Payback Read Free

working their way, in line abreast, up the hill towards him. At least, he reflected, tucking the binoculars into a pocket on his DPM camouflage
jacket, colloquially known as a ‘you-can’t-see-me-suit’, he’d be able to get some hot food and drink inside him once he got back to Hereford, and take a crap somewhere other
than into a sheet of cling-film.
    These troopers were shouting to each other, or at least that’s what it sounded like, which puzzled Richter, as it had done previously. Usually any group of soldiers, whether regular army
or special forces, will take extreme care to make as little sound as possible. Noise attracts attention, and that is the last thing any patrol wants.
    It was only when the first of them got to within twenty yards of his OP that he finally realized what they were calling. It was a single four-word sentence, repeated over and over again –
‘Safeguard. Commander Richter. Safeguard.’
    The moment he could hear the words clearly, Richter stood up, tossing aside the cam-netting and the greenery he’d painstakingly woven into it so that it would merge seamlessly with the
scrubby grass and stunted bushes dotted around him. ‘Safeguard’ is the over-ride code-word signalling the termination of any exercise or activity, for external or safety reasons or when
directed by a higher authority.
    The moment he stood up, the approaching men stopped, swinging their weapons to cover him as they looked across the rutted ground. The corporal reached him first, glanced down at the hollow that
Richter had called home for the previous ninety-odd hours, and nodded a grudging approval. Officers – or ‘Ruperts’ as they were known within the Regiment – were generally
held in very low regard by the other ranks, and scruffy, insubordinate ex-Royal Navy officers like Richter didn’t rate at all. To have received any kind of an acknowledgement from the NCO was
high praise indeed.
    ‘Thank fuck for that,’ the corporal said, grinning at him. ‘We’ve been looking for you for two days, and you’re in deep shit. Your section called. They want you
back in London immediately, and that’s “immediately” as in just over forty-eight hours ago.’
    Manama, Bahrain
    He was neither the best nor most reliable of witnesses, because of the money, but the story the middle-aged Filipino told was so intriguing that Tariq Mazen immediately
decided to investigate it further.
    His new informant worked as a cleaner in the hospital on Al-Sulmaniya Avenue. He’d introduced himself as ‘Karim’, though it was an obvious alias. Mazen understood his caution:
if word of what he was doing reached the wrong ears, his informant could find his life expectancy reduced to a matter of days or even hours. And there was no point in checking him out, anyway
– his value was the information he was offering, not his real identity.
    The story he told was simple enough. Three days earlier a patient had arrived at Al-Sulmaniya, which was hardly news in itself, but this man had received somewhat unusual treatment. Karim
happened to be cleaning the corridor behind the admissions unit when this man and his entourage had appeared. The doctor leading the group had seen the Filipino as soon as he turned the corner and
had hurried forward, ordering Karim into a side room.
    The storeroom door had a narrow vertical window, and most of his view was blocked by the doctor’s white coat but, as the surgeon finally stepped away from the door, for a bare second or
two Karim had an unobstructed view of the patient walking slowly past.
    ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Tariq Mazen asked, for the fourth time.
    ‘No, I’m not. I told you – I saw him for just a moment, and he was walking away from me.’
    ‘So you saw only his profile? Only the side of his face?’
    ‘Yes.’ The Filipino nodded. ‘And it was grey, like in all the pictures. And his beard has streaks, too. It’s very distinctive, and his face is well