A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [71]
“Harry, where are you? How did it go?”
“Wali Hussein turned out to be completely untrustworthy, so we found ourselves juggling with three Raptors, not one. There was a brisk firefight, but we’ve come through, thanks to some brilliant flying by Gregory Slay and some good work from Colonel Hamza, who shot down a Raptor for us with an RPG. And I mustn’t forget Sara, who started playing bowls with a couple of pineapple grenades.”
“And Ali Selim?”
“Flown off to God knows where in the worst weather imaginable. Can we leave this dreadful place as soon as possible and come home?”
Sara grabbed the Codex and said, “He has a bullet in his shoulder, General, which I’m trying to do something about, so I’ll pass you to Colonel Hamza.”
Which she did, cutting Miller’s shirt open, the medical kit at her side. She took out a couple of morphine ampoules and jabbed them in his left arm and then explored the wound.
“There appears to be an exit hole, which is lucky, but you’ll need a doctor to confirm it.”
“Thanks, Sara, you’re an angel.” He managed a smile, waiting for the morphine to take effect.
Hamza was still talking to Ferguson. “I’ll call in and arrange for Major Miller to be patched up at the military hospital, but then I think it would be better for all of us if you got back in that Gulfstream and returned to London as soon as possible.”
“And how will this affect you?”
“Why should it affect me at all? Wali Hussein, a man who has long been suspected of making illegal flights over the border, filed a flight plan to Dimla and has gone missing. There is no sign of his helicopter in Pakistan territory, crashed or otherwise, so the inescapable conclusion must be that he’s finally met with a bad end out there in the Wilderness.”
“How unfortunate,” Ferguson said.
“Not my jurisdiction. It’s tribal territory and in another country,” Hamza told him. “I’ll have an ambulance waiting for Miller, and we’ll have a surgeon see to him discreetly. No need to make a fuss. Bullet wounds are common enough in these parts. I’ll also have a word with your pilots and suggest they make ready for a quick departure.”
“And Captain Slay will need a return to Hazar.”
“No problem. He can go back to Hazar the way he came in. I’ll see you soon.”
Ferguson sat there in the hangar trying to come to terms with his disappointment. Hamid came in from the kitchen with a tray. “Would you care for a cup of char, General?”
“To be frank, after the news I’ve just had I’d have preferred something stronger, but in the circumstances tea will be just fine.” He called Roper and gave him a summary of events.
Roper said, “So where’s he off to now, that’s the thing.”
“I think Colonel Hamza might be helpful there.”
“He’s certainly come up trumps so far,” Roper said.
“The Prime Minister’s going to be furious, especially about Harry being shot,” Ferguson said.
“As long as it doesn’t kill you, there’s always a slightly heroic thing about taking a bullet,” Roper told him. “I’ve been there, remember, before the bomb? On top of that, the PM will enjoy being able to say I told you so.”
“Which I don’t look forward to at all.”
“So what happens now? Will you call him personally, or do you want me to speak to Henry Frankel at the Cabinet Office?”
“Well, at least that would be following protocol, and it would give me time to get my act together here for the return home. You don’t mind?”
“Why should I? It will quite make his day. Henry loves being the bearer of bad news.”
Not long after leaving Amira in the Raptor, Ali Selim spoke to the chief pilot of the Hawker that had delivered him to Peshawar after his flight from London. It had been waiting at Peshawar Airport while he considered his next move.
Having discussed where the Raptor should meet the Hawker, he stood and leaned up to the flight deck, where the pilot, Omar, sat alone. He gave him a destination and flight instructions, then sat down again.
Thirty minutes later, they came to a village in ruins named Herat, a crumbling runway beside it, a concrete control tower and some flat-roofed buildings.