A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [55]
“One thing in our favor,” Ferguson said. “Our old friend Seleman Hamza has been promoted to colonel in charge of the military police headquarters in Peshawar. He’s not only on our side, he hates Al Qaeda.”
“So you are completely in charge, General, not the Cabinet Office,” Roper said.
A statement, not a query, and Ferguson smiled. “Just the way I like it. Tell me about this Amira place.”
“About forty miles inside Afghanistan, west of the Khyber Pass.”
“So an illegal crossing is necessary.” Ferguson nodded, thinking about it.
“Definitely,” Roper said. “A dangerous trip by road in the backcountry, which I believe they call the Wilderness. A helicopter would be better.”
“Which would mean the Pakistani Army having to look the other way. That’s where Colonel Hamza would be useful. I believe there are private firms flying cargo in old Soviet Raptor helicopters and vehicles like that. Money talks, so something could be arranged. He’s bound to have the right contacts.”
It was Dillon who said, “Remember Ben Carver, who we used to use in Hazar? He sold his air taxi firm to a guy named Greg Slay, a captain in the Army Air Corps. Helicopters and fixed-wing. Got a DFC in Iraq. The old military airfield where he’s based is used regularly for refueling by RAF traffic on the way to the war zone in Pakistan.”
“Good thinking,” Ferguson said. “Get in touch with him, Giles. Make him an offer he can’t refuse, and tell him I want him at Peshawar International Airport within twelve hours. He’ll arrange a lift, I’ve no doubt, from some RAF transport plane passing through.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“I suggest we all stay over in staff quarters, but I’ll be in my office for a while discussing things with the Cabinet Office. So contact this chap Slay, Giles, then Colonel Hamza in Peshawar, and notify Parry and Lacey to be on standby with the Gulfstream at Farley Field. Have I missed anything?”
“With respect, sir, it’s important to know every aspect of the situation, and I don’t think we have that,” Sara said.
Ferguson frowned. “In what way are we lacking?”
“The Art of War says: Allowing your enemy to choose the field of battle will only serve his purpose, not yours.”
“And what exactly is that pearl of wisdom supposed to tell us?”
“The village of Amira. Why has he chosen it and what goes on there?”
Roper cut in. “I looked it up, Sara. The population is no more than seventeen or so. It’s too barren for poppy cultivation, and the climate isn’t right—there’s rain and a certain amount of snow at this time of year. It’s goats, sheep, subsistence farming. They’re mountain people, and Pashtu speaking.”
“A fair description of Poverty Row,” Dillon put in.
“So what’s his agenda and what’s he doing there? We fought a battle in the garage with silenced weapons, foiled his bomb attack on Parliament, his niece is dead, Jemal is in our hands. There’s been nothing in the newspapers or on television, so he can only conclude that it all ended in failure,” Sara said.
“So what are you saying?” Ferguson demanded.
“When you’re on the run, having done bad things, you expect to be hounded. It’s the law of nature. For every action, there’s a reaction.”
Ferguson said patiently, “And what would that be, my dear?”
She took a deep breath, glanced at the others, then back to Ferguson and smiled sweetly. “I haven’t the slightest idea, General, dear, except that you’ll be in a village at the backside of nowhere with a bunch of tough mountain Pashtu-speaking boys who won’t even go to the lavatory without an AK-47 dangling from one shoulder, and maybe, just maybe, Ali Selim is waiting for you to turn up.