A Life to Kill

by M. R. Hall

  Bryant nodded in agreement.

  ‘We’ll begin here, to the south-west of the post, see if we can find any sign of him having crossed the orchard.’

  ‘It’s mined, sir. He’d never have got across.’

  ‘He was on the party that laid them, as I recall.’

  ‘So was I, but I wouldn’t like to risk it.’

  ‘Maybe he has a better memory than you do.’ Norton reached for his Kevlar vest and pulled it on over his camouflage tunic, which even at this early hour was already glued to his back with sweat. ‘I’ll lead the first party. We’ll take it in two-hour shifts. The rest of you can keep lookout from the sangars. I want eyes everywhere.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Norton stepped out into the bright sunlight before Bryant could raise any objections. He walked briskly towards the men, who were gathered listlessly, awaiting instructions.

  ‘Right, I’ll need six of you to come with me on the first search detail.’ He singled out Kenny Green, ‘Green, you’ll be carrying the med pack.’

  Kenny Green inwardly groaned at the thought of lugging the heavy pack straight after breakfast, but after falling asleep on the job he felt he was in no position to object.

  ‘Any volunteers?’ Norton inquired.

  Two hands went up: they belonged to Privates Lee Roberts and Danny Marsh; both were from B Section.

  ‘All right, we might as well have the rest of B Section while we’re at it,’ Norton said, ‘as you were the ones who should have been keeping an eye on him.’

  Dale Carter, Dean Paget, Mike Allerton and Lance Corporal Jim Warman let out a collective groan.

  ‘Suit up. We move out in five minutes,’ Norton barked.

  While they grabbed their vests, helmets and weapons, Norton made his way quickly to the latrine. He had stomach ache and felt nauseous. He put it down to the previous evening’s meal of rehydrated liver and onions. It was the same every tour: the food in the last few days comprised the inedible dregs.

  ‘Stay there.’ The order was shouted by Private Finlay from the north-west sangar. He was addressing someone out on the approach way to the post’s entrance.

  ‘Who is it?’ Bryant yelled back.

  Finlay checked through binoculars. ‘Yusuf, sir.’

  Norton stepped out from the latrine tent and squirted his hands with sanitizer. ‘Is he alone?’

  ‘As far as I can see.’

  Yusuf was their primary local contact. A young man of twenty-five and the grandson of the principal elder in the nearby village of Shalan-Gar. He had learned rudimentary English at school and picked up more from the soldiers who had been in the area for nearly eight years. Insofar as Norton trusted any of the locals, he trusted Yusuf the most. He had taken a big risk by acting as go-between with the British Army and Norton was keenly aware that the small amounts of money he had received in return was little compensation.

  ‘Bring him up to the line. I’ll talk to him from up there.’

  Norton climbed the wooden ladder to the sangar where he joined Private Finlay. Yusuf was already standing at the white line spray-painted across the dirt road twenty yards from the gate. Close enough to talk, far away enough not to be able to kill anyone with hidden explosives. A quick glance reassured Norton that nothing was strapped to Yusuf’s skinny frame, but now wasn’t the time to take chances.

  ‘Good morning, Yusuf. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Good morning, Major Norton,’ Yusuf gave a deferential nod. Something about his demeanour didn’t seem right. His innocent smile had been replaced with a frown. ‘I bring bad news.’

  Norton felt his already queasy stomach churn.

  ‘You have a man missing . . .’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Some fighters have him. They ask one hundred thousand dollars for his safe return.’

  ‘He’s alive?’

  ‘Yes. He is alive.’

  ‘Where are these people?’

  ‘Near our village.’ Yusuf glanced anxiously over his shoulder as if there might be someone listening. ‘They talk to my grandfather. He send me here.’

  Norton’s head was filling with questions, but he stuck to the obvious ones: ‘Are these people Taliban? Do we know them?’

  ‘Yes. Taliban. Not from this valley – travelling through. If you want, I will talk to them, but it’s dangerous . . .’ He wrung his hands and stared at his feet. Norton guessed what was coming next. ‘Very dangerous. Ten thousand dollars perhaps . . .’

  ‘Sir—’

  Norton glanced down and saw Bryant at the inside of the gate. He had heard every word of the exchange.

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant. Bring Yusuf in, please. We need to talk business.’

  Norton’s subtlety of tone carried a message to Bryant which he hoped would have passed over Yusuf’s head. He turned back to the go-between and called down to him in a friendly voice, ‘We are so glad to hear he’s alive. We’d like him back as soon as possible. Do I have your word that you won’t be asking for any more than ten thousand dollars to make this happen?’

  Yusuf looked hesitant and shot another glance over his shoulder. ‘For me, yes. Ten thousand.’

  He saw the gate opening ahead of him. A smiling Sergeant Bryant gestured him into the post.

  ‘I’m coming down,’ Norton called out, and clambered down the ladder.

  Yusuf had never stepped inside the British Army post, but evidently the prospect of a large bundle of money overcame his fears. Norton arrived on the ground as Bryant closed and locked the gate behind him.

  ‘Sorry about this, Yusuf.’

  The young man’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Norton’s pistol levelled at his chest. Bryant took hold of him and strapped his wrists behind his back with nylon ties. ‘No lies, Major. He is alive. He is alive.’

  ‘And so are you. Let’s try to keep it that way.’

  According to Yusuf, the Taliban fighters had approached his grandfather’s house shortly after dawn requesting food and water. They told the old man that they had been travelling across the valley by night when they found the young British soldier cowering in a ditch at the roadside. Seizing the chance to make some easy money, they ordered the village elder, Yusuf’s grandfather, Musa Sarabi, to convey their ransom demand to the nearest military post.

  Norton quickly concluded that the story failed to add up. Firstly, he questioned why Taliban fighters would run the risk of crossing the occupied valley only thirty-six hours before they knew the British would be departing, and, secondly, he didn’t buy the idea of them having chanced on Skippy by accident. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Skippy must have been the victim of an audacious kidnapping. The circumstances required to execute such a feat were improbable – two sentries would have to have been asleep at the same time – but not impossible. That meant that it had to be local Taliban who were responsible – men posing as farmers working the surrounding land who had kept the post under surveillance for weeks or even months waiting for such a moment.

  It was scarcely credible, but the idea that one of his men left the post of his own free will was even more outlandish. There was a perfect motive, too: the capture of a British soldier on the final day of the occupation was propaganda of a sort money couldn’t buy.

  After talking round and round in circles with Yusuf, Norton once again consulted Colonel Hastings over the radio and settled on a plan of action. They agreed that kidnap was the most probable explanation. But while Norton remained concerned that the motive was chiefly political, Hastings insisted that it was more likely to be financial. The population of the Shalan-Gar valley was dirt poor and the opportunity to make even a few thousand dollars was one that men might risk their lives for. Unlike the French or Italians, the British were known for not paying ransom, but Hastings was convinced a local group had gambled on the rules being bent in the final hours of the occupation. The Shalan-Gar valley currently contained nearly 150 British troops and air support could
be called in within minutes. The local Taliban had little in common with the new breed of jihadists Hastings and Norton had encountered in Iraq; they were shrewd and calculating men who remained interested in their personal survival. It all added up, in his opinion, to an attempt at extortion. And as Major Norton knew from long experience, when Colonel Hastings formed an opinion, there was no contradicting it.

  It was agreed that Norton would lead a party to Shalan-Gar and attempt to achieve a peaceful conclusion. If whoever was holding him persisted in their demands for ransom, he was empowered to offer up to ten assault rifles and ammunition in lieu of cash – a tactic that had worked for the British in past hostage situations. If that failed, he was to withdraw and report back to Hastings. Meanwhile, Hastings would confer with General Browne to discuss the unprecedented possibility of meeting the kidnappers’ demands. Hastings’s gut told him that on this particular occasion, the rules might indeed be bent.

  ‘It would stick in the craw,’ Hastings said, ‘but so would taking the shine off all your hard work.’

  If the compliment was intended to make Major Norton feel better about the mission he had been ordered to lead, it failed to have the desired effect. He had realized that, like his men, he had lost his edge. Even a week ago he would have relished the challenge, but this morning he would gladly have crawled back to his bed.

  ‘Softly, softly,’ Hastings said. ‘Let them know we’re eager to leave quietly.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Norton answered, trying his best to sound compliant.

  At the last moment, Major Norton made the decision to bring Sergeant Bryant on the expedition to Shalan-Gar. During a dozen years of combat tours Norton had dealt with numerous hostage negotiations and proved to himself that he possessed a cool head even under the most intense pressure, but he had never negotiated the release of a man for whom he felt quite so personally responsible as Skippy. Fearing that personal emotions were threatening to intrude on his judgement, he felt the need for his sergeant’s unflappable presence.

  Taking Yusuf with them, they travelled the kilometre to Shalan-Gar in the platoon’s two armoured Land Rovers. It wasn’t yet nine a.m. but the outside temperature was already thirty-five degrees and climbing. Sweat streamed from beneath Norton’s helmet and trickled down his neck, yet as they drew up outside the rough dirt walls of the village compound, he felt a cold shiver travel the length of his spine.

  ‘Paget, Allerton, Marsh, you three stay here with Yusuf. The rest of you will come inside with me.’

  Requiring no further instruction, the men formed up and performed their routine radio and weapons checks. Seconds later they were ready to go. It was a procedure they had performed countless times before on their frequent visits to the village.

  Norton approached the centuries-old rough-hewn gates at the entrance to the compound and knocked three times. Almost immediately, a small shutter opened and a pair of vivid green eyes set in a face of almost Caucasian complexion stared back at him. They belonged to Ali-Mohammed Sarabi, one of Yusuf’s many cousins and one of only a tiny handful of men in the village with a few words of English.

  ‘Salaam, Ali-Mohammed,’ Norton said. ‘We would like to speak with Musa Sarabi.’

  The young man nodded and drew back the heavy bolts securing the gates. They were clearly expected.

  Norton stepped through into the village compound and led his party to the elder’s residence. Several dozen single-storey dwellings and storage barns, all constructed of hard-packed mud, were scattered haphazardly inside the perimeter wall. The communal areas were quieter than usual. Only a few children were playing outdoors. Skinny goats scavenged the alleyways for scraps and chickens scratched hopefully in the dust. Here and there, clusters of sunburnt men crouched on their haunches sipping tea and casting furtive glances at the soldiers. There were no women to be seen.

  Musa Sarabi’s house was the biggest in the village and sited at its centre next to an open area that served as the village square, in the middle of which was a large, shady palm tree. Norton had spent many painful hours sitting cross-legged on its tiled floor, drinking tea and trying to explain the purpose and objectives of the British presence in the area. Musa Sarabi would nod inscrutably and offer the occasional smile from behind his thick grey whiskers, but how much notice he took of what was said, Norton had never been entirely sure. This morning they would cut straight to the chase. Norton was in no mood for lengthy discussions.

  As they turned into the square, the major saw immediately that things were different. Instead of waiting to receive them inside his house, Musa Sarabi was standing in the doorway. His usually unreadable face bore an anxious expression.

  Norton handed his rifle to Private Kenny Green as they approached. He stepped forward alone to make the formal greeting. ‘Salaam.’

  They exchanged nods, but Sarabi was in a hurry to get down to business. He spoke quickly in Pashto to Ali, who relayed the message in faltering English to Norton.

  ‘You have dollars?’

  Norton answered patiently. ‘First things first. Where is my man?’

  Ali didn’t bother with translating back to his grandfather. ‘Dollars. You have dollars, or man dead.’ He drew a finger swiftly across his throat.

  ‘No dollars,’ Norton said carefully. He shook his head. ‘We have weapons.’ He gestured to their rifles, then held up three fingers. ‘Three rifles for my man.’

  ‘No dollars?’ Ali’s eyes remained fixed on Norton.

  ‘No.’ He decided to up his offer. ‘Five rifles – with ammunition.’ He spread out his palms in a gesture of goodwill. ‘We come as friends, Musa Sarabi. These rifles cost many thousands of dollars. Very valuable.’

  Ali dipped his head and muttered in Pashto to his grandfather. The old man stared at Norton in bewilderment, then in fear, and without a further word retreated hastily behind the door, closing it behind him. In the same instant, Ali bolted.

  ‘Sir!’ Kenny Green pointed to an armed figure, his head swathed in a black turban, who had sprung up on a rooftop across the square.

  Norton saw the flash of light from the muzzle of the gunman’s AK-47 and heard the bullets slice the air inches from his body. As he and the others ran in separate directions in search of cover, two more figures popped up alongside the first and opened fire. A grenade exploded, hurling a cloud of thick red dust into the air. The last thing Norton remembered before he descended into hell was the sound of one of his men screaming.

  FIVE

  Sergeant Steve Price was looking forward to his comrades’ return. Highcliffe Camp had been like a ghost town during his company’s tour, and he had made few friends among the professional desk-jockeys who worked alongside him in the soulless regimental administration centre. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He hadn’t joined the army to spend his days shining the seat of his trousers. The life he had craved was the one that had first fired his imagination on the TV recruitment ads: all guns and adrenalin-fuelled action. He had been lucky enough to experience it for five exhilarating years, but now it was over and each day he struggled to come to terms with the fact.

  It had been nearly fifteen months since Lance Corporal Steve Price, as he then was, drove over an IED that sent the armoured Land Rover in which he was travelling spiralling into the air. He remembered the noise of the explosion and the blinding flash of light, but little else. The shock wave knocked him out cold, which had turned out to be a blessing. Mickey Turner, his only companion in the vehicle, had somehow remained conscious throughout the whole ordeal. Mickey’s physical injuries had been less serious than Steve’s – only a couple of broken bones and a ruptured eardrum – but his nerves were shredded. The army psychiatrist pronounced him a hopeless case and he was medically discharged before his wounds were healed. Last time Price had seen him, Mickey’s hands were shaking like an old man’s. Price’s mind was unaffected, but the loss of his right eye had permanently ruled him unfit for a combat role. It was nonsensical in his opinion – putting in six hard g
ym sessions a week, he was fitter now than he had ever been – but rules were rules and nowhere more so than in the army. He had been left with a choice between being tossed out into the world with precious few qualifications, or taking up the army’s offer of alternative employment. He had taken the sensible option. The man of action now had a comfortable salary and a savings account. If he stuck it out, in about twenty years’ time he could collect a decent pension. Except for the few wrinkles in his personal life that were yet to be fully ironed out, most people would say he had it made. Watching the office clock creep slowly towards five thirty, he tried to convince himself that he was one of the lucky ones.

  Minutes later, Price was already heading across the parade ground en route to the gym. After a long day cooped up indoors he was ready for a tough ninety-minute workout before heading out for a few beers in the town. As he approached the PT block his phone sounded a message alert. He ignored it. Whoever it was would have to wait. He pushed through the door and made his way along the corridor. Another message sounded its arrival. There was only one person who would send him two texts the moment he left the office and he had no intention of speaking to her. It was over between them. Finished. He had made himself clear and there was nothing more to say. He shouldered open the door to the changing room, slung his bag on the bench and started to undress, eager to hit the weights and feel the rush of blood to his muscles. He was pulling on his trainers when his phone started to ring. Would she never give up? Sighing, he fetched it from his pocket ready to spell it out in words that she might just understand. But it wasn’t her number on the screen. It was a work call, and the worst kind of all.

  Anna Roberts paused to admire her handiwork. The kitchen in the little flat had never looked more spotless. Every surface was gleaming. She had even wiped the tops of the cupboards and pulled the fridge right out from under the counter to hunt out every last speck of grime. She wanted Lee to come back to a home as cheerful and bright as she could make it. Tomorrow would be taken up with all the frantic final preparations for the parade and picnic, so this evening was her last chance to apply the finishing touches. Leanne, however, wasn’t impressed with being neglected and was starting to grizzle. It was past her meal time.