by Chris Ryan
Now the dawn of her second morning at the camp was arriving. Her patients were all asleep. She found herself at the front flap of the medical tent once more, watching the sun rise over the desert. The sky was a riot of pinks and oranges, and everything seemed very still. As usual, four armed men stood watch in a semicircle around the camp, the glow of their cigarettes as they moved them to their lips the only sign of movement Clara could see. Beyond them, the bleak, unending desert. She again found her eyes following the track that wound off to the east, wondering where it led and what would happen to her if she escaped and tried to walk it alone.
She squinted. It was probably just a trick of the early-morning light, but she thought she could see a figure approaching over the brow of the small hill. She closed her eyes, rubbed them, then looked again. There was no doubt about it: it was a thin silhouette. Clara watched for several minutes. As the figure grew nearer, she could see that the person’s gait was strange, as though he or she was limping. And only when she – it was definitely a woman, she could tell now – was fifty metres away did Clara notice how intently the guards were watching. They all had their weapons trained on her, and though no shot had been fired, Clara knew that eventuality was only a trigger squeeze away.
She was a bedraggled woman whose long, black hair, strikingly, had a white streak at the front. The closer she came, the more evident was her limp. Her face was dirty, her eyes haunted. She looked like a ghost. Clara could tell she was in a bad way.
Five metres from the guards, the woman stopped and raised her face. ‘Sorgen,’ she cried in a weak, broken voice. ‘Sorgen!’
Then she collapsed.
Clara started to run towards the woman, but one of the guards turned and waved his rifle at her. Suddenly terrified, she hurried back into the tent, where she bent over and tried to catch her breath. She heard a commotion outside, but didn’t dare to peep through the flap again. Ten minutes passed before it opened. Sorgen walked in. It was the first time Clara had seen him since she arrived. He was with the woman, who had one arm round his shoulder and a dazed expression.
‘This is Basheba,’ Sorgen announced. ‘My niece.’
Clara offered her hand, but Basheba shrank away.
‘Please,’ Sorgen said. His voice was thick with emotion. ‘Take care of her. She has been through a lot.’ And with no other explanation, he took his leave.
Clara’s other patients were sleeping, which meant she could give this new arrival all her attention. She handed Basheba a cup of water, which she snatched and gulped down. Clara pointed at her right leg. ‘Your foot,’ she said, miming clumsily. ‘Let me see it.’
‘I understand English,’ Basheba replied. She had a deep voice, very hoarse. She found the one remaining mattress, towards the back of the tent, and limped over to it. Sitting down, she removed her worn leather sandals. No wonder she was limping. The sole of her right foot was a mess of blood where blisters had burst, then formed again and the epidermis had deteriorated. Having fetched a sterile wipe from her meagre supplies, Clara gently dabbed at the damaged skin, trying to remove the dirt and sand which had accumulated on the open flesh. Basheba winced at each touch, but clearly understood that this was necessary. An infection now could lead to blood poisoning, and that could be fatal.
When the wounded sole was cleaned, Clara dressed it with a bandage. The two women had not said a word to each other since the operation began, but now Basheba spoke. ‘Thank you,’ was all she said.
Clara smiled at her. ‘I shouldn’t really be here.’
‘Nor I,’ Basheba admitted, ‘but my uncle Sorgen is a good man.’ The woman looked down. ‘Better than my father-in-law.’ She saw that Clara was confused. ‘Asu is Sorgen’s brother.’ And then, with surprising suddenness, she started to weep. Not ordinary tears, but racking sobs that seemed to shake her whole body. Clara caught a few words of distraught Arabic before the woman whispered in English, ‘My sons.’
Clara took her by the hand. ‘Where are they?’ she asked, dreading the answer.
‘One is too scared to leave Asu. The other is dead.’ And then a fire in her eyes. ‘Killed by a British soldier.’
‘What?’ Clara was startled. ‘Basheba, I think you must have made a mistake. There are no British soldiers in Syria.’
‘And who told you that? Your government?’ Basheba’s expression clearly revealed what she thought of governments in general. ‘I watched him do it. My son was wounded by the bombs. You’ – she jabbed a finger at Clara – ‘you could have saved him with your skill.’
‘I don’t know . . . I . . .’
‘The soldier didn’t even try to save him. I watched him kill my son.’
‘How?’ Clara said.
‘With . . .’ Basheba hunted around for the word, before miming an injection into her arm.
‘Basheba, it was probably just morphine. If he was wounded . . .’
‘Morphine, yes,’ Basheba spat. ‘Four injections.’
Clara blinked. ‘Four? Are you sure?’ That was enough to kill an adult, let alone a wounded child.
‘You think I would make it up?’
Looking at her, Clara thought nothing of the sort. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. It seemed so inadequate.
‘Asu refused to punish him,’ Basheba said. ‘So I ran away. They say he will be the leader of Syria one day. Perhaps very soon. But how can you be a leader if you do not punish the guilty ones?’ She stared at her hands. ‘If he knew I had come to Sorgen, he would be angry. Very angry. They hate each other. But Sorgen is kind. He did not turn me away.’ She frowned. ‘My father-in-law, he makes the children fight for him. They are too young to use guns, to kill men, but that is what they must do for him. I have seen eight-year-olds commit killings. And I have seen them killed, too. Losing their friends. Sorgen looks after the children in his care. He does not make them fight.’ She smiled. ‘You are kind, too. Thank you again for . . .’ She indicated the bandage, before trying to push herself upright.
‘You must rest,’ Clara told her. ‘You’ll hurt your foot even more if you—’
But Basheba was already walking, painfully yet steadily, towards the front of the tent. Clara joined her, ostensibly to continue their conversation, but really so that she could be there if the woman fell. Together they left the tent and stood just outside it looking across the desert.
The sun was a little higher in the sky now, a fierce white ball, the pinks and oranges of dawn having burned away. Clara wished she had sunglasses as she looked out across the desert.
‘Someone is coming,’ Basheba said quietly.
Clara shielded her eyes and squinted. Basheba was right. Coming along the winding track she had followed were two vehicles, the sun glinting blindingly off them, amid the dust they kicked up.
‘Who is it?’ asked Clara, not really expecting an answer. Why would Basheba know any better than she did? It hadn’t escaped Clara’s attention, however, that Sorgen’s men had noticed these new arrivals and evidently weren’t expecting them. Five men had emerged from the large tent and two of them were kneeling in the firing position with their rifles. A third ran to the open-backed truck with the machine gun and trained the weapon’s sight on the approaching vehicles.
‘We should get back inside,’ said Clara.
But Basheba didn’t move. She appeared transfixed, and Clara felt as if she was stuck to the Syrian woman’s side. ‘I recognise those cars,’ said Basheba. Clara found that she was holding her breath.
The two vehicles, both Land Rovers, stopped side by side about fifty metres from the camp. For perhaps a minute there was no movement. Then the rear door of one of them opened and a figure stepped out. Still shielding her eyes from the sun, Clara peered towards him. He had a slight frame, floppy brown hair, sloping shoulders and a somewhat diffident gait. He seemed to shimmer in the heat as he walked slowly but steadily towards the camp, his palms raised to indicate that he was unarmed.
When the man was ten metres from the Land Rover, a second
emerged. This one made no attempt to pretend that he was unarmed. A rifle was slung across his front, and he gripped it with both hands as he followed the first man at a respectful distance.
Basheba inhaled sharply, then hissed.
Clara turned to her. ‘What is it?’ She was alarmed to see the look on her face.
‘It’s him,’ Basheba whispered.
Clara was confused. ‘Who?’ she asked.
‘The man who killed my son.’
‘Basheba! No!’
But she was too late to grab her new friend. Basheba was running towards the newcomers, faster than Clara would have thought her injured foot would allow. She was screaming at them in Arabic, her hair flowing in the wind and her face filled with hatred.
At first, Danny didn’t recognise her. All he saw was a wild-eyed woman sprinting in Buckingham’s direction. His first instinct was to raise his M4 ready to protect him from this crazy apparition. But she ran past Buckingham towards Danny himself. He realised who she was at the same moment that she pulled a knife from under her robe. She couldn’t have been more than three metres away, and it was a five-inch blade, broad and sharp, that glinted in the morning sun. She held it inexpertly – not low, as Danny would have done, but level with her head, ready to stab. She was screeching like a mad woman.
It only took a swipe of his left arm for Danny to knock her from her stride. She fell. It looked more alarming than it was, but suddenly everything was kicking off. The four armed men guarding the camp were shouting, engaging their weapons. Danny sprinted forwards and wrestled Buckingham to the ground. He was aware of Taff, Hector, Skinner and De Fries piling out of the vehicles behind him. He checked out the Syrian rebel gunmen. Distance: ten metres. Any contact would be short and ugly. Danny and Buckingham would be caught in the crossfire. Chances of survival: close to zero. Danny knew how to choose battles. Question was, did Skinner and Hector?
He saw that the rebels were hesitating. Had they made a similar analysis of the situation?
‘Hold your fire!’ Danny shouted, fully aware that there were members of his party who would enter into a contact without any encouragement whatsoever. ‘Hold your fire!’
‘Do as he says!’ Taff’s voice lent weight to Danny’s instruction.
A moment of tense silence. The rebels’ hands were shaking anxiously – never a good sign. At the flap of the smaller round tent, a Western-looking woman stood with her hands almost covering her face. Buckingham was breathing heavily, but he didn’t move as Danny had him pinned to the ground.
Slowly, the flap of the large tent opened. A giant of a man appeared – at least as tall as Danny and considerably broader. He wore an embroidered dishdash and had a white moustache and a thick mane of white hair. He stood at the entrance of the tent, shrewd eyes surveying the scene.
‘Let me go,’ said Buckingham.
‘Don’t be stupid. This could go noisy any second.’
‘For God’s sake, man, let me go. That’s Sorgen. He knows who I am. If he doesn’t recognise one of us, they’ll massacre us.’
He had a point. Danny released his grip, and both men got to their feet. He let his weapon hang loose from its halyard and raised his hands to show he wasn’t about to reach for anything else. Buckingham dusted down his clothes.
‘Hugo Buckingham,’ the fat man announced in a rich but strangely monotone voice, and in excellent English. ‘It’s a long way from the Quartier Latin, is it not? A man might become suspicious of such a remarkable coincidence.’
‘Sorgen. It’s good to see you again.’ Buckingham’s voice quivered slightly.
‘Tell your men to drop their weapons, Hugo. Let us avoid any tragic accidents. Dead bodies quickly become carrion in the desert, and I would not wish that upon any of you.’
‘Your men too,’ Danny butted in.
Sorgen smiled. ‘Bilateral disarmament? I don’t think so.’ The sweat on his brow glistened. ‘I see no reason why my men and I should not protect our territory.’
‘Do as he says,’ Buckingham called over his shoulder. Danny sensed the others’ reluctance. He shared it. ‘Do as he says!’
Danny looked back and caught Taff’s eye. They nodded reluctantly at each other. Taff lowered his rifle. The others, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, followed suit.
Nobody moved. The wild woman was kneeling on the ground, weeping.
Sorgen’s face was unreadable. His footsteps crunched on the dry earth as he walked towards Buckingham, stopping half a metre from him.
‘And now,’ he said quietly, ‘I find you here. In the middle of the Homs desert. Surrounded by armed men. A representative of the British government that would install my brother to a position of power in Syria, and that would shed no tears over my own death.’
Danny felt his fingers creeping back to his M4. Could he take these guys? Was there time? The four armed men were each separated from the other by a distance of about five metres. Too far to take them out with a single burst. He had a fragmentation grenade in his ops vest. If he hurled it in their direction, would they scatter? Or would they fire first and run later?
Buckingham looked nervous now. The assured look he had displayed as he approached the encampment had disappeared. He stuttered like a man who had made a colossal miscalculation. ‘Sorgen . . . I . . .’
But Sorgen’s arms were outstretched and his face had suddenly broken into a grin. ‘Old friend,’ he said. ‘You are very welcome, today of all days, on the festival of Eid al-Fitr.’ He wrapped his enormous arms round Buckingham’s slight frame. He looked back at his soldiers and shouted a single order in Arabic. They lowered their weapons with obvious relief.
‘What brings you here, my friend?’ Sorgen boomed. ‘No! Wait! Do not tell me! I have a feeling I will not like the answer! Let us have a few minutes, at least, to talk about the old days before the arguments start. Come! We are forced to live like nomads, and our surroundings are poor. But you are most welcome, Hugo. Your friends too. You are most, most welcome.’
With one arm still around Buckingham’s shoulders, Sorgen accompanied him to the tent. Danny followed three or four metres behind, ignoring the hard stares of the rebel gunmen as he passed them. As they entered the big tent, Danny was aware of the Western woman running up to the distraught mother who had tried to attack him. She helped her to her feet and back towards the smaller tent. Both women stared at him with expressions sharper than the knife one of them had just used to try to kill him.
The festival of Eid al-Fitr marks the end of Ramadan, the holy month of fasting. It is forbidden to fast on the day of Eid, and Muslims often celebrate the festival by eating a small breakfast of something sweet.
As they had crossed the desert searching for Sorgen’s encampment, Buckingham had explained to the others what they could expect from the rebel leader. So far, it looked like he knew what he was talking about.
Sorgen and Buckingham sat together on a carpet in the middle of the big tent, a small plate of crystallised dates between them. He remembered Buckingham saying that Sorgen was a devout man, and could only assume this was true: who else would remember the essentials for this small ritual among the comms systems and ammo boxes that filled this makeshift ops centre? Danny, though, was more concerned with breakouts than breakfast. There was only one way in or out of this tent, but the canvas walls would be no match for either of his knives. A guard was positioned on either side of the flap, while Danny stood three metres from the carpet. Taff and his crew had been invited into the tent but had been directed to a spot ten metres away. Danny felt Skinner’s dead eyes on him. Fine. At the moment he had other things to worry about, like keeping Buckingham safe. These two might be playing happy families, but happy families could easily turn sour.
‘Eid mubarak,’ Buckingham said, accepting a date from the plate.
‘Eid mubarak,’ Sorgen replied. ‘Hugo, do you remember the last time I saw you?’
Buckingham smiled. ‘The Café des Amis in Châtelet. You drank coffee, I drank s
omething a little stronger.’
‘You heard about my father?’
Buckingham nodded. ‘My condolences, Sorgen. I know how close you were.’
‘He was killed outside that very café. I have friends high up in the French government, but none of them can tell me why this Algerian boy would want to kill my father.’
It was a very strange thing, but at that moment Danny had Hector and Skinner in his sights. They looked at each other. It was nothing more than a glance, but it was full of meaning. He even saw a flicker of a smile on Skinner’s lips, before the moment passed as quickly as it had come.
But then he heard Taff’s voice in his head: You’re losing your grip out here. You’re seeing things that aren’t there . . . He dragged himself back to the main attraction. ‘It’s hard sometimes to understand the mind of a terrorist,’ Buckingham was saying.
‘There are some who would say that I am the terrorist, my friend,’ Sorgen replied. ‘Your government would gladly award me that label if Asu came to power. Which, I have to concede, looks ever more likely. And as soon as I have that label, there will be many people eager to help me on my journey to Paradise.’ He took a date and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Which rather begs the question, my dear Hugo, of why I have this very unexpected pleasure.’
