Which meant that right now his only friend was speed.
The air at Ben Gurion was thick with rain. It poured on to the chassis of a UN cargo TriStar as it refuelled, and on to the military presence — heavy, even for Ben Gurion — that surrounded it. An armoured Jeep was cutting through the darkness across the airfield from a nearby helicopter pad. The vehicle stopped just a couple of metres from the steps that had been placed at the rear of the TriStar. Two armed personnel climbed out of the front of the Jeep, and one of them opened the rear door to allow a thin man to exit.
Alistair Stratton looked a far cry from the smart, statesmanlike politician the world knew. His skin was smeared with dirt, blood and sweat; his nose was clearly broken; his clothes, in places, were torn. But although this usually unruffled figure looked like he’d been plucked from a war zone, it was not this that was most noticeable about it him. The Middle East peace envoy looked like peace was the last thing on his mind.
Soaked by the rain, he swiftly entered the body of the TriStar. He stood in its cavernous body, surrounded by crates of equipment and even a number of vehicles marked with white UN lettering, the scrapes and shouts of equipment being loaded echoing all around him. A second man approached, wearing camouflage gear and a UN armband. When he spoke, however, his clipped tones identified him as a British soldier, and an officer at that.
‘We should be off the ground in half an hour, sir.’
‘Why so long?’ Stratton’s voice was hoarse.
‘We’ve just received a communication from B Squadron SAS.’
The former PM looked at him sharply. ‘What?’
‘One of their men has gone AWOL. Nothing for you to worry about, sir, but a Regiment unit is on its way by helicopter.’
The politician’s bleak face grew bleaker. ‘I want men stationed at every entrance to this aircraft. Is that understood?’
The officer looked mildly surprised.
‘We’re quite secure, sir…’
He cut himself short. Stratton’s face had turned dangerous. ‘Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The officer turned to march off and attend to Stratton’s instruction, but not before asking, ‘Do you… do you need some medical attention, sir?’
Stratton didn’t reply. As the officer disappeared, he stood alone in the belly of the TriStar, staring into the middle distance for almost a minute with the air of a man whose thoughts were far away. The loadie approached and spoke with a scrupulously polite Midwestern American accent. ‘I need to ask you to take a seat, please, sir.’
A pause.
‘Mr Stratton, sir?’
Stratton blinked, then nodded. Thirty seconds later he was clicking himself into a window seat up at the front of the plane. He gazed out at the tarmac, where, through the heavy rain, he could see a fuel lorry pulling away from the aircraft.
He continued to stare out on to Israeli soil.
Hallowed ground.
He didn’t need to ask who the SAS man was, but he was insignificant. There was no way he could prevent what was going to happen. No way he could stop the great events that were about to unfold…
Stratton was still staring from the window, lost in thought, when the aircraft’s engines started up; still staring as it taxied to the runway, accelerated and took to the skies. The TriStar juddered with turbulence through the rain and the cloud cover. When it finally broke through, he saw the waxing moon hanging bright in the sky and, a couple of minutes later, a different kind of light. There was a gap in the clouds, revealing the sprawling shape of a city below. In its centre, easily visible even from this height, was the Temple Mount.
Jerusalem. Stratton felt a thrill as he gazed down on the sacred place. His pale lips moved faintly. Silently.
A sudden lurch as the aircraft banked to the left and, as quickly as the Holy City had come into view, it disappeared.
It was another fifteen minutes before the cloud cover dispersed again and Stratton caught a glimpse of the ground below. Here it was less populated, with much smaller towns dotted around. But the terrain was flat and, after staring for a minute, something caught Stratton’s eye. Two aircraft, at a much lower altitude than the TriStar, were circling above a built-up region, maybe a couple of square kilometres, with two runways very clearly marked out in yellow lights. Stratton knew what he was looking at: a coalition military base. The aircraft were no doubt bringing in troops, equipment or supplies.
It was all coming together.
‘Everything all right, sir?’
A figure had appeared in the aisle by his seat. A soldier, in digital camouflage and wearing a distinctive beret with the emblem of a winged dagger.
‘I understand one of your men has gone missing,’ he said. He lightly touched his painful, broken nose. ‘He lost his mind, you know? Quite lost it. Post-traumatic stress disorder, I suppose. Terrible thing. I’m rather afraid for his own safety.’
‘He won’t get far, sir,’ the Regiment man replied stiffly. ‘I promise you that.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. For his own sake.’
And without another word, Stratton turned to look out of the window again, to gaze at the sight of his armies gathering on the plains below.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It looked like being a brutal night to follow a brutal day.
Luke knew the Regiment would be after him. Most likely the Israeli Defence Force too. Once they worked out what he’d done, the whole area would be cordoned off and the guys would be out in force. And while Luke had nothing but a 9mm and the dirty clothes on his back, B Squadron would be fully equipped: night sights, thermal-imaging gear, choppers. Luke reviewed his options. He could put himself on hard routine in the surrounding countryside. Maybe he’d evade capture for twenty-four hours, but they’d get him. And the moment the Regiment had their hands on him, Stratton had won.
He had to get to Jerusalem. There he could become anonymous and work out his next move. He estimated that the city was thirty to forty miles away. His deadline was 11.00 hrs the following day, but he had to get there sooner than that if he was to have any chance of stopping whatever Stratton had planned. He had to get there now.
Luke killed his lights. It made no difference to a chopper with thermal imaging or night-sight capability, of course, but such an asset would take time to mobilise. He pushed the vehicle as hard as it would go along the unpopulated road that led from the military base and within a few minutes he’d covered at least five klicks and was in sight of the main road that had brought them from Ben Gurion. He hit the brakes when he was about twenty-five metres from the junction.
He knew he had to ditch the WMIK. It wouldn’t take long for the guys back at base to realise what he’d done and the whole fucking Israeli police force would be looking for the vehicle. He wanted to hide it, but his options were limited. There were no buildings by the side of the road behind which to secrete it. Just a ditch on the right-hand side, perhaps a metre deep. Luke swung the vehicle off the road and it jolted and bumped into the ditch. A chopper would still see it, but it would now be a bit more difficult to pick out from ground level.
He allowed himself thirty seconds to rummage in the Bergen that had been left on the passenger seat. Its contents were neatly packed. Luke pulled everything out: a thin base layer that didn’t smell too good, an IDF cap, two packets of rations and a wallet containing a military ID card and a small sheaf of used banknotes. Luke didn’t bother to count the money. He just shoved the notes in a pocket and returned everything else to the Bergen, along with his Sig and the scope that was still in his waistcoat. He then removed his waistcoat and body armour to leave just a black T-shirt. Hardly much protection, either from a round or from the rain, but nothing would make him stand out like his ops gear. Shouldering the Bergen, he ran from the WMIK through the rain towards the main road.