Killing for the Company

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Efficient,’ Fozzie noted without much feeling.

  Luke didn’t have a chance to reply before the radio came to life again: ‘Bullseye, fellas. Time to pack your bags. We’re heading back to base.’

  Luke and Fozzie exchanged a look.

  ‘We’ve got three more of these bad boys to discharge,’ Fozzie said.

  ‘Going to have to wait. O’Donoghue’s called us in. Let’s get moving.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Fozzie replied. And then, to Luke: ‘Sounds like someone’s getting twitchy.’

  It took just over an hour to get back to base, and another hour before the whole squadron had congregated. Four troops, sixteen guys per troop: there should have been sixty-four men, but as always the squadron was undermanned and in reality there were barely fifty. At 14.00 hrs they congregated in a lecture room in the heart of the Kremlin. It was a large room, big enough to seat them all. Up at the front was an OHP with a laptop attached, and next to it five plastic chairs. Three men in suits were sitting there, along with the Regiment’s ops officer, Major James O’Donoghue, and Major Julian Dawson, OC B Squadron. O’Donoghue came from a family that owned half of Wiltshire. Sandhurst, Guards, Regiment – classic headshed career path. He was an ugly fucker and well known for being as tight as a camel’s arse in a sandstorm. When it came to military planning, however, everyone knew the Regiment was lucky to have him. As for Julian Dawson, he had the respect of every man in the squadron. Two years previously he’d taken a Taliban round in Helmand, just south of Musa Qala, and he’d been on the ground again within three weeks. In his first twenty-four hours back in action, he’d nailed three Taliban digging in IEDs. Not a man to fuck with, and everyone in the room knew it.

  There was a low murmur among the men. Tension. An op was imminent, and you could get addicted to it. The moment O’Donoghue stood up, it was as if someone had hit the mute switch. Everyone went silent, and all eyes were directed towards the ops officer. There were no formalities. No hellos and thank you for comings. Just a businesslike nod towards the three men in suits.

  ‘Edward Duncan, Foreign Office,’ O’Donoghue announced in his clipped voice. ‘Our two other guests are here from SIS.’ No names. It wasn’t that the Firm always kept their employees’ identities a secret, but if they didn’t have to say who they were, they wouldn’t. The three suits nodded in the general direction of the men, but the guys of B Squadron weren’t interested in them. It was O’Donoghue who would give them their brief.

  ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve been living in a hole – which, looking at the state of some of you, wouldn’t surprise me – you’ll know what’s been happening. Coordinated terror attacks, London, Paris, Washington, Mumbai. Latest estimate, 486 dead.’ If the statistic appalled him, he didn’t show it, but you could have heard a pin drop in the room. ‘It seems the agencies have suspected a major hit like this for some time, but they’ve had their eyes firmly set towards AQ. Turns out they were looking the wrong way. Our combustible friends were Palestinian. Members of a militant group from the Gaza Strip called the UFP – the Union for Free Palestine. There are any number of these Mickey Mouse outfits along the Gaza Strip. Two or three disaffected Palestinian kids get together with a balaclava and a Kalashnikov and suddenly they think they’re a movement. The UFP is a little bigger than most.’

  A voice from the back of the room. ‘Don’t these cunts normally just blow themselves up outside cafés in Jerusalem, boss?’

  O’Donoghue nodded. ‘Normally. That or Tel Aviv. These attacks are out of character. More to the point, the terrorists were well equipped and well organised. SIS are trying to establish if anyone else is involved, but at the moment that’s secondary to the political instability in the region.’

  The ops officer pressed a button on the laptop and a map of the Middle East appeared on the wall.

  ‘The political leadership in the Gaza Strip is Hamas. A former terrorist organisation and not internationally recognised, but popular in the Gaza Strip because they stand up to Israel. The UFP claim loyalty to them. The international community have called on Hamas to denounce the bombings. So far they’ve failed to do so.’

  Luke raised a hand.

  ‘What is it, Luke?’

  ‘You said the bombers were well equipped, boss. Do we think Hamas actually supplied them, or were they working on their own?’

  O’Donoghue looked over towards the SIS guys. One of them leaned forward slightly in his chair. ‘At the moment,’ he said, ‘it’s hard to say. We found the remains of a weapon in the wreckage of the UK train, an’ – he consulted some notes on his lap – ‘an AKS-74U. We checked its serial number and it seems consistent with a consignment of weapons handed in as part of an amnesty at the end of the Balkan conflict. The company given the contract to collect and destroy the weapons is a subsidiary of an American multinational, the Grosvenor Group. Looks like they fulfilled one half of the contract and not the other. We’ve passed this information on to the CIA. But it seems unlikely that the Grosvenor Group would have direct dealings with Hamas, so our working theory is that the bombers were acting independently.’ The spook settled back in his chair and looked back towards the ops officer.

  ‘It’s not yet public knowledge,’ O’Donoghue continued, ‘but the decision has been made to commit four British Army battalions to the region. The Yanks are going in heavy, and the government wants to be seen to be supporting them.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ someone murmured.

  O’Donoghue’s eyes flickered towards the Foreign Office representative, and although he said nothing, it was clear Duncan felt as negative about tagging along with the Americans as everyone else in the room. They’d done that once before, and everyone there had mates who’d died in Iraq.

  The FO man clearly realised that the mood in the room had changed, so he stood up and inclined his head towards the ops officer, as if to ask if he might say a few words. O’Donoghue nodded, and the suit cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a reedy voice, ‘let us not mince our words. If it transpires that Hamas are indeed behind the needless slaughter of innocent British citizens, it will be the obligation of this government to strike back. I can assure you that our allies in America and elsewhere feel the same. It is likely, of course, that a strike against Gaza will be viewed as an act of aggression by other Muslim nations in the region – I’m thinking principally of Iran, who have voiced support for Hamas before now – and I don’t believe you need to be instructed in the implications of that.’

  He looked around the room, scanning each man in turn. The members of B Squadron stared at him stony-faced.

  ‘So,’ he continued briskly, ‘if any of you feel at all uncomfortable about operating in that part of the world, I would advise you to start getting used to it. History tells us that events such as this follow a critical path. Unless something is done to bring about a swift resolution, we could be on the brink.’

  He turned back to O’Donoghue, nodded and retook his seat.

  The ops officer looked slightly taken aback by the FO man’s interruption, but he continued in the same matter-of-fact voice as before.

  ‘Alistair Stratton,’ he announced, ‘is to travel to Gaza in his capacity as Middle East peace envoy.’

  Muttering around the room. Stratton had been popular once, even among those members of the squadron who didn’t give a shit about politics. But you don’t need to see many dead soldiers on the battlefield of an illegal war before you learn to detest its architects.

  ‘All right,’ O’Donoghue warned, ‘all right. Obviously now’s a high-risk time for anyone to be venturing into the Gaza Strip. The Jewish festival of Hanukkah starts on the tenth. That’s three days from now.’

  A voice from the back. ‘What the fuck’s Hanukkah, boss?’

  ‘Festival of Lights. Their version of Christmas. One of the most provocative times for the Palestinians to make a statement. Stratton needs close protection, and the Israelis aren’t prepared to send anyone
into the strip, so we’ve got the gig.’

  ‘Oh right,’ said the same voice. ‘’Cos Hamas fucking love the Brits, yeah?’

  ‘Shut up. Stratton might be a peace envoy, but he’s controversial among the Arabs for obvious reasons. In addition to the CAT team, Whitehall wants a QRF on standby in Israeli territory while the talks are in progress.’

  O’Donoghue looked over towards Dawson and nodded. The OC got to his feet and took over the briefing. ‘We’ll be stationed at an Israeli military base about twenty miles from the strip. I’ve selected a four-man team to accompany Stratton.’ He looked around the room. ‘Finn Jacobs, Nigel Foster, Russ Barker, Luke Mercer. Luke, you’ll lead the unit. We’ll brief you separately and take you through the imagery.’

  Luke looked over his shoulder at the others. Finn, Fozzie and Russ. As units went, it was one of the most experienced. No Flash Harrys, just good professionals. Each man looked serious as O’Donoghue took the floor. ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours till departure,’ he continued. ‘Buses leave here for Brize Norton 14.00 hrs Wednesday. Everyone to remain in camp in the interim. Squadron weapons checked, kit squared away. Each man report to your troop sergeant now. There’ll be further briefings over the next couple of days. Let’s get moving, gentlemen. Holiday’s over.’

  There was a scraping of chairs and a sudden hum of noises, like a classroom at bell time. ‘Luke,’ the ops officer called, ‘get your guys together. Briefing in ten, my office.’

  Ten minutes later there were six of them crowded into O’Donoghue’s office. Spread out on the table was a large satellite map. ‘The FO have requested up-to-date imagery from GCHQ,’ O’Donoghue explained, ‘and we’ll have detailed mapping for you to study in the next twenty-four hours. But this’ll give you the lie of the land.’ Luke examined the map. A long western coastline met the azure blue of the Mediterranean, and where land met sea was a strip of golden beach. From this distance, it looked look like a holiday brochure, but Luke knew that a closer look at this tiny piece of land would reveal a war-torn territory of brutal destruction. Ordnance had been hurled into the Gaza Strip for decades, destroying buildings and infrastructure beyond all hope of repair.

  ‘Hamas are refusing to cooperate,’ O’Donoghue told them. Now that he wasn’t addressing the whole squadron he seemed a bit more relaxed. ‘They’ve stated that they’ll fire on any aircraft violating their airspace, and that includes Stratton. You’ll have to take him in by road, but they’ll only allow a single vehicle on to their territory.’ He pointed at a spot on the Israeli border. ‘This is the Karni crossing. It’s the checkpoint closest to Gaza City, so you’ll cross over there. Tension is high on the streets. The Firm have eyes inside the city reporting that militants are out in the open, and that since the train bombings, half the young men of fighting age have joined them. There’s already been some mortar fire over the border into Israel, so these kids are armed with more than just rifles. Stratton’s visit won’t be a secret. They’ll know you’re on your way. But don’t expect anyone to welcome you with open arms.’

  ‘Last time someone welcomed Luke with open arms,’ Finn murmured, ‘she was charging by the hour.’

  ‘I like to keep your mum in business, buddy.’ But Luke’s was a half-hearted response and no one laughed. They were all absorbing everything O’Donoghue was saying. It sounded like they were going to be driving into a war zone.

  The ops officer continued: ‘The RV between Stratton and the Hamas representatives is to take place in an administrative building in the centre of Gaza City. We’ll forewarn them of your route and hopefully they’ll do what they can to keep it clear.’ He looked up at the four men in the unit. ‘But what Hamas say and what they do aren’t always the same thing. You’ll need to go in heavy, lads. Very heavy. Stratton might be a cunt, but if anything happens to him, the fucking mushroom cloud goes up.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, boss,’ Fozzie said quietly. ‘He’ll be safe as houses.’

  Yeah, Luke thought to himself. Safe as houses. Only houses weren’t that safe on the Gaza Strip.

  He continued to examine the map as his unit stood around him in silence, doing the same.

  Now that the whole squadron was in camp, there was a new bustle around Credenhill. There was plenty to do in advance of the op. Each man needed to test-fire and zero his personal weapons, while the SQMS checked that all the squadron assets were available and ready to go, in advance of the hardware being bagged up for transit. There were further squadron briefings in one lecture room or another, and in between times the men went about the business of selecting their own personal gear, suitable for the operation and the theatre in which they might find themselves. Luke and the unit rejected their digital camo in favour of civvies: once they hit Gaza, they didn’t want to look military, as there was nothing like the sight of a foreign soldier to provoke unrest. But he’d be wearing his body armour underneath – he’d definitely want that if things went noisy.

  Later in the afternoon the squadron OC and sergeant major left camp, part of an advance party heading out to meet with Israeli liaison officers on the ground, while Luke and his men continued to study the imagery of their route in and out of Gaza City. They’d have GPS on the ground, and the ops room would have a handle on their location at all times, but all that wasn’t a substitute for a working knowledge of the terrain.

  The rest of the day passed quickly. At 19.30 Luke got some scran with Finn just as O’Donoghue walked into the sergeants’ mess to tell them that there would be a further briefing the following morning at 07.00. ‘Royal Protection Squad,’ he said curtly. ‘Stratton’s usual team when they’re in the UK. Do me a kindness, fellas: shake their hands and smile sweetly.’ They all understood what he was saying. The Royal Protection boys were trained up by the SAS in the first place. There wasn’t much they could tell Luke and his unit about the ins and outs of acting as a counter-attack team. But the unit would press the flesh with Stratton’s usual point men.

  Once O’Donoghue had left, the men started wolfing down their plates of thick stew and heavy dumplings. ‘If you ask me,’ Finn muttered, ‘Stratton would look a whole lot better with a Palestinian round in his cerebral cortex. Fucker’s got a cheek asking for a Regiment guard in the Middle East after everything he’s done.’

  ‘Get used to it, buddy,’ said Luke. ‘Did no one ever tell you we’re not here to play politics – just to help the dickheads who do?’

  Finn grunted. He hadn’t changed much over the years. He was still a shoot first, ask questions later kind of operator. What had changed was his relationship with Luke. Their first op together in Iraq had been tense, and Finn hadn’t liked following Luke’s lead. They were closer now. They’d fought alongside each other for years. It had created a bond.

  Tomorrow promised to be another long day, so when he’d finished eating, Luke headed off to the single-bunk room where he kept all his gear and slept when he was staying in base. He was beat and looking forward to getting his head down, so he shut the door behind him, laid down on his bunk and – despite the sound in the corridor outside of his more boisterous colleagues – he was asleep within minutes.

  And as Luke slept, he dreamed.

  His dreams were vivid. He dreamed of flashing blue lights and the gnarled wreckage of a train. He dreamed of Alistair Stratton, a man he had never met but whose thin face was very familiar. A voice spoke in his head. Stratton’s all right.

  Suddenly Luke saw himself sitting in a scummy bar in the arse end of Serbia. He knew just how to reply. He was reliving a conversation that had already happened, after all. Stratton is a politician. Therefore Stratton is a wanker. End of. He turned his head to look at his companion, fully expecting to see Chet as he was back then.

  But he saw nothing of the sort. The figure sitting at the table next to him was unrecognisable. His hair had burned away; the skin of his face was charred and suppurating; his clothes were rags, sticking to him in places and non-existent in others.

  He d
idn’t know what it was that woke him. The horror of that vision, or the sound of his mobile phone. Luke sat bolt upright in his bed, his skin damp with sweat, and for a moment he wondered where he was. It was the smell that told him he was in camp: the antiseptic, institutional aroma tinged with a hint of cordite. The noises from outside had stopped and the only light in the room came from the phone glowing through the pocket of the trousers that he’d dumped on the floor by the bunk. He squinted at his chunky watch, its hands and face still vaguely luminous. Quarter to twelve. Who the fuck was calling him at this time of night?

  Luke hauled his arse out of bed and fumbled in the darkness, pulling his phone from his pocket and shielding his eyes slightly from the brightness of its screen. The phone continued to vibrate in his hand as he looked down to check the caller’s number.

  His brow furrowed. ‘What the fuck . . . ?’ he muttered.

  He shook his head. His eyes were playing tricks on him. They had to be. Either that or he was still dreaming.

  Luke took another look at the phone.

  He wasn’t dreaming.

  He wasn’t mistaken.

  But what he was seeing was impossible, because the caller was dead. Burned to a cinder in a house fire years ago. Luke had been to the memorial service in a little Hereford church; he’d offered his condolences to the parents of the deceased; he’d shed his own private tears at the passing of a good friend.

  More than a good friend. The man he owed his life to.

  No wonder, then, that he felt he was staring into the eyes of a ghost. Because how was it possible – how in the hell was it possible – that the phone in his hand should be displaying the words ‘freeman, chet’?