‘Why was Mr Casey here?’
‘Mr East, there was a shooting; these things have to be investigated. I think it is best that you rest now. My colleague from the neurological team will be along to check up on you later.’ Litvin rose and left the room. His patient needed rest and, regardless of who the men in suits were, they must let him be.
East closed his eyes. What Litvin had said was true; he wasn’t worthy to live because of the innocent lives he had taken in the past. Any of the nine murdered shoppers had more to offer society than him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Were the painkillers altering his mood, making him morose, or did he really feel this way? He sat in silence. He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he had messed up, and now he had to work on his escape.
Kabul, Afghanistan
‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.
The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.
Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.
Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.
‘Are you going to the West?’
Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was staring at him. ‘My family has sent me to find work,’ he said. ‘I know it is hard but there is much opportunity in the West.’
‘Indeed, there is much we can do in the West, my brother.’
‘My father has paid for me to go to London. It is the best place. He has heard that France, Germany and Italy are racist countries, but England is good and the government is just. I will find work there.’
The Al-Qaeda operative’s lips imitated a smile. ‘London is a very popular destination. Perhaps one day I shall see you there, Insha’Allah.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
With a scraping, caused by lack of maintenance and a build-up of dirt and sand, the outer doors shut. Moments later the engine coughed into life and the bus heaved out of the station and into the night. Once assured that they were away safely, Tariq closed his eyes. There was little to see and nothing to do. This night they would cross the blackness of the desert on highway one, stopping first at Kandahar before eventually reaching Herat in the heat of the following day. It was a tedious route, but one not many Afghan soldiers would think to monitor for an Al-Qaeda cell. Sheep were ignored by lazy shepherds, and he had been trained how to bleat.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine
Snow closed the laptop, his after-action report on the rescue of Mohammed Iqbal finished, and checked his watch. He needed some downtime away from anything to do with HM Government; two weeks of intensive undercover work in and around Donetsk had left him drained. He lifted his iPhone from the desk and scrolled through the contacts until he saw a name which brought a smile to his face. He dialled the number.
An hour later Snow stepped out of a taxi in front of the salubriously named Standard Hotel on the corner of Horenska and Sviatoshinskaya Streets. On the outskirts of central Kyiv, the anonymous small hotel sat squat among the taller apartment blocks. It was a grey and cream two-storey structure and resembled a pair of gargantuan shoeboxes, placed one atop the other. The main hotel entrance was squarely in the centre of the ground floor, shaded by a burgundy awning, but Snow ignored this and entered via a door on the right-hand corner, itself under a burgundy sign which said ‘Café Bar Standard’. He pushed through a heavy wood door and searched the dark, smoky interior for his old friend. He spotted a figure with craggy features, light-brown hair and wire-framed glasses sitting at a large corner bench, smoking and admiring a table of female customers.
Snow and Michael Jones had been ex-pat teachers together at a time when Snow had thought his gunfighting days were over. ‘Look who it is, the drinking man’s Gordon Ramsay!’
‘Aidan, hokay?’ The Welshman’s accent invited strange looks from the nearest customers.
Snow stuck to the script and adopted a fake Welsh accent. ‘Hello, Mister Jones, how are you?’
‘Eh, not bad.’ Jones beamed. ‘Just look at the crumpet in here!’
Snow laughed out loud; Jones would never change. ‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’
‘You too. How long are you back for?’
‘Just a few days.’ Jones knew Snow had been a member of the SAS, but not that he now worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Snow stuck to his legend of being a senior teacher at an expensive Knightsbridge private school. ‘The school’s asked me to give a presentation to a few Ukrainian high-rollers.’
‘Persuade them to send their kids to your place, is it?’
‘Correct.
