Black Ops

by Chris Ryan

  There was a low wall between the boardwalk and the seafront. Danny perched on it while Bethany crossed the road and walked with great confidence towards the office block. Without looking back, she entered via a revolving door.

  Time check: 18.50 hrs. There was no sign of Al-Farouk’s chauffeur in front of the building. Danny pulled his phone from his pocket and made a show of aimlessly staring at it and occasionally typing. Even here, in Beirut, there was nothing so ordinary as someone engrossed with their phone. In fact, he’d opened WhatsApp and he knew about now Bethany would be in a cubicle in the ladies’ toilets, phone out, waiting for his message.

  But he wasn’t sending it yet. Al-Farouk’s driver hadn’t arrived.

  18.53. Nothing. Danny looked left and right along the main road. It was full of traffic, but the vehicles were mainly old rust-buckets. A smart black SUV would stand out. There was no sign of it.

  18.55. Danny sensed someone watching him from the other side of the road. He glanced in their direction. It was a Lebanese woman, mid-twenties. She looked embarrassed that she’d been caught watching him. She lowered her head and walked away.

  18.56. Visual contact. A black SUV was approaching from the right. Distance: fifty metres and closing. Danny forced himself to focus on his phone, only watching the SUV in his peripheral vision. He avoided looking directly at the vehicle as it drove straight past him, but he noticed with satisfaction that all the windows, with the exception of the front windscreen, were so heavily tinted it was impossible to see inside.

  The vehicle made a U-turn across the traffic and pulled over in front of the building, coming to a halt in its regular parking spot.

  Danny typed a single-word message: ‘Go.’ He pressed send.

  18.57. No sign of Bethany. They had three minutes till Al-Farouk appeared. If they didn’t get this done before then, the moment was lost. Their only remaining option would be to bundle Al-Farouk into his own vehicle as he approached. That would be clumsy and, more to the point, obvious. It would be much better for Al-Farouk to enter his vehicle willingly, and find Danny waiting for him. ‘Come on,’ he muttered to himself.

  The seconds dragged by. No sign of her. Danny considered sending another WhatsApp. He told himself to hold his nerve. She knew what she was doing.

  18.58. Bethany appeared in front of the office block, her sunglasses propped up glamorously on her forehead. They’d done one job already, disguising her from any CCTV in the office block foyer. Now they had another job: to make her look, in the eyes of a man disposed to see her in such a way, like a Western bimbo thinking only of her appearance.

  Danny moved, crossing the road as Bethany approached the X5. He was gambling that the chauffeur of the vehicle would be extremely reluctant to open his window to a Western man of Danny’s gait and stature. But an insignificant woman who’d just emerged from Al-Farouk’s office block? That was a different matter. Danny upped his pace. He had to coordinate himself properly with Bethany, so they both reached the X5 at about the same time.

  Time check: 18.59.

  Bethany was at the driver’s window. Danny was approaching the car from behind. Distance: fifteen metres. He saw Bethany rapping on the driver’s window. No response. She rapped again. Danny couldn’t quite see the window itself, but he knew it was descending because Bethany bent down to its level, one hand feeling for the holster inside her jacket. Nobody else would have noticed her withdrawing the pistol. It was a small movement, easily concealed. But Danny noticed, five metres from the rear of the vehicle. And the chauffeur would have noticed too, because about now, the pistol barrel would be almost touching his face. And Bethany would be instructing the driver, in flawless Arabic, to unlock the vehicle.

  Danny was three metres away when he heard the clunk of the central locking. Feigning nonchalance, he opened the rear passenger door, driver’s side. He slipped into the back seat and sat immediately behind the chauffeur, closing the door behind him. He reached forward, unclipped the seatbelt, and forcibly wrapped it round the chauffeur’s neck, pulling tight. ‘Get in,’ he told Bethany through the open window.

  Bethan concealed her weapon and walked round the front of the vehicle. For Danny, this was the riskiest moment. He knew the chauffeur was likely to be armed. Sure enough, now he was no longer at gunpoint, the driver suddenly reached inside his jacket. Danny was fast enough to grab that arm and yank it back. Bethany entered the vehicle by the other rear passenger door and slammed it shut. She handed the Sig to Danny, who now let the seatbelt choker loosen and pressed the barrel of the pistol into the back of the chauffeur’s head. Danny examined him in the rear-view mirror. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, with a sharp black suit and a tidy haircut, and easily recognisable from his photo. A bead of sweat trickled down his right cheek. His expression suggested both outrage and fear.

  ‘Al-Farouk’s coming,’ Bethany said, her voice tense.

  Now that he was armed, Danny had more options. He reached over and felt inside the chauffeur’s jacket. A weapon was holstered there. Danny removed it – it was a Browning 9mm – and handed it to Bethany. ‘Tell him to let his boss into the car as usual. Tell him I’ll have my weapon trained on him at all times, and a round from this pistol will easily shatter glass and enter his body. Also tell him I like shooting IS monsters like him. His only chance of surviving this is to do exactly what he’s told.’

  Bethany looked a little disapproving, but she translated. Danny picked out Al-Farouk through the heavily tinted window of the X5. He took an instant dislike to the Lebanese businessman. Al-Farouk wore a pinstripe suit, slightly too small for him. Grey hair, balding. Skin like a prune and sharp, mean little eyes. He had his phone out and was texting as he walked, paying no attention to his surroundings.

  The chauffeur opened the driver’s door. Now was the difficult moment. If he decided to run, this would turn into exactly what Danny didn’t want: a street tussle, overt and a matter of record. But he felt confident it wouldn’t come to that. Everything had happened as quickly as he’d planned. The chauffeur was disoriented and scared. He wouldn’t be thinking straight.

  Al-Farouk didn’t even look up as the chauffeur stepped from the car and opened the rear passenger door. If he had, perhaps he’d have noticed the wild look in his man’s eyes. The Lebanese businessman was still engrossed with his phone as he ducked down to enter the car. It was only when Danny grabbed him by his collar and tugged him hard into the passenger seat that he realised something was wrong. He made a strangled sound, but by then it was too late. Danny leaned over him and pulled the rear door shut. The chauffeur stood on the pavement, obviously conflicted. He wanted to run, but was scared. Danny leaned forward, restraining the struggling Al-Farouk with one arm and pointing his weapon through the open driver’s door with the other. He nodded to indicate the chauffeur should get back into the car. That was all it took. The IS man took his seat and shut the door. He gripped the wheel firmly, like a kid on a rollercoaster. He had one gun pointing at the back of his head and another – his own Browning held by Bethany – pointing at his midriff.

  It had all happened in less than ten seconds. Only now did Al-Farouk react. He started shouting aggressively in Arabic, and reaching out to open the passenger door again. Danny didn’t mess about. He moved his weapon to his left hand, clenched his right fist and slammed it hard into Al-Farouk’s face. There was a splintering crack as the businessman’s nose broke. Blood and mucus spurted down his face. As his initial outrage gave way to pain, he bent down, his face in his hands. Danny shifted his pistol back to his right hand and pointed it at the driver, his left hand pressing down on the back of Al-Farouk’s head to keep him bent double and immobilised.

  Danny didn’t bother trying to speak Arabic. He knew the chauffeur would understand what he was telling him. ‘Drive,’ he said.

  9

  The chauffeur started the engine and pulled out into the traffic, cutting up another vehicle that beeped long and loud. The chauffeur swore under his breath, but he was ob
viously rattled and his full attention was not on his driving. ‘Direct him,’ Danny said. ‘You know where we’re going.’

  Bethany delivered some instructions in Arabic. The chauffeur didn’t seem to register any kind of response, but he kept driving.

  ‘Tell him if he makes me nervous, I’ll shoot him and do the driving myself. If he does what he’s told, I’ll let him go free in two hours.’

  Again, Bethany translated. The chauffeur nodded curtly, keeping his eyes on the road. Danny noticed his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. He yanked Al-Farouk back up to a sitting position. The businessman’s face was a mess. Blood was still oozing slowly from his nostrils. Some of it had clotted on his upper lip, and some smeared where his chin and cheeks had touched his trousers.

  ‘You and me are going to have a nice little chat,’ Danny said.

  ‘Who are you?’ Al-Farouk demanded. His English sounded excellent.

  ‘I’m the guy,’ Danny said, ‘who’s going to cut your bollocks off and send them to your children if you don’t do exactly what I say.’

  ‘I demand that you . . .’

  Danny whacked him on the nose again, not so forcefully this time, but hard enough to feel the broken bone shifting under the skin. Al-Farouk gasped in pain. He was still clutching his phone. Danny took it from him and switched it off. ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘The only person making any demands is going to be me. My first demand is that you shut the fuck up and don’t make any sudden movements. If you do, I might forget I need to talk to you and put a bullet in your face instead.’

  Al-Farouk turned to him in horror, as if he was looking at a monster. He said nothing. Blood was flowing freely again, dripping off his chin.

  The traffic through central Beirut was slow. A fog of exhaust fumes seemed to hover over the city, glowing faintly in the deep red of the setting sun. They crawled away from the coast, past the concrete shell of the Holiday Inn and the road that led to the British Embassy. A tense silence enveloped the car each time they stopped at a set of lights or a junction. Everyone was clearly thinking the same: these would be the best opportunities for Al-Farouk and his driver to hurl themselves from the vehicle and run away. So whenever the vehicle stopped, Danny nudged the back of the chauffeur’s head with his weapon, and kept a steadying hand on Al-Farouk. Neither of them tried anything stupid.

  Bethany, the Browning in her hand still pointing at the chauffeur’s midriff, gave regular directions in Arabic. It occurred to Danny that perhaps the greatest humiliation for their IS chauffeur was to receive instructions from a woman. But he knew what was good for him. He kept silent and did as he was told.

  Twenty minutes passed. Half an hour. Night fell, and headlights burned as they penetrated the suburbs of Beirut. The city became gradually less built-up, Danny’s perception of it limited to streaks of light in his peripheral vision as cars passed in the other direction.

  And then, near-darkness. A full yellow moon hung in the sky above them, bright enough to illuminate the line of a mountain ridge in the distance. To their left and right, trees. Vehicles in the oncoming direction passed at a rate of two or three a minute. And soon, less frequently than that.

  All the while, Danny said nothing. He knew his silence would intimidate his captives all the more. When Al-Farouk dared to whisper a simple question – ‘Where are you taking us?’ – Danny growled at him to keep quiet. He could feel the Lebanese businessman trembling next to him. Experience suggested it wouldn’t be long before his captive pissed himself.

  Bethany instructed the chauffeur to turn left off the main road. A couple of minutes later they found themselves on a forest path, tall umbrella pines on either side of them. The X5 juddered slowly over the rough ground. The terrain – perhaps thirty klicks from the centre of Beirut, with no sign of human habitation anywhere – seemed to escalate Al-Farouk’s terror. He was positively shaking now, and not without reason. Danny was inserting them into this unpopulated, hidden terrain for a reason. Al-Farouk was clearly sensing that it might not end well for him, and that suited Danny just fine.

  The forest grew thicker on either side, the track narrower. They were heading downhill and the X5 was struggling. Danny was on the point of asking Bethany how much further they had to travel when she spoke to the chauffeur. They turned off down a narrower path to the right, trundled along for a further minute, then came to a halt. The vehicle’s headlights illuminated the gable end of a tumbledown stone building. The roof had collapsed and vegetation was growing over the stonework, as if the forest was reclaiming it. At Bethany’s instruction, the chauffeur killed the engine but kept the headlights burning. A blanket of deep silence covered them.

  Danny could smell the businessman’s fear. It was a stench of sweat and halitosis brought on by his anxiety. He knew their captives would try to run, given the chance. It was what most people would do in his position. He kept his weapon trained on the driver and looked at Bethany. ‘Get Al-Farouk outside,’ he said. ‘If he tries to run, shoot him in the knee.’

  Bethany exited the car, holding the chauffeur’s handgun. She walked round the front and opened Al-Farouk’s door. ‘Out,’ Danny told him. Al-Farouk wriggled awkwardly out of the vehicle. He was obviously thinking of running – his eyes darting here and there into the forest – but Bethany cast a strangely imposing figure in the darkness, and he remained where he was.

  ‘Now you,’ he told the chauffeur. He nudged the gun against the side of the man’s head to give force to his words. The chauffeur hesitated. Danny knew he was considering his options. It was Danny’s job to make sure he didn’t have any. ‘Get out!’ he shouted.

  Danny’s raised voice clearly scraped at the chauffeur’s frayed nerves. He started, then scrambled to open the door. Danny exited the vehicle at the same time, keeping his weapon firmly trained on his target. Once they were standing outside the vehicle he indicated with his gun that they should move to the patch of ground between the X5 and the building, illuminated by the car’s headlights. Danny and Bethany ushered their hostages in that direction. Then Danny forced them to their knees, so they were five metres from the car bonnet and squinting uncomfortably in the beam of the headlights.

  Danny took up position with his back against the car, standing between the two headlights, knowing it would make him appear a sinister silhouette bearing down over them. He could see their faces clearly: dazzled, blinking and scared. He turned to Bethany, who was standing just outside the light cone from the car. ‘You might want to look away,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, though her voice cracked as she said it.

  Danny turned his attention back to his hostages. ‘Okay, Al-Farouk,’ he said. ‘Up until a couple of months ago, you were meeting an IS representative once a month in Beirut. You knew him as Ahmed. At each meeting you’d give him a cash donation to the IS cause.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Al-Farouk said.

  ‘Oh,’ Danny said. ‘Maybe we got it all wrong.’

  Al-Farouk nodded enthusiastically. ‘All wrong, yes,’ he said.

  ‘Shit,’ Danny said. ‘After all this trouble we’ve gone to.’ He turned to Bethany. ‘I guess we’d better kill them, in that case.’ He stepped forward a couple of paces, his pistol secured in two hands, and released a single round directly into the head of the chauffeur.

  The effect on Al-Farouk was immediate and profound. The retort of the weapon – stunningly loud in the silence of the forest – made his whole body start. His eyes clenched shut and remained that way for a full five seconds, so he didn’t see the chauffeur slump to the ground. He must surely, however, have felt the warm spatter of blood and brain matter as it showered him and his smart suit, spraying his already bloodied face. When he finally opened his eyes he stared first at Danny, who now had his gun pointing in Al-Farouk’s direction, then to one side at the bleeding, mutilated corpse of his former driver. He whispered something in Arabic – a prayer, maybe – then squinted up at Danny. ‘Please,�
�� he whispered. ‘No . . .’

  ‘Sorry, pal,’ Danny said. ‘If you don’t know anything about Ahmed, you’re no good to me.’ He strode a couple of paces towards Al-Farouk, his weapon outstretched.

  ‘I know him!’ Al-Farouk squealed. ‘I know Ahmed! I know him!’

  Danny stopped, but didn’t lower his gun. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You’re just telling me what I want to hear. Sorry buddy, it’s curtains.’

  ‘I swear I am not. I swear it. He has dark hair, a thin beard like a boy’s. He comes every two months, to my office. I give him money and he takes it away. That’s all I know, I swear . . .’

  ‘He’s still lying.’ Bethany’s voice was severe in the darkness.

  Al-Farouk’s eyes rolled. He shook his head. Danny stood right over him. ‘Who told you when to expect Ahmed in your office?’ he said. ‘And take my word for it, pal: you’re one wrong answer away from a bullet in the head.’

  ‘Adnan Abadi,’ Al-Farouk whispered.

  Danny glanced across at Bethany. She shook her head to indicate that she didn’t know the name.

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  Al-Farouk closed his eyes again. He was clearly reluctant to say anything. Danny grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him over to where the chauffeur’s corpse was lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. When Al-Farouk opened his eyes again he was presented, close up, with the grisly sight of the chauffeur’s shattered head. It was too much for the businessman, who loudly vomited all over the dead body. Danny let him finish, but didn’t let him move from the proximity of the corpse. ‘Where do I find him?’ he repeated.

  He couldn’t make out the answer at first. Al-Farouk was half speaking, half retching. He asked the question for a second time, and only then did Al-Farouk make sense. ‘He is an olive farmer. His farm is between Damascus and Homs.’