A loud whistle. The starboard crewman was pointing towards the opposite door, where his colleague had picked up an M4 assault rifle, ready to lead the way out. He slapped his hand against his side to indicate that Harry should draw the M9 pistol he’d been given before take-off.
Harry eased the gun from the grip of the holster clip, then pushed it back. The last time he’d drawn a gun was still raw, in a place about as far removed from this scenario as it was possible to get: St James’s Park, central London. He could still smell the discharge, still hear the gunshots, still feel the recoil through his wrist.
Still see the body falling.
He cursed silently and urged Rafa’i out of his seat and across to the door, which was facing the open square where they had landed. The quicker the welcoming committee saw Rafa’i, he’d been advised, the better. If all they saw were two armed men piling out of the helicopter, things could get complicated.
He took a deep breath as the smell of dust, hot metal and engine oil swirled around him. He kept one hand on Rafa’i’s arm just above the elbow and followed him through the door, dropping to the ground right behind him and going into a crouch while the crewman with the assault rifle took up a position ready to watch Harry’s back. The noise was deafening, battering the air around them, sand particles stinging every square inch of exposed skin and defying concentration.
Across the square and just visible in the gloom, a number of men watched their arrival, loosely scattered around three four-by-four vehicles. In the background, keeping watch, the two Apaches were constantly shifting position just above the rooftops.
The crewman waved Harry forward, sliding sideways to give himself a safe field of fire. Harry pushed Rafa’i and followed closely behind, drawing the M9 and holding it down by his leg. None of these men would expect them to come unarmed, but waving weaponry in the air like some of the cowboys of the PMC community was asking for trouble.
The men watched him come. The agreement had been to take Rafa’i to the centre of the designated landing site, then leave. That suited Harry just fine, but he’d have felt a lot better if he could have seen how many more were lurking in the shadows. It suddenly struck him how incredibly insane this was.
Then one man detached himself from the group and walked forward. He was unarmed, heavily built and dressed in a white shirt and pants. He immediately became the focal point for a beam of high-intensity light from the helicopter. At a shout from Harry, he very cautiously lifted his shirt to reveal a bare torso. Harry gave the OK and urged Rafa’i on. When they were down to a dozen paces apart, the light beam was switched off and Harry stopped walking. He backed away, ordering Rafa’i to continue alone.
Seconds later Harry was back in the Black Hawk and the crewman was giving the OK to lift off.
The pilot was as calm as ever. ‘Postal One, we’re out of here. Thank you, Shotguns One and Two. Delivery completed.’
Rik Ferris was waiting when they got back to the base, left arm in a tan-coloured sling. He had a US army baseball cap jammed on his head and looked pale and restless.
‘You took your time. I thought you were just going to fly over and throw him out?’
‘We were,’ said Harry. ‘But we decided it would be polite to land first.’ He eyed the sling, which had been plain white when they’d arrived here. ‘That looks fresh.’ The sling and bandage covered a bullet wound sustained in St James’s Park a few days before, courtesy of a rogue female Special Forces bodyguard. Rik still hadn’t brought it up in conversation, but Harry knew he would when he was ready.
Getting shot wasn’t something you forgot for long.
Rik grinned. ‘Yeah, that’s the only good bit about coming here. A US army medic noticed the sling and insisted on taking a look. When she saw it was a bullet wound, she was well impressed. Her name’s Tammy and she lives in Florida.’
‘Lucky you. You’ve only got a few thousand competitors, then.’
‘Very funny. How did it go?’
‘Fine. We had an easy ride.’ Thank God, he thought. He could still see the faces of the two crewmen and their businesslike, wire-tight movements. They’d been out here too long, he guessed; living on the edge and expecting every trip to be their last. It had a way of eating away at you. No wonder Colonel White was concerned for them; although it was probably more to do with logistics and paperwork if he had to replace them than concern for paid mercenaries. But it was none of his business.
‘And Rafa’i?’
‘Forget him.’ Harry walked into the operations building. He unloaded the pistol and watched the man behind the desk check the breech, then signed the log. ‘Did you get anything on the car registration?’ He’d asked Rik to run a photo past what Rik called ‘the community’ — his contacts in computer geekdom — to see if anyone recognized the buildings or the part of the car registration plate that was showing.
‘Nothing yet. I wanted to chase it up while I was waiting, but the security guys wouldn’t let me use my laptop.’ He nudged the shoulder bag lying at his feet. ‘Said it was a security risk.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I need something to eat.’ What he needed more was to lie down somewhere for a week. He was still feeling the bruises from the contact in London, when he’d been shoulder charged by a man intent on killing him.
‘Mr Tate, sir?’ A man wearing the insignia of a Specialist handed Harry an envelope. ‘I was instructed to give you this, sir, compliments of Colonel White. There’s a driver waiting to take you to the airport when you’ve eaten, and your flight leaves at oh-six-hundred, sir. Have a safe one.’ He flipped a half salute and walked away.
Harry ripped open the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper with a brief message: The Italian off Wigmore. 10.30 Friday. RB.
Richard Ballatyne. It took him a moment to think about what day it was. Wednesday. He needed some sleep.
Rik said, ‘There’s a great cafeteria across the way. They serve steaks the size of a mattress.’
‘Good. After that we head home.’
‘What’s on the agenda?’
‘If Ballatyne keeps his word, we’re going hunting.’
THREE
Richard Ballatyne was sitting in the same Italian restaurant off Wigmore Street, in London’s West End, where Harry had first met him. It had been less than ten days ago, but seemed longer. Much had happened since then, and a rapid series of events piled one on another skewed one’s perspective on time. The MI6 officer looked tired, as if the past few days had drained him of energy, his dark hair limp and the eyes behind the glasses blank and hollow.
A hard-case in a suit was sitting to one side of the room, hands out of sight beneath the table and an untouched glass of water in front of him. Other than a brief nod of professional acknowledgement, he paid no further attention to Harry, but concentrated on the street outside.
‘Coffee?’ Ballatyne nodded at a side table set up with cups, saucers and an ancient aluminium percolator. ‘Georgio’s own coffee maker. Probably the best brew in London.’
Georgio was the restaurant owner and, Harry suspected, a local asset for MI6. He poured himself a cup and tasted it. Not bad. He sat down. ‘You didn’t ask me here for the coffee.’
‘No, I didn’t. How’s Ferris?’
‘Recovering. He shouldn’t have come to Baghdad, though.’
‘I know. But it couldn’t be helped. It was for his own good — yours, too. If he’d stayed here, he’d have got himself a front page press release. We didn’t want that.’ He paused. ‘That was a good job you did in Baghdad. Rafa’i’s friends-’
‘Spare me the details,’ Harry cut him off. He didn’t want to know. It was over. Done. He didn’t feel particularly good about dumping the man back among his former friends and supporters, but he could live with it. Rafa’i and whatever may have become of him was no longer his concern. ‘What’s the public story with the shootings in St James’s?’ Three killers — two men in military uniform and a young woman, all sent to kill Rafa’i — shot dead in front of a sizeable crowd of witnesses, was bound to have caused a fuss. Harry hadn’t even looked at the newspapers, less concerned by public opinion than Rik Ferris’s gunshot wound and the need to keep a low profile.