Aggressor

by Nick Cook

‘A caravanserai... a sacred place,’ Abdullah had said, before the helicopters swept over the wadi to destroy it.

  Girling let go of the bars and teetered backwards. He tried to regain balance, but fell against the far wall of the cell, cracking his head against the stones.

  There was a scuffle outside the door and he looked up to see a man’s face at the bars. Girling could not speak. He watched as a slice of unleavened bread was thrown to the floor. By the time he reached it, the face was gone and he was alone again.

  They came for him several hours after nightfall.

  Too faint from drugs and hunger to be afraid, Girling stumbled into the night. His hands were roped together in front of him; two soldiers held his arms and a third marched behind, holding a rifle to his back.

  Girling felt as if he were caught in a strong current against which resistance was useless. He twisted in his escort’s grip to take in his surroundings. The new moon did not cast much light, but picked out the caravanserai none the less. He reached the top of a rise. Dotted before the walls of the ancient building were a dozen camp fires, each surrounded by fifteen or twenty men. It looked like a medieval battlefield.

  In the glow of the fires, Girling could make out weapon emplacements. He saw anti-aircraft guns mounted on station wagons and, amongst the portable weaponry, rocket-propelled grenades and shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missiles by the dozen.

  The night air was sharp against his face. He was maybe five or six thousand feet above sea level. Mountains, he was in the mountains.

  They reached the caravanserai’s double gates. The soldier in charge of his escort shouted a series of harsh commands in the night and the doors swung slowly open, hinges groaning under the strain.

  Inside, women cooked over open stoves while the men sat talking and smoking. The air was thick with conversation and the smell of bean stew and spiced meats.

  The caravanserai was lavishly detailed. It reminded Girling of the Al-Mu’ayyad mosque, where he had seen the Guide. A wooden balcony ran around the inside of the courtyard, supported by ornate carved columns. The balcony was covered by a simple tiled roof, but the rest was open to the night. In the corner was a small mosque.

  They reached a door set into the far wall and Girling was pushed inside with such force that he tripped and fell headlong.

  He lifted his face off the smooth, paved floor. He was in a low-lit room and there was a crowd around him. The silence was palpable. As he climbed to his feet, Girling’s gaze passed quickly across the sea of faces. Some were in traditional robes, others dressed in jeans and combat jackets. Several carried automatic rifles and pistols.

  His guards grabbed him again and waded through the crowd, pushing it back with their rifles. He was forced onto a wooden chair.

  Smoke hung in layers, from floor to ceiling. Facing him were three tables arranged in a semicircle. The crowd behind him was quieter now, but Girling could sense its every movement.

  A door opened and two men entered. They sat down directly in front of him, on the opposite side of the middle table. One of them was Ahmed Jibril, the leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine-General Command. He was older than his few published photographs gave him credit. His hair was grey, his stubble patchy. He wore a chequered Palestinian gutra around his neck.

  The second man unbuckled his canvas combat belt and dropped it onto the table. Removing an old Colt .45 from its holster, he proceeded to clean it with a corner of his shirt. His dark hair, thinning at the temples, was swept back over his crown. His eyes were immensely dark and devoid of expression. Like Jibril, he wore military fatigues.

  Jibril produced several pieces of paper from the top pocket of his tunic. He unfolded them slowly and placed them on the table. He put on a pair of reading glasses and studied them for a full two minutes without saying a word.

  Girling could hear nothing except the sound of his own breathing. The entire room waited for Jibril to speak, but the other man held Girling’s attention. As he watched the rhythmic movements of the second man’s hands on the gun, a succession of images appeared before his eyes. The massacre at Beirut, bodies falling from the aircraft, explosions ripping it apart, flaming jet fuel incinerating the dead and the wounded. He saw Al-Qadi spitting into Stansell’s sarcophagus, felt the crowd close in on him outside the Al-Mu’ayyad Mosque.

  As he looked into this man’s eyes he saw the face of Abu Tarek. His men had held him while the rocks rained down on Mona. He who had turned and laughed as he stood over her body on that dirt road in Asyut...

  Girling gripped the edge of his chair. He now knew the secret of Wadi Qena. Ulm and the Pathfinders were coming to kill this bastard. And he wanted to watch them do it.

  Jibril looked up. ‘Thomas Girling.’ He pronounced it badly, running together the ‘t’ and ‘h’ and softening the first ‘g’.

  Girling turned slowly towards him.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ Jibril asked. Behind him a studious-looking man translated into Arabic for the audience.

  ‘The British publication, Dispatches.’

  Jibril clucked. ‘The whole truth...’

  ‘I told you -’

  ‘I heard first time,’ Jibril interrupted. It was a gravelly voice, heavily accented. ‘Perhaps I should be more clear.’ He waited for the translator to finish. ‘Who is paying you to write this material?’ He waved the pieces of paper in his hand. ‘The Americans? The Israelis? Your own secret service?’

  ‘I am a journalist,’ Girling said. ‘I don’t work for any government.’

  ‘You expect us to believe that?’ Jibril gestured around the room.

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘One day you are writing about guns and aeroplanes from the safety of a desk in your own country. The next, you are here, sticking your nose into business that is not your concern.’

  ‘Murder is my concern.’

  ‘You do not answer the question.’

  Girling took a deep breath. ‘I was in Cairo a long time ago. Murder took me away, and murder brought me back.’

  The translator held his tongue.

  ‘Then you have learned nothing,’ Jibril said. ‘Why did you write these lies about the Angels of Judgement?’ He waved the paper again.

  Girling looked back at the second man, who was no longer polishing his gun. ‘Because I wanted to see the face of the murderer,’ he said.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ Jibril repeated. The other man held up the Colt, examining it carefully under the light.

  ‘You bastards aren’t interested in the truth. It doesn’t matter if you blow the leg off another kid, or waste one more pregnant woman. There’s always the cause, isn’t there? The fucking cause justifies everything -’

  The second man snapped a bullet into the chamber of the automatic. Girling looked straight into his eyes. Suddenly he didn’t care about the hostages, the rescue, even about revenge. Past and future were the same. ‘You can’t kill me again,’ he said, rising. ‘You fuckers did that three years ago.’

  Jibril clicked his fingers and three bodyguards appeared from the shadows behind him.

  The crowd took it as a signal and came for him from three sides of the room.

  One of the bodyguards brought the butt of his Kalashnikov across Girling’s face.

  The pain temporarily drowned the cries of the crowd.

  The first man to get to him had already drawn his pistol. At least six others held him down, pinioning him to the table.

  Girling opened his eyes. He was staring straight into the snub barrel of an automatic. The man who held it was pleading with Jibril, shouting over and over. The crowd joined with him, a tuneless chant, an exhortation for him to pull the trigger and blow the ‘agnabi to hell.

  Girling closed his eyes and the barrel was rammed against the bridge of his nose.

  Then a voice rang out, silencing the crowd. It was deep and authoritative, but ice cold, not angry. ‘Put your gun away, Adel.’

  ‘Aiwa, ya S
aif.’ Yes, Sword.

  Girling tried to turn towards the voice, but it was impossible to see past the wall of men who surrounded him.

  ‘Girling must live long enough to tell us what he knows. I will deal with him personally.’

  Girling lay close to the door, his ears straining for sound. In the night, alone with his thoughts, a yearning to survive had returned. The thought that help was at hand sustained him.

  On his way back to his cell he had spotted another, nearly identical: the same window bars, same thick wooden door with two armed guards either side. Was it large enough for an ambassador and a nine-strong team of negotiators?

  He walked over to the door and looked outside. The moon had slipped behind the clouds. There was not a sound, not a single voice, not a laugh to be heard in the wadi. He clutched his sides for warmth. He could not see the other cell, but was tempted to call out. Then he felt the dried blood on his face from the Kalashnikov and remained silent.

  When was Ulm coming?

  Jibril and the Sword would put him through a further round of interrogation sometime after daybreak. They would want to know what he knew about the Shura, but with boots and gun butts in his face, his groin, and his kidneys, what else might he tell them?

  He heard something.

  An engine. An aero engine.

  Girling pressed his head to the bars. It was very faint, very distant.

  An airliner, crossing the night sky at altitude on its way to Europe, or the Gulf. Passengers inside, warm, relaxed, eating, sleeping...

  Girling moved away from the bars to the corner furthest from the door and sat there waiting for the dawn.

  He opened his eyes when it was not yet light. He lifted his head from the crook of his arm and heard a sound, very close. He stiffened, then got slowly to his feet. By the door he could see the outline of a man.

  A match flared and he found himself staring into the eyes of a man he took at first to be a priest. He was dressed in a long robe and turban. His beard was white and full, the face strong.

  The mullah watched him as he brought the flame to the wick. He replaced the glass and hung the lamp on a hook by the door. To Girling’s surprise, the eyes that held his were bright blue.

  ‘Why so angry, Mr Girling?’ The mullah lifted the hem of his robe and sat opposite him, eyes level.

  ‘Who are you?’ Girling asked.

  ‘One who comes in peace.’ His English was accented, but smooth, unlike Jibril’s.

  ‘Does peace come from the barrel of a gun?’

  The mullah raised his eyes. A muezzin had begun to call from the caravanserai.

  Girling pointed to the door. ‘There are enough weapons out there to start another world war.’

  ‘The weapons belong to Jibril and Hizbollah. They are here for the Shura.’

  ‘The Shura...?’ Lazan’s last piece of intelligence came back to him.

  ‘A meeting, a council. At the caravanserai. You know what a caravanserai is? It is a holy place-’

  ‘Where even rival tribes forget their differences,’ Girling whispered.

  ‘For one who knows our culture it is strange that you should hate it so. What have the Angels of Judgement done to you?’

  Girling felt a surge of anger. ‘What have you done...?’

  The mullah held up his hand. ‘I know about your wife. I know about your friend. I know about the hostages. But these things are not our work.’

  His voice held such quiet conviction that Girling was still. Then he saw himself once more overlooking the valley outside Wadi Qena, Abdullah beside him. The helicopters were circling, pouring fire into the mock caravanserai. ‘Then why call this Shura?’

  ‘So that many can hear the message.’ He paused. ‘The Sword will tell them that there is to be no Jihad, no Holy War.’

  ‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it? Wherever he goes, the Sword’s message is pain.’

  ‘You have written much about his message, and now you are here, his prisoner. But you know so little about him...’ He studied Girling’s bruised face. ‘Was it worth it?’

  ‘I think I came here to kill him,’ Girling said.

  The blue eyes regarded him. ‘Does peace come from the barrel of a gun?’

  The question was asked softly, and Girling thought he detected a hint of a smile on the mullah’s face. When he finally answered, Girling’s tone, too, was soft.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’

  ‘Your heart was too full of anger to see the truth.’ The Sword paused. ‘The things you wrote... Beirut Airport, murder in Cairo, hostages... none of it true.’

  ‘But they happened.’

  ‘Not on my orders.’

  ‘Then perhaps your Angels of Judgement are operating beyond your control.’

  ‘I may be an old man, Mr Girling, but you should know that none of my men moves without a word from me first.’

  ‘If it wasn’t you... then who?’

  ‘I was hoping you would tell me. Why do you think I brought you here? I need answers, too. I thought you knew...’

  The muezzin’s song rose. For a long time the two men watched each other in silence. Girling felt his tiredness leave him. The puzzle was almost complete. It had been since his journey to Qena. He just hadn’t been watching it closely enough.

  ‘Stamen’s article said you were in Afghanistan, that you were a Mujahideen group, that you had seen action...’

  ‘A long time ago. Things were different...’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘We were less sold on the ways of peace.’

  ‘Why such a long way from home? I thought the struggle was here.’

  The Sword looked up. ‘The struggle is everywhere, Mr Girling. But I am an Uzbek, born and raised in a village south of Samarkand.’

  Girling nodded. ‘Samarkand, Uzbekistan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Soviet Union.’

  ‘Islam knows no borders.’

  But Girling was far, far away. ‘The Russians... There’s no rescue... it’s a trap.’

  ‘A trap?’

  ‘Three days ago I watched a Soviet-American task force destroy a valley identical to this one. I thought it was a dress-rehearsal for a rescue. But if the hostages aren’t here, those helicopters were on a mission to search and destroy.’

  The Sword nodded slowly. ‘It’s me they want, Mr Girling.’

  ‘How could I be so blind? It was the Russians all along. How many Muslims

  are there in the Soviet Union and Russia? Sixty million, more even? Sixty million Uzbeks, Kirghiz, Tadzhiks, Tatars, Kazakhs, and Azeris all united by a common faith. Sixty million.’ Girling paused as the picture became complete. ‘You’re their worst nightmare. They think you’re going to take the Holy War to the heart of Russia.’

  ‘But like you, Mr Girling, they were wrong. I called the Shura to tell Jibril and his kind there will be no Jihad. The next Soviet revolution, when it comes, must be a peaceful one.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late. For you, for me, for the Americans...’

  ‘The Americans?’

  Girling thought back to his meeting with McBain and Ulm. They thought he knew. They had been in the dark then, just like everyone else. Hostages. The Russians took the hostages. Stansell knew, so the Russians killed him. They’d told Al-Qadi to kill Girling too; after the Reuters story he’d be just one more victim of the Angels of Judgement. Jesus, the fucking Soviets had known which buttons to press all along.

  He turned to the Sword. ‘When the helicopters leave, this valley will be littered with the dead bodies of Arabs and Americans, unless we do something first.’

  As they stepped outside into the air there was an ear-splitting roar and a helicopter the size of a trawler rose up from behind the outhouse. Girling grabbed the Sword’s hand and ran for an irrigation ditch in the lee of the cliffs.

  Three more helicopters shot into the valley, one of them so low it had to climb sharply to avoid the roof of his cell.

&nbs
p; A movement at the edge of his vision made him turn. A helicopter was heading straight for them, its guns firing.

  Girling jumped into the ditch, pulling the Sword with him. The Pave Low’s downwash clawed at their heels and bullets spattered around them. Sand stung his skin as the Sikorsky thundered overhead.

  A nearby flak gun opened up, but the shots went wild. The Sikorskys twisted and weaved through the air, buzzing the defenders from all directions.

  Girling looked for cover. There were some boulders, sixty yards away. They began to run, but a Pave Low prowling in the valley spotted them and did a hundred-and-eighty degree turn.

  Girling threw the Sword behind the rocks. The helicopter roared past, its momentum so great that it overshot. Girling saw the pilot wrestling with the controls as he fought to bring the helicopter back.

  Thirty yards away was a path leading upwards.

  Girling heard the whoosh of an SA-9 launch. He turned to see the missile streaking across the valley towards the nearest Sikorsky, but the machine was too low for the seeker to engage and the missile buried itself into the ground, exploding harmlessly.

  Like a stuck bull, the helicopter wheeled.

  Girling saw their chance. ‘Come on.’

  The Sword hesitated. ‘My people...’

  ‘They need you alive, Sword.’ He pulled the old man after him.

  They were almost at the top of the path when Girling snatched a glance into the valley. Jibril’s missileman was in the open, defenceless, his empty launch-tube discarded. The MH-53J was hovering left and right, intercepting his every attempt to reach the safety of the caravanserai. Suddenly, the machine rotated, giving the ramp gunner unrestricted aim. There was a belch of flame and the Sikorsky moved on to some new hunting ground.

  The Sword’s breathing became more laboured. Girling pushed on to scout the ground up ahead.

  The clifftop was a plateau littered with outcrops and boulders - the first sign of a place to hide.

  He turned to encourage the Sword, but the old man had collapsed face down on the path. He was clutching his right side. When Girling rolled him over, he saw a face gouged with pain. Girling’s hand moved down to the bullet wound. Blood seeped between his fingers as he lifted the Sword’s arm from the sticky red stain spreading across his robe.