Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  He clasped his hands together, dollar signs all but visible in his pupils. ”Why of course.” He gestured with the palm of his hand. “Here we have a very distinctive tie by Hermes. It depicts a repeated interlocking chain on a burgundy background or this one has a delightful skylark pattern.”

  Both Hermes ties were too fussy for Khan’s liking. As he pretended to consider them the curtain fluttered open and the courier reappeared.

  The assistant moved away. “If you will, excuse me, for one moment sir?”

  The courier held up the suit. “I shall take this.”

  “Very well, you have excellent taste.” He scanned the price tag. “That will be 3026 Riyals.”

  The courier did not flinch at the price merely handed the assistant a credit card. The assistant studied the card. “There is a slight handling fee for American Express.”

  “No problem.”

  “Very good. If you could, sign here?”

  The courier signed the credit slip as the assistant packed the suit into a Chanel suit carrier. The canvas carrier seemed to hang slightly as though it was not empty. Khan walked towards the counter brandishing the Chanel tie, there was no point in trying to hide his face from the man, it would only make him look more suspicious.

  The courier picked up his suit and left the boutique.

  The assistant took the tie and read out the price. “Six hundred and seventy two Riyals.”

  Khan tried not to show his shock but handed over seven hundred riyals and willed the man to give him his change quickly. As Khan left the shop the assistant bid him a cheery farewell. Outside on the pavement the courier put on a pair of sunglasses and stepped into a taxi. Khan followed the direction of the taxi and stepped into a car.

  “I think we have something.”

  “You think so?” Replied the driver, a CIA field officer by the name of Mahdi.

  “Yep.” They now spoke in English. “I think that he was given something at the shop.”

  “Follow that car?” Mused Mahdi.

  “Yep, just like the films.”

  The CIA Toyota followed the Taxi at a distance, always keeping at least two cars in between them. The route took the two cars into the old part of the city, Al-Bathaa known for cheap lodging and shopping, where the courier got out. Mahdi stopped the car further along the road and watched as the courier entered a building that purported to be a hotel.

  “We can’t stay here for long.”

  Khan agreed. “But we need to find what he was given. We’ll have to go in.”

  “I’ll find a place to park; you stay here and keep an eyeball on the hotel.”

  Khan nodded and exited the car.

  As Mahdi moved away Khan entered the hotel. As he asked the desk clerk for room prices he scanned for a back door. To his relief he couldn’t see one. Once furnished with a ‘rack rate’ quote he crossed the road once more and sat in a nearby café, ordered an Arabic coffee and focussed on the front of the hotel. He would wait there until he got further instructions from Casey. In an hour or so Mahdi would swap places with him. It would be difficult to keep a constant watch with just the two of them but without any further proof more agents would not be allocated.

  Embassy of the United States of America, Riyadh

  “Casey.”

  “Mr Casey you asked me to keep an eye out for anything unusual...” The monitoring clerk, another Southerner, was nervous with excitement.

  “Yes Doreen?” Casey sat up straighter at his desk.

  “Well, Echelon just picked up a message from that Sat phone we found before in the Saudi desert.”

  “That’s great Doreen, send it over?”

  “Right away, Mr Casey.”

  His desktop played the clicking clock from the TV show 24, a simple thing he had installed to amuse himself and to alert him to a new high priority email. He clicked on the icon and opened the message from Doreen Wilson. The call that had been intercepted by the key word recognition software of the echelon monitoring system in itself was not alarming rather it was the combination of phrases that had been identified as in use by Al Qaeda.

  Two sentences stood out:

  Caller: ‘Greetings my brother, your friends have arrived safely. When shall we commence the celebrations?”

  Receiver: ‘My Brother I have been delayed by one hour and will not be able to be with you until morning.”

  It was an old code, one that he had not seen for over a year but a ping none the less. The analysis of the conversation, which Casey didn’t need to check, was attached:

  Caller: We have the hostages. When shall we execute the first?

  Receiver: Delay for twelve hours.

  The code was simple, effective but broken. The location of the call had been triangulated, the caller staying on the phone for just long enough. Casey tapped the coordinates into the desk top and immediately an area in the Saudi mountains was pin pointed. A large smile creased his tanned face.

  “We got your boys Harry, we got your boys.”

  Casey’s hand hovered over his desk phone before going back to the keyboard. He tapped in a quick message and forwarded the coordinates to Slinger-Thompson. He then brought back up the spy bird and zoomed in on the coordinates, he’d keep an eye on this development but his real goal was the man at the other end of the conversation. The man, who had been under surveillance since he first started to deliver packages to Al Jazeera. The man, who also, Casey believed, relayed messages from the top. The number was tracked and as expected was the same Saudi cell phone. The ‘courier’ had become sloppy, underestimating the reach of Echelon and the CIA itself. No name or billing address was registered for the number. Casey however got a location from the call, Riyadh. The location was in the Al-Bathaa quarter. Was it as simple as that? Casey rang his two field officers from his cell phone and called for his car. They would grab the courier and his phone, a bit of ‘friendly rendition’ for the Brits. The courier would, he hoped, lead them to his ‘sheik’ and in turn the wider network of insurgents operation in and between Iraq and Saudi Arabia.

  Unknown Location, the Arabian Desert

  The door opened again. Lordy cowered in the corner as Fox readied himself for attack. The two guards had returned. Fox held a bucket in his left hand and just as the second man entered threw it. It hit the guard on his shoulder, he dropped his weapon, the first stunned, stood motionless. Fox pounced and grabbed the AK from the first guard. Both men slipped on the wet floor and went down. Fox rolled on top and held the rifle against the man’s throat as the trigger finger pulled. On fully automatic rounds leapt out of the barrel of the Kalashnikov and impacted into the concrete walls. Both Fox and the guard were momentarily deafened. The weapon started to come loose when there was a sudden sharp blow to the back of his head. Fox’s hands lost their grip as stars burst into his eyes. His body was limp before he hit the floor.

  Khalid slapped Salah in the face with the back of his hand, a second time. The insult and loss of status in front of his men hurt Salah as much as the blow. He bowed his head, humiliated for the second time that day.

  “You fool.” Khalid whispered the insult. “What if he had managed to escape? You would have been ridiculed, an affront to the Prophet.”

  “Khalid I am sorry.” Salah’s pleading tone hid his rising anger at himself. “I will ensure that they pose no further threat.”

  “You will keep them bound and you will not kill them unless I directly order it so. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Khalid placed his hand on Salah’s shoulder; he had used the stick, now he would use the carrot. “My brother, when the West see’s our footage they will tremble at the might of The Warriors of Mecca.”

  Salah looked up at Khalid with pride.

  Khalid smiled. “I am to leave now and give further instructions to our brothers.”

  Alone, Salah watched as Khalid exited the building, climbed into his German built SUV and headed for the city. Salah returned to the cell. Both the infidel
s had been tied to the chairs once more. The older one was still unconscious but the other one was awake and shaking. Salah told the men to attach the electrodes whilst he, once again, switched on the camera. He was proud that Khalid had chosen him; he would now show him what he was capable of.

  As though through a fog, Fox’s eyes started to focus. Before they could distinguish any definite shapes he felt tepid water being poured over him. Suddenly everything was once again clear. He could hear Arabic from behind him. He had no choice, he spoke. “My name is James Fox and I came to Saudi to help the Saudi people…”

  “BE QUIET!” A voice yelled in Arabic.

  “I came to help the people of Saudi Arabia but these…”

  “QUIET!” Salah shouted again, this time in English.

  The two guards didn’t move, they were being filmed but the Infidel was shouting in his own language. Salah fired his rifle, the sound bouncing from the concrete walls. He grabbed Fox’s chair and pulled it to the floor. Fox tensed and his neck took the torque preventing his head from slamming into the floor.

  “My name is James Fox and I am a friend of the Saudi people...”

  A rifle was thrust into his face; he tried to turn his head as it bit into the flesh of his cheek. The muzzle was warm from the single shot and stung.

  “You will be quiet now.” Salah barked an order “Shoot him.”

  Time stopped as Fox saw the end. Images of his parents and Tracy appeared in his mind’s eye. He closed his eyes, not because of cowardice but because he did not want the manic face of Salah to be the last thing he saw. Tracy’s face was there smiling, one of those smiles he hadn’t seen since she’d ‘left him’. She was the only person who had mattered to him. He now smiled too. Sod it. None of it mattered anymore. Despite himself he could feel tears form.

  A single shot rang out, a scream. Fox opened his eyes. His chair was yanked upright then turned to face Lordy. Blood was seeping through the stomach area of his jump suit and his crotch was wet. Salah prodded the area with his rifle as the others laughed.

  “I told you to be quiet.” He placed his rifle on the table and produced a curved blade dagger. He held it against Fox’s chest “You have caused this.”

  The stomach wound wept more blood. It was fatal if not treated. Fox closed his eyes again, willing it not happen, bound to the chair, unable to do anything to stop it. He heard the three Arabs in the room start to chant.

  “Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…Allah Akbar…”

  “Paddy…” Lordy’s words were cut short by a scream.

  Fox’s eyes flicked open and widened in horror as Salah drove the dagger deep into Lordy’s heart. The Londoner’s body shook as his life left it. Salah removed the dagger and held it aloft, the chanting continuing. He was toying with him, the murdering bastard. Fox’s blood ran hot. Killing Lordy was one thing but somehow taunting him was another. His arms flexed and he felt the bonds move ever so slightly but move they did. A wave of pain jolted his body as the current was sent racing through his system. He felt his heart pound, he clenched his teeth. The lifeless corpse of Lordy jerked, reanimated by the current. Fox looked past the Londoner and fixed his gaze at a point on the wall willing his body to ignore the pain, all the while his heart being forced to beat faster.

  More duck-tape was bound round his legs as he was cut from the chair then kicked onto the floor. He body went in to spasm and he curled up. Laughter above as the voltage continued to be sent through Lordy, now causing the skin and hair to singe. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the fetid air.

  “Enough.”

  Salah uncut Lordy and let his body fall next to Fox. The three torturers left the room.

  Saudi Arabian Airspace

  High above the desert the huge doors of the C130 transport plane opened causing all inside to be buffeted by the ferocious howling winds. The loadmaster stood on the brink patiently awaiting the signal from the pilot that they were over the correct drop zone. Behind him stood six members of G Squadron, 22 Special Air Service Regiment, dressed in high altitude compression suits and oxygen masks, their burgens held between their legs. Through the Perspex of his own mask the loadmaster saw the light switch blink from red to green. He motioned the team forward and yelled above the noise. “GO GO GO!”

  Unable to hear his voice but seeing his sign the stick of men shuffled forward and within ten seconds had disappeared into the swirling darkness below. The doors of the C130 closed. Inside became calm once again and it headed back to Basra.

  Falling at a terminal velocity of 120 mph the SAS troopers shot towards the drop zone. Following the blinking green light of the man in front, each relied on the other and ultimately the team leader for direction. Hitting 27,000 feet they deployed their chutes and instantly decelerated. From here on in they would rely on GPS way points and terrain features to navigate, however in the sands of Arabia these were few. Six black specs against the desert night they were all but invisible. Sergeant Richard Lewis guided his men towards the mountains and the last known contact location, the intercepted splash from the Iridium phone flagged by the CIA, confirmed by GCHQ.

  They would land in the desert and then move covertly into the mountain range. They had their own satellite linked communication equipment that they would use to communicate with Hereford.

  Rub al-Khali, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  Darkness fell quickly in the Saudi desert. Within half an hour the raging sun had been replaced by a desert moon, which cast an eerie glow on the ever increasingly rocky terrain. This added to the impression Snow already had, that he was on the moon. The temperature had started to drop and a wind had risen from nowhere, blowing cold against the sweat which had clung to his body all day. Snow started to shiver. It was nothing compared to his winter days in Kyiv, but took his weakened body by surprise. Ahead of him the path led up between the mountains and out of sight.

  He had tracked them for three hours now, first across the plain and then into the unforgiving mountains. Having to continuously check that he had not been spotted. Snow was following at an erratic pace, moving in bounds, lying flat against the sand then darting forward to the next bit of cover. The Bedouin were masters of the desert, having roamed for generation after generation. They were perfectly adapted to this hostile land but even they needed water. Snow had to hope that their tracking skills would not help them in detecting that they were now the ones being tracked.

  The moonlight cast long shadows across the rocks which now were increasing vastly in size. Snow strained his eyes to make out the route ahead, in a world of contrasts of pitch black, grey shadows and almost blinding moonlight. He tilted his head so that the rod receptors at the side of his eyes would pick up the detail that his main receptors missed, but even so it took Snow all his concentration to keep his footing. His head had again started to ache, a cocktail of eye strain, exhaustion and dehydration. He had not eaten since breakfast and apart from the water stolen from the insurgents had had nothing to drink. He was running on less than empty and could collapse and fall into unconsciousness at any moment. The only thing that kept him going was willpower.

  Snow had lost sight of his quarry five minutes before when the path had veered to the right behind the start of the rock face. This was the most dangerous part of all; he was being forced onto a narrow cutting between sheer rock. A perfect place for an ambush.

  Snow crept forward stopping every other pace to listen. The noise of the wind whipped around the rocks, with its banshee like whistle. He reached the cliff face and stood stock still, listening for a minute. It was now that he was entering the killing zone. Snow steadied his breathing and opened his mouth in an attempt to further enhance his hearing. His heart started to beat faster and he swore it could be heard over the wind. With one further calming breath, he pushed himself flat against the rock and eased his head around the natural bend. He now saw that the path rose again and disappeared in a pool of darkness not eighty feet away. If he was being watched he was dead, if they had NVG goggle
s he was dead.

  No shot came, no sound of men readying weapons or the glint of a blade. Snow pushed forward and was illuminated for a moment by the moonlight, before plunging back into shadow. Here the sound of the wind had vanished and his heart seemed to beat louder than ever. He paused half way and listened again there was a rustling noise at his feet. He flinched as a snake passed not more than a foot away. A second sound, this time a camel up ahead, then another accompanied by some calming voices in Arabic. He was getting nearer to them, the missioners. With more caution and trepidation than ever before, Snow continued to follow the path. It climbed before the ground dropped away and he found himself looking down at a water hole fifty feet away.

  Caused by the desert rains running off the mountains above, the oasis stood in a natural hollow, unaffected by the worst of the relentless sun during the day and the howling winds at night. The camels lapped at the water whilst their masters, tugged at the packs they had been carrying. Two more Bedouin crouched over a pile of kindling and attempted to light it. The missioners sat at the furthest away from the entrance with their backs against the rock face, three men stood in front of them cradling Kalashnikovs. Snow carefully lowered himself flat onto his stomach and counted the Bedouin. Four with the camels, two lighting the fire, three guarding the hostages and another two who were talking at the furthest edge of the hollow – eleven in total and all armed. The odds had just got worse. Snow noticed that their leader, the one who had fired the pistol round at the roadside, was having a heated discussion with what appeared to be his second in command.

  The leader waved his arms dismissively and moved away. He reached into his robes and produced a light grey object, Snow squinted, he instantly recognised the shape but could not believe he was correct. The Bedouin extended the antenna and dialled a number into the Iridium handset. Snow shook his head slowly. How many Bedouin had sat phones? Whoever these people were they seemed to be well organised and were not acting alone. Snow’s mind went back to the Arab he had seen make the video, the Arab who had shot Thacker. Was he the one in control? More importantly where was Fox, did he have him?