Kashmir Rescue. Doug Armstrong
Her parents had consented to her wishes to be allowed to go to university. The old man had protested. Eli was the delight of his old age, he had said. Her place was at his side. Naturally it had been his son-in-law who had countermanded his order. Theirs was a modern family, he said proudly, not bound by the traditions of the past. Eli would go to university and that was an end to it.
Of course the old man knew that his son-in-law didn’t care a jot for his daughter’s emancipation. He was simply taking delight in thwarting the old man and depriving him of the only pleasure he had left. But Eli had come to see him and had promised to write at least once a week, and deep down he realized that, however much he resented it, the times had changed. He would be the last one to hold her back. They would see how modern and British his son-in-law was when Eli came back one weekend and announced her own choice of husband. The old man could well imagine the uproar that would create, and then he would be the one to support her decision. Then he would delight in the torment of his son-in-law.
He was about to emerge from the path at the far side of the park when he noticed the car. The windows were clouded with mist and it was impossible to recognize the people inside. He could just make out two figures, both in front. It was some kind of Ford, cheap-looking and obviously an unmarked police car. He smiled to himself. Perhaps his son-in-law had been cooking the books as well as the curry and the Inland Revenue was about to haul him away for interrogation. The old man prayed it would be a long and brutal affair.
More likely, he imagined, it was part of another of the anti-terrorist exercises that the police conducted from time to time on the outskirts of the airport. The idiots had left their windows tightly shut and the engine and heater turned off, until the car looked as though it had just been removed from a giant fridge. They couldn’t possibly see through the glass. The buzz and hiss of a radio receiver from inside the car confirmed his suspicion that they were policemen. He sighed and started towards the park exit.
The sound of another engine stopped him. Although he had nothing to fear from the police, having always kept out of trouble, he drew aside into the inadequate cover of the scrawny bush and watched, more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Sure enough, the grubby white Ford Transit that cruised slowly round the corner at the top of the road seemed to be involved in the same exercise. Unlike the car’s occupants, the driver of the van had kept the windows clear, and the old man could see the face peering at the houses as if searching for a particular number.
A cold drop of rain found its way down the old man’s neck and tumbled down his spine, but the shiver that wriggled through his bones was caused by something altogether different. The van had stopped outside his own house, and through the back of the vehicle he could just see another man leaning over the driver’s shoulder. They appeared to be arguing, and behind them he could make out other figures, perhaps half a dozen in all.
He looked anxiously at the unmarked police car again. What was going on? Perhaps he hadn’t been so far from the truth about his son-in-law after all. But there was something very wrong, although he couldn’t put his finger on it. For a moment he considered crossing the road and going straight indoors, ignoring the police and leaving them to get on with their exercise. But before he could move he heard the rear doors of the van opening and the sound of booted feet jumping to the ground. He watched in horror as the men moved purposefully towards his house and went to the front door, three of them striding down the pathway and the other four or five jogging down the drive. He almost cried out as one of them kicked open the side gate and disappeared towards the kitchen door, which gave on to the back garden.
In the police car the figures didn’t move. Then one of them leaned forward and scrubbed a hole in the mist. Through the circle of misted breath the old man could see the surprise on the face and with another bolt of horror he realized that though they were indeed most likely policemen, they were nothing to do with the intruders breaking into his house.
He looked back at the van, where the man next to the driver was stepping on to the road. The engine was still ticking over and the man signalled for the driver to gun the accelerator and prepare for a speedy departure. Until then his face had been turned away from the park, but as the man gave the order to the driver, the old man saw him clearly and his heart missed a beat. There was something about the features that alerted him to the man’s lineage. He had hoped to have done with the lot of them but it was obviously not to be. After all these years they had found him at last. Now it would begin all over again.
‘Was that you?’
Colin Field grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. It was that curry last night.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Paul Robins screwed up his face and opened the car window a crack. Instantly a gust of frosty, damp air buffeted its way in, relieving the strain on his nose but reminding him that they had been freezing all night in an unheated vehicle. Reluctantly he closed the window again.
‘What a bloody night.’ He reached for the glove compartment and hunted around until he found his pack of cigarettes. It was empty. He scrunched it up and tossed it over his shoulder on to the back seat.
‘What time do we finish?’ Colin asked.
‘Don’t ask me. Ask that pan-faced git from Hereford. He’s supposed to be running the package.’
‘Do you reckon he’ll give us the run-around again? You know, pretend the exercise has ended and then fuck us off to another task?’
‘If he does I’ll tell the force they can stick their sodding job. I’ll volunteer to go back on the beat and leave special duties to heroes like you.’
Colin nodded sagely. ‘Beats me why our own training organization can’t run the course. Why do they have to bring in outsiders?’
‘Haven’t you heard? They’re sodding bloody supermen. I guess the boss is hoping some of it’ll rub off on us.’ He stared hard at Colin, appraising him. ‘Some bloody hope.’
‘Here, what do you mean?’ Colin asked, an expression of confused hurt on his face.
‘Nothing.’ Paul decided it was best to let it go. They had already had a couple of set-tos during the night and with tempers frayed from lack of sleep he could do without another. Colin eased sideways on his seat cushion and Paul noticed the tell-tale signs. ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’
‘Give us a break. It’s either this or I’ll have gut-ache for the rest of the day.’
‘Make it gut-ache then, but one more of those and you’re out in the rain.’
Muttering under his breath Colin sat upright. He looked at his watch. ‘Couldn’t we call in? Perhaps the ex is over and they’ve forgotten to tell us.’
Paul laughed. ‘Don’t be a bigger dick than you already are. Can you imagine Don sodding Headley screwing up like that?’
The radio crackled and a terse message was sent to one of the other teams. Spread in a vast ring around Heathrow, they were taking part in an anti-terrorist exercise that had already been going on for nearly three days. The floor of the car was littered with all the detritus of a stake-out: cigarette packets, hamburger cartons, newspaper reeking of old fish and chips, drink cans, crisp packets, sweet wrappers and heavily thumbed copies of several tabloids, the pages no longer in any sort of order and not one crossword more than a third completed.
Captain Don Headley of the SAS had kept them on the go ever since his initial briefing, and all the teams were longing for the exercise to end. Those who passed were due to proceed to the next stage of training, but Paul and Colin were having serious doubts about their original decision to transfer to the new anti-terrorist squad that was being set up.
‘You know what I can’t stick?’ Colin said after a while.
‘What’s that?’
‘The way Don manages to go without sleep for days on bloody end and still keep his cool.’
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Me, I feel shagged after one night out.’
Paul grinned. ‘He’s a right smooth bugger, isn’t he? Still,