animal pen where the Black Hawk had come down. The Americans had destroyed it with thermite grenades before leaving, and the heat of the fire had warped the helicopter’s rotors so that it resembled the charred husk of a mutilated spider.
‘We have spoken to Haqqani’s people who have watchers in Jalalabad,’ Noman explained in a steely monotone. ‘They say that just after eleven o’clock last night two MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters lifted off from the airfield there. Shortly afterwards they crossed into our airspace undetected.’
‘Why undetected?’ Khan demanded.
‘Because our principal air defences are pointing east at India,’ Noman told him, ‘and the Americans have radar-dampening and noise-reduction technology. We were wide open. We always have been.’
Noman had never seen Khan look so unsettled. The old man was standing with his mouth hanging slightly open and his shirt miss-buttoned, looking all of his seventy years. He’d rushed up here as soon as he’d heard the news, arriving not long after Noman. It was clear that whatever outcome Khan had expected from bin Laden’s long confinement, it had not been this – an American raid.
‘Forty-five minutes after the Black Hawks, four Chinooks took off from the same airfield in Jalalabad,’ Noman told him. ‘We’re not sure but we believe that at least two of them crossed the border into Pakistan.’
‘We think the Chinooks put down in the tribal areas,’ Raja Mahfouz added, ‘we’re talking to some of our sources in the villages and trying to identify the exact location. We think the Chinooks were kept in reserve with their engines running as back-up in case of complications.’
Major Raja Mohammed Mahfouz, Chief of Staff of SS Directorate and Noman’s deputy, was a shaven-headed giant with a thick ridge of bone running across his brow and a black bushy beard that covered his chest. He was a gruff, melancholy Pashtun from the North-West Frontier who had commanded one of Noman’s companies in Seventh Commando Battalion and Noman had brought him with him to the ISI. Like Noman, he had been up all night.
‘Meanwhile, the Black Hawks circled the city to the north following the ridgeline there and came in from the east,’ Noman said, pointing at the Sarban Hills. He was standing beside a detached helicopter wheel, ‘As you see one of them crashed here.’
‘Why?’ Khan demanded.
‘We don’t know yet. I’ve requested an air-crash investigation team from Mushaf Air Force base. They’re on their way. We don’t think that any of the Americans were injured in the crash and the setback doesn’t appear to have slowed them down. They used explosives to blow open the gate there.’
He led them through the metal gates that were hanging off their hinges and into the alley that ran alongside the main building. A second locked gate had also been blown open. They entered the small courtyard where the courier lived with his wife and four children. There were crimson bloodstains in the dirt and flies feasting on them.
‘The courier Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti was shot dead here and his wife beside him. The discarded shell casings are NATO standard 5.56 mm.’
‘What about the neighbours?’ Khan asked.
‘They undoubtedly heard the noise,’ Noman replied.
‘One of the locals posted on Twitter,’ Raja Mahfouz added, squinting at the Blackberry that was tiny in his hands, ‘
Helicopter hovering above Abbottabad at 1 AM
…then in brackets…
is a rare event
.’
‘Did no one investigate?’
‘Anyone curious enough to come outside was told by a Pashto speaker that a security operation was underway and that they should go back inside their houses and turn their lights off,’ Noman said. ‘It was dark. There was no moonlight. The Pashto speaker was dressed in a
shalwar kameez
and flak jacket and could easily have been mistaken for a plainclothes policeman.’
‘And our surveillance team?’ Khan asked.
‘Your surveillance team,’ Noman
‘We have spoken to Haqqani’s people who have watchers in Jalalabad,’ Noman explained in a steely monotone. ‘They say that just after eleven o’clock last night two MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters lifted off from the airfield there. Shortly afterwards they crossed into our airspace undetected.’
‘Why undetected?’ Khan demanded.
‘Because our principal air defences are pointing east at India,’ Noman told him, ‘and the Americans have radar-dampening and noise-reduction technology. We were wide open. We always have been.’
Noman had never seen Khan look so unsettled. The old man was standing with his mouth hanging slightly open and his shirt miss-buttoned, looking all of his seventy years. He’d rushed up here as soon as he’d heard the news, arriving not long after Noman. It was clear that whatever outcome Khan had expected from bin Laden’s long confinement, it had not been this – an American raid.
‘Forty-five minutes after the Black Hawks, four Chinooks took off from the same airfield in Jalalabad,’ Noman told him. ‘We’re not sure but we believe that at least two of them crossed the border into Pakistan.’
‘We think the Chinooks put down in the tribal areas,’ Raja Mahfouz added, ‘we’re talking to some of our sources in the villages and trying to identify the exact location. We think the Chinooks were kept in reserve with their engines running as back-up in case of complications.’
Major Raja Mohammed Mahfouz, Chief of Staff of SS Directorate and Noman’s deputy, was a shaven-headed giant with a thick ridge of bone running across his brow and a black bushy beard that covered his chest. He was a gruff, melancholy Pashtun from the North-West Frontier who had commanded one of Noman’s companies in Seventh Commando Battalion and Noman had brought him with him to the ISI. Like Noman, he had been up all night.
‘Meanwhile, the Black Hawks circled the city to the north following the ridgeline there and came in from the east,’ Noman said, pointing at the Sarban Hills. He was standing beside a detached helicopter wheel, ‘As you see one of them crashed here.’
‘Why?’ Khan demanded.
‘We don’t know yet. I’ve requested an air-crash investigation team from Mushaf Air Force base. They’re on their way. We don’t think that any of the Americans were injured in the crash and the setback doesn’t appear to have slowed them down. They used explosives to blow open the gate there.’
He led them through the metal gates that were hanging off their hinges and into the alley that ran alongside the main building. A second locked gate had also been blown open. They entered the small courtyard where the courier lived with his wife and four children. There were crimson bloodstains in the dirt and flies feasting on them.
‘The courier Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti was shot dead here and his wife beside him. The discarded shell casings are NATO standard 5.56 mm.’
‘What about the neighbours?’ Khan asked.
‘They undoubtedly heard the noise,’ Noman replied.
‘One of the locals posted on Twitter,’ Raja Mahfouz added, squinting at the Blackberry that was tiny in his hands, ‘
Helicopter hovering above Abbottabad at 1 AM
…then in brackets…
is a rare event
.’
‘Did no one investigate?’
‘Anyone curious enough to come outside was told by a Pashto speaker that a security operation was underway and that they should go back inside their houses and turn their lights off,’ Noman said. ‘It was dark. There was no moonlight. The Pashto speaker was dressed in a
shalwar kameez
and flak jacket and could easily have been mistaken for a plainclothes policeman.’
‘And our surveillance team?’ Khan asked.
‘Your surveillance team,’ Noman
Similar Books
