The gulley that marked the position of the cache looked steeper from the top. When he, Dexter and Cole had dug in the bullion, it had been dark. Maybe that was it. In the dim half-light, his gaze traced the length of the gulley until he saw what he was looking for: a boulder, weathered on one side, with two sharp spikes pointing up on the other. It was on the far side of the gulley, maybe seventy-five metres down from their current position. There were forested areas on the eastern and the southern sides of the gulley. On the far side of the boulder itself were several patches of gorse, maybe a metre high. Each one could easily hide a man.

  ‘Okay,’ Tony breathed, sufficiently quietly that only Al-Zafawi could hear him. ‘Nobody moves beyond the treeline. If they do, we’re blown. We’re going to place one man at ten-metre intervals.’ He indicated the treeline, which curved north, circling the top of the ravine. ‘When the targets show themselves, it’ll mean we’ll fire on them from several angles and from good high ground. We’ll have the advantage of surprise, numbers, height and trajectory. We ambush the ambushers. You understand? My shot will be the go order. Your guys need to open up on automatic immediately they hear it. There isn’t much cover down there. The SAS team will want to head back into the trees when they’re under fire. They’ll be pinned down, but I estimate we’ll have approximately ten seconds to put them out of action before they can either coordinate a response or organise a retreat. Have you got all that?’

  ‘It is what I would have done anyway,’ Al-Zafawi said.

  ‘Yeah, if you say so.’ Tony gave Al-Zafawi a piercing look. ‘One more thing. You stay with me. All the time. You leave my sight, the deal’s off.’

  Al-Zafawi gave him a look of contempt, but he nodded silently.

  ‘Position your men,’ Tony said. ‘Quietly. Stay behind the treeline. If the SAS see movement, it’s over.’

  Al-Zafawi turned to his guys. He spoke to them in low, urgent tones. Tony could tell from his arm movements that he was reliably translating his instructions. He watched as the Taliban unit disappeared silently into the trees. After a couple of minutes there was no sign of them. Tony and Al-Zafawi were alone, camouflaged by the treeline, looking down the gulley. Tony picked out the boulder again, then scanned the surrounding area. Nothing. No sign of movement. No sign of personnel.

  No sign of Danny Black.

  Not yet.

  But he was down there. Tony could sense it.

  He got down on one knee and aimed the AK-47 he had exchanged with his Taliban patsy towards the cache location. He’d have much preferred his M4 to this hunk of junk, but that wasn’t possible.

  ‘Okay, buster,’ he told Al-Zafawi. ‘Let’s get your guy walking up the gulley. Make the call.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Time check: 06.00.

  Danny and the team had been in position for more than three hours.

  And still there was no sign of Tony.

  Danny felt cold exhaustion creeping over him. He tried to work out when he had last slept. It had been nearly twenty-four hours and his wound was sapping his remaining energy. Concentrating was hard. He’d managed it up till now. But at some point, he would have to sleep. A sinister numbness spread up his arm. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to use it. If only he could rest. That would make things better . . .

  He put that thought from his mind. Sleep wasn’t possible. Not now.

  ‘We’ve got movement.’ Brooker’s voice was quiet and tense in Danny’s earpiece.

  ‘Where?’ Danny breathed.

  ‘Coming up the gulley from the south. Someone’s emerging from the treeline.’

  ‘Can you make a positive ID?’

  There was a pause. Danny could hear his own pulse. He realised he was holding his breath. He forced himself to exhale slowly.

  ‘That’s a negative,’ said Brooker. ‘Our guy’s in camo gear and he’s carrying a rifle – M4 – but his head’s wrapped.’

  Danny cursed silently. He wanted to see Tony’s face. To be certain he had his guy. Sure, Tony would identify himself by going straight to the cache, the location of which only he knew. But still, Danny wanted the satisfaction of knowing.

  He allowed himself to move slightly so that he could see down the gulley. It took him a moment to pick out the figure, whose clothes camouflaged him well against the rock. But his eyes zoned in after ten seconds. The figure was scrambling carefully up the ravine. Distance: 100 metres. He was moving slowly. Every five or ten metres, he stopped and looked around.

  Danny had a moment of uncertainty. That figure was not moving like an SAS operator. He was out in the open. There was no attempt at a covert approach. He looked . . . unfit.

  He reassured himself. Tony had no reason to approach covertly. He wasn’t expecting company. It was dawn, and this was an unpopulated area. And what if he did look unfit. He was probably exhausted. Like Danny.

  ‘You thinking what I’m thinking . . .’ Brooker’s voice came over the comms, tense and quiet.

  ‘Wait,’ Danny said. ‘Keep eyes on. He’ll identify himself by going straight to the cache.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘Just wait,’ Danny said, to mask his own uncertainty.

  Silence.

  Tony had the patsy in his sights. Fucking muppet looked liked he was half dead already, the way he struggled up the hill. He congratulated himself for taking extra precautions.

  ‘What if they are not there?’ Al-Zafawi said. He sounded brash, but Tony could tell that it masked deep uncertainty.

  ‘They’re there,’ Tony said without taking his eye from the sight. ‘Trust me, buster. They’re there.’

  Distance: 55 metres. The figure stopped for what felt like the hundredth time.

  The cross hairs of Danny’s sights were trained precisely on his head. Even though his weapon wasn’t properly zeroed, he reckoned he could take Tony now, so long as his numb arm didn’t let him down. He felt his trigger finger moving. A single shot would do it. The world would certainly be a better place without Tony Wiseman in it.

  Danny wondered if he was being honest with himself. Had Tony outsmarted him every step of the way until now? Was he the better soldier?

  He stayed his hand. He would take the shot if necessary, but their original strategy remained the best: an IED strike. As common as sand in Helmand Province. Easily explained away.

  ‘I don’t think it’s him.’ Brooker sounded uneasy. ‘Look at the way he’s moving. Like a fucking rookie.’

  Danny carried on following him with his rifle. The target had reached a particularly deep section of the gulley. His shemagh-covered head was bobbing in and out of sight. Each time it reappeared, Danny adjusted his aim to keep it trained on the head.

  A minute passed. The target advanced another ten metres.

  ‘He’s wheezing like a fat boy,’ Riley said over comms. ‘I could take this cunt out with a pea-shooter.’

  ‘Hold your fire,’ Danny warned. ‘Let the booby trap do its thing.’

  Another minute. Distance to target: thirty metres. The gulley had become shallower. Danny could see the top three-quarters of the target’s body.

  Something caught his eye. The figure’s rifle was slung across his shoulder. Danny focused in on it. It was a M4, spray painted in khaki colours. And painted on the stock was a series of tiny white dots. Tipp-Ex marks.

  Danny felt a surge of relief.

  ‘Okay, fellas,’ he said over comms. ‘I have a positive ID.’

  ‘You sure?’ Brooker didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘A hundred per cent. That’s Tony’s weapon. I saw him with it. He’s marked his kill tally on the stock. I have eyes on. It’s Tony.’

  A pause. Then, Murray’s voice: ‘Roger that,’ he said. ‘I’ll update Spearpoint.’

  Cadogan nearly jumped out of his seat when the communication came through. It was as if everyone in the ops room exhaled at once.

  ‘This is Kestrel One,’ came a grainy and indistinct voice over the secure radio. ‘We have a positive ID on Tony Wiseman. Repeat, we have a positive ID on Tony Wiseman.’

  ‘Is it just him?’ Cadogan demanded. ‘Does he have any backup?’

  ‘That’s a negative,’ said the voice. ‘It’s just him. It won’t be long now.’

  Danny followed Tony with his rifle. He could taste the anticipation. He thought of all the times that Tony had wronged him. On a blazing oil rig in the Persian Gulf. On a migrant boat in the Mediterranean. In the forests of Sandringham. In the badlands of Helmand. If their situations were reversed, Danny knew for sure that Tony would already have taken the shot. The rest of the unit were turned off by the idea of taking out another Regiment guy. Danny was honest enough to admit to himself that his trigger finger was itching.

  He didn’t scratch that itch. He just allowed Tony to get closer and closer to the cache. He was ten metres away now, his upper half visible above the edge of the gulley.

  He had stopped.

  He was looking in Danny’s direction, but Danny felt certain he wasn’t observed. He had Tony directly in his sights, the cross hairs central on his target’s chest.

  They stayed in that position for a full ten seconds.

  ‘What the fuck’s happening?’ Brooker said over the comms.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Danny said.

  ‘He’s avoiding the cache.’

  ‘He’s scouting the area,’ Danny said.

  ‘I think he’s waiting for someone,’ Brooker replied.

  ‘Who the hell would he be waiting for?’

  ‘I don’t know, Danny. But he’s avoiding the cache. So what do we do?’

  Danny gave it twenty seconds’ thought. He tried to separate his own desire to nail Tony from the necessity of making the right call. Was he really waiting for backup? If so, who from? Did they really want to get into a fight, if they could avoid it?

  Danny narrowed his eyes. Tried to ignore the awful numbness creeping down his arm. Kept the target in his sights. ‘I think I need to take the shot,’ he said.

  ‘Any second now,’ Tony breathed, his weapon engaged and the cache area in his sights. ‘They’ll take him out, then they’ll approach the target. That’s when we open up.’

  Al-Zafawi said nothing. He was staring intently down the gulley.

  ‘Any second now,’ Tony repeated. Damn, he hoped Black was the first of these idiots to approach the body.

  ‘The cache is by that strange rock,’ Al-Zafawi said. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about the cache, buster. As soon as we’ve put these fuckers down, we’ll open it up.’ He sniffed. ‘Any second now,’ he said for a third time.

  And to himself, he said: Come on, Black. Show yourself.

  Caitlin had lost count of how many times she had tried to raise Spearpoint on the sat phone. Ten? Twenty? The whole journey from Panjika was blurred in her concussed mind. She didn’t know how long it had taken. All she knew was that the sun was coming up, and that she had arrived at the place where she needed to ditch her vehicle and head north, if she was going to have any chance of warning Danny.

  She staggered out of the vehicle, making no attempt to hide it. The sandstorm had subsided a little, but the clouds of sand still blasted her face and body. She peered north. She could just make out a rough path over undulating ground towards the mountainside looming ahead. It seemed to lead towards a forested slope.

  Thirty klicks north of Gareshk, dug into the mountainside where Al-Zafawi will never find it . . .

  Was this the place? She couldn’t know for sure. But she had no time to doubt herself.

  She headed north, clutching her sat phone. Her attention was fixed on the path, but almost by reflex she dialled the access number into Spearpoint as she stumbled forward. Expecting nothing but electrical interference, she put the handset to her ear.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said a distant, crackly voice.

  Caitlin stopped. For a moment she couldn’t speak as she tried to get her head in order.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘This is asset Charlie Foxtrot Niner,’ she shouted above the noise of the storm. Her voice was weak and rasping. ‘Get me Cadogan!’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Get me Cadogan!’

  She turned as she waited, surveying the area around the path. She was exposed. What was she thinking? She crouched to the ground to make a smaller target.

  ‘Cadogan.’ The Spearpoint controller’s voice was abrupt.

  There was no time for wasted words. Caitlin screamed over the storm. ‘Tell Danny . . .’ she started to stay, but then she coughed, and couldn’t stop coughing.

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘Tell him . . . Tony and Al-Zafawi . . . working together . . . he’s not alone . . . he’s got a team . . . hello . . . hello?’

  The electrical interference had returned. There was no one at the other end of the line. Caitlin cursed, pushed herself painfully to her feet and almost tripped as she pushed on through the storm, heading for the protection of the forested slope, and whatever lay beyond.

  Danny’s breathing was slow and measured. His finger rested lightly on the trigger. The cross hairs were squarely on Tony’s chest.

  One shot, he told himself. You have to put him down with one shot. Otherwise you give him a chance.

  He stopped breathing so there was no movement to screw up his aim.

  Prepared to take the shot.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Murray’s whispered voice over comms was urgent. ‘Hold your fire!’

  Danny quelled a kick of disappointment in his gut. He didn’t move his weapon, but he returned his finger to the edge of the trigger guard.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he breathed.

  ‘Spearpoint are on. They’ve had a communication from Caitlin Wallace. She says Tony’s hooked up with Al-Zafawi.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Riley. ‘What’s she on? Al-Zafawi would cut Tony’s head off and stick the footage on YouTube half an hour later.’

  But Danny said nothing. He felt like something had clicked in his brain. Instantly, he understood Tony’s play. And he knew beyond question that Brooker had been right. The guy Danny had in his sights now was not Tony.

  ‘Nobody move a fucking muscle,’ he breathed into comms. ‘It’s an ambush.’

  ‘Course it’s a bloody ambush,’ Riley said. ‘We’re the ones who set it up.’

  ‘No,’ Danny said. ‘Tony’s the one who set it up.’ He paused. ‘He’s in the high ground. He’s got Al-Zafawi’s team. We fire on this guy, nothing’s going to happen. But when we show ourselves, they open up. Nobody fucking move.’

  Silence. The target looked around a little, evidently unsure of himself. Then, quite clearly, he looked up the hill, as if searching for something, or someone.

  ‘What’s our next play, Danny?’ Brooker whispered. ‘What the fuck do we do?’

  ‘We stay put,’ Danny said. ‘They don’t know where we are, otherwise they wouldn’t need to draw us out. That means they don’t know for sure that we’re here. If we stay put, they’ll advance on the cache.’

  A pause.

  ‘Roger that,’ came the reply.

  ‘What is happening?’ Al-Zafawi spat.

  The Taliban patsy in the gulley was looking up towards them.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Tony hissed.

  ‘There is nobody there, you fool,’ Al-Zafawi said, making zero attempt to hide the accusation in his voice.

  ‘Keep your fucking voice down,’ Tony said. ‘They’ll show themselves eventually. They’ll have to. We just have to wait—’

  ‘I will not,’ Al-Zafawi said. ‘There is nobody there. We must take the bullion while we can.’ He called over his shoulder in Pashto.

  Tony turned, pointing his weapon towards the Taliban leader. ‘What did you just say?’ he demanded. ‘What did you just say?’

  They stared at each other, hate crackling between each man. Seconds later, three Taliban militants emerged through the trees, weapons engaged, pointing towards Tony.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Al-Zafawi,’ Tony said. ‘I’m the only one who knows—’

  ‘Put down your weapon,’ Al-Zafawi said.

  Tony kept his AK trained on the Taliban leader. Sweat dripped down his brow. The three gunmen, sneering and clearly pleased to have the British soldier where they wanted him, kept their weapons on him.

  ‘We release a single round,’ Tony breathed, ‘we give away our position and we’re fucked.’

  ‘Put down your weapon,’ Al-Zafawi repeated.

  Tony’s brain was making minute calculations. Could he switch his weapon to automatic without them noticing? Could he take all four men out in a burst before one of them fired on him? Could he disappear into the forest without the Red Unit finding him?

  None of these calculations gave him the answer he wanted. He lowered his weapon. There was no other choice. He laid it on the ground. ‘Look, guys,’ he said in his most reasonable tone of voice, ‘if we’re going to get past that team—’

  ‘There is no team!’ Al-Zafawi said. ‘Only us!’ His eyes flashed. He nodded at his men and said something in Pashto. They advanced on Tony, stopping when they were about three metres away. ‘Get on your knees,’ the Taliban leader said. ‘Now!’

  Tony knelt. His weapon was still close. Half a metre. He could grab it if he needed to. He knew Al-Zafawi wouldn’t give the kill order yet. Not till he had his hands on his bullion.

  Al-Zafawi spat on him. He felt the gobbet of saliva on his left cheek. ‘I am going to get my money,’ Al-Zafawi said.

  Tony forced himself to breathe slowly and keep his heart rate down. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘You’ll fuck the whole thing up.’

  But Al-Zafawi was already stepping out from the treeline. In seconds, he was in full view of anybody surveying the gulley.

  Tony waited for the shot. It didn’t come. The three gunmen grinned at him.

  Tony sweated, and kept one eye on his weapon.