Kashmir Rescue

He unlocked the door of his car and got in, turning the key and gunning the accelerator as the engine fired. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He could be home in Hereford by teatime. All of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to be out on the motorway and burning up the miles of tarmac between London’s dismal outskirts and the fresh air of the Severn estuary, the green hills of Wales beckoning from beyond.

Chiltern had been right. It was a police matter and nothing to do with a soldier. Don’s job had simply been to run the exercise and help the police with their anti-terrorist training. What could such an occurrence possibly have to do with him? It was just bad luck that Colin and Paul had got caught up in the middle of something that was too big for them. They were dumb for getting involved.

Blanking it out of his mind, he headed for the nearest junction of the M4, just east of Heathrow, and threaded his way out into the traffic. The rush hour was tailing to a close but it was always busy on this stretch. Within half an hour, however, the spaces between the cars expanded and soon he had his foot flat on the floor, feeling the miles being eaten up beneath his wheels.

No doubt there would be the usual hearty jokes in the mess when he got back to the barracks. The older he got the more the humour grated. It was all very well when you were young but after a while you started to see that there wasn’t much to laugh about in death. Perhaps that was the time to quit.

But as he drove he found his mind flicking back always to the same thing. Not to the bodies of Colin or Paul, the exploded brains on the paving stones and the blood on the wall, nor the body on the landing or in the bedroom, the candlestick clasped pathetically in its small, tight fist. But rather to the empty bedroom with the posters and the untouched make-up jars. Somewhere, if he was right, a young woman had been taken hostage. And although the matter was out of his hands he couldn’t shake off the feeling that somehow he hadn’t heard the last of it. Somehow he knew that he would be involved with it again.

‘Are you sure she can breathe?’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worrying,’ Ceda Bandram said slowly, glowering over his shoulder at Ali Shaffer, who sat sprawled across the back seat. ‘I don’t want to arrive only to find that she’s suffocated.’ He stabbed a finger at Ali. ‘You would be held personally responsible. Remember that.’

Ali sniggered and waved a large, nonchalant paw. ‘I drilled holes in the underside of the boot. A shame considering the newness of the car, but it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. It’ll all be charged to the expense account.’

Bandram stared ahead at the slow-moving traffic. Since the events at the house he had changed into a sweatshirt, slacks and moccasins. The van had been dumped in a lock-up garage that had been hired for the purpose and he estimated it would be a good many weeks before it was discovered. By then they would be several thousand miles away.

The team had split up and were now travelling by separate routes and methods of transport to the next rendezvous and the next leg of their onward journey. For himself, Ali and the driver, there had been a waiting BMW and of course he had ensured that the hostage had been brought with him. Every man in the team had been hand-picked but even so he made a habit of never trusting anyone but himself with the most delicate part of any mission.

The only man whom he had not selected was Ali. There was nothing he could do about it, however. Ali had been forced upon him by the boss. He was another relation, although Ceda had never known much about him. But that was the way with families in Pakistan, complex networks of relatives with every so often the discovery of some hidden black sheep. And Ali was such a cupboard skeleton if ever there was one. Ceda had been disgusted with the evident glee with which Ali had conducted the interrogation at the house. It was not that he was squeamish, but there were ways of doing things. One didn’t have to enjoy the more unpleasant tasks of the business. Some unfortunate things might always be necessary, but maintaining a sense of propriety kept one separated from the beast. In Ceda’s view Ali had crossed that threshold. He glanced back at him again, but Ali was staring happily out of the window humming to himself. His torture of the poor individual at the house seemed to be completely forgotten.

Ceda consoled himself with the thought that there were a great many pitfalls before the team finally reached safety. There would be plenty of opportunities for a fatal accident to befall Ali. Ceda for one would not mourn his loss.

The driver coughed and nodded towards a lay-by. A police car and motorcycle were parked at the roadside, the men scanning the traffic. They had already flagged down two white vans and were attempting to attract the attention of a third. Ceda smiled to himself. He was due to switch vehicles at least once more before the final RV and was confident that even if the police discovered the original van they would be unable to track him in time.

He reached down the side of the seat and pulled out a road map, unfolded it on his lap and began studying the markings he had made earlier. Bored with his humming, Ali leaned forward, crossing his arms on the back of Ceda’s seat and peering over his shoulder to get a look at the map.

‘Where to now, cousin?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Ceda said coolly.

Ali shrugged. ‘I thought blood was supposed to be thicker than water?’

‘You ought to know. You’ve seen enough of it.’

‘You didn’t do so bad yourself, you hypocrite. Dropping those two cops like that.’ He shaped his hand like a gun and put it to Ceda’s head, mimicking the shooting. ‘Bang, bang. You’re dead. Nice work. A bit cold and clinical for my liking, but professional. Uncle would approve.’

‘I didn’t do it for Uncle’s approval. In fact I didn’t want to do it at all.’

‘Oh no, of course not. I forgot. You’re the ex-army officer. Death before dishonour, and all that. I’m sorry.’ He sat back with a derisory laugh. ‘You’re full of shit.’

Ceda gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to go for the gun in his belt. The driver glanced nervously across at him and he relaxed. He was responsible for the whole team, not just for himself. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, and certainly not over a dick-head like Ali.

‘Where’s the next switch?’ the driver asked, keen to divert the conversation away from the rivalry between the two men. It had been evident to most of the team members from the outset but they all knew and trusted Ceda, and were confident that he would see them safely through.

‘Not the next service station but the one after that. The cars have been left in the car park. I’ve got the registration numbers here.’ He patted his breast pocket.

‘It seems such a waste just to ditch the car,’ the driver added, stroking the dashboard lovingly. ‘She’s a beauty.’

Ceda smiled. ‘That’s business. Just be thankful you’re not footing the bill.’

Ali perked up from the rear. ‘Talking of beauties, how do you intend to transfer the cargo?’ He jabbed a thumb at the boot. ‘You can’t just lift her out in full view of everyone.’

‘Don’t worry. That’s been seen to. The car’ll be parked in a nice private spot. No one will see.’

He turned on the radio to cut short any further talk with Ali, pressing the automatic tuning button and watching the digital display purr rapidly through the frequencies. There was some traffic news warning of jams on the M4, and he checked the map to see if it would interfere with their escape.

‘Problem?’ the driver asked.

‘Could be. It’s after the next switch. It could have cleared by the time we get there, but it might be wise to make a detour.’

‘Won’t that confuse the others?’

‘It might, but it’ll be better than getting stuck in a tailback and waiting for the police to catch up with us. Every extra hour we spend in this miserable country increases the chance that they’ll be on to us.’

There was a metallic click from the back of the car and Ceda glanced around to see Ali playing with his pistol.

‘Personally I don’t care if they do catch up with us,’ Ali said. He aimed down the barrel of his gun. ‘Just let them try and take me.’ He squeezed the trigger and the hammer clicked shut on an empty chamber.

‘Keep that bloody thing out of sight,’ Ceda snapped. The traffic was light on the present stretch of road but there was always the chance of another motorist seeing the gun and reporting it to the police.

It was another half an hour before they saw the sign advertising the service station. The driver waited for Ceda’s confirmatory signal before indicating and pulling over into the slow lane. Ceda adjusted the wing mirror beside him and checked that they were not being followed. The lane behind was clear. No other car appeared to be coming after them.

The car slowed as the driver worked down through the gears, tracing the white arrows marking the route for cars wanting the main car park. It was moderately busy. Rows of large lorries were drawn up in line and in the other section the only available spaces were the ones farthest from the restaurant and shops. They cruised up and down until Ceda said, ‘There it is. The grey Ford.’

‘That’s a bit of a come-down,’ Ali drawled from the back.

Ceda ignored him. ‘Park next to it.’

Two orange plastic cones had kept the adjacent space free of cars and as the car slowed, Ceda darted out and moved them, waving the BMW forward until it was close alongside and the driver cut the engine. The boots of the two cars were angled away from the main public areas and were shielded from view by a screen of trees.

Ceda cursed.

‘What’s the matter?’ the driver asked as he got out and stretched, his muscles cramped after the long drive.

‘Those idiots who did the recce. They must have come here in the summer. The trees would have been covered in leaves then. Now look at them.’

He was right. The leaves had long since fallen, washed into a brown pulp by prolonged heavy rain, and it was possible to see the shopping area through the bare branches.

‘Well, it can’t be helped.’

‘Do you want us to transfer the girl now?’ the driver asked nervously.

‘No. We’ll wait until the others get here and then do it. I want to have a look around in any case.’

‘Good, I’ll come with you,’ Ali said brightly.

Ceda considered telling him to forget it, but decided not to.

‘You stay here,’ he ordered the driver. ‘If you see any of the others don’t make it obvious that we’re together.’

‘Got it.’

Trying to forget that Ali was beside him, Ceda walked briskly towards the main building. His familiarity with Britain was one of the reasons he had been selected for the mission. In his army days he had been sent for training to Sandhurst and since then he had been back to attend further courses in the country. During those times he had used the opportunity to travel widely. Later, after his resignation, he had worked briefly in Britain, staying with relatives in London and Birmingham. He felt comfortable moving through the rail and road networks, while still maintaining the psychological distance of the visitor. On the present mission that distance was a vital safeguard against carelessness. Familiarity might well breed contempt, but complacency was a far more dangerous by-product.

After a trip to the toilets they went into the concourse and stood for a moment surveying the array of shops and eating places. There was the choice between a sit-down restaurant, a hamburger takeaway bar and a cafeteria. Without asking Ali which one he preferred, Ceda pointed towards the cafeteria and grunted.

They each took a tray and tagged on to the short queue. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches and salads were stacked behind a glass-fronted cabinet, and at the next counter a selection of hot dishes steamed under heat lamps.

‘What’ll it be, love?’ the waitress asked when their turn came.

Ali flashed her a disarming smile. ‘The All Day Breakfast looks impossible to resist…’

The waitress reached for a plate and started to shovel on bacon and eggs.

‘…but I’ll go for the cottage pie.’

She glared at him and with a heavy sigh tipped the bacon and eggs back in their containers. ‘Cottage pie? Are you sure?’ she asked, taking a clean plate.

Ali hummed. ‘Yeees,’ he said slowly. ‘I think so.’

He felt a sharp dig in his ribs and looked round to find Ceda staring hard at him.

‘Yes, cottage pie,’ he said with an air of finality.

In an attempt to placate the waitress Ceda helped himself, bustling Ali along to the till, picking up two coffees on the way. When they had paid and were sitting at a table he leaned across and said threateningly, ‘Try that again and I’ll shoot you, in public or not.’

‘What have I done?’ Ali said innocently.

‘Drawn attention to yourself, that’s what. She’ll remember you now, you idiot. If you’d kept your stupid mouth shut you’d be just another customer. But oh no, not you. When the police start asking questions she’ll be able to give them a full description of the two of us. Are you satisfied?’

‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll be long gone by then.’

Afraid lest he lose his temper, Ceda started his food, eating more quickly than he would have liked to, feeling as if the eyes of everyone in the place were upon them. This is not good, he thought. This moron could jeopardize the whole team.

The moment he had finished his food he drained his coffee cup and prepared to leave.

‘Hang on. I’m not ready yet,’ Ali protested.

‘I don’t give a shit. We’re going.’

While they had been eating, Ceda had noticed the rest of the team members arriving in twos and threes. Each group sat alone, acknowledging each other with only the most cursory of glances. When they saw Ceda make a move, they moved too.

Ceda was just making his way out towards the entrance when Ali stopped.

‘I need a leak.’

‘Again? Be quick about it.’

The other teams walked on past, looking at Ceda with sympathy. There was no love lost between any of them and Ali. Through the glass entrance doors Ceda could see the teams making their way towards their new cars. It would all be over soon, he consoled himself. They would soon be out of the country and in the clear, and as soon as they were back home he would speak to the boss and tell him how the choice of Ali had been a disastrous one.

It was the raised voices that first alerted him to the approach of trouble. From inside the toilets Ceda heard a shout followed by scuffling. He moved rapidly towards the entrance but as he rounded the tiled corner a single gunshot rang out.

The sight that greeted him when he burst through the swing door stopped him in his tracks. A man in the blue overalls of a lorry driver lay sprawled across the floor, blood spreading from his chest across the white lino of the floor. Standing over him, Ali looked up at Ceda. In his right hand he held his pistol, smoke seeping from the muzzle.

‘He went for me,’ he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Against the far wall, three other men backed away in horror. The door to one of the cubicles opened and a man came out, his face frozen in fear.

‘You idiot!’ Ceda roared and made a grab for the pistol. But Ali snatched it out of reach, his eyes warning him not to try again.

‘He insulted me, I said. No one calls me names and gets away with it.’

Without stopping to listen Ceda spun on his heel and made for the exit. ‘Come on,’ he shouted at Ali.

In the space of seconds the whole painfully prepared escape procedure had collapsed about him. The pre-positioned cars, the garage hideaway, the recced routes – everything. All to no avail. Within minutes the police would be on to them. Speed was now their only chance – and even that might not save them.

3

Don Headley swerved on an impulse into the slow lane, carving up a lorry in the process. The driver blew his horn and Don waved an apology as he veered off the motorway and headed up the exit road into the service station. He had been driving for well over an hour and felt in need of a strong coffee. Because of the exercise with the police he had not had a decent night’s sleep for several days and his eyes had started to blink shut as the motorway unfurled beneath him, its rhythmic pulse on his tyres soothing his nerves and lulling him into a fatal sleep. He had to wake himself up if he was to make it to Hereford in one piece.

Some way back he had wound down his window, letting the cold air blast in. For a while it had worked, but since he was well used to exposure to the elements even that had eventually been blunted by his fatigue. Now, only a substantial intake of caffeine would do the trick.

It was a service station he had used many times before. He had lost count of the number of times he had made the M4 trip between Wales and London, but over the years he reckoned he must have sampled the delights of every service station along the way. Most of them were pretty rough; various companies had bought them as part of a job lot, stamping each one with its own insipid identity. It had got to the stage where Don preferred to take his own sandwiches and a flask of coffee, and simply sit in the car park by himself before filling up with petrol and pressing on. That morning, however, there had been no time for such preparations, so he turned towards the restaurant and shops and looked for a parking place.

There was the usual assortment of visitors, families with young kids, sales reps in their Fords, Vauxhalls and Rovers, the occasional foreign tourist coping with the difficulties of driving on the left, and a variety of coaches and articulated lorries. An icy wind cut savagely across the car park, sweeping in across the surrounding open fields. He hurriedly wound up his window and shivered, deciding that he would need his jacket once out of the car.

He found a vacant space reasonably close to the buildings, swung his car in and switched off the engine. The car rocked in the stiff breeze that howled along the avenues of vehicles, struggling to get in. When he opened the door the wind grasped at it and tugged it wide. Don stepped out on to the tarmac and turned up his collar, then locked the door and set off towards the main entrance. He had gone only a few yards when he heard a commotion and looked up to see two men pushing their way out of the concourse. In their haste they shouldered aside an elderly couple, almost knocking the man to the floor.

‘Bloody impatient bastards,’ Don muttered. Everyone was in such a rush these days.

The old man staggered but managed to regain his balance, turning after the men and shaking a wizened fist at them. He shouted something but his words were lost in the wind.

But something else was happening. Through the double glass doors Don could see people throwing themselves to the floor while others scurried for cover. In his half-awake state, the images refused to order themselves in his brain. It failed to register that there was anything untoward about it all. He reached the doors and only then did he hear the shouting.

‘He’s got a gun!’

‘Someone call the police!’

‘Get a doctor! There’s a man dying in here!’

Suddenly Don’s head cleared. He took one look at the chaos inside the concourse and then spun to see where the two men had gone. A large lorry was just pulling to a halt, obscuring his view. He ran around it and scanned the car park. Two cars were tearing away from the service station, but through a thin screen of bare trees he just caught a glimpse of the men ducking into a waiting car. The engine was already turning over, white plumes of exhaust hanging in the cold air, and the next moment the wheels were spinning as it set off.

Don’s hand went automatically to his chest and felt the reassuring bulge of the shoulder holster. There might just be time to head them off and get a couple of clear shots at the car before it disappeared past the petrol pumps.

He sprinted past the rows of parked cars. People stared at him in surprise and alarm, unaware of what had just happened in the restaurant area. Someone called out a warning and Don narrowly managed to avoid running headlong into an approaching van. He veered to one side, bouncing off the sides of it and regaining his balance with difficulty. On the far side of the car park he could see the car and its occupants accelerating away. It was heading in the opposite direction to the other two cars. In Don’s mind the connection was quickly made. They were all part of the same team. He had seen that the men were Asian and could hardly believe what his instinct told him: that they were the ones from the Bramley Road incident.

However, unlike the two cars that had screamed away towards the exit, the one he was running after was making for a barrier that led out of the rear of the service station on to a minor road. It was a restricted entrance for use by the service-station staff only, and from it access could be gained to the local town and road network. Whoever was in charge of the car obviously had his head screwed on. The other two, by taking to the motorway, were in effect entering a potential trap. The next exit from it was several miles away and by then the police might be able to have a cordon in place. At the very least they would be able to position observers who could report on the cars’ direction and progress to enable armed officers to pursue them.

The other car, by taking a back road, was not restricting itself in any such way. It would be able to go in any number of directions and so multiply its chance of escaping.

Don covered the last few yards to the end of one of the rows and as he reached the last parked car he skidded to his knees and drew his 9mm Browning pistol. Holding it in a two-handed combat grip, he steadied himself against the car door and brought the gun into the aim, waiting for his target to appear and enter his sights.

There was the sound of squealing rubber and the car roared into view, the tyres spinning as the driver swung it round towards the barrier. Don waited until he had a clear line of sight and then squeezed off a rapid double tap at the rear window, where he was able to make out the silhouette of a man sitting upright in the centre. He saw the glass frost as his bullets found their mark but the car continued towards the barrier.

He dropped his point of aim to the fuel tank and was about to fire another double tap when something stopped him, freezing his finger on the trigger’s fragile second pressure. The image of the girl’s room flashed through his mind. If they were indeed the same men from Bramley Road, then they had taken a hostage. Of course it was possible that she was in one of the other two cars, but there was also the chance that she was in this one. The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for the loss of an innocent life. He realized that the most obvious place for the girl would be in the boot, and even if he managed to avoid hitting her and got the fuel tank instead, it was possible that his bullets could start a fire. He couldn’t take that risk.

He tried to sight on the tyres but it was no use. In his frustration he fired off another double tap through the rear window in the vague hope that one of his rounds might hit one of the kidnappers.

The next second the bonnet smashed through the flimsy barrier, splintering the wooden pole and breaking free on to the open road beyond. Don got to his feet and ran after it. As he reached the ruined barrier he tried to aim at the retreating car again but it was too late. He stared after the fast-dwindling target, the frosted rear windscreen now being punched out by the man who had been sitting in the back seat. In the last moments before it disappeared Don glimpsed a face grinning derisively at his failure.

Don cursed, easing off the hammer of his pistol and flicking on the safety-catch. He slid it back into his holster and turned back towards the restaurant. In the distance he heard the sound of a police siren and far down the motorway he saw a blue flashing light.