Killing for the Company

by Chris Ryan

  ‘They’re looking for us,’ said Luke.

  ‘If we head down there, we’re fucked . . .’

  Finn was right. That route was closed to them. No doubt about it. They sped on past it.

  ‘How far to the border?’ Luke asked after a moment.

  ‘Twenty klicks. If they don’t see us heading that way, they’re going to twig pretty soon that we’re taking a different route . . . We should start thinking about Plan B.’

  ‘Plan B?’ Abu Famir piped up, his voice nervous. ‘What is Plan B?’

  Neither of the Regiment men answered, but Luke glanced in the rear-view mirror at the slumped, burka-clad figure of Amit.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. Options and alternatives tumbled around in Luke’s mind, but no other solution presented itself. They were heading straight for the Iraqi border. It would be well guarded, with God knows how many soldiers and how much military equipment. Certainly they were insufficiently equipped to break through.

  They saw it from a couple of klicks. The road ran downhill to the border post, so they had the advantage of height. The checkpoint itself was illuminated in the darkness. There were two sections – the Iraqi and the Jordanian – separated, Luke estimated, by about 200 metres of open ground. Even if they could break through the Iraqi side – and given the large number of vehicles and lights and movement, that was hardly a straightforward prospect – it would be open season on them as they crossed that patch of no-man’s-land. The Iraqis would have artillery covering it, especially now. Attempting to cross that border by vehicle was out of the question. Retreating to find their covert border crossing was also off the menu because the chopper and border-control vehicles had eyes on. They had only one option: to ditch the Toyota, travel by foot and try to find a weak point in the border fence. With border control on high alert, that was a dangerous call. They’d find it tough enough with Abu Famir in tow. There was certainly no room for any more stragglers. Especially wounded ones.

  A kilometre from the border, Luke pulled over. There was no cover in the vicinity, and he was forced to ditch the car among the brush just four or five metres from the road. He looked at Finn, his face grim, and nodded.

  ‘Get out!’ he told Abu Famir.

  ‘What is happening?’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘I refuse to . . .’

  Luke held his Sig up against the Iraqi’s head.

  ‘I’m not fucking around, old man. If you want to shoot the shit with Allah, stay where you are. Otherwise, get out of the car. Now.’

  Abu Famir stared at the silenced Sig, his eyes bulging. His hand felt for the door lever and he quickly scrambled out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He went and stood about five metres away, close enough for Luke to keep an eye on, far enough away to be out of earshot.

  There was a moment of silence. And then, from behind the veil of the burka, Amit spoke. ‘You’re going to . . . to kill me now?’ His voice was thin and shaky. It was clearly a struggle for him to say even a single word.

  ‘We have to go cross-country,’ Luke said. ‘You’re too weak. You won’t make it.’

  Amit’s body was trembling. ‘Take this thing off my head,’ he said.

  Luke pointed his weapon at Amit and nodded at Finn to do as the man had asked. Even in the darkness of the car they could tell that Amit was on the way out. His eyes were glazed, his skin corpse-white. He appeared to be staring into the middle distance, every breath an effort, and for a moment Luke thought the delirium had returned. He became horribly aware of the cars passing them, just five or six metres from their position. Each time one went past, the interior of the Toyota lit up, then faded into darkness. It would only take one of them to stop and see if they needed help, and then . . .

  Amit spoke again.

  ‘Abu Famir has to get out.’

  ‘That’s the plan, buddy,’ said Luke.

  ‘You’re . . . you’re British special forces, right?’ Neither of them replied. It didn’t seem to bother Amit. ‘Can you do it? Can you get him across-country?’

  ‘We can try.’

  A passing car slowed down, but then sped up again.

  ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I? Of my wounds, I mean.’

  A pause.

  ‘You’re in bad shape, buddy.’ Luke glanced at Finn, then back at Amit. ‘You want me to end it now? It’ll be quick.’

  Amit swallowed. His breath became a bit shorter, and he shook his head. ‘It’s my job to ensure Abu Famir is safe.’

  ‘Who are you working for?’ Luke demanded. ‘You might as well tell us, mate. Seems we’re both trying to do the same thing.’

  Amit closed his eyes. ‘For the Institute . . . Mossad. For Israel.’

  Luke’s mind began to click through the gears. Israel was top of Saddam’s hit list. He’d demonstrated that before Desert Storm, when he’d started chucking scuds in the general direction of Tel Aviv.

  ‘Saddam would bomb my people again if he could,’ said Amit. ‘It’s my duty to ensure that the West invades . . .’ He opened his eyes again. ‘Perhaps you do not understand . . .’

  It didn’t matter if Luke understood or not. This was only going to end one way. ‘You’re not coming with us, buddy. I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Luke,’ Finn cut in. ‘We can’t hang about.’

  Luke nodded. What Finn hadn’t said – what he hadn’t needed to say – was that they couldn’t leave Amit alive. It would be easy for the enemy to torture their plans out of him.

  ‘Do it,’ Finn said.

  ‘Wait . . .’ Amit’s plea left him breathless. ‘I can help you.’

  ‘You’re a bit past that, mate.’

  ‘Listen to me. I can drive the car to the border. Cause a distraction.’

  Luke and Finn exchanged a glance. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you have explosives?’

  Luke nodded.

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘C4. Frags. White phos.’

  Amit nodded. His eyes flickered from one man to the other. And then, in his breathless, stilted way, he continued to speak.

  Two minutes later Luke and Finn were standing five metres from the car, rifles slung round their necks and frowns on their foreheads. Four or five klicks to the east, they could see a chopper still circling, and on the highway one or two vehicles were still passing every minute.

  They spoke in low whispers. ‘Do you trust him?’ Finn asked.

  ‘We haven’t got much choice.’ He looked towards the border. ‘There’s no way we’ll get through there. We either slot Amit now, or we . . .’

  Or we what? The checkpoint was a kilometre to the west. If he, Finn and Abu Famir headed in a north-westerly direction, they would have to cover about a klick and a half if they wanted to intersect the border a kilometre to the north of the checkpoint. That would take about fifteen minutes, but the choppers and border-control vehicles would have a high chance of finding them. They needed a distraction. Something to focus the attention of the enemy on a position where the SAS men and their Iraqi passenger wouldn’t be. Something to give them a window of opportunity. And it was exactly that which Amit was offering.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Luke murmured. ‘Don’t know if I’d have the balls . . .’

  ‘We need to make a decision now,’ Finn said.

  A pause.

  Luke nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Abu Famir was standing by the car, waiting for them. ‘What is happening? I demand to know what is happening.’

  ‘Get ready to walk,’ Luke told him. ‘We’re heading cross-country.’

  ‘What about my deputy? He is too sick to . . .’

  ‘You can drop the deputy bullshit now. He’s come clean . . .’

  Finn was opening up the boot. He started moving all the ammunition, explosives and grenades they had into the front passenger seat, while Luke bent down to speak to Amit. ‘It’s time,’ he said.

  Amit grabbed Luke’s arm and turned his ghostly face to l
ook at him. ‘I have a sister,’ he whispered. ‘You must find her. You must tell her what I did, and that I did it for my country.’

  ‘Course I will, buddy,’ Luke lied.

  ‘You must. Otherwise she will not understand.’ Amit took a moment to catch his breath. ‘Her name . . . her name is Maya Bloom.’ His face became anguished. ‘You must find her.’

  Luke looked over his shoulder to see Finn standing just by him. He had two white-phosphorus grenades in his hands.

  ‘Come on,’ Luke said to Amit. ‘Let’s get you into the front.’

  It wasn’t easy. Amit’s legs were too weak to carry him, and his knees buckled the moment he tried to stand. Another car slowed down and pulled up alongside them. The driver shouted something in Arabic.

  ‘Tell them we’re fine,’ Luke instructed Abu Famir, who shouted out a response and the car drove away.

  By the time Amit was in the driver’s seat, he was coughing badly – a dreadful hacking, wheezing sound.

  ‘Get Abu Famir away from the car,’ Luke told Finn, taking the grenades from him and turning his attention back to Amit. The Israeli was slumped forward, his forearms flat against the steering wheel and his body shaking violently.’

  ‘Quickly,’ he murmured. ‘Quickly . . .’

  Luke turned the ignition key. He wound down the windows, then carefully removed the pin from one of the grenades, but kept the safety lever tightly squeezed.

  ‘You sure you can grip it?’ he asked. Amit nodded, and Luke curled the fingers of the dying man’s left hand around it. If Amit lost his grip, Luke would only have a couple of seconds to get the hell away. He primed the second grenade, then carefully placed it in Amit’s right hand.

  ‘OK, buddy,’ he said. ‘You’re good to go.’

  ‘You will find Maya?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘In London.’ His weak voice was hardly audible above the noise of the engine.

  ‘I’ll find her.’

  ‘Then leave me.’

  Luke didn’t need telling twice. He stretched over Amit’s body, put the vehicle’s transmission into drive, then shut the door and sprinted away from the side of the road. He was at least thirty metres away when he turned to look back.

  The Toyota had moved off. It was going very slowly, but it had joined the main carriageway and had started on the final kilometre before the border.

  Abu Famir stared at the car. ‘He did this of his own free will?’ he asked.

  ‘Hundred and ten per cent. A lot of people want you out of the country, my friend.’ He watched the car until it disappeared.

  ‘Think he’ll make it?’ Finn asked flatly.

  Luke sniffed. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘He’s pretty fucked up. But even if he goes bang before he hits the checkpoint, it’ll be a diversion.’ He looked due north-west. It was dark, of course, but he’d seen the satellite imagery and he knew there was open ground here. ‘I reckon we’ve got fifteen minutes. Let’s not hang around.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  The three men turned and started to walk across the desert.

  Amit shook.

  The pain was everything. It was no longer just the wound that hurt. Now it felt as if the pain had seeped into his blood and melted through his whole body. It was all-consuming. So intense that movement or even speech felt like obstacles he could never scale. He wanted it to be over. Finished. Gone.

  But through the pain, one thing was clear to him. If he must die, let it be for a purpose. In a corner of his mind he saw a scene of devastation. It was an image that had haunted his dreams since he was a child: the aftermath of a Palestinian suicide bomb on the streets of Tel Aviv, his own parents the victims, torn – quite literally – limb from limb.

  If he must die, let it be for a purpose. Not like them.

  It took all his strength to clutch the safety levers of the grenades. He steered with his forearms, which had the full weight of his body behind them, but the car required little steering. The checkpoint was straight ahead. He could see it, even though his vision was blurred, but he was too confused to work out the distance. All he knew was that he had to make it, however far it was.

  And he had to keep gripping the safety levers.

  He couldn’t allow the final remnants of strength to drain from his body too soon . . .

  The rear lights of the cars that passed him drew long, red-neon lines through space. Amit felt as though a mist was gathering all around him. The closer it came, the less strength he had.

  A car overtook, the driver beeping his horn at Amit’s slowness. He barely noticed. His concentration was all used up.

  How far to the border? Harah, how much further could he last?

  Time passed. He had no conception of it.

  He saw Maya in his mind. His sister. He saw her as a child, kneeling on the pavement by their mother, shrieks of indescribable grief reaching to the rooftops. And he saw her now. So ruthless. So angry. When she learned what he had done, she would be proud of him. That thought alone gave him a little extra strength. A little extra resolve.

  The lights outside were brighter. More numerous. There were people. Uniforms. Men with guns. He removed his foot from the accelerator and pressed the brake a little too sharply. The Toyota juddered to a halt. Ahead of him there was a queue. Three vehicles, perhaps four.

  He closed his eyes, panting, trembling. He had to wait until he was closer to the barrier, twenty metres ahead, where he could cause maximum damage. Through the open windows he heard noises. Vehicle engines. Voices shouting harshly to each other in Arabic. Bustle. People. The queue crept forwards. Slowly. So slowly . . .

  There was only one car ahead of him now. His body was shaking even more violently. The strength was leaving his wrists. He mustered his determination and moved one arm down to rest on the ammo boxes on the passenger seat.

  The lights were getting dimmer. He could barely breathe – just short, desperate gulps.

  The car ahead had moved off. Amit advanced a final few metres towards the barrier.

  Figures surrounded the Toyota, shadowy and indistinct. Amit had no idea how many there were. He was past counting. Past caring.

  But he knew there were only seconds left.

  ‘Barukh atah Adonai, Elokaynu, Melekh ha-Olam,’ he prayed with the last remnants of his breath. ‘Barukh atah Adonai, Elokaynu, Melekh ha-Olam . . .’

  It wasn’t a conscious decision to let his grip on the detonation levers slip. His strength had come to the bottom of the tank.

  Amit didn’t hear the explosion of the grenades, or of the ammunition stash in the passenger seat. He didn’t see the burning white fluorescence that filled the car and burst out of the open windows, or the way the hot phosphorus sprayed over the faces and uniforms of any border guards within twenty metres of the Toyota.

  And he was dead before the car exploded, throwing shrapnel, rounds, fire and burning chemicals high into the air, and raining down on the border post and the soldiers who guarded it.

  In the darkness of the desert, Luke, Finn and Abu Famir heard the explosion – a single boom, followed a series of aftershocks. They turned in the direction of the border. It was a little less than a klick away, and they could see a distant glow – the remnants of the Toyota, of their weaponry and of Amit.

  Abu Famir shook his head in disbelief, visibly moved. ‘Who was he?’

  Luke wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. ‘A decent guy,’ he replied quietly.

  A pause.

  ‘In your world,’ Abu Famir said, ‘do decent guys always cause such destruction?’

  From the opposite direction, they saw the lights of a chopper burning along the highway towards the border. The Iraqis’ resources would now be concentrated on the location of Amit’s makeshift suicide bomb. For a short while, at least. That would leave the three of them free to find a place to cross into Jordan on foot. Luke estimated that the border was now 800 metres north-west of their position. If they could reach the fence in the next t
en minutes while the Iraqis were looking the other way, and with a bit of luck, they should be able to find a crossing point.

  Luke turned his back on the explosion. He nodded at Finn, who nudged Abu Famir with the butt of his M4.

  ‘Get moving, sunshine,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a border to cross.’

  THIRTEEN

  Chet woke up with a start.

  It was a thunderclap that had roused him. He was lying on the bed, with Suze’s naked body beside him, one slim arm over his chest. He checked his watch without waking her. 02.23 hrs. He cursed himself for having fallen asleep, but then what did he expect? He’d hardly had any shut-eye for nearly two days.

  The room was dark and the rain hammered against the window. Suze murmured something in her sleep. He couldn’t tell what it was, but she was clearly disturbed by her dreams. Her body jolted, like she’d received an electric shock, but she remained asleep.

  He lay there, his mind churning. He heard the tape in his head. Stratton’s voice, and the American’s. The evidence that Britain’s Prime Minister was being bribed to go to war.

  He remembered the firm handshake the PM had given him thirty-six hours previously.

  He saw Doug’s broken body.

  He saw the face of the woman who wanted to kill him. The wavy black hair. The black eyes.

  It was a noise that brought him back to the here and now. It wasn’t loud. Quieter than the thunder and almost masked by the torrent of the rain. He could easily have missed it. He got out of bed, dressed quickly and went to the window.

  What he saw made him feel as if the blood had drained from his veins.

  The rain was sheeting down, in thick waves that limited his vision to about twenty metres. But twenty metres was all he needed to see that a vehicle was approaching. Its headlamps were off, but there was the faintest glow from the dashboard, which disappeared as the car came to a halt by the black Mondeo, fifteen metres from the farmhouse, and the driver turned off the engine.

  He checked his watch again. 02.31 hrs. Who would be approaching this place at such a time? And driving in this weather without lights?