“Sorry, Mike,” he whispered.
He placed the ball of his forefinger on the trigger as he prepared to squeeze. A second later there was a muffled discharge, the noise and flash minimized by the fixed suppressor. Mike’s body bucked as if he’d been Tasered, a thick spray of blood erupting from his head. He didn’t move again.
Proctor removed his camo suit and put on a pakol, a woollen round-topped hat. Crouching, he sent an encrypted distress message to a Special Forces signaller in Kabul. Decoded it read: Target down. Spotter down. Situation critical.
Once sent, he wrapped up the tarp and shut down the portable SATCOM, GPS and VHF radio. Using a short-handled shovel, he hacked at the plastic and metal until he was sure the systems were inoperable, and shoved them into two canvas kitbags. He scooped them up and began filling in the hole with the relatively loose earth they’d dug out earlier. When he’d finished, he shouldered his rifle and walked slowly to the corpse. Kneeling down, he removed Mike’s two-way radio, sidearm, and wristwatch. He thought about his friend’s four kids, and his wife, Debra. Then, pushing aside the HK, he zoned out.
He spent the next half an hour digging a grave. After heaving the body in, he covered it with stiff clods of soil. That done, the equipment and gear had to vanish, too. He trudged along the ridge to a remote crevice, just wide enough to swallow the bags, and flung in all trace of their existence. Exhausted, he crouched down and lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo, telling himself that he’d earned it. He glanced up. The sleet had turned to snow. Trembling, he inhaled the smoke deeply, felt the frigid wind slice to his bones. The overcast skies rendered high-altitude recon drones useless, and it could be hours before a rescue team could be put together. He had time to spare.
A few minutes later, he zigzagged down the windward slope, using the metre-long rifle to steady him. Below, the land was farmed in terraced plots. He’d seen the hamlet on the drone feeds, the timber houses stacked one above the other. But Mike had been right. The place went into lockdown at night.
Reaching flat ground, he walked to the bank of the turbulent river, the rapids exploding like geysers against domes of smooth rock. It was warmer in the valley floor and the wind had dropped to a cool breeze. He bent down, cleansed his hands of bloodstains and cupped the icy water onto his face. Lighting another cigarette, he heard the vehicle before he saw it. Braced himself. As it pulled into the hamlet along a mud track peppered with potholes, the lights were killed. He made out a red Toyota pickup truck with five men hugging AK-47s sitting in the rear. It stopped a couple of metres from him. He let the cigarette fall from his fingers, stubbed it out with his boot.
A man opened the passenger door and strolled over. He wore shabby sneakers and a dark-green flak jacket. His face was pitted, the grey beard extravagant. Proctor thought he looked older than the photograph of him he had hidden in his pocket. Being a fugitive doesn’t suit him, he concluded.
They shook hands.
“Asalaam Alaykum,” Proctor said. Peace be upon you.
“Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam,” Mullah Kakar replied. And peace be upon you also. He looked up at the surrounding foothills, as if he were recalling time spent here. “Are we officially dead?”
Proctor nodded.
“Then get in. We ghosts have much work to do.”
“Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.”
William Shakespeare, Richard II
Islamabad was a city that reeked of fear. Martial law had been imposed by the Pakistani generals, and terrorist attacks were escalating. As a result, the US Embassy compound in the Diplomatic Enclave resembled a modern supermax, ringed as it was by security bollards, floodlights, high-definition surveillance cameras, blast walls and heavy fencing. To add to the deterrent, three Marine rifle companies guarded it in rotation day and night.
Halfway down one of its tiled corridors, two men stood either side of a soundproof, brass-inlaid door, their tailored suits masking holstered SIG Sauer P229 handguns. On the other side of the door, the US Secretary of State, the forty-three-year-old Linda Carlyle, worked alone in a windowless office.
“I heard the generals ordered all women to wear the hijab,” Steve Coombs said, running his hand through his receding sandy hair, his broad back nestling against the wall. “It’ll be the burqa next. My eldest, Cathy, is studying law at Yale. Beats the hell outta me.”
“Me too,” the younger man replied.
His name was Tom Dupree. He’d spent twelve years overseas guarding embassy staff. After another three in the office of investigations and counterintelligence, he’d reached a career summit for a special agent in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security: head of the secretary’s protective detail. It had been his time. The scars on his body – a two-inch knife slash on his bicep and a chest seared by mortar shrapnel – were testament to his dedication. But now his time leading the protective detail was almost over.
“So you’ll be stuck in DC, huh, Tom?” Steve said, picking sleep from his eye.
“Yeah. Chief nursemaid to the good, the bad and the ugly.”
“Foreign dignitary detail ain’t so bad. At least you’ll get to snuggle down in your own bed some. When you gonna get yourself a little lady to share it with?”
“Who says I don’t?” Tom said, adjusting his stance.
Truth was, Tom hadn’t had a girlfriend in over a year. Not since Carrie, an analyst in the DS’s passport and visa fraud division, had told him she couldn’t deal with dating a man she saw less than her dentist.
“’Bout time you became a one-woman man, you ask me,” Steve said, his tone preachy.
Knowing his friend was a Catholic, who’d been married since his nineteenth birthday, Tom chose to ignore the comment. He checked the time on his wristwatch: 08:36. They would be on the move soon, but he was dreading it.
“It’ll get hotter than a habanero chilli out there,” Steve said, yawning. “I sure hope that kids’ hospital got AC.”
“The kids’ hospital is a bad idea,” Tom replied, his brow furrowing.
“So why don’t Lyric drop the line-up?” he said, using the DS’s pro-word for the secretary.
“A photo op. Who knows? But it’s making me twitchy as hell, I know that much.”
The advance detail had carried out a security profile on the location of the kids’ hospital, which was basically a threat and risk assessment: what could happen and the likelihood that it would. It was a dynamic process, and the additions Tom had made since arriving a few days before had been some of the most comprehensive he’d produced in his career. But after distributing the operational orders to his team, he’d realized that half of the countermeasures that would be required if security was compromised would be down to the host Pakistanis.
“Paranoia keeps you sharp. Don’t forget that, Tom.”
“Yeah. Paranoia till stateside.”
It was the most important mindset DS special agents were taught. If any place made it a healthy disposition, it was Islamabad, Tom thought. The city attracted violence as Palm Springs attracted pensioners. He