Assassin (John Stratton) (7 page)

Mahuba looked over his shoulder through the rear window as he had done a thousand times since leaving the Sheraghund Mountains the night before. He wasn’t so much interested in what or who was behind him as in the contents of his small flatbed. The crate was still there. Tightly lashed down.

They drove past a group of burned-out fuel trucks. The result of a Taliban attack a few days before. Mahuba noted that the Taliban were finally listening to his advice. It wasn’t always the case. The commanders were a stubborn lot and thought they knew everything. He’d become irritated with them of late. They’d pressed few successful attacks against US and NATO supply lines within Afghanistan and he’d been urging them to conduct more of that activity within Pakistan where there was far less security on the convoys. Sometimes none. And there were definitely no US or coalition military to chase them. He’d met stiff resistance from within Pakistan itself when he first suggested such a plan. But Mahuba had ignored it. The Pakistan military and government were full of the weak and the corrupt. And the Americans had too much control over enough of them to make things difficult.

The truth was he no longer cared about all of that. The Taliban were never going to wrest control from the Americans, the way they were going about the war. Their only chance lay in waiting until the Americans left. But that would mean the loss of their enemy and the loss of opportunity. It would be very difficult to hit the Americans once they ran home.

So things were about to change. Mahuba was going to tip the balance. But one subject always followed when he thought of his task. And that was, he would not live to see the results. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter. The outcome would be in his favour. Wherever he was. But that’s where his troubles lay. His faith was not as strong as it should be.

The Toyota reached the border and the Afghan servant presented their papers to the guard. As the soldier read them, he seemed unsure about something and looked over his shoulder towards an Army captain in command of the checkpoint. The captain registered the soldier’s expression and beckoned him over. The guard hurried to him.

Mahuba watched the captain take a look at the paperwork and decide himself to inspect the man sitting in a Toyota pick-up truck with such important credentials. The general ignored the soldier, who looked at driver and passenger before withdrawing to examine the crate in the back. Mahuba watched him in the rear-view. The soldier came back to the cab and Mahuba sensed the man’s curiosity. He turned his head to look at the captain, who saw the warning in Mahuba’s eyes and thought better of it.

The captain handed the documents back to the guard, nodded to him and walked away. The guard handed the papers back to the servant and waved them through. When they arrived at the Afghan checkpoint fifty metres further on, the guards were dealing with a truck driver who seemed to be arguing because they were refusing him entry.

An officer broke away from the debate and came over
to the Toyota. The servant offered the guard a different set of papers. The soldier read the document, glanced at the crate in the back with little interest and back towards the angry truck driver, who’d begun screaming at the other guards. The officer handed the papers back to the servant and waved them through.

Mahuba and his servant headed into Afghanistan. The vast, undeveloped country lay before them. After half a mile they approached three Hilux pick-up trucks parked on the side of the road. Two of the pick-ups had mounted PKM machine guns. A dozen Afghan fighters were gathered near the vehicles and seated on the ground nearby, all armed with AK-47 rifles. Three had RPG-7 rocket launchers.

The servant pulled the Toyota over and stopped it behind the rear Hilux. The men watched without moving. One got up and walked to where he could see the new arrivals. When Mahuba climbed out, the fighter recognised him and came over to greet the general. After a brief exchange the fighter barked a command and his men climbed into their pick-ups, while Mahuba returned to his own. The fighter got into the first Hilux and it pulled away. Mahuba and his servant followed. The other two pick-ups dropped in behind Mahuba.

The road to Kabul was characterised by long, quiet stretches of barren terrain followed by sections packed with civilian fuel and supply convoys and the occasional line of military vehicles. Mahuba’s little group spent much of the drive overtaking where they could to make headway.

When they reached Kabul they avoided the main gate
to the city and cut across to the Bagram road. Although it was a significant highway, it was not a great piece of engineering. And single lane for the most part, much of it potholed and lumpy. To add to that, it was hellish busy. Full, sluggish convoys headed to Bagram while empty trucks returned.

The road was significant because it was the only highway connecting a major military base with the capital. The military used it heavily. That made it relatively safe compared with many of the other roads in Afghanistan. And because it was safe, it was frequented by the Afghan police, who rarely travelled through dangerous locations if they could help it.

Mahuba grew more at ease with every mile they travelled towards Bagram. The hours to the attack were ticking away. And then, as per usual, he began to think of his own imminent death. One of the earliest questions they’d all asked in the planning stage was, who will press the button? At the time, he had been filled with the excitement of the venture. None of those involved would survive anyway. Not for long. So he’d volunteered to be the one to initiate. If the plot had been uncovered before they completed, their lives would have ended sooner, and at the hands of any one of a multitude of internal and external sources. And if they were successful, every one of them, and anyone remotely related to the operation, would be hunted down by every major intelligence organisation on the planet – except their own – until they were dead. But as time moved on he felt the urge to taste the complete meal of victory.
The suicide bomber could never be sure of his success. Mahuba wanted to know and experience the aftermath.

So he began to examine ways in which he could succeed in the mission while at the same time experiencing the full extent of the event and its subsequent effects. He wouldn’t risk compromising the outcome. It had to succeed. And if the only way to achieve that was to die while ensuring its success, he would do that. Failure was not an option.

But if he could find a way to survive, if only for a short time, he would consider it. And that was the problem that constantly bugged him. He couldn’t think of a way to do it.

Chandos walked into the loud, bustling hall of Waterloo Station, pausing to look up at the huge departures board above the platform entrances. The next train to Winchester was leaving from platform 12 in ten minutes.

He checked his pockets again to ensure he could feel his passport and the envelope of money he’d taken from the safe of his London apartment. It was all there, including his wallet. Once again his senses warned him that someone was looking directly at his back. He’d felt it a dozen times since leaving the pub where he’d met Stratton. The eyes had followed him to Trafalgar Square and watched him while he caught a taxi. Each time he tried to catch them out he saw no one obvious. There were hundreds of people milling along the pavements and now inside the train station. It was impossible. Unless they were rank amateurs, which he knew they would not be.

He’d hoped to make eye contact with whoever it was. He wanted to get some idea who to target should he find the opportunity. But also just to prove that the follower wasn’t a figment of his own overactive imagination. He hadn’t actually seen any evidence that he was being followed.
But he’d been in the surveillance game for too many years and knew that a talented and experienced follower would be difficult to detect. Especially in such a crowded environment. His experience also reminded him that the crowds could be preventing the assassin from carrying out the hit just yet. If Chandos were to lead him to a quieter location where he might be able to identify the follower, it would also greatly increase his own vulnerability.

He set off across the crowded ticket hall. He contemplated carrying out some more anti-surveillance drills, manoeuvres intended to catch out a follower by surprising them. An abrupt halt and about-turn to see who was behind. Look for any reactions. A circular walk that might put the hare behind the hound. But the problem with such ploys was that once the hound knew he’d been discovered, he might act.

Which was why in most cases it was best for the hare not to do anything rash. Not let the follower know they were aware of them. It was the best course of action if the hare wanted to escape. And Chandos so desperately wanted to get away. If not, he was going to die. He was certain of that.

He passed through the ticket gate of platform 10 and headed along the busy platform. The train had just arrived, its doors were open and people were streaming out of the carriages, multiplying the throng of bodies on the platform. Chandos kept walking towards the far end of the train. He speeded up as he reached the last carriage, took off his hat, jumped down onto the track in front of the carriage and hurried
across the rails. A whistle blew as a member of the railway staff saw him.

He clambered up onto the next platform. Past several people who stopped to look at him. Down onto the next set of rails. Whistles blew again. He ran to beyond the end carriage of another parked train. He climbed up onto the platform where the train was stopped, and strode along it, past several carriages that people were climbing aboard, and ducked inside one of them.

Chandos was fit for his age but he’d pushed himself hard in his brief steeplechase and breathed deeply. He stood in the carriage doorway, not wanting to take a seat just yet, resisting the urge to look outside to see if anyone was searching for him. A member of the railway staff ran past.

He stuffed his hat in his coat pocket and removed the coat entirely, folding it up and putting it on a shelf. A couple more railway staff walked by, looking in the windows and doors. Chandos picked a newspaper off the floor, took a seat and opened the pages.

One of the train guards entered the carriage and began walking along it. Chandos did his utmost to control his breathing. He took in a deep breath and held it as the man passed him. He didn’t let it out until the guard had stepped back outside onto the platform. He watched him step into the next carriage.

Chandos exhaled slowly and lowered his paper to look at the people around him. No one was taking any notice. He checked his watch. If he’d timed it well enough, the doors would be closing any moment.

A whistle blew outside. If the railway staff couldn’t identify the man by the time the train was ready to leave, it would have to depart on time, Chandos figured. Seconds later he heard a loud hiss as all of the doors closed. A few seconds after that the carriage shunted hard and the train eased itself away from the platform, moving out from under the cover of the high station roof and into the city. The skies were growing dark as evening encroached. All he could think of was the follower: had he shaken them or not? It was impossible to know right then. But he wasn’t relying solely on the leap between platforms. He had several moves yet to make. The next would be even more daring. And much more revealing, should his follower choose to try to keep up with him.

He put the paper down and got out of his seat. Retrieved his coat from the shelf and went to the door, where he looked through the window as far ahead as he could. A block of offices loomed. The area would do just fine. He was anxious to get going. If the assassin had got onto the train, he could be making his way along the carriages at that very moment. He could be in the next carriage. By running across the platforms Chandos had reliably informed the man that he was aware of him. The assassin might strike before he could try anything else.

He reached up for the emergency stop handle and yanked it out of its housing. A second later the train’s brakes applied, the wheels screeching violently as the carriage jolted. Passengers braced for the sudden stop. All looking around. Questioning what was happening.

The train came to a hard stop. Chandos was already pressing the open button. There was a loud gush and the doors slid open slowly. People nearby looked in his direction. He jumped before the door was fully open. He landed hard on the stones between the tracks and fell onto his knees, his first thought that another train might be passing.

It was clear.

He gathered himself and leaped forward, scanning left and right as he ran, looking for anyone jumping out after him. He skipped across several tracks before reaching a low wall that marked the track boundary. He paused, breathing heavily, as he looked back along the length of the train, which curved away in both directions. No one appeared to have followed. A man stood in the open doorway that he’d leaped from. But he only watched Chandos. He wondered if it was the assassin. And if so, why wasn’t he following?

Chandos didn’t fancy waiting for an answer to the question. He scrambled over the low wall. The ground the other side was lower and on a steep incline. He dropped onto it, lost his footing and rolled most of the way down, winded and somewhat dizzy when he hit bottom. But within seconds he was up on his feet and pulling on his coat while hurrying down a tarmac path towards a main road.

He looked back up the incline as he passed a row of trees that blocked much of his view of the boundary to the track. There was still no sign of a follower. At the main
road he stopped briefly to decide on a direction. Office buildings ran the length of the other side of the road. There was a lot of traffic. He charged out into the road. Hurried through the crawling traffic. Mounted the pavement the other side. Ran through a gap between some buildings, across a car park the other side and onto another road lined with parked cars nose to tail. He kept going up it. When he reached the next junction, he paused to look back and catch his breath.