Proudlock stood up and left the room to make some calls. Then Mullins dug out a laptop and a tablet from a rucksack on the chair next to him. He flipped open the laptop, tapped a bunch of keys, and Carter saw a window expand on the screen displaying a satellite map of north-eastern Afghanistan. The rebel pocket. A wedge of land on Tajikistan’s southern border, bounded by a range of snow-capped mountain ranges to the east. To the west, a wide river demarcated the border with Uzbekistan. Kabul was three hundred kilometres further south. Barren desert, mixed in with steep valleys, narrow rivers and grazing lands. A lot of territory. A lot of empty space.
Sparsely populated.
Scattered villages and farms.
Mullins pointed to a spot in southern Uzbekistan, five kilometres north of the border with Afghanistan. He said, ‘You’ll land here, in Termez. Our guide will RV with you at the airport and escort you across the border checkpoint east of the city.’
Carter said, ‘Who’s the guide?’
‘An Afghan national. Former district police officer. One of the guys who got out of the country in time. One of the lucky ones.’
‘Why not get Sharza to meet me in Uzbekistan instead?’
‘Out of the question. Sharza is a wanted man, on account of the rat runs he’s been organising. The Taliban have been searching everywhere for him. If he crosses the border, there’s a chance he might be recognised.’
‘Is this guide reliable?’
‘He’s legit,’ said Ortega. ‘He knows the borderlands as well as anyone. Don’t sweat it.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Carter growled. ‘You’re not the one risking your balls in the Taliban’s backyard.’
‘You don’t trust us?’
‘I don’t trust anyone, mate. Force of habit.’
Ortega gave him a flinty look. ‘If you have a problem, bud, why don’t you just come out and say it?’
‘I’m not looking for an argument,’ Carter replied, meeting his gaze. ‘I just want to make sure I’m not going in half-cocked.’
Mullins raised his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘The guide is clean,’ he said. ‘He checks out. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I give you my word on that, chief. One warrior to another.’
‘That’s all I wanted to know.’
‘Let’s move on.’ Mullins pointed to the screen, indicating the border between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. ‘Once you’ve RV’d with the guide, you’ll head straight down to the border and cross the friendship bridge into Afghanistan.’
‘What’s my cover story?’
‘You’re an administrator working for an international NGO in the medical assistance sector. There are several such organisations operating inside Afghanistan at this minute, running various programmes. You’re going in to oversee one of the projects, to make sure the money is being spent appropriately.’
‘Will the guards buy it?’
‘No reason they wouldn’t,’ Ortega said.
Mullins said, ‘The Taliban are desperate for outside help right now. They’re facing a humanitarian catastrophe. Massive food shortages, an energy crisis, skyrocketing inflation.’
‘Sounds just like Britain, mate.’
Mullins half smiled. ‘Point is, the Taliban can’t afford to turn away the NGOs. Not if they want to avoid mass civil unrest. We’ve run this set-up multiple times for guys on reconnaissance patrols. We know how to get you inside.’
‘What about documentation?’
‘The guide will supply everything you need. He’ll be driving a vehicle with the NGO branding. In addition, we’ve updated the relevant website so that your name is listed on the staff page.’
Ortega said, ‘You’ll be travelling into Afghanistan under your real name, of course. Simpler that way.’
Mullins said, ‘Apart from ourselves and our two other American friends, no one else is aware of your connection to the Mali incident. Certainly no one outside of the SAS. There’s a Whitehall blackout on any photographs or mentions of your name online, as I’m sure you are aware. So we don’t see any problem with you entering the country under your own name. The chances of anyone recognising you are non-existent.’
Ortega looked Carter up and down and said, ‘You’ll need fresh threads. Something more appropriate for the job. You’ll find bags of clothes on the jet.’
‘What about survival kit?’ Carter asked.
‘All of that stuff is on the plane. Take whatever you need.’
Mullins worked the touchpad, sliding the map view to the east. Then he un-pinched his finger and thumb and zoomed in on the northernmost part of Afghanistan. Carter waited for the map to catch up and refresh, adding definition to the surrounding terrain. He saw a series of narrow defiles, mountains and dried-out riverbeds scored into a parched landscape pocked with slivers of greenery.
Mullins pointed to a location fifty kilometres due south of the Tajikistani border.
‘This is Khordokan,’ he said. ‘It’s three hundred and fifty kilometres from the Uzbek border. A four-hour drive from Termez. Maybe longer. Depends on the state of the roads. You’ll meet with Sharza at a designated road junction across the border from Uzbekistan and continue your journey to a safe house. Once you’ve linked up, the guide will head back to Uzbekistan.’
Carter rubbed his brow and considered. ‘I’ll need supplies in-country. Weaponry, for starters. I’m not tooling around them parts without some proper hardware.’
‘Sharza will source firepower from his contacts in the area. Whatever he can get his hands on. Which could mean pretty much anything these days – M4s, grenades, Russian pistols, RPGs. You’ll have to make do.’
‘I don’t give a toss where the stuff comes from,’ Carter said. ‘As long as it shoots in a straight line.’
He studied the map with his professional soldier’s eye. His brain was working overtime, looking at the bigger picture. Assessing potential obstacles, rehearsing scenarios. A few hours from now, he would be on his way to Uzbekistan, and there would be no turning back. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
‘We’ll need money,’ he said. ‘Emergency cash. To buy supplies, or extra fuel, or horses if we need them. Some of them villages in that province are inaccessible by road.’
Ortega said, ‘The guide in Uzbekistan will issue you with gold coins. Enough to pay for any situation you might find yourself in.’
‘I’ll try to keep the receipts.’
Mullins threw back his head and laughed. Even Ortega broke into a slight smile. A once-in-a-millennium event. Like a rare alignment of the planets in the solar system.
A few minutes later Proudlock walked back into the room. He parked himself on the edge of the table while Carter turned his attention to the satellite map.
He looked at the insertion point on the border between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan, and the major roads leading east towards Khordokan.
He said, ‘That route will take us right through Taliban-controlled land. What’s the plan for getting through?’
Ortega said, ‘Your interpreter will know how to avoid the major checkpoints in the cities. If you stick to the back roads and keep a low profile, you should be OK.’
Mullins said, ‘The Taliban have got their hands full right now. They’re facing civil unrest, famine, the growing threat from ISIS-K, fighting with rival warlords, defections to the rebels and the resurgence of al-Qaeda. They’ve got Islamic militants trying to sneak into the country to carry out attacks. They won’t be overly worried about an aid worker and his interpreter tooling across the country.’
‘Plus,’ said Ortega, ‘there’s the PR angle.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘There are nine billion dollars in frozen assets belonging to Afghanistan. The Taliban want it unlocked. Best way to achieve that, they figure, is to go on a charm offensive. That means no terrorist training camps, no hostage-taking, no videos circulating of Western workers getting a neck shave with a machete.’
Carter laughed cynically. ‘I can’t imagine anyone falling for that shite. Only an idiot would think the Taliban are all nice and cuddly now.’
‘Agreed,’ said Mullins. ‘Needless to say, that policy has resulted in a major fracturing within the Taliban’s ranks. Some of them have started taking hostages for ransom. Others are opposed to the practice. Depends on who you run into, and where.’
‘What if we hit trouble?’
‘Then your best bet is to stay quiet, keep your head down and let Sharza do the talking. This is his home turf. Anyone starts asking questions, he’ll deal with them.’
‘If all else fails, you’ll have to bribe them,’ Proudlock put in. ‘Buy them off with gold.’ He smiled cynically. ‘The Taliban like to pretend that they’re above corruption, of course, but that’s purely for public consumption. They’re as corrupt and venal as anyone else in that godforsaken place.’
‘I’ll need backup,’ Carter said. ‘If this shit goes noisy, I’m going to be hanging out of my arse out there.’
Mullins didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he reached into his rucksack again and retrieved a bulky satphone with a backlit display above a twelve-button keypad, housed in a rugged casing. An extendable black aerial as thick as a cigar tube jutted out of the top-left corner.
‘Military-grade satphone,’ Mullins explained. ‘Encrypted on voice, which means you can talk plainly without having to worry about anyone trying to hack into it. There’s a number stored in the memory. Call it and you’ll be patched through to the ops team at Langley. If you find yourself in a situation where you need firepower or immediate extraction, reach out to us. We can get a hellfire on target or a helicopter dispatched to your location asap.’
He handed over the satphone and looked steadily at Carter.
‘Whatever happens, do not lose this phone,’ he continued soberly. ‘That clear, chief? Your life may depend on it.’
‘Did you give Vann the same speech?’ Carter replied drily. ‘Because if you did, it looks like he wasn’t paying attention.’
Mullins’s expression hardened. ‘I’m deadly serious. This phone is your only link to the outside world. If you get into trouble out there, and you can’t contact us, we’ve got no way of pulling you from the fire.’
Carter set down the phone and said, ‘What happens once I find Vann? Assuming this all goes to plan?’
‘Call us on that number on the satphone. We’ll want to speak to him. Find out what’s been going on. Then we’ll figure out what to do.’
‘Are you going to extract him?’
‘Depends,’ said Ortega.
‘On what?’
‘Whether your buddy has got anything to hide.’
Carter shook his head. ‘You’ve got it wrong, mate. Dave wouldn’t have gone underground without a good reason. Whatever happened, he’ll have an explanation.’
Ortega smirked. ‘We’ll see.’
*
They spent another hour poring over the details of the plan. Times, locations, distances. Emergency extraction points. Routes in and out of the country. They showed Carter a photo of the Afghan guide, the ex-police officer, so he’d know who to look for when he touched down in Uzbekistan. When they had finished, Mullins and Ortega walked him through it all a second time. Committing the plan to memory, so that Carter understood every nook and cranny of it.
The less glamorous side of warfare, maybe. But just as important as the ability to drop a target or kick down a door.
Proudlock paced restlessly up and down the room, fielding calls and occasionally frowning at his watch. At around three o’clock, he stepped out of the room again.
Carter gulped down a second mug of bitter coffee, rubbed his tired eyes and refocused on the maps. Roadheads, rivers, villages. He wasn’t trying to commit it all to memory, but he wanted to build up a solid picture of the environment. Three years had passed since he’d last set foot on Afghan soil. He was a little fuzzy on some of the details.
Some time later, Proudlock marched back in.
‘There’s a car on the way,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Should be here in twenty minutes. The driver is one of our UKNs. He’ll ferry you directly to the airport across town. Police escort to help clear the route. There’s a private jet waiting for you on the runway, courtesy of our friends at Langley. Wheels in the air at five o’clock sharp.’
‘What’s the itinerary?’
‘You’ll hop up to Charleston and refuel. Then a second leg to London. From there you’ll fly direct to Termez in southern Uzbekistan. Total journey time of around twenty-one hours. Arrival time in Uzbekistan is approximately ten thirty in the morning, local time. Tomorrow.’
‘You might want to get some ice on that once you’re airborne.’ Mullins smirked and nodded at Carter’s puffy right hand. ‘That is one nasty bruise, chief.’
‘You should see the other bloke.’
That drew a withering look from Proudlock. ‘I wouldn’t brag about that if I were you, chum. Your career is hanging by a thread here.’
‘Story of the last year of my life, mate.’
Mullins said, ‘Before I forget. There’s a Company laptop on the jet. Rigged up to the on-board Wi-Fi. Give you a chance to study the search area in more detail before you land.’
They spent the last ten minutes talking through the plan one more time, making sure there were no grey areas. Then Proudlock left the room to draft a secure message to Vauxhall Bridge with the embassy communicator, updating them on the situation.
At 4.15, the same round-faced redhead Carter had seen at the Vargas family barbecue several hours ago knocked on the door and announced that his ride had arrived.
There was no big farewell. Mullins shook his hand and told him they’d grab a beer once he was back on friendly soil. He reminded Carter again not to lose sight of his satphone. Ortega nodded tersely.
Then Carter grabbed his holdall and followed the redhead out of the conference room.
He didn’t see Langton or Treadwell on his way out of the building. Too busy sorting out his replacement for the training package, probably. They would be in contact with Hereford, urging them to send out a new body to run the course. Putting in grovelling calls to General Vargas, telling him how much they valued his friendship.
Well, fuck them. The Vargas kid is someone else’s problem now.
I’ve rotted here for long enough.
He had been given that rarest of gifts in life.
A second chance.
Redemption.
After months of putting up with crap postings and Hereford bullshit, Carter had an opportunity to get back in the game. Back to doing what he did best. Proper soldiering.
Carter was a killer. He’d been good at it, had dedicated himself to his profession with a single-minded intensity that few could match. After the Bamako siege, the Regiment had tried to take away the only thing Carter had going for him.
For a while, he’d lost his purpose. Now he had a chance to salvage his career. And he was determined not to lose.
*
It was still dark when he stepped outside. Four fifteen in the morning. Rubbish tumbleweeded across the main road. The only signs of life were the lights blazing in the windows of distant apartment blocks.
A trio of vehicles waited for him in front of the building. At the rear was a BMW X7 in pistol grey, with heavily tinted side windows and a front grille the size of an electric gate. Two green-and-white liveried Dodge Chargers were parked up in front of the wagon. Engines purring, headlamps burning, roof lights flashing in alternating red and blue bursts. The police escort. The road-clearance team. At this hour Carter doubted they would get snarled in traffic. But you never knew. He’d been gridlocked in some pretty strange places.
As soon as he exited the building, the BMW driver hopped out and circled round to the rear of the vehicle. He was a European-looking guy. Pale and dull-eyed, with a long papery face surmounted by a widow’s peak of grey hair. Probably an expat. Someone with a background in law enforcement or intelligence who had settled down in Chile and now saw out their retirement running errands for Six. Out of loyalty, presumably, or some misguided sense of patriotic duty. They certainly weren’t doing it for the take-home pay.
Carter stowed his holdall in the boot, then hooked round to the passenger-side door and climbed into the back seat. The driver with the widow’s peak slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine. Ahead of them, the lead Dodge Charger pulled away from the embassy into the empty road. The second Dodge followed a couple of metres behind, the BMW bringing up the rear.
The journey to the airport took just under thirty minutes. They drove in silence. Carter stared out of the window watching the city flicker past in a stream of garish light and shadow. Trying to ignore the apprehension tightening like an invisible band around him.
At a quarter to five, the convoy took a slip road off the motorway and carried on for another kilometre towards the airport hub. Whereupon the vehicles made a series of quick turns away from the main terminals until they stopped at a security checkpoint. A guy in uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and spoke with one of the officers in the front police car. Then the barrier arm raised up, like a span on a bridge, and the convoy rolled on down the access road as it curved round towards the concrete apron.
They carried on for two hundred metres, past a low glass-fronted terminal and a row of private aircraft and refuellers and fire trucks, before the tail lights on the Dodge Chargers suddenly flared, and the driver eased the BMW to a gentle stop behind them, next to a stationary executive jet. An ultra-long-range model, the kind frequently used by the CIA for rendition circuits. Operated by a shell company, to give the impression that it was an independent aviation transport firm, rather than a mobile interrogation cell.
Carter debussed, hauled his luggage out of the boot and made his way up the lowered airstairs. The cabin interior had been stripped of its luxury furnishings. Restraining points had been mounted to the floor. The kind of thing used to shackle prisoners by their legs. Carter saw blood stains on the carpet. Heavy-duty cargo nets hung from the cabin ceiling. There was a doss area in the rear compartment, and several large olive-green sacks stuffed with items of clothing and boots.
Two guys in green army kit were seated in the front section. One of them had a comb-over haircut and a forehead so big you could project a film onto it. The other guy was a greasy-looking fucker with slicked-back hair. The replacement crew. Working in eight-hour shifts, probably. The pilots had a long flight ahead of them.
The backup crew nodded a greeting at him, then resumed their conversation. A strong statement. We’re not here to talk. Carter breezed past them and dropped into a seat in the middle compartment. He buckled in.
A few moments later, the guy with the comb-over got up, grabbed the lever on the airstair handrail and manually closed the cabin door. The pilots completed their pre-flight checks. Then the aircraft taxied towards the edge of the runway. The engines screamed, building to a deafening crescendo.
Three minutes later, they were climbing into the sky above Chile.
Carter looked out of the cabin window at the light-pricked city below. Three years after his last embed posting, he was going back to Afghanistan.
Back to where it all began.
He considered his chances of getting out of there alive at around fifty-fifty. Not odds that most people would accept. But Carter wasn’t most people. He was a Blade.
The guys in the Regiment were by definition high-stakes gamblers. Which is what set them apart from everybody else. They were ready to crash through a door and neutralise a terrorist threat, even if there was a good risk of getting killed, because that was how you became a hero. A Blade would always take the shot at saving lives and killing enemies over playing it safe.
That mindset had been ingrained in Carter from a young age. He’d spent his whole life fighting the world in one form or another. He had a talent for it. Didn’t know any other way to live.
But he also felt something else.
An obligation to an old friend. A sense of loyalty.
David Vann was in trouble, and there was only one person in the world who could help him now.
I’ve got a shot at saving my old mentor. From the Taliban, or ISIS-K, or whoever else is hunting him.
Dave’s counting on me.
I won’t let him down.
No fucking way.