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  THE

  ENGLISHMAN

  By David Gilman

  THE LAST HORSEMAN

  NIGHT FLIGHT TO PARIS

  THE ENGLISHMAN

  Master of War series

  MASTER OF WAR

  DEFIANT UNTO DEATH

  GATE OF THE DEAD

  VIPER’S BLOOD

  SCOURGE OF WOLVES

  CROSS OF FIRE

  Dangerzone series

  THE DEVIL’S BREATH

  ICE CLAW

  BLOOD SUN

  MONKEY AND ME

  THE

  ENGLISHMAN

  DAVID GILMAN

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © David Gilman, 2020

  The moral right of David Gilman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781838931391

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781838931407

  ISBN (E): 9781838931421

  Cover design: Ben Prior, Head of Zeus

  Cover images: Shutterstock & Arcangel

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  CONTENTS

  By David Gilman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE: WEST AFRICA

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  PART TWO: EUROPE

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  PART THREE: RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  THE

  ENGLISHMAN

  For Suzy

  In any man who dies there dies with him his first

  snow and kiss and fight…

  Not people die but worlds die in them.

  Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko

  (1932–2017)

  Prologue

  Russian Federation

  October 2019

  The road was long and straight, and the dark forest pressed on to the verge on both sides. Heaped snow, ploughed from the previous winter, was still frozen and had become an even higher bank from the fresh snowfall. He lengthened his stride and ran faster towards the rising sun.

  He dared not stop.

  The sun had reached the top of the trees either side of the chill, sunless gulley of a road. His laboured breathing muted the sound of the first vehicle. Instinct made him turn. Another vehicle was travelling behind that, its headlights weaving. There were probably twenty men in pursuit.

  He leapt over the snow ledge on the side of the road and ducked beneath the overhanging branches. A slender track channelled between the accumulated snow and ice on the side of the road and where the tree trunks barred his way into the forest. He heard the engines change pitch. They were slowing. He ran; branches caught his face and he raised an arm. A rattle of gunfire cut the air above his head. He cursed his own stupidity. By brushing the branches away from his face he had disturbed the snow lying on them and the fine powder left low on the tree had been seen. He kept running, ducking lower, avoiding the branches. The thwack of bullets hit the trees where he had been moments before. They were shooting wildly. Ripping through the air. A storm of treebark and snow.

  His breath came hard. The cold air raw in his lungs. And then he ran out of track. He plunged into the low branches. Felt them them whip his face. Searing pain scorched his thigh. He stumbled as another bullet tore into his side. Ignoring the pain he ran on. He was leaking blood. Leaving a trail. The distant sound of dogs echoing through the forest. His foot caught a root, tumbling him into deep snow. He slammed into a tree, the wind knocked out of him. He needed a moment to draw breath. He shook clear the pain and the sweat from his eyes. He could hear them now. Voices calling to each other. Fearful. Of him. He dared to close his eyes for a moment. More gunfire.

  And he remembered what had brought him here.

  PART ONE

  WEST AFRICA

  1

  French Foreign Legion Operating Base

  Republic of Mali

  February 2013

  The temperature was already nudging fifty degrees Celsius and as well as their combat gear and weapons each man carried in excess of thirty kilos of supplies and ammunition. Their destination was the harsh mountainous terrain where Salafist Tuaregs and Al Qaeda ethnic militias had surged across the border from Algeria. These tribal fighting men knew their ground and it was up to the elite 2e Régiment étranger de parachutistes to dig them out and stop the Islamic militants’ advance.

  United Nations Resolution 2085 had backed France’s military intervention in the French protectorate of the West African country of Mali, a landlocked area the size of Texas. The world had applauded when the French and Chadian army liberated Timbuktu, but more brutal fighting was soon to take place hundreds of miles away in the desolate Ametettaï valley, in the heart of the mountainous massif of Adrar des Ifoghas in northern Mali, on the border with Algeria. It was an area controlled by criminals, terrorists and warlords, men who trafficked arms and drugs with brutal efficiency to fund anti-western organizations. The combined ground and air operation to clear the villages in the valley and the nearby caves already promised to be a tough fight. French Special Operations Forces had flown several hundred kilometres from their base in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, and seized Kidal prior to the assault on the mountains. The President of France and his politicians wanted this fight, the generals wanted it and the boots on the ground were happy to oblige. France’s honour was at stake.

  Caporal-chef Serge Sokol ushered his sniper platoon into the Puma helicopter’s oven-hot interior from where
he and the other eleven men would fast rope down once they reached their landing zone. A month before, when they had parachuted into Timbuktu and secured it from the terrorists, they had had the upper hand, but the rough terrain of boulder-strewn ground here favoured the defenders. Limited access towards the caves funnelled troops into narrow choke points. Easy targets for ambush. The snipers were going in by helicopter and would then slog across the broken ground and establish their own fire positions. Their long-range rifles would give the attacking legionnaires a better chance of advancing.

  ‘Bird!’ a voice hailed Sokol.

  The Russian’s face, lined from twenty years’ service in every eye-squinting theatre of war that Africa could throw at the Legion, creased further into a grin. In the Slovak language, Sokol was a bird of prey – his new identity given to him by the recruiting captain at the barracks in Marseilles on the day he had joined. The immaculately dressed Foreign Legion officer told the gangly, unkempt and malnourished youth that it suited his hawk-nosed face. And that if he survived the weeks of training and made it through to the Legion’s parachute regiment the captain would pay for a falcon tattoo out of his own pocket. It was the first sign of comradeship the runaway youth had ever known and it spurred him on. And now there were so many falcon tattoos across his muscled torso his skin looked like a damned aviary.

  Sokol’s close friend, Dan Raglan from the Legion’s parachute commando group, jogged towards him. Sokol cupped a hand to his ear against the Puma’s roar as Dan shouted: ‘The target’s moved. He’s in another cave.’

  The caves were refuge to Abdelhamid Abou Zeid, one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, commander of Al Qaeda in Mali and the 2nd Foreign Legion Parachute Regiment’s target. Their task: to capture Abou Zeid alive and retrieve terrorist intel hidden in the caves.

  Sokol grimaced. Last-minute changes could cost lives. The briefing had been precise. As the Legion’s paras fought forward the regiment’s commando unit would abseil down from the clifftops and strike into the caves that held the terrorists and their leader. ‘Moved where?’

  The commando shoved a folded map into the Russian’s hand and traced a line across the contours on the map. ‘Here. Cave Thirteen.’ He grinned. ‘You think that’s unlucky?’

  ‘Only to idiots like you who expose their arses sliding down a cliff face on a rope. Who’s made the change?’

  The younger man turned to face the cluster of officers standing in the background with two civilians. One civilian wore an eye patch that barely concealed the welt of a scar. These were British and French intelligence officers who had laid out the plan to capture the wanted man. A third spook, an American, had left two days before. It was obvious to anyone with half a sun-baked brain that this operation was all French despite international support. If there was a cock-up it would only be French blood that was spilt. Though not all French. Not for those who served in the Legion. Those who went in first.

  ‘Intelligence,’ the Russian said derisively. ‘I don’t know who Sinbad the Sailor is,’ he said, nodding towards the French intelligence officer with the eye patch, ‘but those wankers get their intel out of their dicks.’

  Raglan gripped his friend’s arm. Other than his slightly different array of combat gear and helmet he looked the same as any of the other lean, burnished men. ‘You have to open the door for us, Bird, or we are screwed. Your boys need to get in position and take out those defending the caves.’

  Several hundred insurgents stood between the legionnaires’ jump-off point and the cave entrances. Every cave had to be cleared but the one holding the Al Qaeda leader would be the more heavily defended.

  The Russian looked again at the map. ‘If this is my position then it’s a longer shot than they told us. I reckon eight hundred and fifty plus and the wind will sweep across those cliffs.’ The snipers needed to be in place at the right time – every man depended on the other to do what was expected – but getting into position in the mountains to cover those abseiling down to enter the caves while fighting a stubborn enemy would take time. ‘First we have to fight our way forward.’

  The younger man grinned. ‘Then you’d better get a move on and not drag your arse, otherwise we’re all going to see the seventy virgins promised by the terrs.’ He slapped the Russian’s arm and ran to where his own men waited.

  The legionnaires were fighting in sweltering heat, in a soon-to-be forgotten conflict, but the desire for war is why the men had joined the Legion. That and the desire to escape whatever lay behind them. Their combat fatigues already clung to them with sweat and the weight of their equipment dug into their flesh as they sprinted towards the choppers. That was nothing new. No one complained. The roar of the Pumas’ blades beat down their thoughts of what might lie ahead. No matter how heavily fortified the mountains might be, the legionnaires were hungry for the fight. New recruits who had recently qualified through the relentless selection programme were keen to be blooded; while those old sweats who had spent their time fighting in the deserts and jungles knew full well how tough and well equipped their opponents would be, and that success would take skill, determination and a mind focused on one thing: to inflict as much violence on their enemy as possible and to kill them before they killed you. It was a simple equation that even the newest member of the Legion understood.

  Sokol tucked the map beneath his webbing and shouldered the padded canvas bag that carried his beloved sniper’s rifle. He spat. Men in suits. He settled his backside on to the Puma’s floor, wedging himself between his men’s legs. Sokol’s feet dangled in space as the twin Turbomeca C4 engines powered the battlefield helicopter into a sky undiluted by cloud or haze, whose diamond-bright clarity was suddenly speckled as the raptors thundered their way heavenward at 147 knots.

  Raglan watched as Sokol’s helicopter lifted. Hundreds of jihadists were waiting to fight to the death against these ground troops who would labour against their resistance before the legionnaires could reach their objective. It was time to throw the full weight of the Legion’s elite into the saw-toothed mountains.

  He looked at his squad of men.

  He could think of no better place to be other than among them.

  For Dan Raglan the legion was family.

  *

  The terrorists were prepared for any assault. Gun positions and snipers were dug in, concealed across the cliff face and valley floor, directing heavy fire and rocket-propelled grenades on the advancing paratroopers. They were well armed – after the fall of Libya abundant weapons had been there for the taking. French generals feared the terrorists had air-to-air missiles and that restricted their use of combat aircraft in the area. French artillery fire from forty kilometres away pummelled enemy positions but they could not dislodge many. It would take grim determination, relentlessly skirmishing across the valley floor, for the men to get close enough to kill them.

  The caves were supplied with enough food and ammunition for months of siege. The turning point came when the legionnaires took the village of Ametettaï, the source of the terrorists’ water supply. From then on it was a fight to the death with no escape for the Salafists, who were pushed back into those caves where their last reserves of water were stored. The Legion had fought in Afghanistan and gave these Al Qaeda fighters and their Tuareg allies their grudging respect. They were more determined and more skilled than the Taliban.

  Raglan and a company of commandos traversed the mountaintop and attacked from above. He blinked sweat from his eyes as he and a dozen others used fire and manoeuvre to get closer to the well-concealed fire positions protecting the heights above the caves. The ankle-twisting ground was a tougher terrain than the pancake-flat plains below and made speedy movement impossible. Clawing their way forward took as long for the men on the valley floor as those who had gained a foothold on the treacherous slopes above them. Both attack groups had suffered some casualties. The lack of cover from the barren, rock-strewn ground was a gift for their enemy. Raglan’s team were three hundred metres from t
he cliff edge from where they would abseil into the caves’ openings when, suddenly, the jagged-toothed silhouettes in the distance shimmered with movement. Figures loomed from behind boulders worn smooth by thousands of years of desert winds. Bullets crackled through the air.

  Raglan heard the bullet strike the man a couple of metres away. The thud of rounds hitting his Kevlar body armour knocked him back on his heels but the sickening sound of metal tearing into flesh was unmistakable. They were outnumbered at least six to one as the swarm of terrorists rose up and advanced. Aggressive training and instinct made the legionnaires stand their ground and return sustained fire. And then they strode forward a metre at a time, laying down effective fire as Raglan’s men picked their targets, some firing their under-barrel grenade launchers. Their coordinated counter-attack made their enemy falter. Now it was they who knelt or lay on the broken ground. Raglan signalled for the men to take cover. They couldn’t stay silhouetted against the skyline. The enemy showed no sign of having air-to-air missiles on the mountain plateau, but an RPG could just as easily bring down an attack helicopter. Amid the heavy crackle of gunfire, Raglan shouted their coordinates and called in an air strike. French helicopter pilots were some of the most daring he had ever encountered. The strike was confirmed. Two minutes. One hundred and twenty long seconds to keep the attackers at bay.

  The helicopter attack was dangerously close to where he and the others were pinned down, so orders were called and the men worked in pairs: fire and movement saw them safely to the few raised boulders that offered some shelter. Once the Tiger choppers came in low and fast their laser-sighted cannon and rocket fire would plough the ground and if ricochets didn’t scythe the air stone fragments would.

  Raglan bent down, pushing his face close to the wounded man who lay unmoving, eyes wide. ‘Sammy, hang on, mon ami,’ he shouted above the constant chatter of gunfire and explosions.