Retribution

THIRTY-SIX

Deep in the picturesque Cotswold hills of southern England, at a small helicopter flight base off the old Roman road, the Fosse Way, Corporal Malcolm Oakes of No. 51 Squadron RAF Regiment was watching the coming of dusk. The silhouette of one of the hangars was turning black against the sky, the vast roof curving down at the sides. As the light faded, the adjacent maintenance workshops would be swallowed too, followed by the admin block nearby and the perimeter fence three hundred yards away, leaving only the outer and inner security lights to push back the night.

Oakes shivered. It was only his third day here and it was a sight he hadn’t tired of, this coming of the evening. Yet he couldn’t explain even to himself why he found the sight so compelling. Maybe it was something deep in his psyche he’d never fully grasped, this small, low-key ending to the day.

He’d seen more dramatic moments over the years, in different places, especially on a posting to the Falklands, when the sun came up over the South Atlantic like a shock to the system. Then, he’d witnessed colours more intense than he’d ever seen before, an event he felt should have been accompanied by a swelling chorus of music to do it justice. Even on his last tour in Iraq, the sunset over the desert possessed a cold, ethereal beauty that touched the land as if trying to compensate for the ugliness and killing that had gone on over the generations.

He continued his patrol between the hangars, which housed a collection of training helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft, and spotted his colleague, Andy Killick, disappearing behind a vehicle garage near the admin block. Killick was slipping off for a quick smoke. One day he’d get caught and then wonder why the might of the RAF rulebook was descending on him like a ton of bricks.

Oakes checked his watch. Another thirty minutes, then he’d be off duty. A few hours’ sleep and he’d be heading for a day’s hiking along the Windrush. He hadn’t done the walk through the Cotswolds yet and it was time to get his boots out and exercise his leg muscles before he was posted somewhere else less inspiring.

He stretched and heard the crackle of the envelope in his top pocket. He’d picked it up earlier when he’d clocked on. He hadn’t opened it yet because he was sure he knew what it was; a bollocking for getting heavy-handed with a couple of local men who’d strayed on to the base two days ago in search of whatever wasn’t tied down. His method of dealing with trouble had cost him dear in promotion over the years, and his current tenure of the rank of corporal looked like being shorter than ever. One of the men had thrown a punch and made a run for it, but Oakes had brought him down within thirty paces, managing to roll on the intruder’s throat in the process. The youth had ended up in hospital, bitching about being beaten up.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the clean air. It made a change from some bases, where the taste of aircraft fuel lay on your tongue all day long.

A brief flare of light came from No. 2 hangar, which housed three Lynx helicopters undergoing maintenance. Oakes froze, looking off to one side of the hangar. It came again. . definitely a light.

He edged closer, his approach silent on the thick grass, glancing towards the garage in case Killick was watching. He reached for his radio, then decided to leave it; he was already too close and the noise would carry.

He wanted this one to be a real surprise.

A small side door was open. As Oakes stepped inside he heard a scrape of noise echo through the hangar. He hefted his heavy rubber flashlight and moved towards the bank of switches that would illuminate the overhead lights.

He felt rather than heard the door swing to behind him, and a swish of disturbed air ran across the back of his neck.

‘Hey — come out-!’

His words were choked off as he was slammed back against the wall. His head connected sickeningly with a heating pipe, and a spray of lights burst in front of his eyes.

Oakes possessed some expertise in martial arts, and had represented his squadron in inter-service bouts, holding his own against younger men. Dazed as he was, he instinctively moved sideways and lashed out with a boot, a move designed to drop his attacker where he stood. But the man was no longer there.

He flicked on his torch, and instantly felt a sharp pain in his hand, as if he’d been electrocuted. The torch fell from nerveless fingers and hit the floor of the hangar, the bulb popping with the impact. He heard a sharp intake of breath barely four feet away, then a vice-like hand gripped his throat.

In the darkness, Oakes realized with awful certainty that whoever this man was, he was no local thief looking for what he could steal. Even as he thought it, he experienced a sharp pain in his gut, like the very worst kind of belly cramp, and his bladder gave way, flooding his pants with a hot gush of urine. Through the pain, he wondered how he was going to explain this to Killick and the others, being taken down like a novice.

Then he was sliding down the wall, the hand gone from his throat and his legs no longer holding him upright. He hit the floor in a sitting position, head lolling, his breath sliding out of him in a rush. God, he felt tired.

A beam of light stabbed through the darkness, and he saw a vague face in the background staring down at him.

‘What the fu-?’ he tried to ask, then gave up, the effort too much.

The last thing he felt as he rolled on his side was his head hitting the oil-scented concrete floor of the hangar. The last image he saw, looming overhead in the reflected torchlight, was the familiar blade of a Lynx helicopter.

Kassim slipped out of the giant hangar through a rear door and walked towards the fence where he had prepared an escape route. He slid through the gap and jogged across the fields, sticking close to a stone wall until he reached a narrow lane. He thought he heard a faint shout behind him, but it might have been his imagination.

Dealing with Oakes had been easy. But it had brought no satisfaction. The man was just a name, a person on the list. He hadn’t even been at the compound. But his instructors had been adamant: not every death would have a connection, but each was about laying a confusing trail.

He was feeling nauseous again, with frequent attacks of bile rising in his throat. He had put it down to the rigours of his travels and the intense stress he was under, but a small part of him was beginning to wonder.

Parked up against the wall near a clutch of trees was a battered Ford Fiesta collected from a dealer at a used car lot in an area called West Drayton near Heathrow airport. The man had barely spoken, merely handing him the keys and wishing him God’s protection. The car was old and tired, but it had served well enough to get him here, allowing him to stay off public transport and dictate his own pace. He jumped over the wall and climbed into the car, and drove away back towards the M4 motorway.