A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [61]
“Wali Hussein, where are you?” Hamza called in English.
There was an old Cessna 310 to one side of the hangar and a Raptor helicopter parked toward the rear, close to the engineering section, where an engine, suspended by chains and pulleys, hung close to one of the benches.
“Nothing to do with our requirements, I hope,” Hamza said.
The main door of the Raptor had been pushed back so that one could see into the interior, and Slay was already pulling himself inside. Hamza joined him. It was larger than Slay had expected, quite cavernous, with a bench seat and a high superstructure, housing seats for two pilots. He mounted four steel rungs and slid into the right-hand seat.
He had never flown this aircraft before, but it felt completely familiar to him, in spite of the fact that all the instrumentation was in Russian, which he could not read. He knew exactly what everything was for, though, after the vast range of helicopters he’d flown over the years.
“It’s a dinosaur, it belongs in a museum, but I like it,” he said.
“She’ll fly you,” a voice broke in, and they turned to view the man who was leaning in. “Raptors have a mind of their own.” He was small and aggressive, his skin olive and eyes blue hinting at his mixed blood. He wore a khaki shirt and jeans, and a baseball cap pulled down over long hair.
“Where are the other two?” Hamza asked.
“Islamabad. They both needed work done on the engines that I can’t do here.” He had a distinct American accent.
“Where are your flight mechanics?” Greg asked.
“Islamabad with my two pilots.”
“So what if we want this up and running first thing in the morning?” Greg asked. “Are you capable of checking it out?”
“Hey, I fly them, but I’m no mechanic, man.” He was obviously on something. “Anyway, I was flying it yesterday, and it was fine.”
“Not for me, my friend, not when we’re faced with the kind of flight we’re going to make on the other side. It’s a long night ahead, so you can help me.”
“Can I? Hell, that wasn’t in the deal. You wanted to hire a helicopter, and there it is. What makes you so special anyway?”
“Because as a captain in the British Army Air Corps for the last fifteen years, he’s flown more helicopters in more wars than you’ve had hot dinners,” Hamza said.
He lightly tapped his swagger stick against Wali’s chest. “You’ve been snorting coke again, I can always tell. I imagine you’ve left your supply on the desk. I’ll send Sergeant Hamid to find it. He’s a religious man, so he’ll be disgusted enough to take you down to the military prison. We’re rather full at the moment. It can be very unpleasant in the showers.”
“You lousy bastard,” Wali Hussein said.
“Time you learned that.” Hamza turned to Slay. “Is there anything else?”
“There’s a mounting for a machine gun.”
“Have you got it?” Hamza asked Wali Hussein.
“They didn’t have the guns when I bought them.”
Hamza said to Slay, “I’ll see you get one.”
“Pineapple fragmentation grenades would be good, and a couple of AK-47s. A launcher and some RPGs would also be useful.”
“You’re going to war, then?”
“A few of those grenades dropped from on high can have a salutary effect.”
“I can imagine. I’ll see you later when the others get in. After Sergeant Hamid drops me, I’ll send him back. He speaks English, and he’s a good man. Maybe he can help you with that engine, and he can certainly kick Wali Hussein up the backside if he needs it.”
He went out through the Judas, and Slay turned to notice that Hussein had mounted the steel steps and was going up to the office. He went after him, found the door open and Hussein leaning across the desk.
There was a line of cocaine lying ready, a bag of the stuff beside it, the white powder round his mouth and nose when he turned to look at Slay. There was also an open bottle of Cossack vodka, a half-filled glass beside it.
Slay picked it up. “They wouldn’t be very pleased about this down at the mosque.” The toilet door was ajar; he walked in and emptied the bottle down the