Hunter Killer

by Chris Ryan

  The second man was younger. Late thirties, Danny reckoned. A full head of thick, blond hair, an open collar and stylish brown blazer. ‘Preppy’, as Clara would say. Danny would put money on him being the Yank. ‘Harrison Maddox,’ Buckingham said. ‘CIA liaison. There were several American casualties last Friday, as you know. Harrison has been most helpful in providing us with relevant intelligence from Langley’s sources.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, gentlemen,’ Maddox said in his soft American accent, very urbane. ‘I know a number of boys in Delta Force who speak highly of your regiment. Met a couple of them who joined up with a few of yours to undermine a Spetznaz operation in the Middle East. Nothing but praise.’

  Danny and Spud nodded a brief greeting, but said nothing.

  ‘Right,’ Victoria said briskly, ‘well, I’m sure we’re all very pleased to meet each other. We’re also all very busy, so shall we get down to work? Please take a seat, everyone. Hugo, now we’re all here, I think we should see the footage.’

  Buckingham nodded. As everyone took a seat at the dining chairs to the left of the fireplace, he withdrew a laptop from a leather case and placed it on an occasional table so everyone could see it. He fired it up, then double-clicked on a desktop icon. A Quicktime video filled the screen, but it didn’t play immediately.

  ‘Not for the fainthearted, I’m afraid,’ Buckingham said with a grimace. The screen showed three figures. One of them was sitting on a stool. He looked to be of Middle Eastern extraction, and young. He held a long, ornate knife in one hand. On either side of him were two other figures, wearing black balaclavas. Behind them, a drape with a black Arabic symbol.

  ‘Why do I have a feeling I know how this movie ends?’ Spud asked, and before anyone could reply: ‘What does the writing say?’ It looked like a ‘w’ followed by an ‘l’, with various other squiggles above them.

  ‘It’s the Arabic for “Allah”,’ Buckingham said. ‘A very sacred symbol to the Muslim community.’

  ‘Looks like a bird’s arse,’ Spud breathed.

  ‘Of course, the Muslims have 99 names for God,’ Victoria said, covering up her obvious embarrassment at Spud’s comment. ‘As-Salam, the Source of Peace; Al-Gaffar, the Forgiver . . .’

  ‘Who’s the fourth person in the room?’ Danny interrupted quietly.

  Everyone looked at him sharply, then back at the screen.

  ‘Only three people in the room, old sport,’ said Buckingham. He had a sudden edge to his voice, as though Danny was embarrassing him.

  Danny shook his head. ‘Count the shadows,’ he told them.

  He was right. Each of the three figures in front of the camera cast a small, distinct shadow. But there was a larger one too, very faint and fuzzy around the edges, that seemed to encompass the other three. Danny stepped forward and traced the outlines with his forefinger.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Buckingham, flushing slightly. ‘Well I suppose there must have been a camera operator.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Victoria snapped. ‘Why haven’t our people flagged this up already?’ Her irritation was clearly directed at Buckingham, who looked momentarily flustered.

  ‘I’ll have them follow it up.’ He tapped the laptop screen. ‘Shall I?’

  ‘I think you’d better.’

  Buckingham clicked the ‘play’ button.

  The young man in the middle of the picture started to speak. ‘My name is Karim Dahlamal. I was born in Hatfield. My parents are Raniyah and Yussuf Dahlamal. They will not understand what I am about to do. They do not understand the world.’ A pause as the kid looked nervously at the floor. ‘Three days ago, my friends struck a glorious blow in the holy Jihad. It is the first of many. We will not stop until the sins of the infidel are washed clean by their own blood. The bombs will continue until all your sons and daughters have died. You think you can stop us, but I tell you that you cannot. Because unlike you we are willing to die. We welcome death. We embrace it . . . I embrace it . . .’

  With a trembling hand the kid raised his knife and put it to his throat. A trickle of blood dribbled down his Adam’s apple.

  ‘Jesus,’ Danny breathed.

  But then the image flickered. Suddenly the kid was stretched out on the floor. The knife was embedded in his throat and although blood was still oozing from the wound, it was clear that Karim Dahlamal had already done most of his bleeding. The plastic sheeting on the floor was covered in blood, and there was a trail leading up to the body which suggested someone had dragged the corpse to its current position. The two men in balaclavas stood on either side of the body. Danny could see that their hands were bloody. Patches of dark stickiness glistened on their clothes.

  The footage stopped, frozen on that final image. Danny looked round the room. Victoria had removed her handkerchief again and had it pressed to her mouth. The CIA man Maddox had his head bowed respectfully. Chamberlain was staring straight at the screen, his squint somehow more pronounced, his jaw set. Buckingham still stood by the laptop. He hadn’t looked at the images at all.

  ‘Am I the only one who thinks that kid had a bit of help?’ Danny asked.

  ‘That’s what our analysts seem to think,’ Victoria said. ‘Not that they’ve had much time to examine it. This video found its way to Al-Jazeera about three hours ago. So far we’ve managed to lean on them to keep it under wraps, but they’re a law unto themselves and we don’t know how long they’ll keep mum.’ She looked at Buckingham. ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’

  Buckingham obediently closed up the laptop and sat down.

  ‘We have good reason to believe that the two men in balaclavas are the same individuals involved in the Paddington bomb. I think we can take this as fair warning that they intend to repeat the atrocity. Hugo, the pictures, please.’

  From his leather case, Buckingham removed a sheaf of A4 black and white photographs, which he handed to Danny. They were enlarged CCTV images, the first four of which showed a group of three individuals walking across the concourse of, Danny assumed, Paddington station. One of them was wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie. The second wore a neatly pressed shirt, and his head was bowed. The face of the third – who was shorter than the other two – was very visible. He looked different from normal people – his eyes were a little closer together for a start – but he had a wide grin on his face.

  ‘Who’s the patsy?’ Spud asked.

  ‘A young Down’s syndrome man by the name of Alfie Thorne. People with Down’s syndrome have a very trusting nature, as you probably know. Our working theory is that his two companions spent some time grooming him so that he would agree to take a trip with them. You’ll see that each man has a suitcase.’ Sure enough, all three were pulling a case with wheels behind them. ‘In later pictures, you’ll observe the two companions walking separately back across the concourse, without their luggage. We think that their plan – successful as it turned out – was to . . .’

  ‘. . . leave Alfie Thorne minding the cases so that nobody raised the alarm when they saw them unattended.’ Danny filled in the gap for her. ‘I’m guessing all three cases were stuffed full of, what, C5?’

  Victoria nodded.

  ‘And the kid?’ Spud asked.

  ‘They haven’t even found any remains.’ Victoria blew her nose on her tissue again.

  Even Spud looked disgusted. Of course, Alfie Thorne was just one of more than a hundred fatalities, but to fit up a young Down’s syndrome man like that was about as low as it got.

  ‘I’m guessing,’ Danny asked, ‘that you want these two bombers taken out?’ None of the spooks had said it explicitly, but the bottom line was this: the Regiment was only ever called in for the hard stuff. Danny didn’t have the patience to listen to them euphemistically talking round the subject.

  ‘One of life’s enthusiasts!’ Chamberlain announced with a grin. ‘Not like us old farts, chained to our desks night and day. Still, not too onerous a task, I wouldn’t have thought. Wouldn’t mind having a crack at them myself instea
d of pen pushing all day.’

  Danny didn’t take a shine to Chamberlain, but on one level he couldn’t help agreeing with him. Sometimes, in their line of work, you were called upon to do something that felt morally dubious. Nailing the two bastards involved in this atrocity wasn’t going to be one of them.

  ‘So what do we know about them?’ he asked. Because identifying a target was one thing. Finding them, when they didn’t want to be found, was quite another.

  ‘We have their names and their addresses,’ Victoria said immediately. ‘In fact, unusually for such situations, we know a fair amount about them. I shouldn’t expect it will take you very long to deal with them. Hugo does speak extremely highly of you.’

  Buckingham gave them what was clearly meant to be a friendly smile. Neither Danny nor Spud reciprocated.

  ‘Your first target is Sarim Galaid. Second generation Somali immigrant.’ As Victoria spoke, Buckingham passed round another photo of a thin, dark-skinned man with sunken eyes and high cheekbones. ‘His parents are peaceful, well-integrated Muslims.’

  ‘If there is such a thing,’ Chamberlain interrupted. ‘Eh, lads?’ That wink again. Danny and Spud turned their attention back to Victoria.

  ‘Please, Piers,’ she said under her breath. ‘The parents disowned him several years ago when he started showing extremist tendencies. I mean, really, it must have been a terribly difficult thing for them to do. He was on the MI5 watch list a couple of years ago, but slipped through the net in recent months, I’m afraid. Very low profile, not considered high-risk. He lives in a one-bedroom flat in Hammersmith. We’ve been staying clear of the place so as not to spook him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a substantial amount of bomb-making equipment there.’

  ‘Look forward to making his acquaintance,’ Spud muttered.

  ‘Target number two,’ Victoria continued, as Buckingham handed round a second picture of a slightly plumper, more fresh-faced young man. ‘Jamal Faroole. Born in the Quetta region of Pakistan. Previously unknown to the security services. Lives in a council block in Perivale. We’ve had surveillance on the block for the past twenty-four hours, however, and there’s been no sign of him.’

  ‘He’s been busy,’ Danny said.

  ‘Well, quite.’

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Victoria and Maddox exchanged an awkward look. ‘Go ahead, Victoria,’ Maddox said quietly, like he was pushing her into doing something she didn’t want to do.

  ‘Your third target,’ she announced, ‘might be familiar.’ She clicked her fingers at Buckingham, who obediently handed her a third photograph. She held it up for everyone to see.

  Spud gave a low whistle.

  ‘Amar Al-Zain,’ Victoria said. ‘Otherwise known as Abu Ra’id. You probably know something of his history. But not everything. Born and brought up in the UK, attended Thames Valley University where he studied political science. Up until the age of twenty-one he lived quite the high life. A keen drinker. His flat mate chalked up a warning for cannabis possession, and we have a copy of an official warning from the university reprimanding him for bringing pornographic material into lectures.’

  ‘Naughty hate cleric,’ Spud muttered.

  ‘Youthful high jinks,’ Victoria said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

  ‘But still,’ Harrison Maddox cut in, ‘not your standard resumé for a Bin Laden wannabe.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Victoria. ‘To the best of our knowledge he was radicalised about halfway through his university career, after which time we see a spike in extremist rhetoric around Thames Valley. He’s a very persuasive speaker and attracted quite a crowd of young Muslims around him during the rest of his time at university. And has continued to do so, of course, at the Holy Shrine mosque in north-west London, among other places. All our intelligence suggests that his sympathies lie with the militant group Al-Shabaab, which as I’m sure you know recently became aligned with Al-Qaeda, though it’s unclear whether he’s most strongly linked with the Somali or the Yemeni branch. What does seem certain is that he’s committed to the reintroduction of Sharia law and to the use of terrorism. We think his recent activities are intended as a means of getting himself further up the Al-Shabaab hierarchy.’

  ‘Like a job application?’ Danny said, incredulous.

  ‘If you like. He’s no fool, though. We can’t pin a single actual crime on him, at least not on UK soil. He is wanted in Jordan on terror charges, and the British government have been trying to extradite him there for some time, only to be blocked in the courts.’ She glanced at the CIA liaison officer. ‘Much to the dismay of the prime minister.’

  Harrison Maddox gave a mirthless little snort. ‘That’s what I love about you Brits,’ he said. ‘You don’t get even, you get mad.’

  Victoria gave him a frosty look. ‘Personally, Harrison, I’m extremely pleased my children can grow up in a country where the rule of law can be relied upon, and extended to all our citizens, regardless of . . .’

  ‘Regardless of how many people they’re planning to kill, Victoria? Please, spare me the passive aggression. The US has been offering to take Abu Ra’id off your hands for years now. We’ve all known that he has a group of disciples hanging on his every damn word. He doesn’t need to get his hands dirty because he’s got untold numbers of young extremists willing to do the work for him. Hell, we’ve just seen that he even wants his people to commit suicide at his command.’

  ‘That’s the problem with these bloody ragheads,’ Chamberlain interrupted. ‘They all think they’re going to get their seventy-two virgins if their sordid little plans go tits-up.’

  Both Maddox and Victoria threw Chamberlain an irritated glance. Maddox drew a deep breath. ‘If you’d accepted our offer,’ he told Victoria a little more mildly, ‘we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.’

  ‘We are not in the habit, Harrison,’ Victoria said crisply, ‘of throwing people into black camps on the basis of a hunch. In this country, the legal process still means something.’

  ‘Ah,’ Maddox said lightly, ‘the legal process.’ He slowly folded his arms. ‘Remind me again what it is we’re here to discuss? The summary execution of three terror suspects, was it?’

  Another silence. Victoria visibly bristled and Danny had the sense that she was forcing herself to calm down. She drew a deep breath, then carried on as if the interruption hadn’t happened.

  ‘Both Sarim Galaid and Jamal Faroole were students – if you want to use that word – of Abu Ra’id’s at the Holy Shrine mosque. Our analysts are almost certain that he was the driving force behind the attack. We simply can’t risk a repeat performance, so approval has come down from Number 10 to act pre-emptively. Unfortunately, we have been unable to locate him.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask the missus?’ Spud said. ‘What do they call her? The White Witch?’

  ‘Oh, we intend to, just as soon as we get through the layers of legal protection with which she has surrounded herself.’ Maddox rolled his eyes at this comment, but Victoria continued briskly. ‘I think it rather unlikely, however, that she will know of his location. We’ve directed all our resources into looking for him, but until he puts his head above the parapet, you’ll have to concentrate on the foot soldiers.’ She looked from Spud to Danny. ‘Are you under any doubt about what we’re asking you to do?’

  Danny gave her a flat look. ‘You want us to hunt them down,’ he said, ‘and kill them.’

  A pause. Victoria nodded uncertainly. ‘I trust you don’t have a problem with . . .’ – she struggled for a word – ‘. . . ethics?’

  Danny almost allowed himself a smile. ‘Far as I’m concerned,’ he said, ‘that’s a county near London.’

  Nobody laughed. Victoria took a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘One final thing,’ she said. ‘It’s most important that these . . . these . . .’ She struggled for the word.

  ‘Hits?’ Spud suggested helpfully.

  ‘That they look like accidents,’ she continued. �
��There can be no sign of a struggle. No sign of interrogation, violent or otherwise.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Danny said. ‘These foot soldiers are your best lead to Abu Ra’id.’

  ‘We have our own avenues of inquiry,’ Buckingham replied sharply. ‘Your job is quite simply to eliminate the targets. When we give you Abu Ra’id’s location, we’ll give you the go-ahead for the hit.’

  Danny shrugged.

  ‘We won’t be able to stop the conspiracy theories flying around,’ Victoria added, ‘and we’re quite happy for any of the terrorists’ associates to infer what is happening. But there can be no link between the security services and these . . .’

  ‘Hits,’ Spud said again.

  ‘Quite,’ said Victoria. ‘That, of course, is the reason for all this secrecy.’ She waved one arm to indicate the room in which they sat. ‘From now on, we communicate by dead-letter drop. That’s how you will receive the details of your targets and any other instructions. And it hardly needs to be said, I hope, that if either of you are exposed in the course of your duties, we will be obliged to deny all knowledge of your activities.’

  ‘How does the drop work?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Hugo will give you the details. Any day-to-day requirements, speak to your police liaison. Otherwise, unless you have any other questions, I think we’re done.’

  She stood up abruptly. The remaining three spooks did the same. They clearly wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

  ‘Actually,’ Danny said, ‘I do have a question.’

  Silence. The spooks sat down again.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Victoria said reluctantly.