by Damien Lewis
‘Of course, dear boy. What size is it?’ Tony asked. He glanced down at his notes. ‘It measures ninety by seventy centimetres. Simple. You lose the frame. Take it apart until you’re left with just the canvas. Then you sew it into the lining of, say, a combat jacket. Something you might be wearing on the flight anyway. Knowing BA’s record on lost luggage, don’t you dare put it in the hold.’
‘It won’t show up on the X-rays or nothin’?’
‘Of course not, dear boy. That’s the beauty of canvas. It’s material, just like any other. It’ll look like another layer of lining in your jacket, that’s all.’
‘There’s one more thing, mate,’ Eddie said, looking Tony in the eye. ‘I don’t like this effing mission one bit. I don’t trust the bastard who put us up to it. ’E’s a real nasty fucker. In fact, I reckon he might be setting us up. Specially after what you just told me about the effing Van what’sit.’
‘You think he might be trying to rip you off? Pull a fast one? Is that it?’ Tony replied. ‘I thought as much. Well, I’ve come up with an idea how you might just stop him. Quite a clever one, too, even if I say so myself. Get a round in, Eddie, and I’ll tell you more.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘HERE’S TO DESERT Claw,’ Mick announced. He raised his beer bottle and clinked it with Bill’s.
‘Desert Claw,’ ‘Bronco’ Bill replied, with a wolfish grin.
It was a week after the Major’s briefing. Mick and his team had arrived in Iraq earlier that day. They’d been met at Baghdad International Airport by Bill and a team from Summit Security. It was a hot and stuffy evening now and the air in Bill’s Baghdad villa was stagnant. But at least the villa was secure; as the HQ of Summit Security, it was like a fortress with armed guards placed at all times on the walls.
Mick had already met the eight men who were joining his mission. They were all good soldiers. Two were Brits, ex-Special Boat Service (SBS), the sister regiment to the SAS. Mick knew both men, Woody and Geoff, from previous joint SAS and SBS training operations. The SAS and SBS had a bitter rivalry over who was the best of the best. But here in Iraq, that rivalry was quickly forgotten. Out here they were all brothers in arms. On this mission they were one team. Each man would need to watch his mate’s back. If not, the mission would fail. And if it did, few if any of them would make it out of Iraq alive.
The other six soldiers were all Americans. They were either from Delta Force or the SEALs, the two top US special forces units. Mick knew only one of the Americans, a SEAL operator named Guy. He and Guy had been on joint operations in the Balkans. Guy was a tough soldier and a solid team leader. Mick would put him in charge of one of the fire teams. As for the rest of the men Mick knew the reputation of Delta and SEAL operators. As soldiers, they were second to none. Well, apart from the SAS, Mick liked to tell himself.
‘Listen, buddy, I’ve got a problem with the plan,’ Bill announced. He cracked open two more beers and thrust one across the table at Mick. ‘You wanna hear about it, buddy?’
Bill spoke in a slow, Texan drawl. But Mick knew that his mind was razor sharp. Bill was a living legend in the US military. Almost twice Mick’s age, he was a veteran of Vietnam. After ’Nam he had gone on to set up Delta Force, the US version of the SAS. He was a celebrated shot with a sniper rifle. And despite the years, he still put in a session in the gym each morning. The two men had met many years before, on operations in Colombia. They’d been on several military and private operations since. Now Bill was out of the US army and making a fortune running Summit Security. Mick respected him as a soldier and a close friend. More than that he saw him as something of a father figure.
‘Major Wanker’s plan, you mean?’ said Mick. ‘We’ve all got problems with the Major. Tell me about it.’
‘OK. Way I see it, you can’t drive in to target,’ Bill continued. ‘Least not the ways you’re thinkin’ of. I took a look over your Major Wanker’s plan. Say, what is a goddamn “wanker” anyways?’
‘Wanker? It’s what you do in the bathroom when the missus is off sex. You know, with a porn mag. Or in your case probably the latest copy of Complete Guide to Rifles and Carbines.’
‘Is that right?’ said Bill, grinning. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know too much about it. I’m such a great lover, buddy, the wife’s never off sex.’
‘Is that why she’s planning on leaving you, mate?’ Mick replied. ‘Anyhow, what’s your problem with the plan?’
‘Well, Wanker’s plan says you drive in to target using three BMWs, right? Unmarked cars. Looking like local vehicles. Your team all in Arab dress. That’s fine until you reach the target, in Al Khabur town. That’s way out on the Syrian border, buddy. An’ let me tell ya, it’s a shithole. No one goes there. Not by choice, anyways. Whatever you’re drivin’ you’ll be noticed. Soon as you hit town. And that kinda blows your cover. Blows your element of surprise. If the target gets a hint of what you’re doing they’ll be long gone, buddy. And you guys’ll be in trouble.’
‘So, what d’you suggest, mate?’
‘You leave Baghdad in the BMWs all right. But then I got me three Land Rovers at a depot north of here. Ex Brit military. Fine pieces of kit, they are. Knock the socks off of a goddamn Humvee, any day. They’re fully armoured. And I got them rigged with GPMGs and 50-cal heavy machine-guns. I got GPS tracking systems in ’em too, and some shit-hot electronic security. Now, you link up with the Land Rovers at the depot. Then you move up to target through the open desert under cover of night. You lie up in hiding all the next day. Then you hit the target that evening, just after dusk. You drive back that same night, but using the main roads. No need for surprise any more, ’cause you’ve done your job. You’re back in Baghdad by daybreak. Mission accomplished.’
‘What about the local sheikhs who control the desert round there?’ Mick asked. ‘They weren’t too friendly last time I was in their neck of the woods. Searching for SCUD missiles we were. Back in the last Gulf War. They’re sure to know we’re on the move, ain’t they?’
‘Oh, they’ll know, buddy. Sure they will. But I know those guys. I work with them. See, I pretty much pay their goddamn wages, mostly. Costs me a bundle of dollars each month, just to keep ’em on side. I’ve spoken to them about your mission already. We kinda agreed a deal. They don’t see no evil nor hear no evil. Not unless I tell ’em to. They ain’t gonna do nothing when you pass by.’
‘Sounds like you got it covered.’
‘I gotta tell you, buddy, there’s another reason I’m suggesting it,’ Bill added. He lowered his voice and leant closer to Mick. ‘You leave Baghdad in the BMWs and that’s good. Everyone’ll think you’re sticking to the original plan. Major Wanker’s plan. It might be better that way.’
‘What d’you mean, mate? Who’s everyone?’
‘I don’t know, buddy. I just kinda heard some whispers is all.’
‘Like what kind of whispers?’
‘Like maybe your mission ain’t all that safe. Like maybe it ain’t all it seems. Like maybe you’re being set up or somethin’. It’s only whispers. If I knew more I’d tell ya, buddy. All I’m sayin’ is, it might be better to change the plan. Do the unexpected. Fox ’em.’
‘Mate, I tell you, we got our own worries, too,’ Mick said. ‘That Major Wanker – I don’t trust the fucker. There’s no loyalty there. Not to us. Not to the mission. Not to his country. But I ain’t got a sniff of what he’s really up to. That’s if there is anything dodgy going down.’
‘Buddy, right now Iraq is a goddamn nightmare. It’s the Wild West out there. It’s anarchy. And it’s awash with US dollars. It’s like Grand Theft Auto gone crazy. You ever played that game? Well, difference is, here it’s set in the streets of Iraq. An’ people ain’t just stealing cars. They’re stealing fortunes, buddy. Hundreds of millions of dollars. People are making and losing fortunes overnight. Yanks. Brits. Iraqis. You name it, they’re all getting rich. Or losing it all. And it’s getting my people killed.’
‘Like how?’
‘Thanks for warning me,’ said Mick.
Both men took a swig on their beers.
‘So what d’you reckon to when we hit the target, mate?’ Mick asked. ‘Is it going to be a shit fight or what?’
‘Piece of cake, I reckon, buddy,’ Bill replied. ‘Man, you got some real evil stuff to hit them with. I seen them canisters. That’s nerve gas, buddy. Ain’t gonna be no one left standing after you hit them with that shit. Best make sure your gas masks kinda fit real tight though.’
Both men chuckled at Bill’s joke.
‘So where is all that gear?’ Mick asked. ‘The masks and suits and all that stuff?’
‘Out the back there. Locked up in my armoury real secure. But your boys back home done you real proud, you know? They got the canisters marked up with Arabic writing ’n’ all. Real realistic like.’
‘Maybe it’s just some local Iraqi stuff they had lying around,’ Mick joked.
‘Listen, buddy, if they’d found any Sarin in Iraq we’d all know about it by now. No way would Blair and Bush be using it on this job. No way, buddy. They’d be showing it off in front of the world’s media. They’d be saying: “See, we was right all along. Saddam did have WMD.”’
‘Too right they would,’ said Mick. ‘Tell you what though. You just got me thinking, mate. Get this. Maybe there’s no fucking painting at all. No Kuwaiti prince. No looted palaces. Maybe we go in there and waste a load of Iraqis with the Sarin. And maybe coalition forces get sent in to clean up the mess. We’re long gone. But they find the empty gas canisters covered in Arabic writing. What conclusion are they going to reach? Looks like a bit of nasty fighting between rival terror gangs. Just one lot had Sarin and the other didn’t. So there’s the proof that Iraq had WMD all along.’
‘Could be, buddy,’ Bill mused. ‘But it’s too damn complicated for me. Why go to all that trouble? And expense? And there’s you guys and us. All witnesses. Be a damn site easier just to dump a load of Sarin in the bottom of one of Iraq’s lakes. Then there’s a tip-off and the coalition discovers them. Looks like they’ve found the site where Saddam hid his nasty weapons. The media’s all over it in a flash. An’ Blair and Bush are smelling of roses again. No. If y’all are being set up, buddy, that ain’t it.’
‘S’pose so,’ Mick said.
Mick took a pull on his beer. Bill was one of the ‘old and bold’. A wise old warrior. There was nothing better than having him around, Mick reflected. Too bad he wasn’t coming on the mission.
‘There’s another thing, buddy,’ Bill added. ‘The word from the local sheikhs is this. Them boys holding that painting – they ain’t no goddamn terrorists. Sure, they’re low life. Petty thieves and gangsters. But they just got lucky when they seized that painting. Or at least they thought they did. Word from the sheikhs is they’re out of their depth with it now. An’ they’re shit scared. But they ain’t no terrorists, that’s for sure.’
‘Then what the fuck have we been ordered to waste them for?’ Mick asked. ‘We’ve been told to wipe ’em out.’
‘I dunno,’ Bill replied. ‘No idea. Makes no sense to me, either.’
The two men sat in silence for a while, thinking and drinking. Mick didn’t like this last bit of news one bit. He had trouble using Sarin on anyone. He knew what happened when people were hit by nerve gas. It was a horrible, evil way to die. He could just about stomach using it on terrorists. The sort of men who beheaded innocent people with blunt carving knifes. And videoed the whole thing. They were sick murderers and they had it coming. But a bunch of petty thieves? Jesus! Mick himself had been a bit of a crim in his youth. He’d done his share of thieving. Then the SAS had licked him into shape.
‘Tell you another thing, buddy,’ said Bill, finally breaking the silence. ‘I’m comin’ with ya on this one. Don’t think I ain’t, ’cause I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Mate, you’re running a big outfit here. You can’t afford the time. And what happens if you get wasted out there?’
‘Fuck that. I’m comin’ with ya whether ya like it or not.’
‘Mate, I’d bloody love to have you along,’ Mick replied. ‘Trouble is, I don’t think it’s right. You got enough to do back here—’
‘Listen, buddy, I ain’t just doing this out of friendship,’ Bill cut in. ‘Not just for old time’s sake, either. There’s other reasons too. Them sheikhs in the desert. I know them all personally. If there’s any trouble, I can deal with it. Plus you’ll need an Iraqi guide. And there’s only one I can trust. Omar. It’s a long story, but he’s kinda my right hand man. I saved his brother from being shot by a trigger-happy US marine. So, way I figure it you kinda need me along.’
‘Wicked, mate. Bloody wicked. Welcome to Desert Claw.’ Mick leaned across and slapped his American buddy on the back. ‘But you reckon your old bones can handle it, mate?’
‘Listen, buddy,’ Bill growled. ‘A few grey hairs don’t make no difference. I could still out fight and out fuck a goddamn pansy Brit like you. Don’t you never forget it. An’ one more thing. Don’t you go forgetting your American flags on this one.’
‘What? Why? What’s wrong with the good old Union Jack?’
‘Well, see, a lot of our boys don’t recognise anything but Uncle Sam’s Stars-’n’-Stripes. If you wave your UJ at ’em they gonna think you’re goddamn Iraqis. Or Jordanians. Or Syrians. Hell, they could even mistake you for North Koreans for all I know. They don’t have a goddamn clue. Fresh out of the cornfields of Alabama, mostly. And they’re standing at the checkpoint up ahead, chewing their chewing tobacco and with itchy trigger fingers on their M16s. So, ya haul your American flag out the window. “Relax, son,” you say to ’em. “You’re doin’ a fine job. We’re proud of ya. We’re coalition forces comin’ through.”’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Mick and the lads were all nursing bad heads. Mick had stayed behind at the villa all evening, catching up with Bill. And the lads had hit the town until the early hours. A lot of beer had been drunk. But there was still work to be done. They were leaving Baghdad the following morning. They broke the gear out of the armoury and began checking it over. Mick’s fire team had the task of hitting the target with the Sarin. So they had to remind themselves how to use the stuff. They fitted their gas masks with new filters then checked that the masks, suits and gloves all fitted perfectly.
Midway through the morning Mick sent one of the Iraqi guards into town. They’d forgotten a vital piece of gear: razor blades. Normally, the men never shaved on operations and growing a beard helped them blend in with the locals. But this time each man would have to be freshly shaven just prior to the attack. Any amount of stubble could prove fatal. It would stop the gas mask from making a proper seal with the skin, which would allow the deadly Sarin gas to seep inside the operator’s mask.
Mick set about making up the explosive charges that he’d need for the assault. He paced out six feet on the villa floor. This was the average height of a door. Then he rolled out a length of blue, double-sided tape. When the protective strip was peeled away, it revealed a thick glue that would stick to just about anything. The side uppermost was just like a strip of normal gaffer tape. He ran a length of detonation wire down the centre of the tape and laid three lengths of black, sausage-like plastic explosive alongside it. Then he doubled them over, just to be sure. He taped the whole thing up with gaffer tape. Then he rolled it up like a long black snake and shoved it into his backpack. If they needed to blow in any of the doors or windows, that’s what they’d use.
Just as he’d finished making up the charges, Bill came over to check on things.
He handed Mick a strip of white tablets.
‘How’s your head, buddy?’ Bill said. ‘Bad, huh? Well, don’t go taking them pills ’cause they ain’t aspirin, that’s for sure.’
‘What are they, mate?’ Mick asked.
‘NAPS tablets,’ Bill replied. ‘Sort of an antidote. Just in case you get some of that Sarin shit in your mask. Best start taking ‘em now. That way you get a good dose in your system. There’s enough for the rest of your boys, too.’
Mick glanced around at the other lads in his team. He’d heard all the horror stories about the NAPS tablets. The word NAPS is short for Nerve Agent Pre-treatment Set. British soldiers had been given these tablets during the first Gulf War. They were now being blamed for Gulf War Syndrome, the mystery illness that many Gulf War veterans have suffered from ever since.
‘Bottoms up,’ said Eddie, with a shrug of his shoulders. He threw the tablets into the back of his throat and took a gulp of water. That decided it for Mick and the rest of the team, who followed suit.
‘Figure you might need these, too,’ Bill added. He handed Mick a couple of US army injection sets. They contained needles and drugs. ‘Take it you know what they are, buddy? Those are shots of atropine.’ He pointed at two glass bottles of liquid. ‘Guess you know how to use ’em, eh?’
‘No worries, mate,’ Mick replied. ‘Just hope to hell we won’t be needing them.’
Mick was a trained SAS medic. He knew what the atropine was for. It was the only known antidote for nerve poisons like Sarin.
After taking the NAPS tablets, Mick and his team began to feel sick and feverish. They were having a bad reaction to the drug. But they had a load more work to do, before leaving the following morning. Bill had built a short firing range at the back of the villa. Mick and the lads needed to zero in their weapons. Each man chose an MP5 sub-machine-gun as his main weapon. Plus a SIG-Sauer pistol as a back-up. All the weapons were fitted with silencers. And the Sarin canisters were designed to make almost no noise when set off. If everything went to plan, it would be a very silent, secretive operation. Mick hoped they would be in and out of the target building almost without anyone noticing.
