Fire Hawk

by Geoffrey Archer

  It was hot in the back of the truck and getting hotter. He would have given anything for some more of that water, despite its unpleasant taste, but if the bottle was there, his pinioned arms were preventing him getting to it. An irresistible drowsiness began to creep over him.

  When he came to, his head throbbed and he had no idea how much more time had passed. The truck had stopped. A cool draught of air blowing over him told him that the canvas flap had been lifted and it was night. How could he have slept so long? He tried to snap awake, but his mind was a fog. Suddenly it occurred to him that the water he’d drunk could have been drugged.

  Minutes passed. He listened but heard nothing that would tell him where he was. Then through the rough fabric of the hood he saw a light being shone on him. Thick rubber soles thumped up onto the truck’s steel floor. He had company. Someone who reeked of sweat. The sleeve of his shirt was pulled up, fingers tapping on his veins.

  ‘What the fuck . . .?’

  Terror hit him. Sheer, blind terror.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  He strained at the ties binding him to the stretcher. A needle jabbed in and a flush of coolness spread up his arm.

  ‘Oh no. No!’

  Not like that. Not so soon. Not when he wasn’t ready.

  3

  Amman, Jordan

  THE AIRBUS TURBOFANS whimpered into silence and the dozen business-class passengers began to unclip their belts. Cabin staff delved into hanging spaces for jackets, their eyes betraying an eagerness to be rid of their passengers. It had been a long flight.

  Towards the back of the cabin an English woman in her mid-thirties, whose red-brown hair fell in wisps across her forehead, had given the appearance of being asleep through most of the flight. Now she sat up straight and made a bleary-eyed check that nothing had fallen from her handbag. Then she stood up to extricate her small suitcase from the overhead locker.

  ‘Let me.’

  A steward reached up for her and lowered the bag to the floor.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She flashed him her warmest of looks and noted the interest in his eyes. At least one of them wasn’t gay.

  ‘Hope we’ll see you again soon, Mrs Taylor.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope so too.’

  A stewardess held out a cream linen jacket for her.

  ‘Thanks. I’m glad half of me won’t look creased,’ she said, brushing her lap in an attempt to smooth the wrinkles of the matching skirt. ‘I’d have done better wearing jeans.’ She slipped the jacket on. ‘What did they say the temperature was outside?’

  ‘Not sure, madam. Twenty-four Celsius, I think. But it’ll drop at this time of year. Nights in Amman should be pleasantly cool at the end of September.’

  The woman made liberal use of a perfume spray while the dark-suited, dapper little Arab, who’d been seated three rows in front of her smoking like a chimney during the flight, brushed past, heading for the exit. His face, she noticed, was still puckered with anger and disappointment at being expelled from Britain. She stepped quickly into the aisle to be right behind him, flinching at the acid whiff of his perspiration. The aircraft’s main door was open but the stairs had yet to be wheeled into place. Beyond the galley in the crowded tourist section of the plane she saw passengers queuing impatiently to get off.

  When the steps finally arrived, she stuck right behind the man she’d been shadowing as he descended to the tarmac. There was a fifty-metre walk to the terminal. She glanced up at its roof. Half-lit faces watching for relatives. She knew that among them would be professionals, Iraqis checking that the man whose return they’d demanded – the man in front of her – had truly arrived. But it was dark on the tarmac. Passengers hurrying from both ends of the plane were all around them now. Would the watchers spot him in the gloom? It was vital they did. Timing was critical.

  As they neared the building they entered a small pool of brightness cast by a floodlight. She darted forward, touching the Arab on the arm. Then she stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop in the glare of the light.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m so sorry, but I think I must have left my cigarette lighter on the plane.’ She held a Silk Cut between her fingers. ‘Could you possibly . . .’

  Startled, the Arab began fumbling in his pocket. Then he stopped abruptly.

  ‘But it’s not permitted here.’

  ‘Oh? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ His voice was irritable. ‘They said on the aircraft. Not until the terminal.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  The Arab hurried on again. But it had been long enough. If the Iraqis hadn’t seen him by now then they couldn’t have been looking.

  In the over-chilled concourse of the Queen Alia International Airport she kept a few metres behind Salah Khalil as he followed the signs to passport control. What sort of reception would he be expecting, she wondered? None at all, probably, hoping it had merely been some whim of the British Home Office that had got his asylum application rejected. Yet she knew Khalil would be quaking in his boots, knowing as he did the obsessive, unforgiving nature of the people he’d run away from in Baghdad. The Jordanian capital Amman would be far too close to home for him. Far too easy a place for his enemies to find him in.

  The information that the Secret Intelligence Service had gleaned on Khalil had been sparse. When he’d turned up in Britain six weeks ago hoping to buy asylum with titbits of information about the regime in Baghdad, his name had elicited few responses from the databases at Vauxhall Cross, or from those in Washington or Jerusalem. He’d claimed to be on the fringes of Saddam Hussein’s inner circle, a cousin of someone related to the Iraqi leader by marriage. He’d maintained that the Mukhabarat had falsely accused him of embezzlement and his life was in danger. Enquiries with Iraqi exiles used by MI6 and the CIA as sounding boards had produced the suggestion that Khalil had in fact been the banker in a drug-smuggling operation run by one of Saddam’s sons. There was a suspicion he’d run off with the takings.

  The woman in the linen suit sensed heads turning as she walked into the crowded immigration hall. It had been happening that way for as much of her life as she could remember. As an only child she hadn’t liked it at first, not wanting her neat prettiness to make her stand out from the crowd. But as a teenager, when her father’s long absences from home had left her deprived of male attention, turning heads was a skill she’d learned to perfect. She was tall for a woman, about five nine, with a generous bust and a neat, almost boyish behind. Her lightly tanned skin, thin but sensuous lips and long, elegant nose gave her a natural attraction that she’d learned to exploit.

  The man she was following headed for the middle line at passport control. She quickened her pace and overtook him just as they joined the queue. She turned to him and smiled, holding up the cigarette again. Still irritated, he dug in his pocket and produced a gold Dunhill lighter.

  She pictured the scene beyond the arrivals doors. There would be many watchers there, some obvious, some not. First to make their move would be the Iraqis, making it clear to Khalil he had no option but to go with them. Watching to ensure it happened peacefully would be the Jordanian secret police, alerted by SIS to Khalil’s presence on the flight from London. And finally there would be someone from the British Embassy, poised to call up the SIS officials out in the desert the moment Khalil was back in Iraqi hands.

  There was a lot at stake in the coming hours. Plenty that could go wrong.

  Part one of her mission – ensuring that Khalil made no trouble on the flight out and was spotted the moment he landed – was over.

  Part two of her mission would not be so simple.

  20.30 hrs

  The Iraqi–Jordanian Border

  There was a chill in the air. The bleak, boulder-strewn border between Jordan and Iraq was at an altitude of close on a thousand metres and at this time of year the desert soon lost the heat it had absorbed during the day. The sky was a black and moonless shrou
d, pricked by the glimmer of a billion stars.

  Quentin Mowbray checked his watch again and stared down at the briefcase-sized satellite phone terminal with its flat antenna which he’d set up on the sand behind the long-wheelbase Land Rover. He willed it to ring. Behind him on the straight, bumpy road from the Jordanian capital, trucks stuffed with sacks of rice and wheat queued to have their papers processed so they could thunder on to a hungry Baghdad. The desert night air that should have smelled fresh was laced with the fumes of exhausts.

  ‘This could be the one,’ a soft voice murmured behind him.

  Mowbray swung round. His number two, Simon Twiss, was leaning on the bonnet of the Land Rover peering down the road to Iraq through image-intensifying binoculars.

  ‘May I?’ Mowbray asked, reaching out.

  He took the glasses and refocused them. On the far side of the sodium-lit no man’s land between the border posts stood the blockhouses of the Iraqi police and customs. Parked beside them was a pickup of a type he knew to be used by the Iraqi army and police. A man in uniform stood in front of it, binoculars pressed to his own eyes. Watching them watching him. Then a grain lorry drove through, blocking Mowbray’s field of vision for a moment.

  The satphone trilled suddenly. Mowbray thrust the glasses back at Twiss and crouched to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s here. Just going through immigration.’ The voice of an excited second secretary from the embassy, on stakeout at Amman airport. ‘His friends saw him on the tarmac. They’re moving to the next phase. Any signs?’

  ‘We think so. We’re about to check. Ring again when he’s through customs.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Mowbray replaced the receiver. ‘This is where we get stuffed,’ he murmured. He’d been against this deal. Too easy for the other side to cheat and leave egg all over some very important British faces.

  ‘That chap in uniform is on the phone,’ whispered Twiss excitedly, the binoculars jammed into his eye sockets. ‘Bugger’s even got the same kit as us!’

  Mowbray snorted. The satphone was American-made. Supplying the Iraqi intelligence organisations with it was in breach of UN sanctions.

  ‘Better go for it.’

  Twiss swung up into the driving seat of the Land Rover and held up the walkie-talkie to show he had it. Mowbray turned to a Jordanian border guard.

  ‘We’re ready. If you please.’

  The policeman stepped into the road to delay the next truck. No man’s land would be kept empty for the next few minutes. It was in nobody’s interests that there should be casual witnesses to this skulduggery.

  The Land Rover’s engine rattled into life and the vehicle pulled away. The Jordanian policeman chatted to the delayed truck driver to divert his attention, determinedly not looking at what was happening behind him. On this border across which countless illegal items had been smuggled into Iraq, turning a blind eye was second nature. The Land Rover drove fifty metres into no man’s land and stopped. Through the glasses Mowbray watched the Iraqi pickup crawl forward to meet it. It also stopped and two men jumped down from the back. Mowbray’s anxiety racked up a notch. Neither of the men resembled the description he’d been given of Packer. Then he saw something else.

  ‘Fuck!’

  A stretcher was being lifted from the back of the pickup.

  ‘Fucking Ada!’

  No one had said anything about a stretcher. Nothing about Packer being ill or injured. Or dead.

  ‘Bastards!’

  There was always some catch with the Iraqis, but Packer being a casualty was one he hadn’t planned for. A total no-show – yes, he’d almost expected it. But not this. He had no doctor with him. Nearest usable medic five hours’ drive away. And the embassy Land Rover was full of seats. Nowhere to lie a sick man down. Or to lay out a corpse.

  Mowbray saw Twiss standing there in the gloom, hands on hips, puzzling over what to do as the uniformed Iraqis dumped the stretcher on the ground.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  He snatched up the short-range VHF handset lying next to the satphone.

  ‘Is it him?’ he hissed into it.

  Mowbray saw Twiss crouch down and lean over the body.

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s breathing.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘They won’t say.’

  The satphone trilled again. Mowbray’s man at the airport.

  ‘The Iraqis have just picked him up. Two of them. He looked pretty horrified to see them, I must say. Tried to turn back into the baggage hall, but some rather luscious woman blocked his way. Anyway, they’ve taken him off in a limo now. One of the heavies was busy on a mobile phone, so if they stick to the agreement you should see some action pretty soon.’

  Mowbray shuddered at the way the airport watcher was talking so openly. He’d had to rope in a young third secretary from the consular department to help him complete the circle of watchers and signallers needed to ensure the swap happened.

  ‘We have him,’ he answered curtly. ‘You’d better get back to the office.’

  ‘Great.’

  Cursing silently, Mowbray waited for three anxious minutes. The Iraqis seemed to be awaiting the final order to complete the hand-over. Then, suddenly, there was movement. Packer’s body was lifted from the stretcher and humped into the back of the Rover like a sack of sand. Twiss got back behind the wheel and the Rover made a cautious turn.

  ‘Good man,’ Mowbray growled as Twiss drew alongside him. His junior’s face was pinched with tension. ‘Any injuries that you can see?’

  ‘Legs look a bit messy. There’s blood on his trousers.’

  Mowbray looked into the back and saw the dark stains in the region of Packer’s shins.

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ he breathed.

  He recognised Sam from the photo London had faxed him, but only just. A couple of weeks in the hands of Iraqi security had given a grey pallor to his pleasantly pugnacious face and put bags under his eyes, but the stubborn chin was unmistakable. The thick, dark hair looked greasy and uncombed. Mowbray prodded him gingerly but Packer lay motionless. The clothes he had on were twisted and ill-fitting, as if they’d belonged to someone else. His feet were bare. A suitcase had been slung into the luggage space at the back.

  ‘Might be drugged, rather than ill,’ murmured Twiss.

  A Jordanian officer bustled from the guardhouse.

  ‘Finished?’ he asked, not looking in the vehicle.

  ‘Yes. Yes, thanks.’ Mowbray shook his hand and the policeman waved at his subordinate to re-open the road.

  ‘He’s certainly breathing easily enough,’ Twiss continued, leaning over the body sprawled in the back. ‘Sleeping like a bloody baby. No injury that I can see, apart from the legs. No fever. He’s not hot or anything.’

  ‘Okay. Strap him in somehow and let’s get the hell out of here before some curious truckie begins to figure out what’s going on.’

  4

  Sunday, 29 September, early a.m.

  Amman

  SAM WAS AWARE of being awake and of not wanting to be. His leaden limbs and thick head demanded more sleep. He had no idea where he was. A memory of the piss-smelling truck and a needle in the arm, then a vague recollection of a different vehicle. Of an endless journey in acute discomfort on an extremely bumpy road. Of retching on an empty stomach.

  But now he felt soft bed-springs beneath his back and heard voices. He half-opened his eyes and saw two faces he didn’t recognise. At least two. Could have been more. Might just have been one, multiplied by the kaleidoscope someone seemed to have lodged in his eyeballs. He blinked and twisted his head to get a clearer focus. It was two faces and he still didn’t recognise them. But something in his head told him they were going to kill him. The needle in the arm was a mere preamble. A trial run. Maybe he was dead already.

  He tried to swallow but his throat felt as dry as the Iraqi desert he rem
embered pissing on some time back. Then logic kicked in. He couldn’t be dead, because surely when you’re dead things like being thirsty don’t happen any more.

  One of the faces pressed closer. An Arab face, scrutinising him like he was a laboratory rat. The injection . . . the Iraqis were using him as a guinea pig for their weapons trials . . . the fluid shot into his veins some vile chemical concoction . . . and now he was in some secret lab the bastards had kept hidden from the UN inspectors.

  A hand reached towards him and a finger pushed his eyelids fully open one by one. From somewhere close he heard a gentle English voice ask, ‘What was it d’you think?’

  ‘Can’t tell. Some barbiturate probably.’ It was the Arab who’d answered.

  ‘Sam . . .’ Again, the English voice. But truly English this time. None of your phoney Sandhurst. ‘Sam, you’re okay. You’re in Jordan. Can you hear me?’

  He turned his head to focus on the face that was speaking his name. It was thin, lean and tanned, with straight fair hair, a beak of a nose and grey eyes that were observing him with a cool concern.

  ‘Hello,’ Packer croaked, his voice sounding as if it wasn’t his.

  ‘I’m Quentin Mowbray. Station officer in Amman. You’re free, old man. We got you out.’

  ‘Out?’ Sam’s mind wasn’t registering.

  ‘Out of Iraq. You’re in Jordan.’

  No. A trick. He couldn’t risk believing this. But Mowbray. The name was right. Quentin Mowbray, station head in Amman.

  ‘You’re free, old man. Not a prisoner any more.’ Mowbray spoke loudly, as if addressing a geriatric.

  ‘It’s true?’ Sam croaked.

  A wet wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm him, but he held it back. Don’t let go. Names proved nothing. If the Iraqi Mukhabarat had known who he was, they’d surely know about Mowbray too. This room could well be in Iraq, his tormentors playing cruel games with him, wanting him to think he was among friends so he would open up and tell them at last what that dead messenger had whispered to him.