Operation Certain Death

by Kim Hughes

  If it was the army who had him, of course. It didn’t fit with its MO, the flash-bangs and the yelling. Not for someone who had gone over the wall. It smacked more of special forces or anti-terrorism police. They always liked to go in mob-handed. He stopped speculating. It was only adding to the kernel of anxiety he felt in his chest. He would find out soon enough.

  He only hoped they hadn’t done the same to his grandmother. Surely they wouldn’t treat an old woman like this? One who had served her country so brilliantly? Well, he supposed, that depended on which organisation had taken them. And if O’Donnell was telling the truth, they might well have been snatched by what used to be known as a foreign power.

  As the turbine whine in his ear finally wound down, he tried to judge if he was alone in the van. But his hearing hadn’t recovered enough to be sensitive to the sound of breathing or the squeak of a seat as someone moved. He tried a cruder method.

  ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ The words sounded like they were spok- en underwater. ‘Grandma? Are you here? Are you safe?’ Anyone?’

  Whatever it was that jabbed under his ribs felt like hard steel, but it could easily have been the rigid fingers of someone who knew what they were doing. His breath exploded out of his mouth, hot and wet against the fabric of the hood. ‘’kinell,’ was all he could gasp. Unable to bend double to offer even slight relief, the whole of his solar plexus was aflame. Now there was a good chance he was going to toss the cheese sandwich he had wolfed down at Dunston Hall.

  Eventually the fire dimmed and he was able to stop panting. He became aware of someone at his shoulder, breath warm on his ear. He spoke so softly, Riley could barely hear him. Luckily, he enunciated carefully and slowly, in one-word sentences. ‘Shut. The. Fuck. Up.’

  Riley decided he should take his advice and shut the fuck up.

  * * *

  The journey took more than an hour, less than two. Riley couldn’t be more precise than that because of having to rely on what was left of his senses when the trip was underway. He felt the van or truck slow, a slight grinding of the gears, and then a tipping sensation as it went down a ramp or slope. The noise of electronic gates or shutters operating just about penetrated the steel wall behind him.

  Then, the engine was killed. Doors slammed. Voices.

  A rush of chill wind entered as the doors at the rear of the transport were opened, along with a smell of diesel, petrol and oil. The temperature and the stink suggested somewhere underground.

  Hands began to work at the various straps securing him to the seat. Once freed, he was hauled – although not roughly – by the arms and on to his feet. ‘Step down here, mate. Two of them. One, two. Turn left. Walk forward. One step up. Now.’ This voice was firm but reasonable. He reckoned he had been handed over to someone who hadn’t told him to shut the fuck up.

  He heard swing doors pushed back, the beep of electronics and he was manoeuvred through a barrier of some description, deliberately brushing the side to try and ascertain its size and shape. It felt like the ones found on the Tube.

  It was warmer now, although the air felt artificial, processed. They were some way below the surface, he surmised.

  He was guided by his two minders through a series of doglegs, before one of them told him to stop. A key turned in a lock and a hand in the small of his back pushed him through it. The hood was finally yanked off.

  The strip lighting hurt Riley’s eyes and he blinked away tears. He turned to face the two men. They were almost identical: stocky, heads shaven, necks a distant memory. Dumb and Dumber (the latter the slightly taller one) were dressed in black army-style sweaters and dark trousers with heavy-soled and probably steel-capped boots. No weapons were in evidence, apart from a short baton and a Taser, clipped on to their belts. No badges, either. These were not military, or at least not any branch of the military he had ever seen. Nor, he suspected, were they the police. Private security? Possibly. One positive. He was pretty sure they were British. Those unfriendly faces were homegrown.

  ‘Where am—?’ he began.

  Dumb cut him short, stepping into his face, breathing what smelled like wet cardboard on him. ‘Oi. Do us a favour. Don’t ask where you are. Or who we are. Or what’s going on, eh? It’ll be a waste of time and energy. All right?’

  British, all right. In fact, he could narrow it down to somewhere along the Thames estuary.

  Riley nodded. He was sure the man was telling the truth. The second of his minders used the snips on a multi-tool to cut the plastic ties on his wrists and he rubbed at them. Riley had one question it was worth trying.

  ‘What happens next?’

  A long-suffering sigh escaped from the taller man. ‘You wait here.’

  ‘You’re not going to take my shoe laces or belt?’

  The shorter one laughed at that. ‘You want to top yourself? Be our guest.’

  With that they withdrew, locking the door behind them.

  Riley finished massaging the life back into his wrists. Then examined the room. Windowless, of course. Painted an institutional green, naturally. A cot bed, a side table, a chemical toilet. And that was it. Not even any graffiti scratched into the walls to pass the time. Christ, surely they wouldn’t take Barbara to somewhere as bleak as this? She was an old woman. A tough old bird, certainly, but this would be tantamount to torture for her. Imprisonment without a good bottle of claret? Inhuman.

  Riley walked over to the door and, although he knew it was useless, tested the handle. No give at all. He slammed it with the side of his fist. If anything happened to his grandmother, he’d eviscerate Dumb’n’Dumber in a heartbeat.

  He sat on the cot bed. A foam pillow the thickness of a pizza. Scratchy wool blankets. A slight smell of damp rising from the sheets. The Ritz it wasn’t. Nevertheless, he lay back, put his hands behind his head and swung his feet on the bed. He was exhausted. And angry. That anger was directed as much at himself as anyone else. After the Cotswolds, he had gone into some sort of funk, running on animal instinct, rather than logic, blinded with fury generated by Ruby’s brush with a bomb. Most decisions he had made since then had been flawed. Drinking too much with Scooby. Not calling in the information he got from George O’Donnell straightaway. Sitting around with his grandmother and allowing himself to be snatched by… whom, exactly?

  Good guys or bad guys? Bomb-hunters or bomb-makers?

  He lay there, trying to put together the puzzle of what, exactly, was going on with the bombs and bombers, but too many pieces were missing. How did the abduction of Henry Clifford-Brown fit in with the bombings? Or did it? If only he had been more skilful at drawing information out of his grandmother. He wondered if someone was doing that now and he felt another pulse of hot fury. How dare they use flash-bangs in a room containing an old woman? The shock might well have killed her. In which case…

  In which case what? You’ll turn into Sylvester Stallone? Robocop? Deadpool? You’re fucked, Riley.

  There was that unexpected visitor in his cranium again. Nick, poor dead Nick, offering an opinion from beyond the grave. Still, his old pal was right. He was fucked, powerless, trapped. Riley did the only sensible thing he could in that situation. He fell asleep.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  They were still a hundred miles from their destination by Henry’s reckoning and it was getting dark. He traced his finger along the road atlas – the Renault was a basic model, without sat nav – and double-checked with the phone that Yousaf had propped up on the centre console. They were on the M90, heading for Perth, with Yousaf driving – fortunately not like an Afghan cabbie in a hurry. Normally Henry would have revelled in the countryside they had crossed, but he was too irritated to relax and soak up the sight of the hills and dales or tick off the birds he could see wheeling in the skies above them.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he said eventually. ‘I missed my afternoon nap. We always have one at home.’ At least, he did. Barbara liked to ‘get on’ while he was snoozing. The thought of his wife set off pangs of guilt and
longing in his gut. But he couldn’t afford to worry about her right now. He made a mental apology to her, secure in the knowledge she would understand. And that if there was any way she could make the best of the situation, she would. ‘And I would love a cigarette.’ The nicotine patch was obviously overwhelmed by events. He needed a stronger hit than it could supply. Ideally, he would like a pipe filled with Peterson Limited Edition.

  ‘I can’t help you there.’

  ‘We could stop.’

  ‘Not far now, you said,’ Yousaf protested.

  ‘Two hours at least. It’ll be dark. What do we do then? There’s a dearth of streetlamps up there.’

  Yousaf had no answer.

  ‘And I’m hungry.’

  ‘We’ll stop then,’ Yousaf said huffily. ‘But we aren’t staying the night. We’ll get near to our destination and you can put the seat back and have a snooze.’

  ‘Don’t you need to sleep?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No. I haven’t got any time to waste on sleep. We’ll begin at first light.’

  ‘What if it is occupied? The house?’

  ‘Why would it be? I thought Homegrown was dead?’

  ‘For years now. But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been replaced with some other… scheme.’

  Yousaf waved that concern away. ‘We’ll worry about that when we get there.’

  ‘If there is anyone in residence, they’ll probably be armed.’

  Yousaf turned to him and gave a crooked grin. ‘Good. I look forward to it. See if you can find a pub near Perth on the phone. Now you mention it, I could do with something to eat.’

  Henry closed the Here navigation app, selected Google and did as Yousaf suggested. ‘Pitcairn Inn,’ he announced. ‘Close to Almondbank. Pub of the Year 2018, it says.’

  ‘Let’s hope it hasn’t gone downhill since then.’

  They found it without difficulty, to the north-west of the city. The bar was busy, but they elicited barely a glance as they sat down at one of the small number of tables in the rear. A waitress took their order. Henry opted for a whisky, Yousaf for Coca-Cola. Then, steak-and-ale pie for the older man, halloumi burger for the younger. Chips with both.

  As they waited, Henry stretched out some of the cramp from being cooped up for hours and asked the question that had been on his lips all day. ‘Was Nottingham yours?’

  Yousaf used his napkin to wipe perfectly clean cutlery, then laid the white square over his lap. He looked Henry in the eye. The older man stared back, noting that there was nothing to read in there, as if the humanity had been sucked out, like a faulty lens. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because you are a bomb— because it is your line of work. What you have done for years. Since we brought you here.’

  ‘Not any longer. That’s why I am here. To renounce such things.’

  Henry remembered only too well how difficult it was to get a straight answer to a question once you crossed into the tribal lands. ‘Is that a “no”? That the Nottingham incident was not your doing?’

  ‘Correct. Not mine.’

  ‘And the Cotswolds? The car?’

  ‘No.’ A firm shake of the head. ‘You are not listening. I am done with such foolishness.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘You are telling me that there are two… people with your skills in the country?’

  ‘Very likely more, thanks to you.’

  Henry did not wish to be reminded of this fact. He kept quiet as the drinks arrived, apart from asking for a small jug of water. When it arrived, he poured a splash in to release the aromas of the whisky and breathed deeply. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but I do. I had my fill.’ Yousaf sipped his Coke. ‘Before I saw the error of my ways. Before you found me. God is great.’

  Henry was relieved he had stuck to English. These days people’s ears tended to prick up when they heard alla¯hu akbar. ‘So you have no idea who did Nottingham? Or the others?’

  ‘None. We don’t have a bombers’ WhatsApp group, you know. Or any sort of social club, like old spies do, I believe.’

  Two bomb-makers, he thought. When that Muraski woman had shown him the photograph of Yousaf he had convinced himself – as she clearly had – that the chickens had come home to roost. But he was mistaken. ‘You still haven’t explained why you are here. In this country. If not to make… things like that.’

  Yousaf waved a hand. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You never did know Afghanistan. You visited the country, yes. Like a tourist. You never found the soul of the people there, you never truly understood.’ He looked a little crestfallen.

  ‘I am not sure I do even now,’ Henry said with genuine regret. ‘They are beautiful people, it is a wonderful religion, corrupted by outsiders. Like you.’

  A shadow passed between them and the waitress slid a plate before each of them. A large bowl of chips was placed in the middle. ‘Ah, lovely,’ said Henry, with genuine anticipation. ‘Nice and quick. Can I have some mustard? English? Thank you.’

  When the waitress had left, Yousaf gave a chuckle. ‘I had forgotten how ridiculous it is. Being English. So many rules. So many pleases, thank yous, would you minds.’

  They were in Scotland, but Henry let it pass. ‘Not like that freewheeling Islam, eh?’ retorted Henry, laughing at his own joke.

  Yousaf’s face clouded. ‘We all know why those rules are there. It isn’t just politeness or embarrassment speaking. It is a map for living a good life. It is laid down in the Koran.’

  Henry hated being lectured to. He particularly hated having his own words echoed back to him. There was a time when he was telling Yousaf he had to live by the good book. ‘Eat your burger. I don’t want to hear about all that right now. Don’t spoil my meal.’

  ‘You can do anything to an Englishman, but never come between him and his pint, his tea or his pie.’

  Henry decided not to rise to any more bait. ‘Or his pipe. That’s not a bad code to live by. And in this case, it’s a very good pie. Excellent chips, too. Thank you.’ The waitress had swished by, depositing the mustard on the table. He unscrewed the top, peered in and began excavating the contents with his knife.

  ‘Before I retired, I made one last bomb,’ said Yousaf, leaning in and speaking so quietly, the words barely travelled the space between them. ‘The final sign-off. One last job. You know that convention? In the movies. Yes, we did watch films. Jihadists love Hollywood. Know thine enemy. Anyway, “We do one last job,” says the master criminal. Normally it goes wrong. Not this time.’ Henry waited, knowing the man would say what he meant eventually. ‘London was my one last job.’

  Henry put down the knife with the blob of yellow mustard balanced on its tip and let it rest on his plate. Had he missed something? Was he getting even more forgetful than usual in his dotage? ‘London? There hasn’t been one in London. Not recently.’

  Yousaf took a bite of his burger and chewed it well, swallowed, and helped himself to a couple of chips, which followed the halloumi into his mouth. He made appreciative noises before he leaned back in his chair and spoke again, this time at normal volume. ‘Not yet.’

  * * *

  Riley awoke with his ears still ringing, an almost permanent situation over the past few days. His brain, however, felt less foggy than before. He swung his legs off the cot bed and looked around the windowless cell. As before, there was little chance that he could execute an escape. The only vulnerable place was the door. Given the right gear he could blow it off its hinges. Wouldn’t take much. But he didn’t have the gear. The question he had asked himself before he went to sleep remained stubbornly unanswered: who had taken him? White hats or black hats?

  He stepped back as the door clanged opened. Dumb and Dumber were standing in the entrance, the latter with a telescopic baton held loosely at his side.

  ‘Come with us, please, sir,’ said Dumb. The civility was certainly an improvement, even if it didn’t sound p
articularly heartfelt.

  Riley stood and stretched his arms above his head.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’ll follow us, sir.’

  It seemed silly to refuse. They led him down a corridor – Dumb in front, Dumber behind – that looked like something from the bowels of a ship, all shiny gloss paint, exposed pipes, harsh bare bulbs and steel flooring. After a hundred metres or so, they turned a corner and it was like being taken above deck – carpets, paintwork that wouldn’t cause convulsions at Farrow & Ball and softer lighting. They passed a series of anonymous wooden doors, each with a letter and number on it. Dumb halted at 4c, turned the handle and nodded at the interior as he opened the door. ‘If you just make yourself comfortable in here, sir, someone will be along to see you shortly.’

  It sounded like he was being asked to wait for a medical inspection. He hoped not. He didn’t exactly have clean underwear on.

  Making himself comfortable wasn’t going to be easy. There was a metal desk and three chairs plus a waste-paper bin. One wall was what appeared to be a mirror but was most likely an observation panel for the watchers whom he reckoned were – or were going to be – next door.

  He sat on the single chair, assuming his interrogators would take the pair opposite him, placed his hands on the table and closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, blocking out all useless speculation. It will be what it will be.

  A well-dressed man entered within five minutes, trailing behind him the faint whiff of expensive cologne. Pink shirt, grey suit, highly polished Grenson brogues. He took one of the chairs and put a folder on the desk.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here?’