by Dc Alden
The fresh air above ground felt wonderful. Al-Kaabi headed back to his accommodation block, replaying the meeting in his mind, keeping it fresh. He entered his narrow room with its cheap wardrobe and single bed and dropped the blind. He clicked on a reading lamp and sat down at his desk. He ignored the laptop, snatched up a notepad and pen and began writing every word, every location, every order, and every date and time he’d just heard. He scribbled furiously, determined to get it all down. It was late, gone midnight, and he knew a car would be waiting for him at the prearranged pickup point. That was risky in itself. Al-Kaabi’s escape was riskier. He had to cut his way through the chain link. He wasn’t looking forward to that at all, but leaving the camp at this time of night would raise more questions. He had no choice—
The knock at the door startled him. He shoved the pad in the desk drawer and got to his feet. A smiling Hassan was waiting outside. He was alone, Al-Kaabi was relieved to see, but the man’s nose twitched like a rat, his eyes peering over Al-Kaabi’s shoulder.
‘Yosef. How can I help?’
‘I thought I’d stop by, check on you.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘You said you needed the bathroom. When the meeting broke up, you walked straight past one.’
Al-Kaabi frowned. ‘That’s none of—’
‘You’ve been acting strange all day. I’m concerned.’
‘You’re not spying on me, are you?’ Al-Kaabi smiled, a sudden knot of fear twisting his stomach. Why say spying? Why use that word, idiot! Voices echoed along the corridor. Al-Kaabi threw the door open. ‘Please, come in. Let’s talk.’
Hassan stepped inside, his hands clasped behind his back, looking around the narrow room as if he were carrying out an inspection. ‘Something’s troubling you, Faisal. What is it?’
‘Nothing, really. I’ve not been well, that’s all.’ Al-Kaabi closed the door. Now what? He had to think of something quick, but first, he had to stash the data drive. He’d feel better if it wasn’t in his damn pocket. He plucked it out, turned to the wardrobe, to hide it beneath his neatly-folded sweaters—
The tiny device slipped from his fingers.
Shit!
It hit the floor and skittered across the room, disappearing beneath the bed. Al-Kaabi cursed, knelt down, saw it lying against the skirting board.
‘Do you need help?’
‘It’s fine. I dropped something,’ Al-Kaabi grunted, reaching out and plucking it from the dust. He balled his fist around it and stood up. ‘A ring,’ he explained, ‘a family heirloom…’
His face dropped. The desk drawer was open. Hassan was holding up his pad.
‘What’s this?’
Hassan’s face was triumphant. He reminded Al-Kaabi of a TV detective, confronting a criminal with a damning piece of evidence. Except this wasn’t TV.
‘I told you, I’ve been ill. I’m having trouble focussing. I made some notes.’
‘Some notes?’ echoed Hassan, waving the pad. ‘This is four pages of detailed military intelligence.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Al-Kaabi reached out, but Hassan whipped it out of reach.
‘You’re an odd fish, Faisal. Secretive. Like you’re hiding something. I’m right, aren’t I?’
Al-Kaabi’s shoulder’s sagged. ‘Yes, but it’s not what you think.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I think. Others will get to the truth.’
‘Others?’
Hassan frowned. ‘Of course. I must report this immediately.’
Al-Kaabi swallowed. ‘There’s no need to—’
‘No need? Are you serious?’ Hassan gripped the notepad in his hand. ‘Move aside, major.’
Al-Kaabi dropped his head. ‘Fine. Do what you must.’
Hassan brushed past him. Al-Kaabi moved fast, snaking an arm around the older officer’s throat and choking off his cry of alarm. He dragged Hassan backwards onto the bed, tightening his chokehold. Hassan’s legs kicked wildly, knocking the lamp off the desk. The laptop followed it, crashing to the floor. Al-Kaabi redoubled his efforts, squeezing his arm tighter. Hassan struggled like a wildcat, thrashing on top of him, reaching for Al-Kaabi’s fingers, for his face, clawing, spitting, and wheezing. Al-Kaabi held on, sweat pouring from his face, his muscles aching. He could smell Hassan’s onion breath, the stench of his rank body odour, and it made him gag. He held on, crushing Hassan’s windpipe until finally the man’s breath rattled and he went limp. Al-Kaabi rolled him onto the floor and lay on top of him, his arm still clamped across Hassan’s throat, terrified he was bluffing. But he wasn’t, Al-Kaabi realised. Hassan lay still, his head bent to one side, his glasses twisted and broken, his disbelieving eyes bloodshot and lifeless.
Al-Kaabi staggered upright and sat on the bed panting. Killing a man with one’s bare hands was harder than he’d ever imagined. He sat and listened to the world outside his room. There were no inquisitive voices in the corridor, no urgent knocking. Hassan’s death, like the man himself, had gone unnoticed.
He checked his watch and stood quickly. It was approaching 1 am. He had to leave right now, before the car left without him. He pushed Hassan’s body beneath the single bed and changed into dark jogging trousers, a matching hoodie, and running shoes. He snapped a security pouch around his waist containing the transcribed notes and the data drive and left the room. He locked the door and made his way out into the night.
There was one more gamble to take, one more roll of the dice. He had no time to head to the perimeter fence, to the spot he’d carefully reconnoitred, to cut his way through it, link by laborious, dangerous link. Instead, he broke into a jog and headed towards the main gate.
Beneath the wash of halogen lights, half a dozen gun-toting guards manned the high, chain-link double gates, pacing slowly, eyes alert, guns held low. There was no traffic, vehicular or otherwise, and the gates were sealed. All eyes turned to Al-Kaabi as he jogged into the bright pool of light.
‘Evening,’ he puffed, slowing as he approached the pedestrian security gate.
The guard looked puzzled. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m going for a run. Open up.’
‘A run?’
‘That’s right…’ Al-Kaabi glanced at the man’s combat uniform. ‘Lance-Corporal.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it, sir.’
Al-Kaabi spun around. Another soldier had emerged from the gatehouse, a pistol strapped to his thigh. ‘The alert level has been raised,’ he said. ‘Leaving the camp this late and unaccompanied is not advisable, sir.’
Al-Kaabi walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. He made sure the others could hear him. ‘Sergeant, I’ve been sitting in a chair in the Ops Centre for the past 12 hours. I need fresh air, and I need to stretch my legs.’
The sergeant frowned, then said, ‘I must clear it with the duty officer. Your name, please sir?’
‘Major Al-Kaabi. Theatre Intelligence Unit.’
The soldier turned on his heel and disappeared back inside the gatehouse. Al-Kaabi thought about heading to the fence, cutting his way out. He checked his watch: 12:52. There was no time. The sergeant reappeared.
‘The duty officer is calling me back. Shouldn’t be too long.’
‘What’s his name? The duty officer?’
‘Lieutenant Rasheed.’
‘Tell him I’m going for a run, and I’ll be 30 minutes or so. If he has a problem, he can speak to my superior officer, General Mousa. I’m sure the general will be keen to find out the names of those who have inconvenienced a member of his intelligence staff. Or would you rather make that call yourself?’
The sergeant’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously.
‘Open the gate,’ Al-Kaabi pressed, ‘or find yourself on the next flight to the Chinese border.’
The sergeant didn’t blink. ‘Open the gate!’ he shouted at the soldiers.
Ten seconds later, Al-Kaabi was on the other side of the fence. He made a brief show of stretching his arms and legs, and then he was jogging
sedately away from the camp.
Once he’d reached the darkness of the leafy lane, he broke into a run.
11
Uber Alles
The curtain across the street twitched again.
Bertie told himself not to look, but it was the second time in 15 minutes that someone in that house had sneaked a peek outside. An innocent adjustment of the curtains, perhaps? Or maybe that person was watching him, making a call…
Yes, a dark-coloured Toyota hybrid. No, they’re too muddy, I can’t read them. He’s a Caucasian male, shifty-looking, certainly not a resident. You’d best come quickly…
Either way, Bertie had been parked on this quiet suburban street for far too long.
He’d arrived just under an hour ago, the journey passing uneventfully, and Bertie had obeyed the speed limits and avoided the major roads as planned. Arriving at the location, he’d driven sedately around the wide, curving crescent until he’d reached the designated pickup point, pulling silently into the curb and shutting off the engine. To his right, a row of smart, detached homes curved away into the darkness. There were no street lights, which Bertie was grateful for, and most of the windows were dark. All tucked up in bed, he’d assumed. Except for the nosy bastard across the street.
Bertie looked to his left, along the dark, narrow footpath bordered by trees and overgrown grass. It led to another suburban street, one that backed on to the camp at Northwood, the route that Al-Kaabi would use to get to him. Time, however, was marching on, and Bertie’s neck was aching as his head swivelled left and right – curtains, footpath, curtains, footpath. One of them would decide his future.
The stress of waiting triggered a montage of dark thoughts. He saw a convoy of military vehicles roaring around the crescent towards him, lights blazing, brakes screeching, a stampede of boots, the car door wrenched open, his face on the cold asphalt as his hands were cuffed behind his back.
Then the long, slow walk up into the dock, coming face-to-face with The Witch herself, her screeching accusations and condemnation filling the courtroom, the sharp, rapid tattoo of her gavel. Then later, forced down onto that thick wooden cross, the ropes lashed around his elbows, a huge iron nail jabbed into the palm of his hand as his executioner raised his hammer to drive it home…
Jesus, get a grip, Bertie.
He banished the nightmare from his mind and sought the cold reassurance of the Ruger automatic pistol beneath his seat. It was a small weapon, but it packed a decent punch, George told him. It was to be used only in an emergency, and Bertie had already decided that if he was cornered, he’d use it on himself.
He checked his watch again. 12:58. Two more minutes, and then he’d have to leave. George was explicit; there would be no extension, no hanging around. If Al-Kaabi didn’t show, he was probably singing like a canary, and Bertie wouldn’t blame him. He doubted he’d last long himself.
Bertie had done a little time back in the day, punishment for a credit card scam he’d got involved in. Nothing heavy, just booze runs to France using stolen cards, then selling the goods to pubs and clubs back in the UK. They’d all been nicked eventually, and even though Bertie was barely out of his teens, he’d kept his mouth shut. Things were so much different now. There was no easy bird anymore, and the cops who’d taken the caliphate’s shilling were worse than their masters. Corrupt, violent, and eager to please. A dangerous combination.
He’s not coming…
Bertie peered into the inky blackness of the footpath. Nothing. Then he glanced over the road and saw that curtain twitching again, and suddenly Bertie was frightened.
This was it, he realised.
He couldn’t go back to Hampstead anymore, back to his life with The Witch. Now he had to run, with all of his worldly possessions stuffed in a bag behind him, and head for the safe house in Lincolnshire, the farm that his uncle ran. Or used to. Bertie hadn’t seen him in over five years, had no idea if the man was still alive, but it was the only option he had. And it was better than getting caught.
He stabbed the ignition button, and the Toyota purred into life, the instrument panel glowing in the dark. He dropped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, keeping his lights off and his speed down as he drove carefully around the wide, tree-lined crescent. He checked his mirror one last time, praying he’d see Al-Kaabi emerge from the footpath behind him, waving frantically. But there was no one there.
‘Shit!’
He yanked the wheel to the right, missing the dark figure by a hair. He stamped on the brakes and the back door flew open, the figure bundling into the seat behind him.
‘Go, quickly!’
Bertie could’ve yelled his delight, his euphoria, but instead he kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to the road, only flicking the lights on when he’d turned the distant corner. He sped up then, thinking about the route ahead, but this time their destination was far beyond the city where patrols and twitching curtains were rare. Still, he would keep to the quieter roads, just to be safe.
He glanced at the hooded figure of Al-Kaabi in his rear-view mirror. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine,’ he said, panting. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Bertie?’
‘Yes. The other guy got sick. Look, I’m sorry I drove off. I waited until after one, pushed it as much as I could.’
Al-Kaabi nodded. ‘I’m grateful, believe me.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None you need to know about.’
‘Understood.’ Bertie passed him a bottle of mineral water. ‘Here, take that, relax. The journey will take about an hour.’
Al-Kaabi took a swig of water. ‘And Timmy will be there, yes?’
‘George gave you his word.’
He saw Al-Kaabi deflate and slide a little lower in his seat. He turned the radio up, a classical station, the slow, soothing symphony filling the car. He glanced at the man in the mirror and thought about the journey he was about to embark on. Lucky bastard, Bertie stewed. He wished he was going with him, instead of that fat poof Gates.
The more he thought about it, the tougher it was to swallow. Two men were about to escape these troubled shores, one of them an enemy soldier and the other a traitor to his own people. Why did they get to sail off into the sunset? Why not him and George?
Life ain’t fair, he heard his mum’s ghost say. If you want something in this world, go out there and take it.
Mum was right, Bertie realised.
She was always right.
12
Hurry up, Harry
Eddie fired two rounds in quick succession and saw the target drop. He twisted left as another target sprang up out of the undergrowth, then fired again. Another double-tap, another hit. He kept moving as daylight faded. It was still too light for his NVGs, but gloomy enough for the naked eye to misinterpret the data. The new EOTech holographic combat optics they had issued him bridged that dangerous gap. As the surrounding woods darkened, the world through his gun sight was clear and defined. Eddie was a good shot; not the best in the platoon, but the EOTech gave his confidence a boost. He dared the targets to show themselves.
He moved quickly along the trail at a half-crouch, weapon up, trigger finger tense, the instructor behind him keeping pace, evaluating. The soft exoskeleton he’d been issued was a dream, and Eddie hardly felt the 75 pounds of ammunition and equipment he was carrying. Another eight targets fell to his shooting before he reached the end of the CQB range and unloaded his weapon. He made his way along the safety path to the edge of the wood, where the rest of Nine Platoon were chatting in small groups. A fine drizzle fell from the leaden grey sky as Eddie strolled over to his Three Section buddies. Mac saw him coming.
‘Those optics are pretty sweet, eh?’
‘It’s harder to miss,’ Eddie admitted.
‘We’ll be using them in anger soon enough,’ Digger said, cradling his M27 across his chest like a new-born.
No one took the bait. The road to solid intel was a dead-end, they all knew that much, but Eddie suspec
ted Digger may be right. Soldiering was like any other skill; you had to practise it to master the craft, and since landing in Scotland, they’d barely let up. The last week, in particular, had been full-on, honing their drills, section attacks, react-to-contact, ambush and room clearance, not to mention trench clearing, breaching mined obstacles, and reorganisation procedures. They’d boned up on their comms, first aid, and casualty evacuation drills too. They were sharp, much sharper than they ever could’ve imagined before setting foot in Ireland.
‘Did you speak to Sarge?’ Eddie asked Mac.
The Scot shrugged. ‘He’s in the dark, just like the rest of us. The boss is still away though. Who knows where he’s gone, but Sarge reckons it’s some sort of top brass pow-wow.’
‘They’re prepping us for battle, no question,’ Digger told them.
Mac’s eyes drifted to the grim line of hills in the distance. ‘Can’t say I’m fired up about assaulting that frontier.’
‘I heard someone in Six Platoon say something about a low-level para-drop,’ Steve said.
Mac snorted. ‘Fuck that. I’d rather take my chances tip-toeing through a minefield.’
Sarge’s voice bellowed. ‘Right, you lot! On the trucks!’
Eddie and the boys scrambled aboard, and 30 minutes later they were swinging through the main gates at Otterburn. Darkness had fallen, and the drizzle had strengthened into a steady rain. Sat by the tailgate, Mac pointed to the parade square.
‘Looks like we’ve got guests.’
Eddie saw three black helicopters squatting on the tarmac, a Eurocopter, a Blackhawk, and an Apache, wheels chocked and slick with rain. Shadowy figures moved around them, and Eddie caught a flash of red torchlight.
‘VIP bird, plus escort,’ Steve observed. ‘Must be someone special. All the lights in the camp are out.’
So they are, Eddie realised. Even the heavily guarded gate they’d just passed through was barely visible.
‘Some general, come to wave us off.’ Digger grinned. ‘We’re on the move, boys. I’ll lay a year’s wages on it. Any takers?’ Nobody answered. ‘Didn’t think so. Pussies.’
