Sandri Khan drove Tom in the Mazda past Hasni’s house. He parked up beside a row of kachnar trees, their dense foliage minimizing the glare from the highway’s LED streetlights. Hasni’s house was on the other side, forty metres back, the front entrance illuminated by powerful floodlights. It was relatively isolated; the length of a football pitch from the nearest building. A twenty-storey, apex-roofed skyscraper jutting up from a pink-slab plaza. Tom told Khan to wait in the car, leaving the bugs in the bag. He’d do an initial recon first, without any incriminatory evidence if the worst happened. Khan just shook his head. But Tom had guarded buildings for years. If this one had a soft spot, he’d find it. He wouldn’t even have to scale the wall around the garden. The bugs’ robust design meant they could withstand a drop of twenty metres onto a hard surface and were pliable enough to remain operational after being run over by a family car. But he still needed a soft spot from which to launch the bugs into position.
Getting no more than a few metres down the sidewalk, he saw a white Rolls-Royce pull into the driveway leading to Hasni’s home, small Saudi flags hanging limp above the hood, diplomatic plates front and rear. The car stopped and an armed guard ducked down to the front window. A few seconds later, the gate opened and the car moved forward.
In his experience, the rears of buildings were always less well protected than the façades. He hoped this one wouldn’t be any different. He’d look out for gaps in security cameras. A patch of dark, or an overhanging tree. An area not protected by static guards, or outside their line of vision. Potential cover created by bushes or long grass. A back door not fitted with a video entry system. A window covered by shutters or hinged grilles. Anything that would allow him to toss the spy camera over the wall and into the garden undetected.
As he jogged across the street, he darted left, following the dark flank of the walled house from a suitable distance. But as he closed the gap to about fifteen metres, the whole area was lit up by floodlights. Shielding his eyes from the white light, he made out a bunker half sunk into the ground in front of the wall, the muzzle of a heavy machine gun sticking out of it. Knowing he had set off an invisible microwave beam, or a passive infrared variety, the modern equivalents of a tripwire, he stepped back. A second later, he heard a dog barking and the sound of pounding boots behind him.
Turning, he saw two guards in dark-blue combat fatigues emerge from the shadows. They both wore ball caps, emblazoned with the No Fear logo, a favourite of Pakistani elite forces. One of them was looking at him through the iron sights of a sub-machine gun; the other holding onto a black-and-tan Doberman that was already on its hind legs, straining at the leash. As it snarled white froth oozed from the sides of its mouth. Tom was ordered to raise his hands and stand still. As the one without the dog got to him he drew back his sub-machine gun, threatening to thrust the butt into his face. Tom winced involuntarily. But he wasn’t hit. Instead, the guard shouldered his weapon and frisked him brusquely. Satisfied, he gestured with a flick of his head that Tom should move. Passing in front of him, his hands still raised, Tom was kicked hard in the left buttock with the guard’s heavy boot. The crude message was clear enough: keep moving or else.
Feeling humiliated, Tom was led towards the front of the house, the guard with the dog bearing off halfway down. He figured he was checking to see if he’d been alone. About ten metres from the gate, he counted the steps behind him from a given point. The guard was less than half a metre away. Swiftly, he returned the kick, as he thrust back with his right leg, catching the guard in the lower stomach with his heel. The man groaned as Tom twisted around. As the guard raised his head, Tom struck him under his jaw with his open palm. He’d not hit him hard enough to break his neck, but the blow had rendered him unconscious.
He heard the dog barking again. He decided that if he grabbed the man’s gun, he would evoke a shoot to kill response, so he opted for a less obvious choice of weapon. Tom unhooked a pair of metal cuffs from the man’s belt, a makeshift knuckleduster, and straightened up. As the guards on the gate began shouting out, he darted for the shadow, quickening his pace as he saw the street. He began to sprint. The barking got louder. He figured the brute had been unleashed. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw it bounding up to him. If he kept running, it could catch him, pin him to the ground and take a chunk out of his neck.
Tom stopped and turned. As the dog got within range he saw it launch into the air. He flung himself to the right, the dog passing a few centimetres from his shoulder. Pivoting around, Tom saw that it had landed badly, its front legs twisting. He bunched his right-hand fingers around the bottom half of the cuffs and, as the dog struggled to reverse, he bent over and yanked up one of its hind legs, immobilizing it. He used the makeshift knuckleduster to hammer it into submission, pummelling its ribs as it twisted its head, desperate to get a hold on him. After the fifth punch, it made an agonizing sound, its hard body going limp. Tom dropped the leg and ran towards the street, a couple of rounds whizzing through the air about him. He guessed that the guards were firing randomly in his general direction, since the men he’d seen lacked the benefit of night vision, and he was still shrouded in darkness.
As he got to the street, he heard the Mazda’s engine revving, and noticed that the front passenger door was open. Before ducking in, he saw powerful lights scanning the grass where he’d felled the dog. Other guards were shouting and running about, as a monotonous, high-pitched Klaxon alarm system started up. He knew Khan was right. It was impenetrable, at least without a company of Screaming Eagles parachuting down inside the walls to back him up. He banged the door shut.
“Are you satisfied now?” Khan asked.
Tom nodded, crestfallen. He turned around and saw that a couple of the guards had all but reached the sidewalk. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”