Osama

by Chris Ryan

  Mr Ashe could not help a brief smile. He pulled the hood of the coat over his head, patted his pocket to check that his Koran was still there, and stepped outside. He made it a rule to drive here as little as possible, and Mrs Jones, of course, had no car. So he walked briskly into the rain, not stopping to look back at the solitary shape of the house standing on that deserted clifftop. His face was dripping wet in seconds; within a minute, the rain had soaked the leather of his inadequate brown shoes. When he had walked the thirty-metre length of the driveway and exited through a pair of rattling iron gates, he turned right onto the road that would lead him, if he continued for another four miles, to the nearest railway station, Thornbridge. Perhaps one of the infrequent country buses would pass him before then, but if not he was prepared to walk.

  A crack of thunder ripped the sky overhead. Mrs Jones’s house disappeared in the distance. Mr Ashe continued to walk, his shoulders still slightly stooped, his brow furrowed, the lower part of his trousers already sodden, his mind deep in thought.

  THREE

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, USA. 0700 hours EST.

  ‘I got to hand it to you, Mason. The President’s grinning like a goddamn lunatic – I think he’d do just about anything if you asked him.’

  Mason Delaney felt his lips twitching with pleasure as he rested his hands on his neat little paunch. ‘Well, there’s a thought, Jed,’ he replied, his voice as quiet as it always was when he was receiving a compliment and pretending to be modest. His eyes sparkled behind his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘You make me sound like the new Monica Lewinsky!’

  Delaney giggled. Jed Wallace, the President’s Chief of Staff, smiled patiently. It was an expression that didn’t suit his hawk-like face. His auburn hair was cropped military fashion and Delaney had no doubt this was a conscious style statement. Wallace ran the show in the West Wing, and he did it with military precision. ‘Seriously, Mason, you made a powerful friend yesterday, and one who expects to be around for a while. His approval ratings are through the roof. You just bought him another four years in office.’

  ‘I live to serve, Jed. I live to serve.’ Delaney inhaled deeply and, with a pleasant smile, looked around his office. The May sunshine was streaming in through the window, casting its light over his desk and the coffee table in front of the comfortable sofa on which the two men were sitting. He had made this office very much his own, transformed it from the bland, beige box it had once been into a place which, he felt, more accurately represented his character. An antique chaise longue stood along the opposite wall, and on the walls were prints of his favourite Michelangelo sketches. He adored the way the artist caught the male form. Really, he felt he could gaze at them all day.

  ‘Shall we take a look?’ Wallace interrupted him politely after a full minute of silence.

  Delaney snapped out of his reverie. ‘I beg your pardon, Jed?’

  ‘The images. Shall we . . . ’

  ‘Had enough coffee?’ Delaney indicated the china coffee pot and the two full cups on the table.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Cookies?’

  ‘No cookies, Mason. Thank you.’

  ‘I only ask, Jed, because I think you might lose your appetite when you see them. If you’d rather not put yourself through it . . .’

  ‘I’ve finished my coffee, Mason.’ Wallace pushed the cup away from him to underline this.

  Delaney gave him a bland smile before standing up and shuffling over to his desk, where he picked up a manilla A4 envelope and brought it back to the sofa. He sat down, fixed Wallace with a stare that he knew would make the Chief of Staff uncomfortable, then removed a sheaf of photographs from the envelope.

  The photographs were in colour, but they were grainy and occasionally out of focus. The first showed an unmade bed and a large bloodstain on the rug in front of it. The second showed the same thing but from a different angle.

  ‘Mason, none of these show the—’

  ‘Always wanting to fast forward,’ interrupted Delaney, ‘to the money shot.’

  ‘It’s what I’m here to talk about, Mason.’

  ‘Then let’s talk, Jed.’ Delaney held out a third photo with his arm outstretched so that they could both admire it, much as Delaney had been admiring the Michelangelos a moment before. It was a close-up of a mangled and bloodied man’s face. Even Mason Delaney, who had no use for or knowledge of guns, could clearly identify the entrance wound, just above the right eye: a small dot of dark red, surrounded by an orange sun that had spread across the side of his face, taking out the eye and the upper part of the cheek. The rest of the face, including the grey beard, was spattered with blood. The mouth was open, and the man looked as though he had been gunned down just as he was screaming in terror.

  Delaney dropped the photograph onto Wallace’s lap before reclining on the sofa with his hands clasped behind his head. The Chief of Staff looked nauseous. ‘Of course,’ Delaney said, ‘you might be of the opinion that the great American public ought to be shown this. On the other hand’ – he coughed gently – ‘you might decide that publishing such a sight would be a tad inflammatory.’

  Jed Wallace appeared unable to take his eyes off the photograph.

  Delaney continued to talk, a little quieter again, but his voice still as nasal as ever. ‘What is it that that Sagan doesn’t like about me, Jed? Is it the way I look? The way I sound? Is it that I wear a Turnbull & Asser dicky bow and not a pair of fucking epaulettes? What peg has the little shit got me hung on, huh?’

  ‘Really, Jed, I don’t know what you’re—’

  ‘Sagan wants the President to publish, no?’

  Wallace looked up from the grim image. ‘How did you know that, Mason?’

  Delaney removed his glasses, breathed on them and meticulously cleaned both lenses with his handkerchief. ‘Here’s the deal, Jed,’ he said, and all of a sudden his voice was not quite so shrill as usual. ‘You put that photograph out to the news wires, it’ll be on the front cover of every damn newspaper in the world within twenty-four hours, not to mention the computer screen of everyone with an internet connection in about twenty-four seconds. It’s grotesque, Jed. Every last Islamist on the planet will think the President’s gloating. DEVGRU went to a lot of trouble to drop the bastard’s body in the Indian Ocean to stop his grave becoming a shrine. If you give that picture to the world, you’ll be creating a million shrines.’ Delaney blinked heavily three times. ‘I don’t think you should do it, Jed.’ He stretched out, lifted his coffee and took a long sip, raising his eyebrows at Wallace over the brim of the cup.

  The Chief of Staff turned the photographs over on his lap. ‘It’s the President’s decision, Mason,’ he said.

  ‘But of course it is, Jed. Of course it is. And I hope the President knows I’m here to watch his back.’ He folded his hands over his paunch again.

  Wallace stood up. ‘I have to get back to DC. Could I . . . ’ He pointed at the envelope that was still on Delaney’s lap.

  ‘Of course.’ Delaney stood up and watched as Wallace stowed the photographs first in the envelope and then in his briefcase. ‘And Jed?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Enjoy it.’

  A pause.

  ‘Enjoy what?’

  Delaney gave him a surprised look. ‘The victory, Jed. America hasn’t been the good guy for a long time, remember? Maybe the President can be persuaded to flex his muscles a bit more now he’s had a taste of success. Bin Laden’s not our only high-value target, you know? And as my physician never tires of reminding me, prevention is better than cure.’

  Wallace looked as though he was in two minds whether to respond. ‘Look, Mason,’ he said finally. ‘I know you think this administration is a bit wet, but times have changed. America can’t afford to boss the world around in the same way any more—’

  ‘You start taking any flak,’ Delaney interrupted, as though Wallace had said nothing, ‘I’ll give you what you need. We got DNA samples, we got eyewitness accounts . . .
damn, we’ve even got bin Laden’s daughter who was in the same room as him.’

  A knock on the door. ‘Come!’ Delaney called.

  The door opened and a young man appeared. He was extremely handsome, with lustrous black hair and well-defined cheekbones. Preppy – like he should be wandering the lawns of Princeton. He stood in the doorway without saying anything, but the anxiety on his face was evident as his eyes flickered between the two men in the office.

  ‘Scott,’ Delaney greeted him, blatantly – and lasciviously – eyeing the young man up and down.

  ‘Mr Delaney . . . we, er . . .’ Scott Stroman’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat again. ‘Mr Delaney, I need a word.’

  ‘Mr Wallace was just on his way out, Scott.’ Delaney held out a chubby hand, which the Chief of Staff shook. ‘So long, Jed,’ he said.

  Wallace nodded and, without another word, left the room.

  Stroman stepped inside, closed the door behind him, then stood with his back to it.

  ‘We’ve got a problem, Mr Delaney.’

  Delaney wandered over towards his desk. ‘Go ahead.’

  No answer. Delaney stopped and looked back at his young colleague. ‘Go ahead, Scott.’

  But Stroman shook his head. ‘I think you need to come and see for yourself, sir,’ he replied, in what was little more than a whisper.

  Delaney could see that he meant it. The two men left the room, Delaney locking the door behind him.

  The corridors of CIA headquarters were alive with people. They all knew Mason Delaney – he was as much a part of the place as the enormous presidential seal on the floor of the main entrance – and they all knew that today was his day. He lost count of the number of congratulations he received. He did notice too that his colleagues, for once, did not appear to be suppressing knowing smiles at the sight of his pretty male assistant. But as they descended into the basement, the number of passers-by diminished until finally they were walking by themselves along a deserted narrow corridor with pale grey walls. And at the very end of the corridor was a door with a numerical keypad next to it. Scott punched in a number and there was a faint click. He opened the door and they both entered.

  It was a small room – no more than five metres by five – and it appeared even more cramped on account of the large quantity of audiovisual equipment it contained, including four daisy-chained screens and two sets of reference speakers. Scott sat at the comfortable chair in front of the screens and pressed a green button. The same silent moving image appeared on all four screens. At first it was dark, blurred and indistinct.

  ‘What is this?’ Delaney asked, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  ‘Camera footage from the Black Hawk leaving Abbottabad, sir,’ Stroman replied.

  And as he spoke, the image started to make sense. Delaney could see the ground receding, and in the top-left corner of the screen he could make out the dark shape of the compromised chopper. The Black Hawk rose higher. Now they could see the high compound walls, and the uncovered corridor that led from the main security gates.

  And movement.

  ‘Who’s that, Scott?’ Delaney asked, his voice dangerously level.

  Stroman shot him a glance that said ‘This is what I wanted you to see,’ and pressed a red button. The image froze. The young man spun a dial and zoomed in on that part of the picture which showed two shadowy figures. Delaney fancied he made out an assault rifle strapped to the body of one of these individuals.

  Without waiting for an instruction from his boss, Stroman started the film again. The Black Hawk rose sufficiently for the perimeter of the whole compound to be visible. A shudder, and an explosion of orange light, as the compromised chopper exploded down on the ground. The compound receded from view as the chopper banked; when it straightened up again, Delaney could see that it was outside the perimeter of the compound.

  Stroman hit the stop button again. He pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of one of the screens. Two figures again, both crouching and watching the departing chopper. Both holding their faces directly up to the camera. Stroman zoomed in again. The level of magnification caused the faces to appear a little pixellated, but it was still possible to determine their features with some accuracy: the long hair and dark skin of one of them, the full black beards of both; as well as the weapons they were carrying.

  ‘Facial recognition?’ Delaney asked.

  ‘I’ve already run it, sir.’ Stroman pressed another button on the console. The image on two of the screens was replaced by a portrait of an Asian-looking man with shoulder-length hair and a thin scar along the left side of his nose where the dark skin was slightly lighter. The remaining two screens showed a different man: Caucasian, no beard in this picture but thick eyebrows that met in the middle, unruly hair and dark bags under the eyes which looked like no amount of sleep would chase away.

  ‘Introduce me to these handsome young men, Scott,’ Delaney breathed.

  Stroman pointed first at one, then the other. ‘Richard Singh, Joe Mansfield. British SAS. Records show they were part of the unit holding the cordon.’

  ‘Have any of our guys reported making contact with them?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you’ve been in touch with Hereford HQ?’

  ‘Of course, sir. They deny there was any breach of SOPs.’

  Delaney closed his eyes, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘So, tell me, Scott. Tell me this. If they were supposed to be holding the cordon, and there was no breach of SOPs, what in the name of fuck were they doing running out of the compound in the wake of the raid?’

  Stroman looked at his knees. ‘I don’t know, Mr Delaney, sir. I just don’t know.’

  A thick, uncomfortable silence fell as the two men stared up at the faces on the screens.

  ‘Do we know where they are now?’ Delaney asked.

  Stroman nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Of course we do.’

  FOUR

  Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. 1700 hours local time.

  The Chinook that put Joe’s team back on the ground didn’t close down. It was needed elsewhere. Joe barked at the Doctor’s wife and their three daughters to get off the transport. The old woman gave him a look of loathing – she hadn’t liked the abrupt way Joe and his mates had manhandled her family out of Abbottabad without looking for her husband. Joe reckoned he could live with that. He worked for the British Army, not Thomas fucking Cook. He pointed towards the tailgate to indicate she should take her daughters and get out.

  The rotors were kicking up a massive wall of brown dust as the unit lugged their gear off the plane. One of the kids was crying because the sand was in her eyes. He saw Ricky help the little girl out of range of the downdraft. His mate hadn’t said a single unnecessary word to him since they’d left the vicinity of the compound. The way Joe was feeling, that suited him just fine.

  The tailgate closed; the chopper lifted; the dust swirled around a larger area for a few seconds. Only as the dust settled did the peaks of the Hindu Kush that filled the horizon come into view. Joe had stopped being impressed by the sight. The snow-capped mountains were just another obstacle in this dog turd of a country. Closer to hand, the LZ was surrounded by a sea of cargo containers – impossible to say how many, but in the hundreds. Some of them were covered with camo-nets; others were just scratched and exposed. Bagram – all six and a half square miles of it – was an important staging post for the Americans. A large proportion of the goods necessary to keep the US’s show on the road in Afghanistan passed through here.

  Military vehicles – Humvees, mostly – were driving all over the place, as well as large SUVs that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the New Jersey Turnpike. Joe knew that the drivers of half these SUVs were only moving around because the air con in their vehicles was better than that in their bunkhouses. The Chinook flew out of earshot; the grind of its motors was immediately replaced by the ear-splitting din of an F-16, flying low, probably on its way to put the shit
s up the locals – a not-too-subtle warning of what they could expect if they messed with the stars and stripes.

  Nobody approached to help the unit with their gear, and the unit wouldn’t have wanted anyone to. They worked alone. Everybody knew that. Joe and his mate JJ – whose brown beard was longer than the rest of the unit’s because he’d worn it for years – lifted a crate of weaponry in the direction of a large hangar situated 100 metres from the LZ, just beyond a two-metre-high HESCO wall over the top of which an array of satellite receivers and other signalling apparatus was visible. A couple of Paras stood guard at a gap in the wall, next to a green and white sign stating: ‘No Unauthorized Entry’. There were thousands of signs, plastering every inch of Bagram. Even the thunderboxes had a notice telling you not to piss on the seat.

  One of the Paras was lazily scraping the Afghan dust from the inside of his nostril with a rolled-up piece of Kleenex. Both had expectant looks on their faces. Word of bin Laden’s death had obviously got out, and anyone who knew that Joe’s unit had been on ops in Pakistan at the same time would have put two and two together.

  Joe looked over his shoulder. Ricky and the rest of the unit were walking towards the hangar, their bodies appearing to waver in the heat haze. Beyond them, three guys whom Joe recognized as American DOD personnel had surrounded the Doctor’s family, and five black SUVs were driving up towards them. Fuck knows what was going to happen to them. A new name and a safe house in a faceless North American suburb, he supposed.

  ‘Been busy, lads?’ one of the Paras asked.

  ‘Aye,’ JJ replied. ‘Shagged out, me. Never knew your sister was such a goer.’

  The Para grinned. ‘She told me you had a dick like a maggot, JJ.’

  JJ gave a look of mock acceptance. ‘Aye, it’s true,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s why she got her rocks off with the rest of the unit as well. I’m telling you – she was walking like Charlie Chaplin by the end, and Joe here has been grinning like the Cheshire fucking cat ever since . . .’