by Chris Ryan
Back and forth it swung.
Back and forth.
Where was Ashkani?
Something made him turn. He looked back towards the Daimler and once more squinted through the rain. The front door was open. The driver was no longer behind the wheel. He was sprawled on the sidewalk, face down, motionless, the rain beating onto his back.
Delaney found himself holding his breath. He turned back to the child. He looked one way, then the other. The chauffeur flashed in front of his eyes, then the child. Then the chauffeur, then the child turned to look at him and . . .
He had appeared as if from nowhere, ten metres away, perhaps from some ornamental shrubs between the Daimler and the bandstand. He was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders, a hooded top and a bowed head, charging forward. Even through the rain-haze, Delaney could make out the mad fury in his eyes. Stumbling backwards in the face of that oncoming rage, it was everything Delaney could do to stop himself falling as he tried to pull the gun from his pocket.
Too late.
The sudden violence with which the man launched himself at Delaney shook him to his core. He felt like he had been hit by an unstoppable force. It threw him back three metres, to form a heap on the ground, where dirty rainwater sluiced over his glasses and down his front. Although blinded by the water, he had managed to keep hold of his umbrella, and he held this up now, point outwards, in a feeble attempt to defend himself as he meanwhile tried again to remove his weapon. The umbrella, though, was swiftly ripped from his hands; seconds later he felt it brutally whack the right side of his face. His glasses clattered away from him and he groped in the direction they’d fallen, pulling out his gun as he did so; but just then he felt that being kicked away. It rattled across the decking as his attacker lifted him by the scruff of his neck and back to his feet, then pushed him hard against the back wall of the bandstand.
A face dominated his vision, five inches away from Delaney’s own. He recognized the features and they were not Ashkani’s. He had seen them, barely two weeks ago, enlarged on a screen in the basement of CIA headquarters. What he didn’t recognize was the mania in this man’s expression. Delaney had never seen such hatred.
‘You,’ he whispered.
‘Yeah,’ said Sergeant Joe Mansfield. ‘Me.’
‘But you’re . . . you’re supposed to be in a secure hospital.’
‘I guess it wasn’t that secure,’ Mansfield growled.
‘I have backup personnel,’ Delaney wheezed. ‘They’ll be here any—’
His feeble ploy degenerated into a howl of pain as Mansfield headbutted his nose. Delaney heard the bone crack and collapse half a second before he felt it. When Mansfield stood back again, he had Delaney’s blood dripping down between his eyes, but that was nothing to the torrent that flowed from the CIA man’s nostrils, over his bow tie and down the front of his shirt.
‘What’s your name?’
‘S . . . S . . . Stroman . . .’ Delaney lied, but then he shrieked again as Mansfield smashed his forehead once more against the already shattered nose, intensifying the pain. Out of the corner of his compromised vision, he was bizarrely aware of the kid still swinging in the playground, but before he knew it, he was squealing his own name: ‘Delaney . . . Mason Delaney . . . Please don’t hit me again . . .’
Another brutal shove and Delaney was back on the floor, his fierce-eyed, menacing attacker looking over him.
‘Talk,’ Mansfield said.
‘I . . . I don’t know what you want me to—’
The blow Mansfield gave Delaney’s ribs cracked a few. The American wheezed and spluttered as the air, and not a little blood-flecked saliva, escaped his mouth.
The monster was kneeling now. ‘Why,’ he hissed, ‘has your man been trying to kill me?’
‘My man?’
Suddenly Mansfield was holding something in front of Delaney’s face. A smoke-damaged, leather-bound book. A Koran. Ashkani’s Koran. His cipher. ‘You sent the message to meet here?’ the CIA man croaked. ‘How?’
‘My son.’
Delaney glanced myopically over his shoulder towards the swings where he could still see a blurred movement. ‘Your man used the codes in front of my son. Bad mistake.’
Mansfield had something else in his hands now. A gun. He pressed the barrel into the soft flesh of Delaney’s cheek. ‘They want me for two murders, Delaney. You really think a third will make any difference?’
‘The raid,’ Delaney squealed. ‘Abbottabad. You saw—’
‘What did I see? Two body bags – you killed bin Laden and who else?’
‘Killed bin Laden?’ Delaney hissed. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Why would I want to kill him?’ He coughed again, and more bloody spittle dribbled from the side of his mouth. ‘Why would I want a bullet in the brain of the person with more information on Al-Qaeda than anyone else?’
The barrel of the gun dug deeper into his face. His eyes widened with the sudden fear that this lunatic was going to shoot him; instead, he heard him talk, under his breath, sounding as though something had just clicked. ‘A decoy corpse,’ Mansfield breathed. ‘A lookalike. Gun wounds already inflicted. The SEALs brought it in with them, took bin Laden alive, and photographed the decoy . . .’
‘Very smart,’ Delaney wheezed. ‘Smarter than our President, at least.’
‘You removed the corpse in one bag and bin Laden, still alive, in another . . .’
Delaney, despite everything, gave a sickly little laugh.
‘How many people know?’
The American tried to answer, but succumbed to another fit of coughing. His attacker kneed him in his already broken ribs. ‘The SEALs,’ Delaney spat. ‘And a handful of people close to me.’
‘And Ashkani?’
‘Of course Ashkani! It was Ashkani who told us where bin Laden was in the first place.’
A pause. The monster looked like he was absorbing this information.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know.’
His attacker didn’t hesitate. In a single, swift move, he grabbed the little finger of Delaney’s right hand and yanked it back so that it cracked noisily. Delaney screamed again, and the noise echoed off the roof of the bandstand.
‘You’ve got nine fingers left before I start on the bigger bones,’ Mansfield said once the shriek had withered to a whimper. ‘Where’s Ashkani?’
‘I swear, I don’t . . . You must see I thought he was here . . .’
Mansfield cracked back the ring finger as easily as flicking a light switch.
Delaney was sobbing now, trying desperately to talk, but struggling to get the words out through the pain. ‘I swear . . . I swear I don’t know . . . I would tell you . . . he’s been playing me all this time . . .’
Mansfield had narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought he was my man . . . I thought he was arranging things for me . . .’
‘What things?’
Delaney closed his eyes again.
‘The planes,’ Mansfield breathed. ‘He was doing that for you?’
The American slowly shook his head.
‘What the hell? Why do you want to blow up British planes?’
Delaney coughed again, and struggled to get his breath. ‘Ashkani tipped me off,’ he continued, even more weakly than before. ‘He told me Al-Qaeda were planning a strike. Five planes in the UK, five in the US. Bin Laden’s swansong. The UK planes were Ashkani’s personal responsibility. He said he didn’t know which US flights were to be targeted. Only bin Laden had that information . . .’ The words faded away on his lips; the world seemed to spin and it was hard for him to keep his thoughts in line. After a few seconds, though, he felt Mansfield clutching a third finger and he managed to spit out some more words in a choked, throttled voice. ‘I told him to go through with the UK attacks . . . and we would get the remaining intelligence from bin Laden . . .’
‘Why? Why?’
‘To keep you on side, of course. The B
ritish. To keep you in the Middle East. To make you put pressure on our administration to do the same. Americans don’t have the stomach for any more body bags. But the little people . . .’ he coughed again ?‘. . . the little people don’t understand how many more body bags there’ll be if we don’t have a presence there . . .’
He started to spit pathetically. The blood that was still oozing from his nose had flooded over his fat upper lip and into his mouth, sticky and metallic.
‘You said Ashkani was playing you?’ said Mansfield.
Delaney managed a weak nod, another almost-laugh. ‘I should have guessed . . . a feeble old man sitting in a compound in Pakistan . . . Ashkani had it all set up . . . make us raid the wrong aircraft and when we were looking the other way . . .’
Everything was spinning again. He stopped talking. Mansfield had withdrawn the gun and was getting to his feet. Delaney looked up, glad that this animal, who seemed to revel in the infliction of pain, was moving away from him. He was still holding his gun, but now Delaney saw he had something else in his other hand: a digital voice recorder. There was a faint click as he switched it off.
‘The CIA will claim responsibility for the death of my partner,’ Mansfield said. ‘You’ll inform the British authorities that the raghead I did in Barfield attacked me on your orders. Fail to do that, or if anything happens to me or my son, this tape will be on every fucking website in the world. ’
‘Along with the sound of you coercing me,’ Delaney noted.
‘You think people will give a shit about that?’
Delaney didn’t.
He summoned every ounce of energy he could and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Mansfield was staring at him with utter contempt, but he could deal with that. Insane though he obviously was, the son of a bitch clearly didn’t intend to kill him.
It was still raining hard. The kid was still swinging. ‘That boy,’ Delaney spat. ‘What is he? Simple?’ He touched his good hand to his broken, swollen nose and winced before examining the blood on his fingertips. He peered around for his glasses, and thought he could see them at the edge of the bandstand. He started towards them, but immediately found his way blocked by a pair of large, booted feet. He looked up to see Mansfield staring at him with more loathing than he’d ever seen. The laugh that had been threatening to erupt through the pain, broke out. ‘Your kid, is he retarded?’
It felt good to insult his tormentor, and as he did so, a thought struck him. Mansfield couldn’t kill him. He needed Delaney alive, his get-out-of-jail card. The thought made him laugh even more; somehow it even took the edge off the pain in his hand, face and ribs. Carefully nursing his broken fingers, he stood up.
‘You’re just one of the little people, Mansfield,’ he spat. ‘You don’t see the bigger picture . . .’
Delaney knew in an instant that he’d gone too far.
Within seconds Mansfield had thrown him off the bandstand. He landed with a brutal thump on the tarmac surrounding it, the rain hammering down on him. In a moment of panic he looked around, hoping to see someone – anyone – who might be able to help. But there was nobody. Just an unconscious driver and a small boy still swinging in the rain.
And Sergeant Joe Mansfield.
His face was contorted. His right arm – clutching the handgun – was outstretched. He was striding off the bandstand . . . towards Delaney . . . he was standing above him . . .
‘You need me!’ Delaney hissed. ‘You’ll never see the light of fucking day without me . . .’
Mansfield didn’t even flinch.
‘You won’t do it,’ the CIA man whispered. ‘Not in front of your boy . . . How much more fucked-up do you want him to be?’
No movement.
‘I can help you find Ashkani.’
Was there a sudden spark of interest in his eyes?
‘Think of my resources . . . I can track him down in hours . . . I’ll tell you where he is . . .’
Delaney was nodding enthusiastically.
But why hadn’t Mansfield lowered his gun?
They stood there in the rain. From the playground, Delaney could hear the regular squeaking of the swing.
‘You need me,’ he whispered again.
‘But I’m just one of the little people,’ Mansfield said, and he fired.
The driver stirred. The back of his head throbbed. He was wet through.
He pushed himself groggily to his feet, trying to work out what he was doing here, a crumpled heap in the teeming rain. He saw the bandstand and the playground. The strange child was no longer swinging. Mr Delaney was no longer taking shelter.
He walked nervously in the direction of the bandstand, clutching the welt on the back of his head. Once he reached it, he stopped in the centre of the decking and spun round.
He stopped.
A figure was lying on the ground three metres away. Perfectly still.
His hand fell, and he walked on.
He stopped a metre from the body, and now his hand was over his mouth.
Mr Delaney was identifiable only by his bow tie. His face was a mess, with five very distinct bullet wounds. He was clearly freshly dead because blood was still oozing from the flesh, and the rain was washing it away to reveal the full devastation of the impact. The shattered bone. The brain matter, clearly visible through the damaged forehead.
The driver staggered backwards. And as he looked up he thought he saw something. Two figures, perhaps fifty metres away, disappearing into the rain-haze. A grey man, one arm around the shoulders of the boy from the swing.
A moment later they were gone. The driver didn’t dare chase them. He ran back to his car, grabbed his phone with trembling hands, and called for help.
TWENTY-FIVE
An old, thin man shivered in the dark. He was naked, and had been for days. He did not know for sure where he was, but he assumed it must be America. Nowhere else could he be treated to such satanic torture.
He was underground. He knew that because, having arrived in this place by helicopter, he had been forced down a flight of stairs and had not ascended since. There were two rooms down here: the cell in which he now sat, with its ice-cold concrete walls and the overpowering stench of rancid, mouldering human waste from where he had been forced to defecate and urinate in one corner; and the other room, which he had learned truly to fear, and where they had taken him when he first arrived.
It looked rather like a hospital room. There was a bed in the centre with a rack of machines beside it to monitor vital signs. Steel cabinets along the walls contained an enormous variety of chemicals to be injected and implements with which to inflict pain in precise, measured quantities. They had stripped him naked the moment he arrived and strapped him to that bed. Then they had shaved him. Not just his head and beard, but also his pubic hair, the hair around his anus, the hair on his chest, his arms, his legs. He was bald and humiliated by the time they threw him in the cell. Now the hair had started to grow back, sharp and stubbly. If they needed a patch of truly bald skin for one of their tortures, it was their habit to rip the stubble away using a wax patch – the sort of thing Western whores used upon their intimate areas.
And the tortures. Such tortures.
He had thought he would think of Allah and withstand them. And at first he had. He had always known there was a possibility of such a fate awaiting him, and he was prepared for it, or so he believed. But these Americans had a gift for cruelty he could never have imagined. Now his body had been cut and punctured in a hundred places; they had injected him with compounds that set his veins on fire, and others that turned them to ice. They had driven needles into the roof of his mouth and through the centre of his joints, and cracked his bones with clinical precision. They had used electricity. They had beaten and crushed his genitals.
They had kept him awake with loud music. They had locked him in his cell for twenty hours between tortures, and then only for twenty minutes, so he never knew when it was going to come. They had shown him pictures
: mutilated corpses, Western pornography, blasphemous images of the Prophet.
They had starved him, then laughingly offered him only pork to eat. They had offered him cool water when he was thirsty, only to snatch it away when it was near his lips. They had thrown him into that unclean corner of the cell where he was forced to relieve himself so that for days now his skin had been covered in stinking dried excrement and his captors were forced to approach him wearing latex gloves and surgical masks.
But worse than all this, they had kept him alive: daily antibiotic injections, a saline drip that hydrated him but did not relieve his constant thirst. The same doctor was always on hand, there to ensure that he always remained the right side of consciousness. The right side of the death he would have welcomed.
To start with, they did not even ask him any questions. He understood why. They wanted to break him first. When, eventually, they did – two days in, perhaps, maybe three – they seemed only to focus on questions to which they knew the answer. If he responded correctly, he was given a sip of water. If incorrectly, a swift, brutal punishment. He became grateful for the former and fearful of the latter.
They tried to confuse him with their questioning, pretending he had given answers he had not given. They had burst into his cell when he was on the verge of sleep, screaming questions at him, demanding answers. They had injected him with substances that made him drowsy and confused, eager to be compliant, reluctant to fight. It was during one of these periods that a new face had appeared: the well-fed, fattened face of a man in horn-rimmed glasses and wearing a neat little bow tie. He had stood over the bed, looking down with interest as the room swam, but he had not appeared again.
He had been wrong to think he could withstand it. They had broken him completely. He had told them everything. He had given them names; described places. He could not think how they knew about the plane attacks, but he told them about those, too. His final act ruined. Anything to stop the torment.
