And thank God for it, Ferguson said. You know, we ve been good friends with the French Secret Service for some time now.
Blake said, I m surprised. I thought you used to be at odds with them?
Not anymore. Their agents, some of whom have Algerian Muslim roots, infiltrate Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the information gained has enabled the French to crush many terrorist cells in France since nine-eleven. But not only in France. Ferguson laughed grimly. They call our capital city Londistan did you know that? From time to time, they pass over information to us of crazy plots to blow up Nelson s Column, the Tower Bridge, Harrods. You get the picture?
I surely do, Blake said. I suppose in Paris it s the Eiffel Tower.
I d hate to be a Muslim living in Paris, Miller said. I remember how the French reacted in the Algerian War. Nobody would want that.
Al Qaeda would, Ferguson said as the limousine turned in to the hotel. It would suit them down to the ground to return to the bad old days, so they could produce a few martyrs who d been fixed up for sound.
Dillon and Holley would seem tame by comparison, Miller said.
The limousine drove away with Blake and they watched it go. Harry Miller said, What do you think?
That I d like a large bourbon on the rocks, but I ll leave it until we re on the Gulfstream. Let s get our things and go, Ferguson said, and he led the way into the hotel.
When Captain Sara Gideon boarded the plane at Tucson for her flight to New York, she wore combat fatigues. This was America, where patriotism ruled and the military were received with enthusiasm, especially when the wearer was a good-looking young woman with cropped red hair. The shrapnel scar that slanted down from the hairline to just above the left eye made her even more interesting-looking. She was five foot six with high cheekbones in a calmly beautiful face that gave nothing away. It was as if she was saying: This is me, take me or leave me, I don t give a damn. She had a window seat in first class, and people glanced curiously as a flight attendant approached to offer her a glass of champagne.
Actually, I think that would be very nice, Sara Gideon told her.
Oh Lord, you re English, the young woman said.
Sara gave her a smile of unexpected charm. I m afraid so. Is that all right? I mean, we re all fighting the same war, aren t we?
The flight attendant was totally thrown. No, no, I didn t mean it like that. My older brother is a Marine, serving in Afghanistan. Sangin Province. I don t suppose you ve been there?
I have, actually. The British Army was in Sangin for some time before the Marines took over.
I m so glad, the attendant said. Let me get you your drink.
She went away and Sara stood up, took her shoulder bag out of the locker, removed her laptop, and put it on the seat beside her. She replaced the shoulder bag and sat down as the flight attendant returned and gave her the champagne.
This Sangin place? It s okay, isn t it? I mean, Ron always says there s not much going on.
A good man, Ron, lying to his family so they wouldn t worry about him. She d been through two tours attached to an infantry battalion that suffered two hundred dead and wounded, herself one of them. But how could she tell that to this girl?
She drank her champagne down and handed the glass to her. Don t you worry. They ve got a great base at Sangin. Showers, a PX, burgers and TV, everything. Ron will be fine, believe me.
Oh, thank you so much. The girl was in tears.
Now you must excuse me. I ve got work to do.
The attendant departed, and Sara opened her laptop, feeling lousy about having to lie, and started to write her report. At the Arizona military base, location classified, she had been observing the new face of war: pilotless Reaper drones flying in Afghanistan and Pakistan but operated from Arizona, and targeting dozens of Taliban and Al Qaeda leaders.
It took her around two hours to complete. When she finished, she replaced the laptop in her shoulder bag. It had been a hell of an assignment and where was it all going to end? It was like some mad Hollywood science-fiction movie, and yet it was all true.
Her head was splitting, so she found a couple of pills in her purse, swallowed them with some bottled water, and pushed the button for attention.
The young flight attendant appeared at once. Anything I can get you?
I m going to try to sleep a little. I d appreciate a blanket.
Of course. The girl took one out of the locker and covered her with it as Sara tilted the seat back. Sweet dreams.
And how long since I ve had one of those? Sara thought, and closed her eyes.
The dream followed, the same dream, the bad dream about the bad place. It had been a while since she d had it, but it was here now and she was part of it, and it was so intensely real, like some old war movie, all in black and white, no color there at all. It was the same strange bizarre experience of being an observer, watching the dream unfold but also taking part in it.
The reality had been simple enough. North from Sangin was a mud fort at a deserted village named Abusan. Deep in Taliban territory, it was used by the BRF the Brigade Reconnaissance Force a British special ops outfit made up of men from many regiments. The sort who would run straight into Taliban fire, guns blazing.
It was all perfectly simple. They d got a badly wounded Taliban leader at Abusan, a top man who looked as if he might die on them and refused to speak English. No chance of a helicopter pickup, two down already that week, thanks to new shoulder-held missiles from Iran. Headquarters in its wisdom had decided it was possible for the right vehicle to get through to Abusan under cover of darkness, and further decided that a fluent Pashtu speaker should go in with it, which was where Sara came in.
She reported as ordered, wearing an old sheepskin coat over combat fatigues, a Glock pistol in her right pocket with a couple of extra magazines, a black-and-white checkered headcloth wrapped around her face, loose ends falling across the shoulders, leaving only her eyes exposed.
The vehicle that picked her up in the compound was an old Sultan armored reconnaissance car, typical of many such vehicles left behind by the Russians when they had vacated the country. Three banks of seats, a canvas top rolled back over the rear two, and a general-purpose machine gun mounted up front. It was painted in desert camouflage.
The three members of the BRF who met her looked like local tribesmen. Baggy old trousers, ragged sheepskins, and soiled headcloths like her own. They carried AK-47 rifles, were decidedly unshaven, and stank to high heaven.
One of them said, Captain Gideon?
That s right. Who are you?
We dispense with rank in our business, ma am. I m the sergeant in charge, but just call me Frank. This rogue on the machine gun is Alec, and Wally handles the wheel and radio. You can use the rear seat. You ll find a box of RPGs to one side, just in case, ma am.
Sara will be fine, Frank, she told him, and climbed in as the engines started up and the trucks nosed out of the gates in procession.
Convoy to supply outposts in the Taliban areas, Frank told her. Best done at night. We tag on behind, then branch off about fifteen miles up the road and head for Abusan, cross-country.
Sounds fine to me. As she climbed into the seat, he said, Have you done much of this kind of thing before? Another truck eased up behind them.
Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and this is my second tour in Afghanistan.
Forgive me for asking. He climbed into the second bank of seats. Get after them, Wally. He lit a cigarette and shivered. It s cold tonight.
Which it was bitter winter, with ice-cold rain in bursts and occasional flurries of wet snow. The canvas roof offered a certain protection, and Sara folded her arms, closed her eyes, and dozed.