The woman’s eyes suddenly opened. She appeared more alert and she spoke more quickly. ‘You cannot harm the Imam,’ she said. ‘People will be angry.’

  ‘I’m not going to hurt anyone,’ Caitlin said. ‘If you need anything, get someone to come and find me. I’ll be back later to see how you are, and I’ll bring news about your family.’

  She muttered something in a sleepy voice. ‘You can’t hurt him,’ Gabina translated. ‘She says: you can’t hurt him.’

  ‘I know,’ Caitlin muttered. But she thought to herself: We’ll see.

  The sunlight outside the house hurt her eyes, even under the burka, as they emerged from the shadowy room. Caitlin strode purposefully back along the main street towards the compound. She felt the gaze of a group of ANA soldiers standing outside the bottle shop, but they didn’t interrupt her. She could also sense that Gabina wanted to talk about this new piece of intelligence. But Caitlin didn’t need a discussion. She needed to get on the radio to Cornwall. A lead on Al-Zafawi was big, but her brief was very distinct: hearts and minds. If she wanted to do what she was planning, she needed clearance from Spearpoint first.

  Tommy was cleaning his weapon in the shade of the tree branches that overhung their compound wall. As soon as they entered, he stood up, but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘I need the sat phone,’ Caitlin announced.

  Tommy nodded and opened the door to his quarters where the comms equipment was kept. Caitlin ducked inside. Tommy’s quarters had a soldier’s neatness, but there was no denying the ripe, male smell that hung in the air. Caitlin ignored it and headed straight for the table opposite Tommy’s bed. There was a sat phone, but also a laptop and various boxes of comms-boosting equipment. She powered up the sat phone, connected it to the laptop and typed in the access codes that would log her on to the encrypted VPN connection to Cornwall.

  All this took less than a minute. A face appeared on the screen. A red-haired soldier in camo gear. He looked tired and a bit harassed.

  ‘McLean,’ Caitlin said. ‘Do you copy?’

  ‘Roger that,’ McLean said.

  ‘I need the boss.’

  ‘Wait out figures two.’

  The screen went blank. Two minutes later, Cadogan appeared.

  ‘Caitlin,’ he said, a slight edge to his voice. ‘How delightful to hear from you.’

  ‘Spare me the smarm,’ Caitlin said. ‘I have a lead on Al-Zafawi.’

  There was no reply. Maybe there was a problem with the connection. ‘Repeat: I have a lead on Al-Zafawi.’

  ‘I heard you the first time, my dear,’ Cadogan said.

  ‘He’s in charge of the Red Unit. He’s—’

  ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘My source tells me that the local Imam acts as his confessor. He’s known him for years. They have regular contact. I think I need to speak to the Imam. Find out what he knows.’ She paused. ‘He’ll need a bit of persuasion.’

  No reply.

  ‘Cadogan, can you hear me?’

  ‘I can hear you. Now listen carefully. You’re to go nowhere near the Imam.’

  Caitlin felt a surge of frustration. ‘He’s a Taliban sympathiser and associate,’ she flared. ‘If he can give me something on Al-Zafawi, we could break up the Red Unit in one—’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Cadogan said. ‘You’re there to make friends. If you start interfering with the local Imam, you’ll do the precise opposite.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Must I repeat myself?’ Cadogan said. ‘You’re forbidden from making contact with the Imam. If you do, you’ll be on the first plane out of there. Am I understood?’

  Caitlin took a deep breath to smother her anger. ‘Understood,’ she said, even though she didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t Spearpoint want intel on a target as valuable as this. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t deal with the Imam discreetly. She might not even have to resort to violence. She’d learned long ago that the flutter of the eyelashes and an implied promise of something more could be as effective as a gun to the bollocks, when it came to guys.

  ‘Keep a low profile for twenty-four hours, my dear,’ Cadogan said. ‘The team’s going in tonight. By the way, there’s a new chap. Old chum of yours, I’m told. Does the name Danny Black ring any bells?’

  Caitlin blinked. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘It rings some bells. You’ve put him on the same team as Tony Wiseman?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  Caitlin paused. ‘No,’ she said a moment later. ‘No problem.’

  Because Spearpoint clearly weren’t in the mood to listen to her. And she was sure Danny wouldn’t want her interfering in his affairs anyway.

  In any case, she had other things to think about. Cadogan seemed shifty. His refusal to allow Caitlin to follow the Al-Zafawi lead didn’t add up. There was more to this than he was letting on.

  She killed the line and stared at the blank screen, thinking deeply.

  Maybe she couldn’t make contact with the Imam, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t keep an eye on the old boy.

  She decided to do just that.

  CHAPTER 7

  The pre-op briefings were complete.

  At 15.00 hours they’d conducted a weapons and equipment check. Danny had loaded his rucksack and ops waistcoat with everything he needed for the op: ammunition, optics, med pack, mapping, torch, 24-hour ration pack and drinking water.

  At 16.30 hours they’d performed a radio check, established working comms codes and given their boom mikes and earpieces a once-over. Each man’s radio was fitted with a GPS tracker that meant Cornwall could keep tabs on their location at any point. Danny had memorised emergency access numbers into the Kandahar and Spearpoint bases.

  At 17.30 hours they’d given their Ram Air freefall rigs a dedicated check. The plan was to jump from 22,000 feet so the Herc could fly high enough to avoid suspicion. Ordinarily, anything above 14,000 required the use of oxygen. The extra gear involved could slow them down on the ground, however. If it was just a quick blast up to 22k you could plug into the aircraft’s oxygen supply, take a couple of deep gulps before you jumped, and you’d get away with it. Danny asked Dexter if the dog would be okay with that.

  ‘Baron’s a better freefaller than you and me put together, Black,’ was the reply. And as Dexter continued to check over his rig, he said: ‘Fucking drones have a couple of Hellfire missiles hanging underneath. Don’t know why they don’t just wipe the whole fucking village.’

  ‘Small matter of civilian casualties,’ Danny said.

  ‘Ah well, Black. You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs, hey?’ And he looked at his other two unit mates. Tony grinned. Cole looked uncomfortable.

  At 18.00 hours, as dusk arrived, they met with the pilot. He didn’t ask any questions about what the team would be doing once they’d inserted. He was just businesslike and to the point about the drop.

  ‘I’m going to keep it high,’ he said. ‘We’ll be flying over several areas in full Taliban control. It’s unlikely they’ll take a pot shot, but the extra altitude will make us less obvious to them. Your drop zone will be three klicks from your target. Is there anything else you need from me?’

  There was nothing. The unit traipsed back through the air base towards the Spearpoint cordon. The sun was sinking large behind the mountains in the distance. It saturated everything with a dusty red colour. The military personnel and apparatus all around wavered in the heat haze. Danny felt the bite of excitement and anxiety that always preceded an op. A sharpening of the mind, a focusing of energy. Even the antagonism between him and Tony seemed to have dissipated over the past few hours. There wasn’t time for that on an operation. Once they were loaded up into the belly of that Hercules, they were no longer individuals. They were part of a unit, with a common purpose: to take out two militants, and stay alive in the process.

  The final briefing back in the Spearpoint ops room was terse but frictionless. Isherwood took the lead. They were given their operation call sign: Delta Bravo Niner. Then a rundown of the geography. ‘The village of Gareshk is situated on a tributary of the Helmand River. It’s just a trickle this time of year, but there’s a very lush green zone fifty metres either side. A forested area to the north and a central field fed by an irrigation ditch which we believe to be IED-free. There are extensive poppy fields to the west of the village.’

  He brought up a satellite map and pointed out all these features on the map of Gareshk.

  ‘The village itself mostly comprises high-walled compounds, each with approximately three or four buildings within. There are a few individual houses dotted around, if you want to call them that. It’s a pretty poor place. Population approximately five hundred. You can see that the most densely inhabited area is here to the east of the tributary and to the south of the central field. There is a Taliban curfew in force after dark, so the locals are likely to be tucked up. Assume any movement of personnel is a threat.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Cole muttered.

  ‘Targets Red and Blue both have compounds on the edge of the village. Target Red is on the eastern edge, Target Blue is on the western edge. You’ll hit the eastern compound first, then cut around the northern edge of the village to the western compound, which you’ll hit second. Your drop zone is two klicks to the east of Gareshk. You’ll follow this wadi west – ’ Isherwood indicated the path of a dried-out riverbed on the satellite map ‘ – until you reach this area of high ground here. At this point you’ll be fifty metres from Target Red’s compound. You’ll have drone support from this point on, so we’ll be able to confirm movement of potential threats in the area, but you’ll need to keep eyes on the target as you approach . . .’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ Tony muttered.

  Isherwood ignored his sarcasm. ‘Estimated arrival time at Target Red’s location: zero hundred hours. As you can see, like most of the compounds in the village, it’s square, thirty metres by thirty. Walls are between three and four metres high. Scalable, in other words. The main door is on the eastern side. You know what to do when you’re in there. We need DNA and photographs. Once Target Red is neutralised, you’ll need to follow this bearing towards the forested area that extends from the northern perimeter of the village. We’ll have you plugged in to the drone, so you’ll have advance warning of movement ahead.’

  ‘And we’ll have Baron,’ Dexter said, glancing towards the door that was being guarded by the Malinois.

  ‘Of course,’ Isherwood said. ‘You’ll need to move west through the trees, using them as cover, cross the tributary here, and skirt round the north of Target Blue’s compound. It’s bigger, and rectangular. Thirty by sixty. Two entrances, here on the north-western side, here on the southern side. There’s an east-west dividing wall bisecting the compound, which we believe has a door in it. Surveillance footage suggests that the target will be in the northern section of the compound, his family in the southern section. The drone operator will get you to Target Blue’s location, but then you’re on your own . . . forget it, Tony, it’s the best we’re going to get.’ Tony gave him a sour look, but didn’t complain. ‘We’ve requested a withdrawal of all friendly troops within four klicks of the target zone, with one exception. We’ll have some tame Afghan forces putting down rounds here . . .’ He tapped a map, indicating an area about three klicks to the north-east of the target. ‘They’ll make their noise at about 23.15 hours. Everyone’s attention should be in that direction, not yours. Any questions about the approach?’

  No questions.

  ‘Your extraction location is here, two klicks to the south-west of Target Blue’s compound. As I said, the area’s full of poppy fields. We suggest that you don’t move directly through them as the crop is high and you’ll leave a trail. There’s an irrigation ditch here, heading west, that you can follow for a klick before turning south here. We’ve arranged for a farm vehicle with a full tank of juice to be waiting for you at this location here. You’re to use it to advance to Camp Shorabak, formerly Camp Bastion. We’ll extract you from that location when we have the assets available.’

  ‘How the hell long will that be?’ Tony demanded.

  ‘A few hours. A day, max. Just keep your heads down.’

  Isherwood handed round photographs. Two men. Target Red and Target Blue.

  ‘All look the fucking same to me,’ Dexter said as they examined the photographs.

  ‘We have some further identifying features. Turns out Target Red spent some time as a guest of the Americans in Basra as a young man. Still has something to show for it: electrical scarring around the genital area. Target Blue has a bullet wound to the left shoulder. Positive IDs shouldn’t be a problem, but we’ll still need DNA samples. Any questions about ID-ing the targets?’

  No questions.

  ‘It’s now 18.27 hours. Fuel up. Get ready.’

  Danny loitered by the maps. He identified the village of Panjika, approximately twenty-five klicks from the targets, where he knew Caitlin was embedded. He sensed Tony at his shoulder.

  ‘Been there, done that,’ Tony muttered. ‘You’re welcome to my cast-offs.’

  Danny ignored him, and followed the others to get some food.

  There were ration packs and hot sweet tea waiting for them.

  ‘Better this than the shit the local slop jockeys serve up in camp,’ Cole said.

  Danny picked up a foil pack of chicken curry and was about to rip it open when it was snatched from his hands by Dexter. Tony and Cole grinned like a couple of playground bullies.

  ‘Chicken curry’s mine, Black,’ Dexter said. ‘I’ve been known to put a guy’s lights out for taking the chicken curry.’ He ripped open the foil MRE and started squeezing the contents into his mouth without taking his eyes off Danny. When he’d swallowed a few mouthfuls, he squeezed some of the food into one hand and fed it to the dog, who was sitting expectantly at his side. ‘It’s Baron’s favourite and all,’ Dexter said.

  Danny shrugged and grabbed another foil pack at random. Vegetable pasta. Whatever. The shit all tasted the same to him.

  Each man made his way separately to the sanitary block to evacuate themselves before the op was a go, then returned to the armoury block for their final preparations. Danny put on his base layer and plate hangers, then his digital camouflage trousers and ops waistcoat, fully prepped and loaded. He selected a pair of tactical gloves. He stashed two magazines of 5.56s and one of 9mm into his ops vest, found himself a roll of duct tape, then set several sets of plasticuffs in double loops, ready to be tightened around wrists or ankles. He clipped his altimeter and GPS dial to his left wrist, fitted his helmet, complete with NV tubes, then gave the laser sights on his rifle a final check. He holstered his Sig – suppressed – across his chest, before slinging his rucksack over one shoulder and picking up his freefall rig.

  He was the first to be ready. Dexter had the dog to deal with. As Danny headed to the exit he was clipping on Baron’s freefall harness, talking to him calmly and quietly. The dog itself was sitting obediently with no sign of anxiety. The animal clearly knew the routine. He’d done this before.

  Cole was strapping on his plate hangers. Danny went to give him a hand. He had the vague sense that Cole was not quite in Tony’s pocket as much as Dexter was. But when Danny offered to help, he got a sour look in return. ‘I don’t need a personal fuckin’ dresser, Black,’ he said, and Danny backed off.

  Tony was selecting some weaponry from the rifle rack. These were not for him. His own suppressed M4 was propped up against his rucksack, and in any case the weapons he was choosing were pistols: two Makarov 9mms. Danny knew that they would be unmarked and unattributable. They were not intended for firing. They were props, nothing more. ‘Proof’ for the RMPs and lawyers back home that their targets were armed and dangerous.

  ‘Hey, Tony,’ Dexter said, ‘don’t forget the Tipp-Ex.’ He laughed at his own joke and pointed to Tony’s M4. Along the stock there were fifteen or twenty tiny white dots. ‘One dot per kill,’ Dexter said. ‘Amazing how they add up, hey, Blacky?’

  ‘You should scrape them off,’ Danny said. ‘They identify you.’

  Tony didn’t respond. He just carried on with his work.

  Outside, it was now fully dark and the temperature had dropped slightly. The cloud cover that the Met report had promised had swept in. There was no moon, no stars. A dark night for dark business. Outside the Spearpoint cordon, the shouts and mechanical noises of a working military base were ongoing. Inside, it was very quiet. Danny took a moment to breathe deeply and gather his thoughts.

  The others joined him. ‘Let’s go, Black,’ Dexter said in his broad Irish accent. Cole said nothing. Tony just gave him a serious look. There was no friendship in it. Just an unspoken acknowledgement that whatever beef was between them, it would wait for another day. Tonight they had work to do.

  ‘Roger that,’ Danny said, and the unit headed to the exit.

  An unmarked van was waiting for them. They climbed inside with all their gear and sat in silence for the two minutes it took to transport them to the airfield. As they passed the engineering sheds, Danny saw the same mechanics from earlier working on a different IED-blasted vehicle, this time with the help of bright portable floodlights to illuminate their working space. He had the impression there was a never-ending supply of wrecked chassis and twisted wheel axles for them to fix.

  The Hercules’s engines were turning over as they arrived at the airfield. The van deposited them at the bottom of the tailgate. They carried their gear up into the aircraft. The noise of the engines blocked out any other sound, and the stench of fuel caught the back of Danny’s throat. Inside the Herc, they took their places at benches facing each other. Danny was opposite Dexter and the Malinois, which sat quietly and calmly at his handler’s feet. To Danny’s left was Cole, silent and brooding.

  Each of the Regiment men removed their helmets and rested them on their laps before strapping themselves in, unhooking sets of headphones from the side of the aircraft and putting them on. The headphones cancelled out some of the ambient noise and put them in contact with the flight deck, though there was no commentary from the pilot at the moment. An RAF loadie, wearing heavy cans and a boom mike and carrying a clipboard, trotted up the tailgate and nodded curtly at the unit, who barely responded. The loadie checked some instrument readings on the side of the plane, then spoke into his boom mike. His voice came over Danny’s headsets. ‘We’ve got a full house. Ready to fly when you are.’