have to manage the natural adrenalin surge that would happen in his own body. Primed meant being one step from a reaction rather than three. It meant avoiding being paralyzed by a sensory overload, or panicking, as the body was swamped by hormones. It meant learning to run at a person who had pulled out a twelve-gauge shotgun rather than heading in the other direction.

Mentally, he saw someone lurch at the secretary, a knife in hand. Stepping forward, he used his body as cover for hers. He stretched out his left hand to grab her arm, and manoeuvred her behind him, holding her back to his. Simultaneously, he quick-drew his SIG, pointing. Aggressive words and actions were generally enough to subdue an assailant. But if he saw a handgun, he’d propel into the gap, and swing her to the ground behind his legs, as he fired into the centre of the assailant’s chest. His team would bolt over, shielding her entirely in the tepee-shaped formation.

Check.

Ten seconds later, he was drawn to a woman in the front row. She was large-boned, a sweep of shiny black hair protruding from her dupatta headscarf. She wore a canary-yellow Shalwar Kameez, and was holding a bunch of pink roses. But he was drawn to her because the flowers were vibrating, just enough to mark her out. She didn’t strike him as a shy individual, so he eased the secretary on before the woman could present them.

Something’s not right, he thought. He couldn’t work it out at first. Then it hit him. A distraction, perhaps. With that, a commotion started in his peripheral vision; to his left. He turned. Four young men had broken free from the crowd and had overpowered Sam Eddy. He was a thick-necked ex-DEA agent. The type that didn’t go down easily. But he was on his back now, his jaw slack, taking a vicious kicking.

Tom felt the urge to go to his aid. But the secretary was in front of him, and his first duty was to her. Besides, it was a rule that one attack tended to be followed by another, and there was no counter-ambush team on hand. He spoke briefly into his mic, part of the restricted radio network linked to the temporary command centre. Two agents dashed to Sam’s aid, quickly followed by a dozen or more policemen who’d taken the initiative.

As he drew the secretary behind his back the woman with the flowers rushed forward and flung them into his face from the side. He parried most of them away with his free hand, but a thorn scratched his forehead, drawing blood. Half squinting, he glimpsed a muscular guy push through the crowd. The man threw a straight right, baring his teeth like a primate. Tom just managed to block the full force with his forearm, the fist grazing over his temple.

Before he had a chance to follow it up, Tom leant forward and ploughed his elbow into the man’s cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to fracture the bone, but he needed to disable him fast. As the man’s head jerked sideways Tom applied an arm lock, slid his right leg behind the front ankle, and struck him just under the throat with his palm, his fingers and thumb split in a V-shape. The man had no option but to fall over Tom’s extended thigh.

As fellow agents took hold of the secretary and bundled her away, Tom decided to keep the lock on. He grasped the man’s shirt, and lowered the body to the asphalt. Experiencing a hit of hormones, he heard gasps and half-muffled cursing, sensed the crowd moving back. The attackers had targeted him, not the secretary, and that had almost caught him off guard.

“Stay down!” he snarled.

Although the man was barely conscious, Tom didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with him again, and he wasn’t carrying cuffs. But the agent shadowing the secretary burst through the line-up, and grabbed the guy in a headlock.

Straightening up, Tom caught sight of the female slinking away, although people were pointing at her and calling out. Before he could get the police to arrest her, the agitated words of agents flooded his earpiece. The secretary, he thought, grimacing. He pivoted around. Two of his team, Dave Robbins and Becky Sykes, were jogging with her, Becky holding her elbow, Dave shielding her lithe but awkward frame. She was wobbling on her high heels, and Tom barked into his radio, told them to remove the damn things or lift her.

Seeing that the MSD team had alighted from the SUVs parked on the dusty roadway, he glanced back to see how Sam was faring. The male agents had restrained a couple of the young men, pinning them to the ground with their suited bulks, although their weapons were still holstered. Sam lay face up and looked to be in bad shape. A pool of dull-red blood had formed around his head, the consistency of mucus. The policemen were beating the other two men with their batons. If they kept it up, they’d either kill them or cause brain damage, Tom thought.

He turned, saw that the secretary had almost reached the nearest SUV. It couldn’t drive up to her due to the fracas on the road. But the MSD agents had surrounded her with their body-armoured chests and backs, their weapons sweeping the crowd and the roofs of the surrounding buildings for any sign of a shooter. Evacuation was the best defence. He knew they’d manoeuvre her swiftly into the rear vehicle and exit at speed.

He had a gut feeling and decided to stay put. A sixth sense that had developed over the years. He checked the windows opposite, the tattered drapes half drawn. After a three-second scan, he saw what looked like the muzzle of an assault rifle disappear from view, although he couldn’t be sure. He shouted into the radio and drew his SIG, releasing the safety. Two MSD agents raced towards the building’s entrance, shoving people out of the way as they went.

He aimed his SIG at the window, deciding that if the image re-emerged he’d empty a full clip into the dirt-stained glass, irrespective of the outcome.

Then his worst nightmare began.