A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [62]
“You bastard.” Hussein lunged at him.
Slay slapped him backhanded twice, then picked up the bag of cocaine. “Let’s just flush it away.”
Hussein’s face was contorted, and he was close to tears. “No, don’t do that,” he pleaded.
“Then let’s play question-and-answer. This place Amira—it’s Taliban, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you don’t know. The colonel seems to think you deal in guns with them.”
“You don’t go to them unless they send for you, and they’ve never sent for me from Amira. Most of the people only speak Pashtu, and I can’t. Blame my Yank mother. The rest speak very little English. I only know it by reputation. It’s a bad place.”
“No word of anyone special being there?”
“No!” Wali Hussein cried. “And if I start asking round the bazaar, they’d be at my door within the hour, wanting to know what was going on. Get one thing straight, pal.” He was suddenly all-American. “These Taliban bastards make the Mafia look like a Sunday-school outing. They think they’ve got God on their side when they cut your throat.”
“And what about Al Qaeda?”
Wali Hussein laughed wearily. “So what can I say? It’s in the police force, it’s in government, it’s in the schools, and the Taliban are the foot soldiers. They probably know about you now, but if they don’t, they soon will. I’d go back to where you came from, I really would.”
There was the sound of the jeep down below. Slay said, “That will be Sergeant Hamid, arriving to give me a hand.” He tossed the bag of cocaine to Hussein. “I notice a convenient bunk back there. I’d go to bed, if I were you, and stay out of his way.”
Hussein retreated, and Slay went down the steps, taking off his flying jacket as Hamid got out of the jeep and came to join him with a bag in one hand. He had opened the hangar doors to get in, and it was raining outside.
“Not good flying weather,” Slay said.
“The forecast is bad for the next few days, sahib.” Hamid held up the bag. “Tea and coffee, various things to eat and keep us going.” He put the bag on the bench. “So what do we do first?”
“We need the engine cowling off,” Slay told him. “So let’s get started.”
It was seven o’clock in the morning when the Gulfstream landed at Peshawar International, the normally impressive background of the mountains of the northwest frontier shrouded in heavy rain.
Colonel Hamza was standing under a canopy, a Burberry trench coat hanging from his shoulders, a van beside him, and another of his sergeants wearing a yellow slicker. A couple of porters ran forward with large umbrellas as Ferguson led the way down the steps.
“My goodness, Colonel, the rains seem to have come early this year. It’s good to see you.”
“I’ll take you along to the Rangoon and help you settle in,” Hamza said. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”
Lacey called from the Gulfstream. “We’ve got to sort out a few things with the plane, sir. We’ll be in touch later.”
The rest of them piled into the van. As it drove away, Ferguson asked, “Where’s Captain Slay? I thought he’d be here.”
“He and one of my sergeants have been working all night. I called on them a short while ago with weaponry he wanted, including a machine gun for mounting in the Raptor. He told me the engine was now ready.”
“And this Wali Hussein chap?”
“Knows where he stands, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know whether he’ll be much good to you.”
“Well, I must say Gregory Slay has come up trumps in my book,” Ferguson said. “I look forward to meeting him.”
Slay and Hamid showered in the staff quarters at the back of the hangar. It had been a hard night, but it had been worth it, Slay told himself as he got dressed. There had been plenty that had needed taking care of. He was so pleased that he actually felt full of energy as he stood looking at the old Raptor, and Hamid had hosed it down to finish things off.
“She looks good, sahib?”
“You were a great help,” Slay told him.
Wali Hussein came down the steps and paused, gazing in awe at the helicopter. “My God, what have you done?”
“A complete overhaul, which is what was required. You look a mess, so go and stand under