Free Assassin (John Stratton) by Duncan Falconer Page B

That was their purpose, come rain or shine, shelter or hunger, apart for a break in the winter for some. There was no need to get excited about anything. They were energetic only when ordered to be. They measured each day by the number of prayers they made and the meals they ate. Life was simple. They would never be wealthy and none bothered as much as even to hope to be.
    Mahuba walked into the main building, followed by his servant. A house boy bowed to him as he entered the lobby. He ignored the boy and walked along a short corridor and through a doorway into a spacious though nearly emptyliving room. It had a table and chairs, a couch and a couple of rugs, and empty walls. He went to the nearest window, its simple wooden frame locked on the inside. An iron grille had been built into the masonry outside. A glance around at the other windows revealed they were of a similar construction.
    He decided it was probably perfect for what he needed. Austere felt right. All he required was solitude and security. And space to think.
    He put his laptop bag on the table, then leaned heavily on the top. It felt strong. He was satisfied. It would do.
    ‘Tea,’ he said.
    His servant relayed the order to the house boy who was standing in the doorway. He shoved the boy ahead of him as he led the way to the kitchen.
    Mahuba went back into the hallway. An open door to one side led to a flight of stairs inside an alcove. The narrow staircase turned tightly in the small space as it led up to the next and only other level of the building. He climbed the steps and came out through an open hatch onto the flat, dusty roof. An Afghan was sitting against a semi-circle of sandbags in one corner. Leaning against the short wall of sand-filled nylon sacks was a PKM 7.62mm machine gun with an extra-long barrel. He had several boxes of ammunition close to hand.
    The guard was smoking a cigarette. When he saw Mahuba he got to his feet and bowed slightly.
    Mahuba walked to the edge of the roof and looked about the town. And then he focused on the purpose of his visit.The US air base. Its perimeter had been constructed of countless rows of grey-brown HESCO parcels – large cube-shaped wire and cloth containers filled with earth – stacked side by side and one on top of the other in a pyramid fashion to create height and depth. With razor wire spread about them like it was a WWI battlefield. Beyond them he could see rows of concrete blast walls five metres high. Watch towers had been placed at intervals along the boundary, which went off into the distance for miles. A modern makeshift fortress.
    He could see only a portion of the base, it was so large. He watched a transport aircraft slowly fly out in the distance. A couple of jet fighters passed overhead. Helicopters hovered somewhere in the middle of the base. Waiting to land or having just taken off. The air seemed as busy as the ground.
    The Americans didn’t appear to be concerned about ground-to-air rocket attacks. Some of the aircraft were flying quite low. They had to be confident the area around the base was secure. Which it was.
    That was all about to change. As the base stood, with the current weapons arrayed against it, it was largely impregnable. The security entrances would be difficult to pass through without the right credentials. Every vehicle got thoroughly searched. But none of that mattered to him and the solution he had to the problem.
    Mahuba looked down at the vehicles in the compound, in particular his pick-up. To his absolute and sudden horror several of the fighters were dragging the crate off the back of it.
    ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Do nothing! Leave it alone!’
    He hurried back to the hatch and down the stairs. He ran out of the house and into the courtyard to find the men had obeyed him to the letter and were holding the crate half on and half off the flatbed while waiting to hear what he wanted them to do next.
    Mahuba controlled himself. Realised he was overreacting. The