A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [60]
Colonel Hamza introduced the manager, a dignified and bearded old man who wore a frock coat over traditional dress. “Omar has never forgiven the British for leaving India.”
“You are wrong, Colonel. I have never forgiven myself for not leaving with them,” Omar said, and told a porter, “Captain Slay’s bag to Cottage Three.”
“Let him take it, but you come and have tea on the terrace with me,” Hamza said to Greg. “We need to talk.” He led the way through an extensive bar area, where staff were already turning on lights and making ready for the evening.
“A caravanserai for travelers, just like the old days, only these are pilots, cabin crews, transients between planes. No tourists at all, as you would expect. Terrorism is strangling the world.”
They sat on old wicker chairs opposite each other at a small table. The waiter who served them was so old, he seemed to move in slow motion.
Hamza sipped his tea. “I have history with Ferguson and Miller, and I hate everything Al Qaeda stands for, so in this matter I’m totally on your side. Commanding the military police has given me considerable power. People tend to do as I say.”
“I bet they do,” Greg said.
“On the other hand, the Pakistani Army can’t be seen to be involved with anything that takes place across the border. That’s why the only solution to the present problem is an illegal flight.”
“In an aging Russian helicopter that wasn’t much good in the first place,” Greg told him. “What does this Wali Hussein get up to anyway?”
“Drug trafficking, mostly, and guns for the Taliban. A very unsavory crook. His mother is American, and when his father was killed, she took the boy to Florida and raised him there until he was eighteen, so he can’t speak Pashtu—not that it matters. Nearly everybody can speak English here. He came back because his grandfather left him property here.”
“He doesn’t sound like the most trustworthy guy on the block,” Slay said.
“He isn’t. How did you get mixed up in this?”
“I was recruited by Major Giles Roper because of my experience flying helicopters in war zones. I have my own setup in Hazar now, next to Rubat and Yemen.”
“So I understand. What do you know about General Charles Ferguson?”
“A great soldier who walks on corpses, if needed, to get the job done.”
“And Roper?”
“A George Cross man, Colonel.” Slay nodded. “A true hero.”
“So tell me what he expects you to do.”
“Fly the Prime Minister’s personal representative and his support team in across the border to Amira to snatch Mullah Ali Selim.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“Roper warned that Downing Street is all atwitter, worried about the possibility that Amira might be swarming with Taliban, putting Miller in danger—putting them all in danger, comes to that.”
“What’s your opinion?” Hamza said.
“I don’t have one. I’m a pilot. I fly missions, that’s what I do. And I do it well.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are adept at looking after yourself. Are you carrying?”
“With the kind of security in airports these days?” Slay smiled. “Do I look like that kind of guy?”
“Yes, you do.” Slay produced a .25 Belgian Leon from the holster on his right ankle.
“Some people might say it’s a woman’s gun.” Hamza weighed it in his hands.
“Not with hollow-point cartridges.”
“Yes, that would make a difference.” Hamza checked his watch. “The Gulfstream won’t be in for some time. We’ll drop you at the hotel while I show my face at headquarters, then I’ll take you to meet Wali Hussein, and you can run your eye over the Raptor.”
Hussein Air, as it was called, was in one of several old aircraft hangars on the outer edge of the complex, and about as far from the control block and concourse as it was possible to be. The doors of the hangar were closed, but there was a small Judas gate through which Slay and the colonel entered, leaving the sergeant and the jeep outside.
The hangar was in half darkness and there was an all-pervading odor that was a mixture of damp cold, oil, and aviation fuel. There was music playing softly from above, Latin American rhythms,