He released Danny’s grip. Danny let his hand fall.

  ‘The hut on the far side of the shitters is the armoury. Get yourself sorted. You can zero in on the range in the north-western corner of the base – I don’t want you fucking things up by not being on target. We operate at night, and we need to be ready to deploy with thirty minutes’ notice. I’m going back to bed.’

  He turned his back on Danny and started walking back towards his Portakabin.

  ‘Tony,’ Danny called.

  Tony stopped but didn’t turn.

  ‘Any shit, I’ll nail you and be happy to do it.’

  Tony looked over his shoulder. He moved his sunglasses so they were resting on the top of his head. Once more Danny saw the raw, bloodshot look in his eyes. ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ he said.

  He turned again, continued walking and this time reached and entered his quarters, leaving Danny sweating in the Afghan sun, his throat dry and a vein throbbing noticeably in his temple.

  CHAPTER 5

  Spearpoint Headquarters, 07.30 hours GMT

  ‘What do you have, chaps?’

  Marcus Cadogan had allowed himself a couple of hours’ sleep. He showed no sign that he’d been woken up just five minutes ago. His clothes were not wrinkled, his eyes were not tired. He blew his floppy blond hair off his forehead, then rapped the floor with his walking stick as he spoke.

  The ginger-haired soldier McLean, by contrast, looked exhausted and he didn’t smell too fresh. When he spoke, his voice had a hard edge. ‘I think we can green light them, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, old chap,’ Cadogan said. ‘Go ahead.’

  McLean frowned slightly at the put-down, but quickly regained his composure. ‘To recap,’ he said, ‘our targets are known locally as Abu Manza and Abu Noor. We’ve managed to commandeer drones to follow them for the past eight hours. It’s captured enough imagery for us to cross-reference their identities. They’ve been operating together.’

  McLean turned to one of the tech guys and nodded. The tech guy tapped on his keyboard. Photographs appeared on two side-by-side screens, six on the left-hand screen, five on the right-hand screen. They were blurred and distant, but obviously the same two people. ‘The guy on the left,’ McLean said, ‘is Abu Manza.’ The photographs on the left-hand screen disappeared, to be replaced by a single, much clearer, image of an Afghan man. ‘Also known as Hassan al-Din. He’s on the FBI watch list and is wanted in Saudi Arabia on terrorism charges.’

  McLean turned his attention to the second screen. ‘Abu Noor is a real piece of work. We think his real name is Khalid al-Din. Thought to have been a protégé of Bin Laden’s, list of terrorist activity as long as your arm. Previously believed to be hiding in Lebanon, quite the surprise to find him here.’ The drone pictures disappeared to show a single black and white image, clearly of the same man.

  ‘These are good targets,’ Cadogan said. ‘How did our asset come by them?’

  ‘A teenage Afghan girl, sir. She seems to have a way with them.’

  Cadogan smiled. ‘Affidamento,’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where on earth did you go to school, McLean?’

  ‘Not Eton, sir.’

  ‘Obviously. Affidamento. It’s an Italian term. It means a relationship of trust between women.’

  ‘Sir, if we could—’

  ‘This isn’t enough to green light the targets,’ Cadogan said. ‘Those chaps at the Foreign Office will want more than that.’

  ‘Bear with me, sir,’ McLean said, with a note of impatience in his voice. ‘There is more. Our drones followed these characters and we got lucky. I’ll give you the edited highlights. At 03.00 local time they met at this road junction ten miles north of Gareshk.’ A map appeared on the screen. A red dot indicated a crossroads. ‘You’ll see that this road heads north-west. There’s an ANA forward operating base about three kilometres along the road, so I think we can safely assume there will be a high volume of troop movement in that direction.’ He nodded at the tech guy and the picture changed to an NV camera view of a vehicle from above. ‘We’ll scrub forward,’ McLean said. The camera footage moved into fast forward. The vehicle sped along the road moving north-west. When it came to a halt, the tech guy slowed the footage down. They watched as two figures emerged and opened up the trunk of the vehicle. It was hard to see exactly what they removed from it, but a few seconds later they were plainly digging a hole in the centre of the road. It took them no more than two minutes. They returned to the trunk of the vehicle, then removed something else. Whatever this object was, they placed it in the hole they’d just dug and refilled it with the displaced earth. They hurried back to the car, reversed back up the road, made a three-point turn and returned the way they’d come.

  The footage stopped and the screen went blank.

  ‘It’s rather crude, isn’t it?’ Cadogan said quietly.

  ‘Effective though,’ McLean said. ‘Our guys estimate that IED is enough to take out a truck full of ten to twelve soldiers with about fifty per cent loss of life. If a civilian vehicle hits it, all the occupants will be killed.’

  ‘We can’t identify the targets by this footage?’

  ‘No, sir. But we know it’s them.’

  ‘Do tell me you haven’t warned the Afghans about this one,’ Cadogan said.

  McLean frowned. ‘No, sir.’ He paused for a moment, before quickly adding: ‘But I do think we can arrange a convincing reason for that road to be closed off . . .’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Cadogan said.

  ‘Sir, if we—’

  ‘If we give the targets any indication that we’re on to them, they’ll go to ground. The IED stays where it is. But for heaven’s sake don’t put that in Holroyd’s report. Where is our pious investigative friend, by the way?’

  ‘He was called back to London last night, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for. Is this everything you have?’

  ‘No, sir. Abu Manza and Abu Noor are high-value targets. We have their DNA on file. If the Foreign Office decide to green light the hit, we can take samples once they’re dead to confirm their identities. Should ease things with the RMPs if we need it to.’

  ‘I do hope you didn’t get their DNA from the Americans, old chap.’

  ‘The Australians, sir.’

  Cadogan thought for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Get me the Foreign Office,’ he said.

  The Portakabin that would be serving as Danny’s quarters was devoid of luxury. A low military cot. A chest of drawers. A table and a chair. Nothing more. The insane Afghan heat had penetrated its flimsy walls and it was hotter inside than out. Danny could still smell the body odour of the room’s previous occupant. He presumed that was Jimmy Murphy, who’d tried to top himself and been sent home.

  Danny dumped his shoulder bag on his bed. Looked around. There was nothing keeping him in here, so he decided to go and investigate the armoury. He stepped back outside, wincing, into the bright sunlight, then entered the Portakabin Tony had indicated. He had to walk past the sanitary block, which smelled even worse up close.

  The armoury was twice the size of Danny’s accommodation. Along the far wall were two racks, one above the other: handguns and sub-machine guns on one, assault rifles on the other. There were boxes of ammunition. Fragmentation grenades. Flashbangs. Optics – laser sights, torches, night sights. There were clothes racks packed with ops gear – tactical vests, body armour, Crye Precision digital camouflage combat apparel. A metal shelf contained a line of NV helmets, each with four individual NV tubes spread out to give an extra wide field of vision. There were freefall rigs and HALO gear. There were packages of C-4 plastic explosives. Tucked away in one corner was a crate filled with attack dog paraphernalia: a canine freefall harness, a canine tactical vest, bite sleeves, GoPro harness attachments and several types of lead.

  This was a well-stocked room. It was almost as if the Regiment’s armoury had been lifted from Hereford and dumped here in the middle of the desert. It was the storeroom of a team that meant business.

  Danny approached the weapons rack. He selected an M4, suppressed. Like all the other weapons, it had been spray painted in brown and khaki desert colours. Danny took it down from the rack and instinctively checked that it was made safe and there was no ammunition. A loose round in here could be like a fag end in a petrol station. He slung it over his shoulder and picked out a Sig P226 handgun. Then he bent down to select a box of 5.56 for the rifle and 9mms for the handgun. He reckoned that just this once he’d take Tony’s advice and go spend some time on the range.

  He turned. And stopped.

  He had left the doorway to the armoury open. Now it was blocked. Silhouetted against the bright sunlight outside was the outline of a dog. It was standing and its back was arched. Danny recognised the distinctive outline of a Malinois and he could immediately sense – both from the dog’s position and from the low growl that came from its throat – that the beast was consciously restraining itself, but ready to attack at the same time. Like a rock being stretched back in a catapult.

  Danny didn’t move. He made no eye contact with the dog, because he knew it could take that as a threat. Instead he glanced over to the crate in the corner where the dog gear was stashed. Nobody had told him that the team was using an attack dog, but it made sense.

  A human figure appeared behind the dog. Broad shouldered. Scruffy hair. Danny couldn’t quite make out his face. His presence didn’t seem to worry the Malinois, who continued to growl.

  ‘Baron, at ease.’

  The voice was deep, with a very pronounced Northern Irish accent. It spoke to the dog with quiet authority, and the dog itself responded immediately. It sat. The growling stopped. It cocked its head at a slight angle, as though patiently listening for its next command. It didn’t, however, take its gaze off Danny.

  The man entered. His scruffy hair and beard were a red-blond colour, and his skin was also blasted red by the sand and the sun. There was something boyish about his appearance. He wore camo trousers and no top, which showed off not only his muscular, sunburned torso, but also the full sleeve of tattoos from his right forearm up to his shoulder. Nothing military, of course, that might identify him, but there was barely an exposed patch of skin. The muscles in his arms were well defined, and his non-tattooed arm was grimy, like he’d just been out on ops and hadn’t cleaned up yet. Ray-Bans, which he’d propped up on his forehead. A full beard, if anything a little redder than his hair. A rugged watch on his left wrist. He stepped inside, past the dog, stroking its head as he did so and making a clicking noise in the back of his throat, which seemed to calm the Malinois a bit more.

  ‘Danny Black,’ he said, without much enthusiasm.

  ‘Rees Dexter.’ Danny recognised the A Squadron man, but they’d never spoken. He was well known for being one of Tony’s yes men, and for being considerably fonder of his dogs than of people.

  Dexter gestured over his shoulder with one thumb. ‘That’s Baron. Do yourself a favour and steer clear of him. I’m his handler. He answers to nobody else. His teeth are steel capped, his jaws are strong and he’s got a taste for fresh blood.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be properly housed when he’s not on ops?’ Danny said.

  Dexter didn’t answer immediately. He looked distracted. Like he was staring at a point somewhere beyond Danny. After a few seconds, he said: ‘What about you, Black? You got a taste for fresh blood, too? Because you’ll need it, out here.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Ah, don’t you worry about Baron. As long as I’m nearby, he’s as happy as a pig in shit.’ He pointed at the weapons Danny was carrying. ‘You want me to show you where the range is? Zero those bad boys in?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘Sure, Baron could do with stretching his legs. C’mon, I’ll show you the ropes.’

  Dexter put his Ray-Bans on properly and led the way out of the armoury and across the enclosure to the exit. Baron walked obediently at his side. The dog gave no sign of its former aggressive self, but Danny kept his distance anyway. There was something about Dexter that put him on edge. He seemed somehow different to most of the Regiment guys he knew. There was no camaraderie in his manner. And Danny knew about dogs and their handlers. If Dexter lost his cool, nobody could vouch for the behaviour of the Malinois.

  ‘It’s not far,’ Dexter said. ‘Best hope you don’t have to share it with those fuckin’ ANA jokers. That’s kindergarten time.’

  ‘How long have you been out here?’ Danny asked as they walked past a line of low, brick buildings that housed sand-coloured armoured vehicles.

  Dexter moistened his lips. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Hammond said Spearpoint has been running for about nine months,’ Danny prompted him.

  ‘Aye, nine months.’ Dexter sounded uncertain. ‘The days kind of run into each other,’ he said. ‘And the nights, of course. We work at night.’ He stopped suddenly, and looked around. A few Afghan soldiers were milling about, but none of them were paying them any attention. ‘A word to the wise, Black. This is Tony’s patch. He calls the shots.’ He moistened his lips again. ‘He said you and he had some history.’

  ‘Which way is the range?’

  Dexter removed his Ray-Bans. For a moment, Danny saw the same dead expression in his eyes that he’d seen in Tony’s. ‘Good man, Tony,’ Dexter said. ‘Good man.’ Dexter sniffed and the strange look in his eyes faded. ‘This way,’ he said.

  The range was a cordoned-off patch of sand at the edge of the air base, with three body-shaped targets positioned in front of a large bank of earth, which was there to stop any loose rounds. A bored Afghan soldier was manning the place, but he stayed in a small concrete hut out of the sun. There were sandbags lying here and there on the ground.

  Danny left Dexter with his dog and pulled out a thirty-round magazine of 5.56s. He checked that the lip was smooth. Too often, guys rammed these magazines into the weapon, dinging the lip, which would eventually cause a stoppage. Satisfied that the mag was good, Danny loaded it up. He positioned a sandbag 150 metres from the central target. He lay down in a prone position, supporting his right arm on the sandbag, and aimed for the central mass of the target’s chest. He released five aimed, deliberate shots. Immediately he could tell that his grouping was good – the shots had all fallen within an inch of each other. But when he walked up to the target to examine the position of the group, he saw that it was a good couple of inches to the right of centre. He adjusted the weapon’s sight a couple of clicks before returning to his prone position at the sandbag and releasing a further five rounds. Bang on.

  He approached the target again. Fifty metres out, and still walking forward, he raised his weapon and released two rounds. Direct head shots. Still walking, he lowered the weapon then raised it again. Two rounds. Directly on target. He switched the weapon to automatic, emptied the magazine, loaded a new one and put another thirty rounds through the weapon. All sweet. Danny’s rifle was zeroed and working as he expected it to.

  He removed his Sig. Stood five metres from the target and emptied the handgun. The 9mm rounds fell exactly as he was expecting.

  Danny was sweating as he retrieved his shredded target from its hanger. He’d only been in-country for less than two hours and already his skin felt grimy and sandblasted. He turned. Through the haze of heat, he saw Dexter cross-legged on the sand giving Baron commands and rewarding him with treats from the pocket of his camo trousers. If he had any interest in Danny’s skill with a weapon, he didn’t show it.

  Danny started trudging back towards his firing point. As he did so, he saw an armoured truck speeding towards the range, a cloud of dust billowing up around it. It scraped to a halt twenty metres from the range and a man jumped out whom Danny recognised as Billy Cole, also A Squadron. Cole had a bald head, a scraggly black beard and very tanned, leathery skin. He was dressed similarly to Dexter – Crye camo trousers, boots and a tactical vest over his bare torso. Precisely the same sunglasses. He left the truck turning over and ran towards Dexter. From a distance of thirty metres, Danny saw the two men in conversation, occasionally looking over towards him. And as he drew nearer, Danny saw Cole glance at him with a flat, unfriendly look.

  ‘We need to get back,’ he said in a low voice as Danny approached. Very hoarse, like he’d been shouting a lot, or had damaged his throat.

  ‘Why?’ Danny said.

  Dexter flicked Baron another treat, and the dog jumped up to get it.

  Cole gave Danny a ‘what are you, stupid?’ look. ‘Because we’ve got a green light,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Cole had the wheel. Danny was in the front passenger seat while Dexter and the dog sat in the back.

  ‘Is it tonight?’ Dexter asked from the back.

  ‘Roger that. A double hit. The Watchman wants us in the ops room now.’

  It took a minute to get to the cordon. The crap hat at the gate had seen them coming and was already opening up. Cole skidded to a halt and the three team members alighted quickly. Cole led the way past the accommodation cabins to the concrete building next to the armoury. Dexter issued a single instruction to the dog: ‘Wait.’ Baron sat by the entrance to the building as the men filed in.

  Tony was already there. He had a black T-shirt on now, his aviators clipped to the neck. He was standing at a table that was covered with maps, papers and a couple of sturdy, scuffed laptops. Isherwood was standing next to him, examining photographs. He waved the rest of the unit in without even looking at them. It was, Danny noted, the slightly superior gesture of an officer. That knife and fork course had served him well, but it was obvious from the way that Tony nodded his agreement that Dexter and Cole were more in thrall to him than to Isherwood. Danny made a mental note to watch his back around those two.

  ‘Let’s get the headshed on the line,’ Isherwood said.