Tony positioned himself in front of one of the laptops. He tapped at the keyboard. A few seconds later, as clear as if he was in the same room, Danny heard Marcus Cadogan’s voice. ‘Can you hear me, chaps?’

  ‘Roger that,’ Tony said, rolling his eyes at Dexter. Dexter grinned. It was a strangely obsequious gesture, like a kid sucking up to the school bully. It seemed to please Tony.

  ‘Roger that,’ came Ray Hammond’s voice over the line.

  Tony manoeuvred the laptop so the unit could see the screen. Half of it was taken up with a close-up of Cadogan with his unruly blond hair. The other half showed Ray Hammond.

  ‘Splendid,’ Cadogan said. ‘We have two targets green lit by the Foreign Office. They have been awarded the imaginative monikers Target Red and Target Blue. Target Red is Khalid Al-Din, pseudonym Abu Noor. He lives in the village of Gareshk, in a compound with his wife and two children. Target Blue is his brother, Hassan Al-Din, pseudonym Abu Manza. He lives in the same village, also with his wife, but three children. Surveillance footage suggests the targets are in situ, so the hits will have to be tonight and in close succession. If we only get one, the other will go to ground. Tell me what you need.’

  Tony answered without even looking at the others. ‘Distance to target?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty kilometres.’

  ‘Terrain between here and there?’

  ‘Partly mountainous. High risk of IEDs.’

  ‘So we freefall in,’ Tony said. ‘Four of us.’

  ‘Plus the dog,’ Dexter added.

  Danny had no argument with that.

  ‘The Herc is on standby,’ Hammond said. ‘Flight crew is being briefed at the moment.’

  ‘Do we have a Met report?’ Danny asked.

  ‘I’ve got it here,’ Isherwood said, holding up a tablet in a rugged case. ‘We have cloud cover coming this afternoon. It’s going to be a dark night. No moon. But dry.’

  ‘Can we stop talking about the fucking weather for just one minute?’ Tony said.

  There was silence in the room and on the line. Cole and Dexter looked like they were enjoying Tony’s interruption. Tony himself glared dangerously at everyone before continuing. ‘And if it’s okay with everyone else, the new boy can keep his pie hole shut, since he doesn’t know what the fuck we’re dealing with.’ He glared at Danny. ‘The last three hits we’ve done, these fuckers have been tooled up. Properly tooled up.’ He strode over to the back of the briefing room where there was a line of metal shelving full of bits of military gear. He picked up a laser sight. ‘AN/PEQ-2 laser,’ Tony said, holding it up. ‘Fitted to the rifle of that kid we nailed outside Musa Qala three nights ago.’ He returned the laser sight to the shelf and picked up a compact radio handset. ‘Encrypted,’ he said. ‘So much for the Taliban communicating on walkie-talkies that my granny could hack into with her hearing aid. We picked this up last week when we nailed those two targets south of Lashkar Gah. Cunt had used it, too. We had to dodge three of his fucking raghead mates on the way to the pickup zone.’ He chucked the radio back on the shelf. ‘This is SF gear. Our targets are better equipped than we’ve been expecting. Fuck knows where they’re getting this stuff, but someone’s arming them properly. We don’t up our game, we’re going to get burned.’

  A brief silence followed Tony’s outburst. Then Cadogan spoke. ‘Have you quite finished, my dear chap?’ he said quietly.

  ‘No I fucking haven’t, my dear chap.’ Tony returned to the table. ‘First things first. I want a fast-air strafing run over the target to mask the noise of our aircraft when we deploy. These guys aren’t stupid. They know the sound of a Hercules when they hear it.’

  ‘You’ll be HALO-ing in from twenty-two thousand feet,’ Hammond said. ‘It’s not necessary. No one’s going to hear you at that height.’

  Tony’s eyes went flinty. He didn’t like being told no.

  ‘You’ll tell the ANA and any NATO forces to stay clear of the target area?’ Cadogan asked. ‘One would rather avoid a blue on blue.’

  ‘Of course,’ Isherwood said. ‘I’ve already made the calls. There’s a four kilometre no-go zone around each target location. There’ll be no military operations getting in your way.’

  ‘That’s the least I’d expect, pal,’ Tony insisted. Danny could tell this was now a matter of pride. ‘I want a patrol making some noise on the south side of this highway here.’ He pointed at a map on the table for Isherwood’s benefit. ‘Everything goes quiet, our targets will know something’s up. If we have a few green army boys laying down rounds, it’ll just be another normal night in Helmand and the targets will be looking the other way.’

  Isherwood inclined his head. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘You’ll fucking do more than that. You’ll make it happen.’

  Isherwood straightened up to his full height. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘I’m not finished,’ Tony said. ‘I want full drone support throughout the op.’

  There was a moment of silence as Cadogan consulted someone back at the Cornwall control room. ‘Not possible, I fear,’ he said finally. ‘We have limited drone assets available to us. They’re needed elsewhere.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tony said. ‘Then we’ll just put our boots up and call in a few hookers. Because if you’re not giving us the backup we need, we’re staying home.’

  Danny had to hand it to Tony. He was up himself, but he knew how to get what he wanted. And deep down, Danny didn’t disagree with anything he was saying.

  There was another pause at the Cornwall end of the line. Cadogan’s eyes narrowed and Danny recognised the sharp expression he’d seen back at Spearpoint HQ. ‘Very well,’ Cadogan said finally. ‘We can follow you for the first hit, then get you on target for the second. But as soon as you breach Target Blue’s compound, we have no option but to pull them off. They’re needed 200 miles to the south for another operation.’

  ‘That’s not good enough—’ Tony started to say.

  ‘Deal with it, Wiseman,’ Hammond cut in. His voice had an edge. ‘Otherwise I’m pulling you out.’

  Tony jutted out his chin, but didn’t reply.

  ‘If there’s nothing else, gentlemen,’ Isherwood announced, ‘I have some calls to make.’

  ‘Wait,’ Tony said. He nodded in Danny’s direction. ‘I’ve been with this cunt on ops before. Like I said, he’s a liability.’

  ‘Give it a fucking break, Tony,’ Danny muttered.

  Tony ignored him. ‘The three of us have been on the ground for six months now. We know the ropes. I want it understood that he takes his orders from me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Agreed,’ Hammond said. Danny felt his blood run hot, but knew there was no point arguing. He stared carefully at the screen, ignoring the looks he knew the others were giving him. ‘We’ll make the drop at 23.20 hours local time,’ Hammond continued. ‘We’ll speak again at 19.00. Get ready.’

  The video feed on the laptop died.

  Tony turned to Dexter and Cole. ‘Posh twat,’ he said, clearly referring to Cadogan. ‘You two, get the gear packed up.’ He nodded at Danny. ‘He can help you with the donkey work.’

  ‘Let’s go, Black,’ Dexter said.

  Danny stood his ground. ‘Not yet,’ he said. He turned to Tony. ‘Do you have visuals for the targets?’

  ‘We’ll do that when the gear’s packed,’ Tony said.

  ‘We’ll do it now,’ Danny replied.

  There was silence in the room. Danny and Tony faced off across the table. The other three men watched them carefully. It felt like everyone was holding their breath.

  ‘Sort the gear out,’ Isherwood said. ‘Be back here in an hour. We’ll continue our briefing then.’

  Dexter smiled. Cole looked slightly anxiously between Danny and Tony. Tony inclined his head and gave Danny both barrels of his most insulting look.

  ‘Show him the ropes, fellas,’ Tony said.

  Cole and Dexter headed out of the ops room. Danny had no option but to follow.

  The safest time to be outside her compound, Caitlin had learned, was between 13.00 and 15.00 hours. Midday prayers were over and the temperature was almost intolerable. It was intolerable for everyone. At this time of day, she could move around without attracting too much attention.

  But the streets were not deserted. Members of the Afghan National Army, based at one of the FOBs to the north, east and south of Panjika, were patrolling in groups of three or four. They were clad in standard camo gear, although some had bandanas over their faces even in this heat, to hide their identity. In Helmand Province, it wasn’t always wise to let it be known you were on the side of the authorities. Aside from the ANA patrols, the streets were full of women. Caitlin had made an observation. While the men of the village took shelter in their homes during the hottest parts of the day, the women were more likely to be out. It was a cultural thing. The women were the hardest workers. Or maybe, she thought to herself grimly, it wasn’t a cultural thing at all. Maybe it was the same everywhere.

  She wore traditional Afghan clothes: a blue burqa, complete with headdress that covered her face. Her presence in this village was hardly a secret, but she liked to keep a low profile in front of the ANA. Underneath her robes she wore body armour and had her handgun holstered at her side. She didn’t expect any trouble, but that was no reason not to be careful.

  Caitlin took this walk a couple of times a week. She avoided any kind of schedule – it was hardwired in her to mix things up a bit so that she didn’t present an open target if she was under surveillance. But the women of the village knew there was a chance that she might be walking the streets at this time of day. They could recognise her by the shoulder bag she carried, which contained her medical gear. Those who were too shy, or scared, to come to her compound could approach her in the street. She insisted that Tommy stay home. He didn’t like it, but his alarming presence would make these midday walks entirely useless. He was a scary-looking guy – and it wasn’t like Caitlin couldn’t take care of herself. Gabina, on the other hand, was a necessity. Without her, Caitlin couldn’t talk to anyone. The petite, pretty young translator walked alongside her, similarly dressed, head down.

  Ordinarily, Caitlin would loiter on corners, or outside the ramshackle stalls that made up the main street, waiting for women to come to her, talk to her and – hopefully – give up nuggets of intelligence that she could report back to Cornwall. Today, she had a different objective. She strode with purpose, past the stalls with their corrugated iron roofs and pitiful collection of wares for sale, past rickshaws and bicycles and the occasional stray goat. When groups of two or three women watched her pass, she didn’t stop to talk as she normally would. Today, she had a destination.

  She continued to the end of the main street, past the plain arch at the front of the mosque – all closed up now – and turned left where eight or nine old motorbikes were parked. From here she could see the derelict building site at the back of the mosque, where reconstruction of its bomb-damaged north-western corner had stalled. Beyond that, a number of trees were dotted around, behind which the dried-out riverbed ran parallel to the main street. On the other side of the river was a collection of low compounds and other dwellings. This area was normally deserted. She ignored a lean, hungry-looking dog that watched her intently as she approached one of the very few two-storey buildings in the village. The ground floor comprised a garage with heavily bolted shutters. This was where the only mechanic in the village worked. But of course he was not there today, because the previous night he had been thrown through the windscreen of his car, along with his wife, while his little boy had been burned to death and his daughter had suffered a massive arterial bleed, and only survived thanks to Caitlin’s swift intervention at the scene of the car bomb.

  The mechanic and his daughter were now in an ANA medical facility thirty klicks from here. Caitlin didn’t even know if they were alive. The little boy – whose burned, peeled face Caitlin would never forget – would be buried before sundown at the edge of the village, as was the custom.

  The mother, however, was here.

  Her wounds – lacerations on her face from the windscreen and a broken ankle – had not been considered severe enough for an emergency medical evacuation. Word was that the Afghan soldiers had brought her home, given her some rudimentary care and basic pain relief, and then left.

  A rough staircase was carved into the side of the house by the garage, leading to the first floor. Caitlin and Gabina climbed it together. Caitlin knocked on the wooden door at the top of the stairs. There was no answer, but the door wasn’t locked. She let herself in.

  It was a poor place. Just one room with two old double mattresses in opposite corners. A rickety metal table with four chairs. An old gas stove with a scuffed propane canister next to it. An ancient wooden cupboard. No sign of a sink or a toilet.

  The woman was lying on one of the mattresses. The skin on her face was closed up here and there with steristrips and her ankle was bandaged. She was wrapped in an old blanket but despite the heat was still shivering. She was also crying: a desperate, repetitive mew. Caitlin could tell she was in pain, but she could also tell that she knew about her son. It was that kind of cry.

  It was very gloomy in here. The one window in the room was covered with a shutter. Caitlin and Gabina left the door open to give them a bit of light. Even so, the woman didn’t appear to notice that she had guests until they were practically by her bedside. When that happened, her anguished face became suddenly fearful. She tried to push herself up on to her elbows, but couldn’t. She collapsed on her back again, her eyes shut, her whole body racking with sobs.

  ‘Tell her I’m going to give her some medicine for the pain,’ Caitlin told Gabina.

  Gabina translated, her eyes wide with sympathy. The woman gave no indication that she even heard her. Caitlin kneeled by her side and opened up her shoulder bag. She removed a sealed packet containing a pencil-shaped auto-injector. The lettering on the side read ‘Morphine Sulfate 10mg’.

  Caitlin administered the morphine shot through the woman’s clothes and into the flesh of her left thigh in a matter of seconds. The impact was almost immediate. The woman stopped crying. Her breathing became more regular. Caitlin could sense her patient’s whole body relaxing. The drug wouldn’t have taken away the pain of the trauma, but it would have softened her body’s harsh response to it.

  Caitlin was honest enough with herself to admit that the morphine also had a secondary effect, besides giving the woman comfort. It would have loosened her tongue.

  She looked up at Gabina and nodded. ‘Tell her I’m the one who helped her daughter,’ she said.

  Gabina translated. The woman spoke weakly in Pashto. Her words were slightly slurred.

  ‘She wants to know where her husband and daughter are,’ Gabina said.

  ‘In the hospital,’ Caitlin said. ‘As soon as I hear anything I’ll tell you. But for now they’re safe.’

  Gabina translated. The woman closed her eyes.

  ‘I want to ask you a question,’ Caitlin said. She knew she had to be careful with her words. Say the wrong thing and her potential source would clam shut, morphine or no morphine. ‘Do you want to help me stop this happening again?’

  The woman didn’t respond.

  Caitlin gave it a moment. ‘The more I know,’ she said, ‘about the people doing these things, the more I can help.’

  Silence.

  Caitlin and Gabina exchanged a look. ‘Tell her we’ll come back this afternoon,’ Caitlin said quietly. ‘If she wants some help getting to the burial, we can sort that.’

  Gabina translated. The woman gave no indication that she’d heard.

  Caitlin knew not to push it. She packed her things and stood up again. She nodded at Gabina and they turned to leave.

  They were halfway to the door when the woman spoke.

  Caitlin and Gabina stopped and turned. The woman still had her eyes closed. ‘What did she say?’ Caitlin breathed.

  ‘She said: “The Imam knows.” ’

  ‘The Imam knows what?’

  Gabina made a ‘I don’t know’ gesture.

  They returned to the woman’s bedside. ‘Is he involved with the Taliban?’ Caitlin asked. Gabina asked the question in a low, reassuring voice. The woman started to speak again, and the interpreter translated.

  ‘My daughter told me. She is friends with the Imam’s granddaughter. They live together in a compound on the other side of the river, with the rest of the Imam’s family. She told my daughter that someone visits him at night. For religious comfort. Someone important in the Taliban.’

  ‘Who?’ Caitlin said. ‘Does she have a name?’

  Gabina asked the question, and Caitlin didn’t need to translate the answer. ‘Al-Zafawi,’ said the woman.

  Caitlin found herself breathing very deeply. Al-Zafawi was a name that needed no introduction to her. He was reputed to be the mastermind behind several of the Taliban’s worst atrocities in recent times. A school massacre in Pakistan that killed more than 100 children. A wave of suicide and gun attacks in Kabul that killed 200 in a single day. An attack on a hospital in Jalalabad that killed as many medical staff as it did patients. It was even rumoured that he was behind a number of attacks in the UK. He certainly had the contacts, having been a student at the University of Bradford in the eighties.

  Now, though, he had reinvented himself. He was reputed to be the leader of what the Helmand Taliban considered to be their own special forces. The Red Unit. That, along with the rap sheet from hell, made him just about the most high-value target in the province. And also the most difficult to locate.

  ‘How do you know this?’ Caitlin said.

  Gabina spoke her translated response extra slowly, as though she was taking great care not to make any errors. Her voice wavered slightly. She clearly knew that this was dangerous information. ‘The Imam is old. He knew Al-Zafawi when he was younger. From time to time Al-Zafawi wishes to speak to him about spiritual matters. He is his . . .’ Gabina took a moment to search for the right word. ‘His confessor.’