Clarke sighed and shook his head. ‘I vouched for Abbot and Blout, so I take responsibility for what happened with Callo. But, like you said, I won’t lose sleep over him. I wish I could say the same about Tesseract.’
Procter rested his palms against the fence. ‘There is a lot we don’t know, Peter, so let’s not jump the gun and condemn him without all the facts. When he reports in, we can have a proper debriefing. Our primary objective was achieved, even with Yamout alive. That’s what I call a success in this game.’
Clarke said, ‘I think it’s time we re-evaluated our relationship with this assassin.’
The second tiger joined the first and closed its eyes. They lay side by side.
Procter shook his head. ‘I’m having a hard time understanding why you are so quick to write him off. Need I remind you that he completed his first two assignments perfectly? If he hadn’t saved Kasakov in Bucharest we would never have been in a position to get our little war. We are only this far into our plans and able to discuss how we continue because of the work he has done. Kasakov is going after Ariff, and Ariff will be going after Kasakov. All thanks to Tesseract.’
‘Exactly,’ Clarke said. ‘We have set things into motion so now we can start thinking about tying off loose ends.’
‘Hang on a minute, Peter. Things are in motion, that’s true, but we are still going to need Tesseract at least once more, don’t forget.’
‘If we even get to that stage. Which we won’t if Tesseract failed to get away cleanly. I’m sure the Belarusians won’t be too concerned with a bunch of dead gangsters and mercenaries, but what about those four civilians? They’ll want to know why they died and who killed them. That’s another spotlight on us. We could have a huge problem walking around out there. We can’t allow that.’
Procter sighed. ‘I very much doubt he’s left his fingerprints all over the damn hotel. Until he has made himself into a genuine problem then I don’t want to hear another word about loose ends.’
‘I find this protectiveness for your new pet quite touching, Roland. But if he has or will become a liability then I expect swift and decisive action.’
Procter nodded and said, ‘Of course. You have my word.’
CHAPTER 37
Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan
The huge aircraft was one hundred and ninety feet long with a wingspan of over two hundred feet, and a height of more than forty. It was a Soviet-made Antonov An-22, a cargo plane, one of the largest in the world, with a payload of up to 180,000 pounds. That capacity had been reached with two partially disassembled MiG-31B jet fighters and accompanying missiles and spare parts filling the aircraft’s cargo hold.
The Antonov was flying at an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet above sea level and its shadow passed over the snowy peaks of the Hindu Kush mountain range in north-eastern Afghanistan. The sky was blue and cloudless, the air thin and free of turbulence. The Antonov had begun its long journey at an airport outside of Novosibirsk, Russia, and since leaving the country had flown south over Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan before entering Afghan airspace. The circuitous route would also take it over Pakistan, then India, Thailand and several bodies of water before it reached its destination of North Korea. North Korea and Russia shared a border, but the international community paid far too much attention to it to risk flying over directly with illegally traded arms.
Each member of the crew was highly experienced in the extra-long flights necessary to deliver weapons to Kasakov’s customers around the globe. They numbered five: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and two flight engineers. All Russians, except the Ukrainian pilot. He had flown An-22s in the Soviet air force and made almost a hundred times more money now working for Vladimir Kasakov than he had for the communists. The other four crew members were too young to have flown for the Soviet Union and had been poached from the private sector. What they flew for the arms dealer, and to whom, never bothered them. All that mattered was their generous salaries.
The plane cruised near to its maximum ceiling but the mountain peaks and ridgelines were only a few thousand feet below. The shaking of the fuselage and monstrous whine of the Antonov’s four massive engines prevented the flight from being peaceful, but the view of the snowy peaks glowing from unfiltered sunlight was a beautiful one.
The pilot was grey-haired, perpetually unshaven and forever chewing an unlit cigar. He’d flown Antonovs into Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion and all this time later the country was no different. It was a cursed place, destined to be a battlefield for the rest of time. Why the Soviet Union had ever wanted to add it to the empire was beyond him. Soon the West would finally be driven out and the land could revert back to its natural barbarism.
He glanced casually at his flight instruments for a quick check, but he rarely paid too much real attention to them. For him, flying was more about instincts than dials and levels. It was, and always had been, his life, and he did his job with a confidence born from long familiarity. In his experience, worse things happened on firm ground than in thin air.
He popped open a can of his favourite German beer and took a long swig. Wiping foam from his chin, he offered the two other men in the cockpit a can each from the six-pack. The co-pilot grabbed one and had a similarly long drink. The navigator, boring as always, turned down the offer.
Both drinkers belched happily.
Ten thousand feet below, two Afghan men with binoculars stood on a mountainside. Despite the hot sun it was cold twelve thousand feet above sea level and they wore Pakol hats and long coats to stay warm. Their binoculars were American-made and donated by the military to be used by the then-Northern Alliance. The Taliban had long been overthrown, but the Afghans had kept their useful gifts. A donkey stood nearby, chewing dry grass.
‘That’s it,’ one said and lowered his binoculars. ‘Heading this way.’
The other Afghan nodded. ‘Right on schedule.’
The Stinger was already set up and waiting, carefully leaning against a nearby boulder. The older Afghan handled it easily and hoisted the weapon on to his shoulder. It was just under five feet in length and weighed thirty-three pounds. The Afghan’s proudest moment was when he had last used a Stinger to shoot down a Soviet Hind helicopter gunship during the late eighties. This feat was still talked about today, and the young were awed whenever he told the increasingly exaggerated tale. Of the hundreds of Stingers supplied to the Mujahideen during the conflict with the Soviets, around sixty per cent had been purchased back by the US as part of a fifty-five-million-dollar programme. This Stinger was part of the forty per cent unaccounted for.
The Afghan inserted a battery coolant unit into the hand guard and pressed a button. Nothing happened. Cursing, but not surprised, the Afghan released the battery and was handed another by the second man, who had spare batteries ready and waiting. Again, nothing happened when he pushed the button. The Stinger and its launcher were decades old and all of the original battery coolant units had ceased working after a few years. These units had been recently supplied, but were still far from brand new. The Afghan inserted a third battery into the hand guard and this time it worked correctly, spraying argon gas into the launcher tube to cool the missile’s seeker head, making it sensitive enough to infrared to stay on target.
The Antonov grew larger in the sky as it neared the two Afghans.
It took a few seconds for the gyro spin-up to complete and electronics to activate, during which time the Afghan removed the protective lens cap from the end of the launcher and set his eye to the sighting scope. The field of view was narrow and he searched the sky to locate the plane.