on foot. I knew these mountains – not as well as the muj or the Taliban, perhaps – because I'd crossed them many times. But I had a semi-cripple in tow, and a seriously ticking clock. We had to get to an airport in Pakistan as quickly as we could. We didn't have any time to play with.
I'd become the world's greatest Martini-Henry admirer all over again. I went to the rack and almost caressed them as I pulled the coat-hanger from my pocket and straightened it out.
I checked the corridor for bodies and CCTV before realizing my bootlaces needed retying. I bent down, slid the wire behind the rack and fished. The slim bundle was where I'd left it. I grabbed my Nick Stone passport and ten hundred-dollar bills.
The young receptionist reappeared, shaking his head. 'He's not in the bar, sir. Can I take a message?'
I gave him the biggest grin I could manage. 'Tell him I was here, but I left early.'
I walked back to Basma's car.
96
Dom hadn't wasted his time. He'd wrapped a shemag round his head to hide his blond hair, and was studying the map spread out on his lap. He'd obviously done his stuff. 'Couldn't be easier, Nick. It's east on Jadayi Suhl, then a left when we hit Jadayi Awalimay. It's main road all the way to the Khyber Pass. A hundred miles, tops.'
I gunned the engine. 'It'll be a fucking sight less than a hundred if we've got a Predator overhead.'
I reversed down the alleyway and on to the street.
'How can we tell?'
'We can't. First we'll know about it is either ISAF putting in a flying roadblock up ahead, or a Hellfire missile up our arse.'
'Up the Khyber?' He grinned. 'Either way, nice knowing you, Nick. And I still haven't thanked you . . .'
'Later, mate, later.'
We passed Flower Street. It was packed.
We drove through the embassy area and past the compound protected by the sangar. I was tempted to stop and ask the big lads hitting the weights inside if they cared to come and ride shotgun.
A couple of Toyota flatbeds screamed past, with four or five police on the back of each, weapons pointing out. None of them gave a fuck about a battered red estate.
We passed the high walls and razor wire that surrounded the British embassy. The barrels of SA80s paraded back and forth behind the sandbags. Nine times out of ten this would have been a safe haven. We could have driven to the barrier, declared ourselves, and the ordeal would have been over. But right now some of the grey men behind those HESCOs wanted us dead. How many? I wondered. How far and how deep had this thing spread?
The estate lurched across a pothole and we bounced in our seats. We came to the main. I turned left, heading north.
Dom tapped the map. 'This parallels the airport road for a while, then veers north-east, then east.'
'About a hundred and sixty K max, right? You might as well get your head down, mate. Fuck knows, those scabs of yours could do with some beauty sleep. But a few things first. Assuming we get over the border, Islamabad's about the same distance the other side. We'll get flights from there. We'll go separately. You take British Airways, I'll take any other carrier I can. It'll make it harder for the Yes Man to lift us both. He has to do that to control the film, and it'll be easier and cleaner for him if he can do it this side of civilization.'
Dom started to settle. 'The Yes Man? The guy talking to me in the cell or the one with Finbar?'
'Both, mate. They're the same man. Listen, I know him. I knew the two Irish guys too. I don't know his name, never have, but I know he's dangerous, smart and doesn't give a shit about anyone.'
He sat up, ready to question me to death.
'Not now, mate. We've got too much real shit to deal with. Now . . .' I paused as he settled down again. 'Once in Dublin, we'll aim to be at Bertie's Pole at nine a.m. every day for three days. If neither of us turns up in that time, we have to assume the other's been lifted or something's gone wrong. You got that? I'm saying it now in case there's a roadblock round the next corner and we get separated. If we do, then, yeah, it was nice knowing you, too.