The Contract Man
Page 22
Holmwood watched the wiper remove the thin sheen of drizzle from the windscreen, and shivered involuntarily at the thought of being left with no alternative but to sleep rough on the end of the pier. He turned to the left and joined the bumpy cobbles of Market Street, with its rows of shop fronts and public houses. The street was deserted, the pubs long since closed. He presumed they opened later in the summer months. The swirling mist created an eerie feeling, as if they were driving through a ghost town.
Stewart bent forwards and pointed at the side street on the right. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Holmwood glanced down at his own handwritten route plan, which was resting on the central console, then looked up at the tiny side road. “Certainly looks like it, seems different in the dark though,” he paused, then noted the tiny bakery further down the street where they had bought Pryce his Cornish pasty. “Yes, that’s the one.” He eased the car across the narrow road, then turned to the right and carried on up the steep hill for approximately fifty metres, where he found a pull-in on the left. “This ought to do, there’s nobody about anyway.”
Stewart nodded. “OK, lads, you know the score. We are to locate Alex King’s security blanket, that’s all. Photograph, confirm and then get the Hell out. All right?” The two men nodded in unison, and Stewart smiled. “Right then, let’s get to it…”
The door was opened with consummate ease, but it was the alarm control panel which caused the problems. No wires fed into the unit from outside, all connections were made from within the stud-partition wall.
Holmwood worked quickly, urgently. The door was coupled to a silent sensor, with a time delay to allow for the disarming of the alarm and as he did not know the exact duration of the delay, it was imperative to remove the control panel as quickly as possible. Pryce stood at his shoulder, holding all of the necessary tools at the ready, like a surgeon’s assistant in a life-threatening emergency operation. Knowing the procedures himself, he had the appropriate tool in Holmwood’s hand before the man had need to ask.
“That’s twenty seconds...” Pryce whispered, glancing at the luminous dials of his watch. “My guess is another twenty, but no more.”
Holmwood remained silent, working his way through the pattern of wires and the series of connectors which lined the inside of the control panel. Satisfied that he had located both the ‘in’ and ‘out’ routes, he snapped the crocodile-clips of the circuit-breaker around the entrance and exit wires, then flicked on the device’s power switch. He glanced down at the connected fascia, which dangled down from the panel, carelessly abandoned less than a minute ago and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the ‘disarmed’ light flash for three seconds. He stepped away from the wall and turned towards Pryce. “All right, go and get the old man, and tell him, we’re in.”
54
He lay as flat to the cold ground as he could, keeping his movements deliberately slow as he crawled along the ridge until he found the ideal vantage-point. The moon was barely a glimmer in the dark night sky, yet the whole plateau seemed to be floodlit. The sky was so clear that the starlight alone gave enough light to see by. As he eased himself into the shallow, dried-up wadi, he glanced back and cringed when he saw the unmistakable silhouette of Shameel streak across the brow of the tiny hillock and dive behind the first of a series of boulders which lay scattered across the narrow ridge.
Alex King returned his attention to the military outpost below and the mass of troops who were boarding the endless stream of trucks and armoured personnel carriers. The base was a hive of activity and King guessed that the army was mounting a full-scale search for him, as well as hunting the Faisal brothers for their poorly placed IED. Osman Emrie had no doubt talked by now. King could not blame him for that, but he realised that whatever details Ozzy knew were surely known to the Iraqi Secret Police and Army Intelligence by now. Their methods were brutal at best and in ‘peacetime’, they would not show the same clemency as they would to a captured soldier or downed pilot in time of open war.
Shameel rolled into the shallow wadi, puffing breathlessly as he eased his head above the gully and peered down on the military compound. “Ah, much action going on! They go look for ISIS, no?”
“No. Me, I expect. And you and your brother.” King said, mater-of-fact.
“Good!” Shameel laughed. “They will not have far to search!”
King chuckled and looked past him and saw Akmed ease himself over the nearby ridge, taking a considerably more careful approach than his brother. He turned back to the show below them, then started to count the vehicles, which were now starting to drive towards the huge metal blast gates on the other side of the base.
“How many?” Shameel asked, straining his eyes. “I not so good at long distances,” he added apologetically.
“Twenty-seven.” King did a few multiplications in his head, then looked up as Akmed slid silently and gracefully into the gully. “That’s anything up to three hundred troops, if they fill them all.” He turned his eyes back to the last of the vehicles which were exiting the base. “That’s one Hell of a patrol!”
Akmed studied the buildings towards the eastern perimeter of the compound, then looked across at King. “The third building on the right. It looks more like a hut, but it is where the prisoners are interrogated. After that, they are spread between the fifth, sixth and seventh buildings in the row.”
“Are you sure?”
Akmed nodded positively. “Yes. I knew someone who was interrogated then escaped,” he paused, staring at him with great intensity. “It doesn’t happen often. She was captured and held for six days, she escaped after seducing one of the guards. After he had finished using her, she took a knife from his belt and cut his throat.”
“Quite a girl,” King commented flatly.
“She was, but she was killed soon afterwards. A revenge raid. Many lives lost,” Akmed looked away, his eyes glistening moistly in the moonlight. “She was my wife…”
The two men made their way down the steep slope, taking great care not to dislodge the shingle or the small rocks which made up most of the hill’s surface. King led the way, followed by Shameel, with Akmed covering their progress through the sights of a PKM machinegun. It was a belt-fed weapon with a range of up to one thousand metres and a rate of fire of twelve rounds per second. American soldiers serving in Vietnam and facing the business end of it had named it The Meat Chopper…
As King reached the sanctuary of a large boulder, he crouched down on one knee, waved Shameel past his position and signaled up the slope for Akmed to advance.
The Kurd got to his feet and made his way gingerly but sure-footedly down the steep hill. He clutched the weapon to his chest with his right hand and kept his left hand outstretched, pushing himself away from the slope as he half slid, half ran down the rocky hillside. As he neared King’s position, he slowed up and looked uncertainly at the Englishman. King waved him past, then waited for the man to take cover behind a large boulder, thirty metres further downslope.
The system worked well; two men moving, one weapon covering. King watched the two men, then made his move and broke into a semi-jog, keeping the rifle in his right hand with his finger resting safely alongside the trigger guard.
Akmed looked up at him expectantly, as he slowed his pace and took cover behind the same boulder. “What now, do we go in?”
King studied the perimeter fence for a moment, then turned to the Kurd and nodded. “Yes, but not here,” he paused and looked up at the moon, which was nearing their left. “The moon is casting a bloody beam of light along the fence, it’s standing out like a bulldog’s bollocks!” He turned his back to the boulder and watched an area of fence approximately one hundred metres to their right. “Over there,” he pointed for the Kurd to see. “Where the fence starts to deviate from that rocky outcrop.”
Akmed nodded. “Yes, I would agree.” He motioned towards his brother, then looked back at King. “Shameel has volunteered to stay outside the fence and give cover
ing fire.” The Kurd smiled, “Besides, he is not the fastest of runners…”
King smiled, realising that the job to do inside the compound was probably best done only by two. He looked at the overweight Kurd and nodded approvingly. It was imperative that someone give covering fire if anything went wrong and he knew that when the bullets started to fly, the Iraqi soldiers would give their full attention to the muzzle flashes outside the compound. Shameel’s task might well prove to be the least desirable of all, if it came to a fire-fight. The big Kurd took the PKM from his brother and walked back to the cover of boulders higher up the slope.
“I shall lead the way to the interrogation building,” Akmed paused, then looked up at King. “After that, you take over and I shall follow you. Whatever you shoot at, I shall shoot at as well.”
King nodded. “Sounds about right.” He checked the breach of his weapon, then placed it against the boulder while he checked over the Browning. “If Osman Emrie is not in the first block, then we’ll head for the next three buildings. Fifth, sixth and seventh, right?”
The Kurd nodded. “That was how it was four months ago.”
King looked at him, wondering if it had only been four months since the death of his wife. He had had no idea of this when he had last been here; the man had hidden his grief well. “All right, we’ll go in now. There’s no sense in delaying. Besides, it looks as if almost every soldier in the compound has left with that patrol.” He rose slowly to his feet and jogged in front of Shameel’s position towards the outcrop of rocks and boulders which extended across the plateau, almost touching the bottom of the twelve foot high wire fence.
He slowed his pace as he reached the rocks, then walked carefully forwards, keeping the butt of the Galil assault rifle pressed firmly against his shoulder and the weapon slightly lowered so it was quick and fluid to bring to aim. He crouched down, then knelt on one knee and waited for Akmed to run across the open ground towards him. The Kurd ran quickly, although he had not paced himself as well as King and arrived at the outcrop a little breathless, though breathing with much less labour than his brother would have been able to manage.
King beckoned him closer, then spoke quietly into his ear. “Stay here and keep me covered. If you have to fire for any reason, I will roll to the right. Make sure you don’t hit me.”
The Kurd smiled. “I am sure that you would come back and haunt me if I did.”
“You can count on it.” King returned the smile, then crawled towards the fence on his stomach and elbows, keeping his rifle resting across both forearms, as he propelled himself across the desert ground. His progress was slow yet silent and he reached the fence in less than a minute, keeping his eyes on the camp and the first set of buildings to his right. He studied the wire, looking at the weave of strands that gave the appearance of diamond shaped gaps in the mesh. On top of the fence, pitched out on both sides, were two strands of razor wire, which King knew to be impenetrable - in cold blood, at least. He eased his weapon forwards, then made sure that he touched only the wooden stock, as he rested the barrel against the wire mesh. He felt no mild tingle through the wood, which told him there was no electric current running through the wire. With the status of the fence determined, he pulled down the bipod on the barrel of the Galil and started to use one of the weapon’s valuable extras - the standard issue wire cutter.
Progress through the toughened wire was slow, but the wire cutter sliced cleanly through as King squeezed the prongs tightly together. The cutters were sharp, but it was the barrel of the weapon which slowed matters considerably, as with each cut, King had to slide the barrel through the fence so that the jaws of the wire cutter could cut a clean line through the wire mesh. With a perfect ‘C’ shape in the wire, King pulled the loop round and fastened it back against the fence, creating a hole large enough for them to crawl through. He turned to wave Akmed forward, then returned his attention to the compound and the small group of buildings close by.
A light flickered for a second or two in one of the buildings, then suddenly shone bright. King ducked, keeping the weapon tight to his shoulder, the sights trained on the brightly lit window. Akmed reached him, but remained on his stomach, choosing to train the AK47’s sights on the door of the wooden building. Both men held their breaths in anticipation of being compromised, but relaxed when they heard the familiar sound of a toilet flushing. Less than a minute later, the light switched off and the base returned to a starlit half-light.
King nodded to Akmed, indicating that they were ready and the man pushed himself to his feet and trotted quietly ahead, past the nearby buildings and towards the row of wooden huts further up the compound. King waited until there was approximately forty metres between them, then rose to his feet and jogged quietly after him. With a decent distance between the two men, the enemy would be presented with a tougher target, at least both men would not be mown down with the first burst of fire.
Akmed slowed his pace, eased himself behind one of the buildings and waited in the shadows for King to join him.
King cursed under his breath, but he had no choice and deviated towards the shed-like building, taking sudden advantage of the welcoming shadows. “What is it?” he asked quietly, choosing not to whisper. Whispering often carried further on the air than a softly spoken voice.
“A guard,” Akmed stated flatly. “Between us and the interrogation block.”
King felt deflated, knowing that it was imperative to reach their first objective silently and without being compromised. “Let me see.” He eased himself past the Kurd and crouched low to the ground, edging his head tentatively around the corner of the wooden building.
The guard was young, most likely still in his mid-teens. King guessed him to be around seventeen, although he was aware that Iraqi troops often looked younger than their age. The guard carried a standard issue M16A4 assault rifle. Part of Uncle Sam’s legacy to rearm and retrain the army after it pulled out. King wondered if part of that legacy was turning a blind eye to the treatment of the Kurds in the north. He hoped not, but how this camp got away with what it did gave him more than a few doubts. The soldier held the weapon casually over his shoulder, the last few inches of the barrel in his left hand. He not only lacked enthusiasm for his duty, but seemed to lack the ability to walk in a straight line, taking ambling steps, then pausing whilst he looked around, obviously wondering whether it was actually worth patrolling an empty camp.
King looked at the building beyond the guard and knew that it must be the interrogation block. There was no other way for them to go but straight ahead and that meant confronting the guard. At this range a rifle shot would be the best bet, but the isolated sound would be enough to wake the dead. The 9mm Browning would be a little quieter, but only in relative terms and the sound would have a similar effect, as soon as he pulled the trigger, all Hell would break loose. That left his silenced Glock, taken from Juliet Kalver earlier. However, at this range the tiny weapon would most probably not prove accurate enough for a one shot silenced kill. One mistake, one scream from the guard, and their presence would be apparent.
Akmed tapped him gently on the shoulder and spoke quietly into his left ear. “Here, take my gun, I will do it.”
King turned around and saw the Kurdish khanjar in the man’s hand. It was a wicked looking curved Arabian dagger with a needle tip and a razor sharp blade. The browned-steel was dark, almost as if rusted, but for a shiny silver edge that ran from the tip to the hilt. King saw the conviction in the man’s eyes, and decided to let him take the chance. The Kurd had personal history with this camp. Perhaps it was the local emotion which had led the CIA to close down the operation against ISIS. The Kurds had history with everyone in these parts.
He took the rifle from him, then eased himself against the wall of the building to allow the Kurd to pass.
Akmed held the dagger in his right hand, keeping the blade pointing downwards. He watched the youth intently, then waited for the ambling soldier to turn his back on them. It did
n’t take long. The youth casually turned around, took another two or three steps, then looked up and stared complacently at the hillside.
Akmed moved with lightning speed, sprinting from a crouch and gaining fearsome momentum as he ran across the open ground towards the unsuspecting Iraqi soldier. As he drew near, the guard heard the sound of rushing footsteps and turned around, but too late to stand any chance of defending himself. Akmed lashed out with his right hand and drew the blade savagely across the soldier’s throat. There was a clearly audible sound as the razor-sharp blade slashed cleanly through the windpipe and grated against the man’s spine. The young soldier fell forward onto his knees, clutching at his throat and attempting to breathe, but he was dying quickly and by the time Akmed caught hold of him by his belt and collar and started to drag him towards the edge of the interrogation block he was already unconscious.
King rushed out from the shadows of the small building and passed the rifle to the Kurd, then caught hold of the soldier’s belt and helped to drag him across the dusty ground. Progress was quicker with two and it only took seconds to reach the side of the building. He went back for the soldier’s weapon, then dropped it on top of the body. He looked at Akmed, who was wiping the blade of his dagger clean against his sleeve. King nodded at him, then turned around and climbed the rest of the wooden steps. He motioned towards the door, then waited for his companion to get into position. Akmed mounted the steps, paused at the side of the door, keeping the muzzle of his weapon trained on the jamb and nodded that he was ready.
King tried the door handle cautiously, then sighed with relief when it opened quietly. He eased the door inwards, then waited for a moment. Satisfied that the entrance was clear, he stepped inside and walked carefully towards the first door on the right.
Again, the two men repeated the process; King opening the door, Akmed covering. The door was made from steel, painted grey and bolted. King knew the purpose of the outside bolt, but as soon as he stepped inside the room he knew its sole purpose only too well.