Assassin (John Stratton) (23 page)

‘I’m OK with leaving it there,’ she said. ‘It will need a vehicle to carry away and we’d hear one if it arrived.’

Stratton was happy with that and closed the door. He rubbed his chilly hands together. ‘Home from home,’ he whispered.

As he expected, she didn’t acknowledge him.

Stratton went to the basket and pulled back the cloth cover. Inside was a bowl of rice, vegetables, fried tomato halves and pieces of roast lamb. A large, thin sheet of unleavened bread was rolled up beside it all. It seemed like a lot of food. He wondered how much of their own supper the family had given up. It would have been typical of the household to be generous, to give the impression they had an abundance of food.

He spooned some of it into one of the bowls and tore off a piece of the bread. Hetta was sitting on the blankets on the floor, removing one of her boots. He took the food to her. She wasn’t a team player but he wasn’t about to pick up any of her bad habits.

‘It looks pretty good,’ he said, holding it out.

She looked surprised, then uncomfortable, and took the bowl without saying anything and put it on the floor while she took off the other boot. Stratton sat against the wall between her and the fire to eat, wondering how the sleeping arrangements might work. It was a hard floor but he’d slept on worse.

He heard a noise outside and paused. His hand went under his jacket to his pistol. Hetta had done the same, under her burkha. There was a knock at the door and a voice
followed. It was the farmer’s wife asking if she could come in.

Hetta put her food down as she replied and the door swung open. On the ground outside they saw a large cauldron. The woman picked it up. It looked heavy and Stratton contemplated helping her but she was already on her way, and Afghan men didn’t help the women anyway, even with a painfully heavy load.

She placed it on the floor by the fire cauldron. It was filled with hot water. The woman went back outside and returned with a couple of towels and a cloth with a piece of soap on it. She looked apologetic as she closed the door behind her.

Hetta took off her burkha and settled back against the wall to eat. The room was warming up nicely and Stratton removed his coat. They ate in silence.

‘The water’s for washing,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you go first,’ he said.

She didn’t stand on ceremony and got to her feet. Stratton sat on the edge of the bed and unrolled the blanket that contained his carbine. Hetta began to undress, while Stratton removed the magazine from his rifle, quietly ejected the round from the breech and slid out the stock pin to open the weapon. As he pulled out the working parts, he glanced around at her to see she’d removed her shirt and T-shirt, leaving her naked from the waist up.

He raised his eyebrows as he looked away and stripped the breech block parts down. He produced a cloth he’d pocketed from the Hilux and cleaned the breech. He
couldn’t help taking another look at her, by now completely naked, standing on her socks and washing herself as if she was all alone. She had the body of an athlete. Her skin glowed orange, bathed in the light from the fire. She was stunning.

He looked away as she doused her hair and he went back to cleaning the rifle. He had a realisation: it wasn’t a case of her being shy. It was more that he was of no consequence. He didn’t exist beyond his purpose as a tool, and a temporary one at that. He was fodder, something to assist her in getting the bomb out of Afghanistan. He didn’t even warrant a look or a second’s thought as she stood there in her birthday suit washing herself.

He looked down the barrel of the carbine while aiming it at the kerosene lamp. It could have done with a pull-through, which he didn’t have. The shiny rifling was speckled with tiny bits of dirt. Not enough to cause a problem when fired, though. It would do.

‘You can wash now,’ she said matter-of-factly.

She was drying her hair with one of the towels, naked and carefree.

He replaced the parts of the weapon, closed it, pushed home the stock bolt, loaded a magazine and quietly cocked it to place a bullet in the breech. Then got to his feet. She walked past him to the mattress. He went to the cauldron. As he looked at the water he asked himself what he was doing there. In the past he’d gone days without a wash, weeks even. He didn’t need one, not in the field. On the other hand, he was going to have to sleep near her since there was
nowhere else. It would only be polite to wash. Despite his manners, he still felt a hint of internal resistance.

Bollocks, he decided. He took off his clothes and his boots and his socks and crouched in front of the cauldron. The heat from the fire felt good. A contrast to the chilly air coming from under the door. He washed himself, but much as he wanted to, he couldn’t detach himself from her presence.

He glanced at her. She was wearing her T-shirt and reaching for her carbine without looking at him. Should have expected her not to take any notice. He heard her unload the weapon and strip it down. After he’d finished, he pulled on his shorts and looked in her direction again. This time she was looking at him and she didn’t look away. He couldn’t read the look. No desire or cheekiness, but she watched him for a moment nevertheless. Then she turned and lay down, facing the wall, leaving space for him.

He put the lamp on the floor by the bed, lifted up the heavy blanket and sat on the mattress. The straw crunched softly under him. He straightened his legs beneath the cover, lay back and covered himself in the blanket. He turned down the wick in the lamp until the light faded and died, but the room continued to glow red from the fire in the cauldron.

The wind had picked up outside. The air in the room was warm but it would be cold by morning. He pulled the blanket up and closed his eyes, acutely aware of her beside him. He fought to put her out of his thoughts and fall asleep. It had been an odd twenty-four hours.

An atom bomb lost then found.

And the strangest woman he’d ever met, and without doubt the most accomplished, battle-wise. He no longer doubted that the Amazons existed.

He exhaled slowly, waiting for sleep to envelope him.

She disturbed him by rolling over onto her back, her body brushing against him. She rolled onto her side so that she was facing him. He could feel her breath against his face.

‘Stratton?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning his head to look at her.

‘You’re pleasing to the eye.’

He didn’t know quite what to say. Her going from cold as ice since he met her to suddenly warm was unexpected, to say the least.

She reached across and, even more to his surprise, moved on top of him. She lay there for a moment, supporting herself, looking at him. He couldn’t refuse, couldn’t help himself. She was beautiful, but there was something else. A strange attraction to her, despite her attitude. She pulled off her T-shirt and he did the same with his shorts. She closed her eyes and went somewhere inside her head. He put his arms around her. Her skin was soft, her muscles firm.

But the pleasure soon began to dwindle for him. She was in her own world. Once again, he felt like he was simply a tool for her. With a powerful heave, he turned her over onto her back. She half-resisted, but he was the stronger. There was a look of shock in her eyes. He had taken control, again. His face was close to hers. Their noses touched. She was still a little resistant. This wasn’t what she’d intended.
She’d wanted to be disconnected, inside her head. His lips moved down to touch hers. She turned her head to one side. He found her lips again. This time she let him kiss her, as if she were curious. Then she held him tightly.

They moved as one. Their breathing quickened. They stopped and held each other. Tightly. Their grips eventually loosening. Stratton rolled off her onto his back and they lay still in silence. She turned onto her side with her back to him and didn’t move.

She was a strange girl, he thought. And for a brief moment, that’s precisely what she had been. A girl. She certainly liked to surround herself in her armour.

The wind was still blustery outside and fighting its way through the gaps in the door. A cosy sound from within the mud walls, the fire nearby. He closed his eyes, looking to feel content. But he couldn’t. His senses were tingling again. A distant threat perhaps.

Not close yet, but it was there.

Stratton woke suddenly in the darkness, wondering where in the world he was. He didn’t have any clothes on and a woman was lying beside him.

Then it came back to him.

Hetta seemed to sleep soundlessly. The fire had gone out and the air was cold. He sat up and felt around the floor for his clothes. His hand touched the butt of his rifle leaning against the wall. He found his shorts and pulled them on. The room slowly took shape as his eyes grew accustomed to the light.

He got up and dressed quietly, not wanting to disturb her. Early mornings were his favourite time of day and he preferred to experience them alone. Besides, she bothered him in so many ways. A moment without her was welcome.

The wind outside had stopped blowing, the air silent. He put on his boots and eased the door open to look outside. The first thing he saw was white. Everything was white. Snow fell from the door and the cold air took hold of him, his first breath outside thick. The sun was still behind the mountains but its glow crept into the cloudy sky.

The snow was pristine and about six inches deep. No one
had been by the house since it had fallen. He took a walk to look at the Hilux. The snowy blanket that covered it was undisturbed. The land was white as far as he could see in every direction. He had seen the sight before and it was the only time Afghanistan ever looked clean and peaceful.

He looked towards the Kandahar road but all trace of it had disappeared. No vehicle had yet been along it that morning. Nothing had ventured along the track either, save a fox or dog. He went back inside the hut. Hetta was sitting up, pushing her fingers through her short hair. She looked at him, for an instant only. Her expression was the same as usual. He thought he’d caught something slightly different in her eyes. He couldn’t say what it was. Softer than usual, whatever it was.

‘Morning,’ he said.

She glanced at him in response. That was more than he would have received the day before.

He took his blanket, wrapped his gun in it and carried it outside to the Hilux, stowing it in the footwell covered by his scarf. He set about clearing the snow from the windows.

Hetta arrived in her burkha and carrying her gun in its blanket. She climbed into the passenger seat and placed her gun as before.

Stratton climbed in and started the engine. It fired on its second attempt and he let it idle while it warmed up.

‘I don’t like to be the first vehicle down any road in Afghanistan in the morning if I can help it,’ he said. The people who liked to lay mines along busy roads usually
did so under cover of darkness in the early hours. They often waited to detonate the mines in the morning, either by command wire or mobile phone. He didn’t expect his Hilux to be an attractive target to a Taliban bomber, but some of the mines were triggered by the passing vehicle itself. Those were the ones he was concerned about. There was no point in taking the risk if they didn’t have to.

She didn’t disagree and so he took his time. He put the pick-up into gear and turned it around so that they were facing the Kandahar road. He noticed movement near the farm buildings and looked in the rear-view mirror to see the farmer step into view. Stratton wound down his window and waved. The farmer waved back.

They drove slowly down the track through the fresh snow and Stratton brought the Hilux to a halt a hundred metres from the main road, keeping the engine running. It wasn’t long before a couple of vans came along from the direction of Kandahar. That was good enough for him. As long as there were tyre tracks on the road, he was happy to drive it.

He pulled out onto the road. The back wheels slid a little in the snow and he took it nice and easy and settled into a steady speed. The sky looked as if it might be ready to deliver more snow. Stratton wound his window up against the cold air.

He checked his watch and studied the way ahead. He reckoned they’d reach Kandahar in two or three hours.

It was midday by the time they saw the outskirts of the city and here the snow had largely disappeared. Patches of
it had gathered on the sides of the road but it was melting under the early afternoon sun.

The traffic slowed as they approached the city. Pedestrians appeared on the sides of the road, along with markets and stalls.

Hetta pulled her hood over her face.

The buildings increased in density either side of them, the usual run-down, brick and concrete block structures. Most were single-storey, a few were higher. The roads were busy, noisy and polluted, packed with vehicles of all kinds. A smattering of police and Afghan Army maintained a presence. The Hilux passed a British military convoy coming the other way, a string of sand-coloured armoured vehicles.

Stratton avoided the centre of the city, bypassing the bulk of it to the east. The huge coalition base with its civilian and military airfields lay a few miles south. He kept with the flow of traffic, overtaking where possible without causing other drivers stress. Soon they arrived at a junction where an old Afghan Air Force jet fighter was positioned at a take-off angle on a plinth to one side of the road. It signified the turning to the airport.

Stratton took the turn and within a kilometre the broad, recently surfaced road became a HESCO-lined approach to the entrance and perimeter of the base.

The checkpoint had been divided up into pedestrian, civilian, truck and military entrances, much the same as at Bagram. Stratton decided to go for the military entrance despite being in a civilian Hilux. The civilian line usually
took hours to get through and he didn’t care about Afghan civilians noticing them. Not this time. It was the end of the road for the Toyota pick-up.

Hetta took off her burkha and tossed it aside with some relief.

As Stratton pulled the Hilux in behind a military convoy horns blared and whistles blew in the hands of a couple of the Afghan soldiers. Stratton knew the pick-up might be considered a threat and brought the vehicle to a stop.