The Crocodile Hunter
Page 26
He said, “I keep seeing that picture, the one Merrick stuck on his wall. The still water, looks calm, looks safe, but that bloody thing is there. Can’t see him, but you can sense him. If he shows, a little ripple, tiny . . . but what we’re looking for – if it does, what do we do?”
She said, “Not a fucking idea, not one. Know nothing except that he’ll have decent sized teeth if he cares to use them.”
Two aircraft landed, a minute between them, and both touching down smoothly on the runway. They needed a fraction of the space required for the fast jets with which they shared USAF-administered space on a Turkish military airfield.
Both had flown a few minutes short of eleven hours, so landed well within the safety limits that permitted them to be airborne when carrying the maximum armament of two 500lb GBU-12 laser-guided bombs along with four AGM-114 Hellfire missiles. In darkness, identifiable only by navigation lights, the aircraft taxied.
On a busy airstrip, which this was, and one used principally by the strike aircraft, the sight of these drones still raised an eyebrow. Impossible that they would not. They were designated as MQ-9A Reapers, built by the American company General Atomics Aeronautical Systems. They had a wingspan of 70 feet, a length of only 36 feet, a flying ceiling of 30,000 feet. They always aroused interest from the technicians at the base because the Reapers, moving carefully at slow speed across the aprons towards the hangers where their maintenance team waited, had no pilots on board. The personnel who had flown them over Syrian airspace that day and into the evening were some 2,600 miles away. Past them, on the centre of the runway which they had just vacated, a pair of F-22 Raptors gathered speed, went to flaming after-burn, were deafeningly loud . . . Not so the Reapers, which flew with a dulled murmur, a noise similar to that made by a household lawnmower not in the next road but the one beyond.
Their pilots, far away, brought them home for refuelling and maintenance, sometimes still carrying their weapons. The drones were now coming back more frequently carrying bombs and Hellfires, but at the peak of the war against the black flag jihadis they usually returned with empty pods. They had been a powerful weapon in the war – in fact a game changer. That evening, a Public Affairs Department officer, briefing a friendly hack said, “They are terrific, whether they’re ours or those the Brits have. The camera can give us a hawk-eye view of the ground – the street, individual cars and individual people. They can loiter for hours and give a continuous feed, and if they identify a target then we have the capability from the weapons platform to obliterate our enemy. And, important, they create fear. They cannot be seen – they are too high, the sound is minimal, and the target has no idea he is being watched, tracked, is about to be killed. It’s why we love them. They are lethal, which is why the other crowd hate them.”
Up in the Kirkstall part of the city, at a lock-up garage behind a terrace of weathered old brick houses, Farouk – in his mode as Wolfboy – knocked gently on a door.
He was asked to identify himself. Told them Wolfboy had come.
Heard nervous laughter, then the noise of bolts being drawn back. They were justified, those who worked there, late into the night, in being both cautious and anxious. The men inside all came originally from the Shah Zaman Road district of Quetta city in that part of Pakistan close to the remote tribal homeland; if they were arrested during this enterprise, they would spend decades in gaol. They were good at secrecy, trusted only a very few outside their inter-related family, and obeyed the instructions they received from those they regarded as of higher authority. It had been an interesting project that Wolfboy had delivered to them. The steel sheeting had been obtained from a scrapyard in Dewsbury and the vehicle the sheets would protect had come from an auction, cash only, in Barnsley. They had converted a van, the sort used by a small jobbing handyman, and for much of the journey from here to Lincolnshire, the plates would be carried out of sight. At some time in the late morning or early afternoon of the following day, the plates would be fastened to the sides of the vehicle and the driver given protection, and the tyres, and the engine. As an armoured vehicle it needed only to achieve surprise and then be proof against erratic small arms fire. It was rated as satisfactory, and also as secure, and they believed the trail to their garage was comprehensively disguised. The man who drove the van, who would burst through a perimeter fence and close on a complex of buildings, would not survive the attack: that they had been guaranteed. Wolfboy had promised it.
The closed area of the garage stank from the oxyacetylene cutters as the final adjustments were made. Wolfboy was hugged and his cheeks were kissed. The men in the garage would be huddled close to radio sets the following afternoon. They drank coffee, celebrated, and were ripped by excitement – and each agreed that prayers should be spoken for the success of the man who would drive the van into the fence and beyond.
Jonas whistled. Not a tune, not a cheerful serenade to the cul-de-sac, but a piercing whistle more like a sports referee’s . . . also like that of the dog walkers who took their animals out on the Civil Service recreation ground near where he and Vera lived. He looked around him as he walked.
The lead dangled from his hand. He would stop, turn a full revolution, would hesitate, let time pass, then would march forward again and whistle once more, and anyone seeing him would note his agitation.
Not Jonas Merrick from the third floor of Thames House, south aspect, and working in Room 12, but a rather stooped elderly man, dressed respectably but shabbily, and out in the rain when he should have been in his bed. His precious dog had gone walkabout, and needed to be found. He was unknown in the cul-de-sac, which mattered not at all. He was old, distressed. He looked in gardens and peered over fences. Those who had seen him might have said: “Poor old beggar, should be tucked up by now, but the dog’s gone and lost itself, he can’t do anything else . . .” He passed a smarter looking property, same structure as all the rest, but well looked after and the garden tended; saw an upstairs light on a landing, and a curtain flickered in the front. Below was the living-room and he noted, would have expected nothing else, that the room was dark and the curtains a little ajar, so he did another whistle, and moved on.
Jonas came to the end of the cul-de-sac. A cat came to greet him. He showed it his toecap, had no need of its attention. He was outside the house in which Cameron Jilkes had grown up, gone from choirboy to a jihadi fighter: had enlisted in the all-star cast of choirboys at the most prestigious religious building in the country and moved on to acquire a reputation, a dose of notoriety, as a member of the muhajireen, the most valued foreign fighters. The curtains were drawn, and no light burned inside. The grass at the front was long, and the flower beds beside the hard standing were weeded up. A gutter dripped. A street light showed where paint had come off the window frames. Easy and appropriate for him to go up the side of the house and peer over the gate that shut off the back, and he skirted the rubbish bins and looked down that part of the garden – and whistled some more. He was satisfied and turned to retrace his steps, all the time holding the lead in readiness should his dog, whatever its size or breed, reappear. He did the part well and quite enjoyed himself.
Jonas was not a man who cared greatly for the status of rank. He had never, in his many years with the Security Service, put in for promotion, had made no effort to advance himself up the civil service grades. He belonged to no club – other than one representing caravan owners in Raynes Park and Merton and Motspur Park. He never wore the medal awarded to him, nor used the initials it bestowed.
He was pleased that he had achieved the reconnaissance without jeopardising his cover. Another curtain was momentarily flicked sideways. He imagined a whispered remark: “Poor old bugger, still hasn’t found it.” He wondered if he was being watched.
Could have already been at his mother’s home. Her birthday that day, his files had told him, or the next. Would want to be there for that. Might already have come. If he was not yet there then he would be soon, in an hour or two. Had no doubt
of it. He started back up the cul-de-sac . . . Funny old place to fight a war . . . Not with any of the drama, not the location that his High Value Target, young Cameron, would have wanted . . . But the right sort of place for Jonas Merrick to be deployed – good ground for him, wrong for Cameron.
He swung the lead and whistled.
The picture was beside the bed, her side. Ornate frame of painted flowers, showed a guy who grinned proudly and wore shorts with a crease in them and a works T-shirt, and there was a space where in girly handwriting was written, “My darling Gavin, from Victoria”, and the table on the other side had a matching frame and her picture and “My wonderful Victoria, from Gavin”. The ceiling light was on and she had not bothered to pull the duvet over them. Had done it, and afterwards they’d talked a bit and then started again, her on top.
He might have asked her how she was. Might have said that she looked brilliant. Might have said that the lines her nails had made on his back, where one of the bullet holes was and where Ulrike had done some stitching on a shrapnel gash, had felt great. Might have said that he had missed her, which would have been a lie.
She might have asked what he planned, why he had come looking for her after four years with no contact, and where he was headed. She might have told him that most days she had forgotten he ever existed, which would have been good because then he wouldn’t need to feel guilty about leaving her with no explanation. Might have told him her baby’s name, and who from school she still saw. Might have told him that the worst day in her life had been when she had realised that he had gone, and had heard that his mum had no clue about his whereabouts, he’d vanished, done a runner. Might have questioned him about what he was going to do, when he would be moving on . . . Where to? Why?
She rode him. He thought they were both animals, like the dogs that roamed the streets of Raqqa, scavenging for scraps, or the ones that brazenly hunted in the flattened shallow bunkers at Barghuz. However bad life was for the dogs, ribcages prominent because they were more than half starved, the dogs would break off from searching for food if there was a bitch on heat. It took priority . . . not about love, but need.
She could have refused to let him in, been aggressive or coldly indifferent. Could have let him do it out of sympathy. Could have bombarded him with questions. Could have prattled about himself.
She helped him through the second time, went slower and took control of him. He had run the lives of his brothers, had taken only nominal advice from them, and they had been happy enough to follow him and, until the break-out and the crossing of the Euphrates in the darkness, it had worked well – better than well. Now he was alone, and needed her, and she needed him.
The second time, her eyes watching him for his response and his breathing starting to quicken, he had realised the folly of it . . . Had been to the cathedral and had looked back in time to when he had been a star in the firmament . . . would be going to his mum because any man approaching death would want that blessing, that love that did not question. He felt Vicky’s warmth over him, her nails seeking out the lines of the two shrapnel wounds on his chest, and her fingers pressing into the ugly hole where the flesh had failed to fold over neatly. Being with her, under her or over her, walking in the street with her, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, shopping with her, eating with her, and laughing with her, had never seemed as important before he had gone – or while he was away, a fighting man – as now. Realised that his anger had drained. If it ran dry then he would fail the next day. Realised the mistake.
Had not considered it possible that Vicky, a little fuller in the breasts and a little thicker around the hips, would seduce him. He was always in control. No longer.
Had been in control of his emotions and actions when they had been together the first time. Had never lost control when he was with the brothers. Had managed to control the great journey he had made, from the frontier he had crossed, another solitary fighter who had somehow survived, and had a reservoir of lapping hatred. Had made the new journey with the Iranian Christian family, the nightmare of the storm in the Channel. And then he had diverted from his plan and had come to this street and had pressed that doorbell. He thought she made a trophy of him. Perhaps, in the morning, long after he was gone, she would take a pair of nail scissors and would make a small scratch on the varnished wood of the bedpost, where she could see it. Would remember him, and how she had screwed the anger out of him.
Coming faster, breath quickening, her eyes still open. Like it had never been before, left him helpless – and weakened. He could not see the face of his watch, did not care. And yelled out, she was grinning at him and the ceiling light burned bright above them. Cammy clung to her, could not help himself, and tears welled in his eyes.
“Did you have a girl there?”
“No.”
“Not one of those little black crows out from school in London? Did you go without?”
“Didn’t have a girl.”
“You weren’t as good at it. Not special like you used to be . . .”
Just wanted to sleep, hold her and sleep.
She asked him, “I suppose you were killing people. Too busy to shack up. You kill plenty?”
He wiped his eyes.
“Are you done with killing? Or have you come back to kill some more?”
She did not break away, snuggled closer, and he held her tighter.
She said, “You used to make me laugh, Cammy. I’m not laughing now. Wish I was.”
“The fact is that it is a bloody liberty. I’m not saying we’re perfect neighbours, but we care. We don’t turn our backs on any of them, and especially not on Sadie. Those two come into our house, try to give us a bit of soft soap and then switch double fast to intimidation. I should have put them out on the street.”
Dave and Trace were wide awake and his words hissed in her ear. Quiet now beyond their window and the floral curtains were not quite closed; they could hear the rain but the whistling had stopped. Some old guy who had lost his dog and had been poking around looking for it. Dave had a tough day and an early start tomorrow and Trace was always stretched at work and both needed their rest but weren’t getting it. Did not help that Karen had gone into Bradley’s room and they could hear them talking.
Trace might have cried but was over that now, and she whispered at Dave, “What shames me is that we’re providing the base, from which they can spy on Sadie. We gave in too fast. Not blaming you, they bounced you. I suppose they’re trained to do that, take advantage of people. We’re talking about Sadie, not about a war thousands of miles away, not about something her boy might or might not have done. I regard her as a friend, and she’s our neighbour – and that counts. You saw the way they looked at us, them downstairs, looked at us like we’re just ‘peasants’, should do as we’re told and take them on trust. It’s wrong. We’re betraying her.”
“But if it’s terrorism. I mean, where does that put us?”
“We don’t know what he’s done, or not done. We’re not judge and jury . . . Sorry, Dave, but I feel ashamed, them being in here, under our roof . . . Know what I mean?”
Dave would have admitted that his own thoughts were garbled. Trace would have agreed that what she dripped in his ear might have over-egged their situation. But both were rock solid that a friend, someone whose trust they appreciated, was being violated, was being watched in secrecy . . . Like a woman standing in her bathroom, drying herself after a shower, and a pervert stood outside and was hidden in shadow, and watched. He tapped on the common wall. The kids came in . . . Sadie had babysat, had minded them. Had not seen as much of her in the last few years as they should have but here was a way of appeasing guilt. Trace told the kids what they were going to do. No dissent.
At the bus-stop with a few other late workers and a few revellers, she waited beside the overflowing rubbish bin, smelled the shelter, accepted that this was part of her life.
By the time she reached home, had grabbed a piece of toast and gulped weak tea,
had got undressed and gone to bed, she might have five hours’ sleep, no more.
Sadie’s phone rang. She saw that it was Dave Hunter’s number.
Wondered what he wanted at that time of night. Used to look after their kids, snotty and superior and looking down on Cameron, but had hardly seen them after the police raid. She remembered coming out of her house after the counter-terror search and loading the bins with all the broken stuff from the rest of her house but not from his bedroom and she’d seen the Hunter family come out of their house and they’d not looked at her. All she’d bloody done for them . . . They had seen her come out of her front door, lugging a sack and none of them had come to help. Pretended they hadn’t seen her, like she had the plague.
She answered. Had to listen hard because the bloody man spoke in a whisper.
“Sadie, thought you ought to know. We have the security police, whatever they are. They’re here, in the front room. They’re watching your house. We’re thinking that means your boy is coming home, they’re expecting him, your Cameron. We thought you should know. We reckoned calling you was the proper thing to do. We’re always here for you, Sadie.”
The bus came. She’d always assumed that, if he lived, he would try to get back to her, had readied her mind for it for months, years. Knew that if he returned, came back to the village, contacted her, that a net would close on him . . . Would she help him, her son, to evade it? Knew the answer.
Izzy’s head was on his shoulder. Tristram had his arm draped over her.
Not quite a sleep but almost. Izzy snored softly and Tristram faded in and out of awareness and time slipped . . . An old man had been looking for a lost dog, and that was clever of Merrick, Wise Old Bird, but then he would need to be clever if he was going to catch a crocodile. Gustave, who had killed, eaten, was it 300? God knows how many – African villagers. Actually, who cared how many it had eaten? Not Tristram, not Izzy.