‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Sign,’ Carter said.

  ‘Of what?’

  Carter didn’t answer. He was looking at tangle of felled branches strewn across the ground between a pair of straight-trunked trees. Beyond the tangle he saw a scattering of dead leaves and loose grass, running on for half a dozen metres towards a patch of thick forest.

  He marched over to the branches. Looked at them closely. Looked at the deadfall further up the gentle incline. Gears turning inside his head.

  He thought about Vann. Thought about what he would do if he was in his mate’s position. Alone, on the run from the Taliban, in a remote corner of Afghanistan.

  A seeming dead end.

  But maybe not.

  ‘What is it?’ Sharza asked.

  Carter began clearing the ground. He worked quickly, chucking aside the cut branches and sticks. Then he moved further up, brushing away the leaves and grass until he had swept the area clear of deadfall. Beneath it, he found what he was looking for: a patch of densely compacted earth running between a narrow gap in the pine trees.

  He turned to Sharza and said, ‘This isn’t a dead end. This is a trailhead. It’ll lead up through them trees higher up the side of this mountain.’ He pointed up the slope.

  Sharza looked at him in surprise. ‘But . . . how did you know?’

  ‘This is ground cover.’ Carter indicated the deadfall. ‘Someone laid this here to disguise the entrance. That’s what they taught us to do in the Regiment. It’s basic fieldcraft when you’re looking to hide your tracks.’

  Sharza lifted his eyes to the mountain. ‘You think your friend is up there?’

  ‘Has to be. It’s the only route Vann could have taken.’ Carter stretched to his full height. ‘I’ll grab the kit. Let’s get moving.’

  He collected his rucksack from the Hilux. His professional eye told him that the climb from the valley floor to the plateau would take between one to one and a half hours. He wanted his kit with him in case the trail ran over the ridgeline and descended on the far side of the mountain. They could be trekking for hours, depending on how far away Vann had based himself. In which case they’d need food, clothing, blankets, water, maps, torches. All the basics.

  He switched on his satphone, checked the battery. Four bars left. He made sure that he had the remaining gold bars in his belt pouch. Then he ordered Sharza to move the pickup out of sight, behind the grouping of derelict buildings in the village. He was sure they hadn’t been followed by anyone since leaving Zarangir, but there was a small chance that a patrol of Taliban or ISIS-K soldiers might stumble upon the pickup truck. Better to err on the side of caution.

  Two minutes later, as the sun reached its zenith in the cloudless sky, they started up the trail. Carter led the way, setting a brisk pace as the path zigzagged up the slope, meandering through clumps of pine trees and dense undergrowth. After two hundred metres the incline rapidly increased, and Carter dropped to a slow walk. Sharza followed a few metres behind Carter, moving effortlessly despite his bulk. The benefit of living in the wilds of Afghanistan. He had spent his whole life walking up and down mountain trails.

  As they picked their way through the woods, Carter scanned the ground three paces in front of him, looking for telltale hints of recent movement along the track. In one place he noticed a snapped branch. In another he caught sight of a patch of dampened soil bearing the faintest imprint of a human boot. Further along, he saw more mule deposits, a few of them containing bits of recently digested grass and hay. Easily missed by a casual observer. But to the trained eye of a Hereford man, they stood out like blood spatter at a crime scene.

  At one point they seemed to lose the trail. It took Carter a few moments to establish that a section of it had been brushed over. Someone had made a poor attempt to cover their tracks. Carter pointed out the swept area to Sharza before they picked up the trail six metres further up the hill.

  ‘How do you know all this stuff?’ Sharza asked.

  ‘You learn about it in the Regiment,’ Carter replied. ‘Every guy who goes through Selection spends a week doing tracking and anti-tracking.’

  The Afghan angled his head. ‘Will your friend know about this as well?’

  Carter gave a dry laugh. ‘Dave helped write the manual, mate.’

  ‘Then why has he left all these tracks? Why not cover up everything?’

  ‘He might not be alone,’ Carter speculated. ‘He might have some of the other guys from the National Alliance with him. Guys who aren’t as well trained. They might have been sloppy on their way up the track.’

  After half an hour they reached a narrow gap between the pine trees. Carter shaded his eyes against the sun as he looked up towards the sheer rock wall further up the slope. He saw no visible means of access to the ridgeline nearer to the peak. There didn’t appear to be any footpaths cut into the rockface, either. He doubted Vann could have made his way up there. Not unless he had climbing equipment.

  They pushed on again in the early afternoon heat. A hundred metres later, the track flattened as they neared a patch of level ground about the size of a tennis court. The track ran on for twenty metres before it wound its way past a mass of weathered rock and thorny shrub. He detected more signs in the surrounding vegetation and felt a prickle of excitement on his neck.

  We’re getting closer.

  Not long to go now.

  He glanced over his shoulder again. Sharza was three metres behind, moving easily as he followed Carter up the track. The guy had barely broken into a sweat.

  Carter looked ahead again.

  Stopped.

  Something caught his attention to the left of the track, at eye level. A scrap of bright red fabric snagged on a bush.

  Torn clothing.

  Carter felt his pulse quicken. The fabric could only mean one thing, he knew. Someone else had recently taken this same footpath. He took a step towards the shred of material, intending to take a closer look at it.

  Then he heard a metallic click.

  Coming from directly beneath his right foot.

  A sound Carter had heard before. He recognised it instantly, in a half-second of cold terror.

  The triggering of a landmine.

  Twelve

  Carter waited to die.

  A second ticked by.

  Then another.

  Nothing happened.

  He stood very still. Wondered what the fuck was going on.

  Anti-personnel mines were normally triggered by a pressure plate fixed to the surface of the mine. Once you stepped on the plate, the downward weight rammed the firing pin into the detonator, triggering the explosion. As soon as Carter had placed his right boot firmly on the mine, it should have kicked off. Right now, he thought, I should be lying on the ground clawing at a bleeding stump.

  Which could mean one of three things.

  Either I’ve stepped on a dud, or this is an old mine.

  Or it’s something else.

  He heard footsteps at his six o’clock as Sharza approached him. ‘Brother?’ he asked. ‘Are you OK? Why have we stopped?’

  ‘Stay back,’ Carter said urgently. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

  He swallowed hard. Carter lowered his eyes to the ground and carefully scanned the patch of trampled soil around his right boot. Looking for any signs of recent disturbance. He couldn’t see anything. Whatever he’d stepped on might have been in the ground for a long time. Years. Maybe longer. Planted by the Northern Alliance during their long war against the Taliban, perhaps.

  But he was speculating. He couldn’t know for sure. Not until he took his foot off the plate.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sharza asked, stepping closer.

  Carter swallowed again and said, ‘Move away from me, mate. Slowly. Do exactly as I say.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ve stepped on something.’

  He looked over his shoulder. He saw Sharza standing four metres away, eyes as wide as frisbees.

  Sharza said, ‘You are . . . sure?’

  ‘I heard a definite click. Something was armed, but it didn’t go off for whatever reason. I’m guessing it’s either a dud or an old model.’

  Sharza edged back from Carter, blinking rapidly.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Carter went on, trying to mask the tension in his voice. ‘If this thing detonates, it’ll take my leg clean off. I’m going to need your help. Understand?’

  Sharza nodded quickly and licked his lips. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I’m going to take off my belt and throw it to you. You’ll have to use it as a tourniquet. If the mine blows, get that belt around the stump of my leg and pull it tight to stop the flow of blood. There’s no way you’ll be able to help me back to the wagon from here, so you’ll have to keep the leg elevated until help arrives.’

  ‘But we are very far from the hospital.’

  Carter said, ‘I’ve got a satphone. I’ll throw it to you. There’s a number stored in the address book. Call it once you’ve secured the tourniquet and tell the person on the other end of the line what’s happened. They’ll send an emergency medevac to get me out. Got it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sharza replied quickly. ‘OK.’

  Carter closed his eyes momentarily and steadied his breathing.

  He had a decision to make.

  He could assume the mine was defective, remove his foot and simply hope for the best. Or he could rake away the surrounding dirt to see what was underneath. Take a closer look at the landmine.

  He went for the second option.

  Carter de-slung his M4 rifle and placed it on the ground at the side of the trail. Then he wriggled out of his rucksack and dumped it next to his weapon, taking great care to keep his right foot pressed firmly down on the plate at all times. Applying pressure. Sharza offered to help, but Carter ordered him to stay well clear. He figured there was a reasonable chance the whole track might be littered with mines. Standard procedure when denying entry to ground troops. One guy steps on a plate and loses a foot. His mucker hurries over to help and sets off another explosion. A brutally efficient way of whittling down an enemy patrol.

  Carter unbuckled his belt, yanked it free of the loops and chucked it over to Sharza. He threw over the satphone, reached into the side pocket on his cargo trousers and extracted the gun knife. Then, very slowly, Carter lowered himself to the ground, bending his right leg at the knee and dropping his left knee to the parched earth, giving himself a stable platform. He took another deep breath and started scraping away layers of dirt from the area either side of his boot.

  He moved very carefully, trying to ignore the fear clenching his arsehole. The slightest mistake could accidentally trigger the device, he knew, tearing off a limb or mangling his eyes.

  He brushed away more dirt with the edge of the blade, moving with surgical precision. Like an archaeologist excavating an ancient grave. After several agonising moments Carter uncovered something buried just below the surface of the ground.

  Then his stomach dropped.

  He was standing on a piece of plywood, the approximate shape and size of an A4 piece of paper.

  Therefore, not a mine.

  A booby trap.

  Carter cast his mind back to the Regiment dems course. He was looking at a fairly primitive trap design. Wires sandwiched between two pieces of plywood. The kind of thing Blades had taught the fighters in the Northern Alliance to construct, back in the 1990s, when they were trading blows with the Taliban. Depressing the top plate drew the wires together in an arc, arming the trap and triggering the blast. For whatever reason, the explosive hadn’t gone off. Carter didn’t know why. Corrosion of the wires, perhaps. Or faulty design. Maybe both.

  He slowly twisted at the waist, turning ninety degrees to his right until he was directly facing the side of the track. Sweat greased down his back, pasting his shirt to his skin as he scanned the handful of trees and bushes fringing the path. He conducted a brief visual inspection of the terrain, looking for any signs of disturbance. Something concealed in the undergrowth or attached to the trunks. Anything that looked unnatural.

  Nothing.

  He turned to the right and swept his eyes over the other side of the track. He saw nothing and frowned. Carter knew there had to be an explosive device planted somewhere in close proximity to his position. A basic trap worked by sending an electrical charge down a wire rigged up to the detonating device. Whoever had laid the mine had chosen a good spot. In the confined space of the trail the explosion would push outward from the surrounding treeline. Laws of physics. The kinetic energy from the blast would reflect back off the opposing side of the narrow path, showering Carter in a seething mass of debris, splintered wood and stones.

  Worse than a landmine, from a medical point of view.

  Much worse. Almost certain death.

  Carter wore no plate armour. He had no ballistic helmet. Nothing that would help to shield him from the barrage of shrapnel. He would bleed out long before he’d receive medical attention.

  I’m fucked.

  He looked to the left again. Then to the right. He saw no trailing wires, no obvious areas where an explosive device might have been placed. He wondered if perhaps the wiring had been disconnected.

  Why else wouldn’t the blast have been triggered?

  He tried to stay calm and think. Sweat was dripping down his face. His hands were trembling involuntarily.

  He said, shakily, ‘Get well back. Get that tourniquet ready. When I give the signal, I’m going to take my foot off this trap.’

  ‘OK,’ Sharza replied in a nervous tone.

  The Afghan backed away, putting a distance of eight metres between himself and Carter. Staying well outside the kill zone. Carter tucked the gun knife into his side pocket, then reached for his daysack and hoisted it up by the straps, holding it close to his chest to protect his face from the potential blast. The sack wouldn’t stop him from getting fragged, but it might save his eyesight or prevent his jaw from getting blown off.

  One of two things would happen when Carter removed his foot from the plywood. Either the trap had malfunctioned, and he would be fine. Or the system would trigger, and he would be in a world of pain.

  He drew in another deep breath, tensing his muscles as he braced himself for the next few seconds.

  Maybe the last of his life.

  ‘Raising my foot,’ he called out to Sharza. ‘Get ready.’

  Carter clinched his eyes shut and held up the rucksack to his face, his jaw clenched tight as he started to lift his right boot.

  His foot was halfway off the ground when a familiar voice at his twelve o’clock said, ‘Jesus, fuck. Geordie. It’s you.’

  Carter froze.

  The voice didn’t belong to Sharza. It spoke in a rich Belfast accent, softened slightly around the edges.

  He lowered the rucksack and looked up. A bearded man gripping an M4 rifle stood fifteen metres upstream from Carter, at a point where the footpath curved to the right and disappeared behind a screen of pine trees.

  The guy had the build of a greyhound, slim and wiry. He wore a plain cloak over a collared tunic that came down just below the knees, and a pair of light-coloured trousers plaited around the ankles. He had a leathery sun-bleached face, light blue eyes and a jaw so square you could use it as an angle grinder. His eyebrows sloped down towards the bridge of his nose, giving him a stern-faced look.

  David Vann.

  Carter stared at his old mentor in slack-jawed silence. A second figure stood to one side of the ex-SAS man. A heftily built Afghan with a thick walrus moustache and bushy eyebrows, armed with an AK-47. He jabbered something at Sharza. The interpreter edged forward, glancing from Carter to Vann, his face stitched with anxiety.

  Vann moved down from the trail bend and said, ‘When you’re done looking like a slapped arse, you can move that foot of yours.’ He grinned. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no explosive. The trap’s a fake.’

  Carter stared at him in bemusement.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Vann continued. ‘You can move your foot, Geordie. Nothing will happen to you. Swear on me fucking life.’

  Carter edged his foot away from the plate. Nothing exploded.

  He eased out a breath of relief as Vann walked over and grinned.

  ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’

  The two soldiers shared an easy laugh. Carter felt the tension of the last few minutes quickly draining from his body. Then Vann’s face tautened as he looked steadily at the younger soldier.

  ‘No, seriously,’ he said. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘The Company sent me,’ Carter replied. ‘To get you out, mate.’

  Vann smiled bitterly. ‘I should have known,’ he said in his rolling Ulster brogue. ‘That’s just their style.’ He slapped Carter playfully on the back. ‘Sweet Jesus, I can’t believe it’s you, Geordie.’

  Carter wiped sweat from his brow and pointed to the plywood. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Early warning system,’ Vann explained. ‘The plate’s rigged up to a light bulb. Up there.’ He cocked his chin in the direction of the upper slope. ‘Someone steps on it, the bulb flashes. Lets us know whenever anyone is trying to sneak up the trail.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘It’s a necessary precaution,’ Vann said. ‘This whole area is crawling with Taliban right now. Patrols all over the fucking shop.’

  Carter suddenly understood. That’s why I noticed so much sign further down the trail, he realised. And why Vann had left the scrap of brightly coloured clothing on the bush. He’d deliberately planted a trail of sign to lure any pursuing forces or enemy patrols into the kill zone at the trail bend.

  Carter looked at him and thought: Vann might be out of the SAS now, but he’s still got the mentality of an elite soldier.

  ‘Of course,’ Vann went on, ‘most idiots would have stepped on the plate without realising that they’d activated it. As soon as I saw the bulb glowing non-stop for several minutes, I knew it couldn’t be local Taliban. I thought maybe the bastard was banjaxed. Never imagined you were here.’ Vann grinned widely. ‘Seems I trained you too well, Geordie.’