by Chris Ryan
Buckingham took a moment before replying. Danny had the impression that he was choosing his words very carefully.
‘Yesterday,’ Buckingham said, ‘I met with your brother in the city.’
Sorgen’s face immediately darkened, but he said nothing.
‘I explained to him that the British government would do anything in its power to effect a reconciliation between the two of you.’
‘At which point, I am sure, my dear brother asked you to leave.’
‘No,’ Buckingham said simply. ‘He didn’t.’
Sorgen blinked heavily. ‘That is a surprise,’ he conceded. ‘He must have had good reason.’
‘Perhaps,’ Buckingham said. He stood up and turned his back on Sorgen. Danny could see the fierce concentration on his face. This discussion was, after all, the whole reason he had come to Syria. ‘I’m here with a proposal,’ he said. ‘My government understands your loyalty to the French. They looked after your father in exile, and they support you now with funds and arms, just as the British support Asu and the Russians support the current administration.’ He started to pace slowly up and down the tent. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Sorgen. My superiors wanted me to lie to you. To tell you that we have Syria’s best interests at heart. I told them I wouldn’t insult your intelligence, that you fully understand diplomacy is about self-interest. It is in Britain’s interest to have a mutually advantageous relationship with the new Syria when it arrives. I told them you would understand that.’
Sorgen tipped his head to one side and made a little hand gesture, as if to say: go on.
‘You and Asu are stronger united than you are divided. You know that and he knows that. I’m here to ask you to consider joining forces with him to ensure that it is your family and not one of the other rebel factions that comes to power. And I’m here to offer you whatever it is you need to achieve that. However much the French are funding you, we are prepared to double it. Whatever weapons the French are supplying you with, we will improve upon it. We will make you the best-equipped fighting force in the Middle East.’ Buckingham paused, then turned to look directly at his old friend. ‘We will win this war for you, Sorgen. Think of the lives that could be saved. Think of the Syria that you and Asu could rebuild together, with our help.’
Sorgen stood to give his reply. ‘I thank you for your offer. I fear, however, that the rift between myself and Asu is too deep to heal. And I feel – forgive me for saying it – a certain loyalty to the French that I do not feel towards the British.’ He gave a knowing little smile. ‘With the exception of the present company, of course.’
Buckingham nodded, as if what Sorgen had just said was entirely reasonable. But he had a response ready and waiting.
‘Would your loyalty to the French be quite so fierce, my friend, if you knew that it was under their instruction that your father was assassinated?’
A silence fell upon the tent.
‘You are my guest, Hugo,’ Sorgen said in a dreadfully quiet voice. ‘But if you take my father’s name in vain—’
‘Four weeks ago,’ Buckingham interrupted, ‘the Algerian suicide bomber met in Paris with his handler, a member of the GIA terrorist group. We know beyond question that this handler was an undercover member of the French security services. MI6 has more evidence, frankly, than you would wish to see. There’s no doubt about it, and I’m sorry. But the French killed your father.’
Alarm bells rang in Danny’s head. He thought back to the briefing Buckingham’s boss – Carrington, wasn’t it? – had given them at the vehicle pool back in west London. He’d mentioned none of this. On the contrary, he’d said that Sorgen’s father was a valuable French asset. Either he’d been lying, or Buckingham was now.
None of these thoughts appeared to occur to Sorgen. It was as if a cloud had descended over the tent. The rebel leader’s face barely moved. Buckingham was watching his face intently, clearly trying to tell what effect his bombshell was having. And the effect was plain to see. Sorgen’s eyes grew watery. He dried them with the hem of his dishdash.
‘If I learn that you have been lying to me, Hugo . . .’
‘It’s the truth, Sorgen. As sure as I’m standing here.’
Another pause.
‘Asu has agreed to this – this reconciliation?’ Sorgen asked.
‘Absolutely. He is eager for it.’
More silence.
‘I do not lead this army in isolation,’ Sorgen said. ‘You must understand that I cannot make a decision of this magnitude without first discussing it with my commanders. We meet tonight, here, to celebrate the festival of Eid.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But of course, Hugo, you already knew that.’
‘I suspected it. I remember your Eid celebrations of old. You will put it to your commanders tonight? I’m sure they’ll see the wisdom of my suggestion.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. I can only suggest it.’
‘That’s all I ask, Sorgen. That’s all I ask.’
‘Come back tomorrow at dawn. I will have an answer for you, and for Asu.’ Sorgen’s face grew pensive. ‘You are here, Hugo Buckingham, because we have a bond of friendship. Such things are important to me. I trust you will not betray that bond.’
‘You have my word.’
‘That is all I require. Until tomorrow, Hugo.’
‘Until tomorrow.’ Buckingham looked at Danny. ‘We can go now,’ he said curtly, as though to a servant.
‘You come with quite a retinue,’ Sorgen observed.
‘Syria is a dangerous place, I’ve learned. One can’t be too careful.’
‘Indeed no.’ Sorgen offered Buckingham his hand. Buckingham shook it. Danny, who was watching them both very carefully, observed that neither man would look the other in the eye. And he knew for certain that there was more happening here than their conversation had revealed. Both men were hiding something. He didn’t know what. But as he escorted Buckingham from the tent and out into the sunlight, another anomaly presented itself. Why had Buckingham been so keen to exclude him from the RV with Asu, while not even blinking at his presence in Sorgen’s tent? It made no sense. Outside the tent, his eyes scanned the desert, looking for any movement, any threat. There was none – just a haze of heat – so he started to lead Buckingham back to the Land Rovers, shimmering in the sun. They had gone only a few paces, however, when he saw the Western woman standing in front of the smaller tent. Her eyes were following him. It struck him again how strange it was to see this woman in such an unlikely place. He walked over to her. ‘English?’ he asked.
She nodded reluctantly.
‘Everything all right?’
‘You make me sick,’ the woman hissed.
‘What?’
‘You heard me,’ she said. ‘I know what you’ve done. I have a grieving mother in here. Don’t you think this country has enough misery without people like you adding to it?’ She grabbed his hands and held them up. They were stained red. ‘Blood on your hands,’ she hissed. ‘Actual blood on your actual hands.’
She turned round and stormed back into the tent.
For the briefest of moments Danny considered running in after her. Explaining that she didn’t know what she was talking about. But in the end he just walked away. Let people believe what they wanted to. Danny knew he’d done the right thing, and that was all that mattered.
And besides, he had plenty of other worries on his mind. Like who was telling him the truth, and who was not.
TWENTY
London. 12.00 hrs.
Max Saunders straightened his tie and tucked in his shirt. Anastasia had just left. The scent of her perfume – Coco Chanel, seventy-five bloody quid a bottle and she went through it at such a rate he sometimes wondered if she was flogging it to her friends – hung in the air. No doubt it hung around his person too. When he got home tonight, his wife would pretend not to notice. Why would she rock the boat when she had her platinum Amex and the run of Bond Street? As Saunders glanced through the window of his office down on to
St James’s Square, he allowed himself a rueful smile. It was true what they said. You always ended up paying for sex. Any man who pretended otherwise was kidding himself.
Anastasia walked back into the office without knocking. Her hair was slightly mussed, but she walked with the same rigid, aloof air she always adopted after a session. That was the trouble with these posh bints. Always pretending they weren’t what they were. She hadn’t been so damn hoity-toity twenty minutes ago when he’d had her bent over the same desk in front of which she now stood primly. ‘Yes, my dear?’ he said.
‘Three messages while we were . . . while you were engaged,’ she replied without catching his eye. ‘Oliver Carrington – he’s the man from MI6—’
‘Thank you, Anastasia. I know who Carrington is.’
Her lips thinned. ‘Oliver Carrington would like a call back. Ditto a Monsieur Grandier from the Ministère des Affaires étrangères et européennes.’ Bless her, she never missed a chance to show off her French accent. Saunders rather liked it. ‘Something to do with the Syrian situation?’
Saunders nodded.
Anastasia turned to leave.
‘Three messages,’ he reminded her.
Anastasia’s face coloured. She didn’t like anyone to see a moment of inefficiency. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘Please,’ Saunders smiled at her. ‘You’ve had a busy morning, my dear.’
‘The third message was from Taff Davies. You probably don’t remember, but he’s embedded in—’
‘Just give me the message, there’s a good girl.’
Anastasia’s lips looked like they might disappear. She read from her clipboard, and the military terminology sounded very out of place in her posh accent. ‘Operation Domino is a go for this evening,’ she repeated. ‘That’s all he said.’
‘Good. Excellent.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Get Grandier on the phone, would you?’
‘And Carrington?’
Saunders shook his head. ‘I think not. I’ll wait until tomorrow for that particular call. Be a good girl and get me that French chappie, then you and I’ll pop out for a spot of lunch. And you could probably do with some more of that delightful perfume. We can nip into Harvey Nicks, if you like. What would you say to that?’
Even Anastasia was unable to stop a little flicker of pleasure cross her lips. ‘Of course, Max,’ she said, suddenly kittenish. ‘That would be lovely.’
She left the office, quietly shutting the door behind her.
‘What you doing, kiddo?’
Evening was falling. Danny had found a plastic bucket and filled it with water. He was now rubbing his palms with handfuls of moistened dust, hoping that the abrasive sludge would remove some of the blood from his skin. He felt like he’d seen enough of the red stuff to last him a good while yet. His makeshift soap wasn’t working very well. He dipped his hands into the clean water, then wiped them dry on his clothes.
‘Cleaning up,’ he told Taff.
‘Why bother? You’ll only get dirty again.’
‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’ Danny said. ‘This morning, when I told you what Skinner and Hector had done. You know I wouldn’t make that shit up.’
Taff didn’t answer. He just fixed Danny with a steady gaze that made him feel uncomfortable.
‘What about Asu?’ Danny pressed. ‘What did he and Buckingham talk about? How come you were in on the meet and I was sent outside?’
‘Don’t take it personally, kiddo. Asu’s a wanker but he trusts me. End of.’
‘So what did you talk about?’ Danny could feel himself growing angry.
‘I thought we could take a walk,’ Taff stonewalled him. ‘You can get stir crazy in this place. The locals seem to think the bombing will subside a bit tonight. Eid al . . . whatever the fuck it’s called. Makes them come over all peaceful, at least that’s what the locals say.’
The locals. Taff had told them all to go home when they’d returned from Sorgen’s camp. ‘National holiday,’ he’d explained to Danny. But why would he want to get rid of them? ‘Yeah, bleeding heart, me, too nice for my own good,’ Taff had said when he’d confronted him. And that was no kind of answer at all.
Danny kicked the bucket of water so its contents spilled on the ground. ‘I’ll stay here,’ he said, his tone resentful. ‘I’ve got Buckingham to watch.’
Talking of which, where was Buckingham? Half an hour ago he’d been in the far corner of the compound. Now all Danny could see was Skinner, leaning nonchalantly against one of the Land Rovers, his dead eyes fixed on him and Taff.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s inside,’ Taff said softly. ‘Resting. The others can watch him. They’re at least as good as you, you know? And we can take that walk. You look like you need to let off some steam.’
Taff was lightly touching his elbow, gently manoeuvring him towards the gate. As he did so, his eyes darted back to the house.
Danny suddenly felt ice in his guts.
‘Where’s Buckingham?’ he asked again.
‘I told you, kiddo. He’s—’
But Danny broke away. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he could hear it in Taff’s voice.
He sprinted across the compound and into the house. The ground floor was empty. He thundered up the stairs, three at a time, and ran along the corridor to the room he’d been sharing with Buckingham.
Empty.
That was enough to make him arm himself. He touched the Sig strapped to his chest, then grabbed the M4.
Why was it so fucking silent? What the hell was going on?
He moved slowly back along the corridor, weapon at the ready. He stopped for a couple of seconds by the door to the generator room, listening carefully.
No sound.
He swung round into the doorway.
The room was empty.
A sound, farther along the corridor. A gush of water. It sent a jolt through him. He turned again and aimed his rifle back towards the stairs. The door of the stinking bathroom opened.
Buckingham appeared.
He was still doing up his trousers, and his face was screwed up because of the offensive smell. When he saw Danny, he froze.
Then he swore.
Danny lowered his weapon. His hand, he realised, was trembling.
Buckingham was barking some bullshit at him, but Danny didn’t hear a word. Maybe Taff was right. Maybe this place truly was getting on top of him.
His old friend appeared at the top of the stairs. He had an urgent look on his face. ‘Do us all a favour, pal,’ he said to Buckingham, who was still in full flow, ‘and shut the fuck up.’ Buckingham looked outraged, but he fell silent.
‘Come with me,’ Taff said. He turned and descended the stairs. Danny followed him. Taff didn’t speak again until they reached the ground floor, and then only quietly. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘You’re being an arsehole. If you were anyone else, I’d have kicked you halfway back to the fucking Med.’ Danny opened his mouth to argue, but Taff carried on – ‘Don’t . . . fucking . . . speak . . .’ – before drawing a deep, calming breath. ‘You say my men are committing atrocities. Fine. Show me.’
Danny blinked at him.
‘I mean it, kiddo. Show me the bodies and find me one single scrap of evidence that it was my men who killed them, or shut the fuck up and do your job. What’s it to be?’
Danny looked back over his shoulder. He shouldn’t leave Buckingham, he knew that. But somehow this was more important.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
The two men said nothing more as they walked across the compound. De Fries was waiting by the gate. His eyes followed them as they approached.
‘Open up,’ Taff told him. ‘The spook doesn’t leave, no matter what. Understood?’
The ever-silent De Fries simply nodded. Something seemed to pass between him and Taff and for a moment, Danny felt again the cold grip of paranoia.
The gate slid open and they exited the compound.
&
nbsp; It was twilight. The semi-darkness softened the now-familiar sight of the war-torn buildings along the streets outside. Danny thought he could hear music not far off – the thin, monotone wail of a woman’s voice singing some traditional song.
‘All right, kiddo,’ Taff said, keeping his voice low. ‘Lead the way.’
Danny still gripping his M4, they started walking to the right, taking the route Hector and Skinner had followed the previous night, staying close to the buildings on their left as they gave a little more shadow. Danny had a moment of déjà vu. He was ten years old, walking through a wood with Taff, who was teaching him how to tread without making a sound. But there were no trees here in the Syrian night. Just slabs of shattered concrete. No piles of autumnal leaves. Just heaps of rubble.
And soldiers.
Fifty metres ahead.
Danny raised his free hand instinctively. Both men stopped and pressed their backs against the empty window of a shop. Danny peered into the gloom ahead. Eight men. Government forces – Danny could tell that as much by their swagger as by their uniforms. They were blocking the road about fifteen metres beyond the side street he and Taff needed to take. It meant getting too close to . . .
A shot rang out. Impossible to be sure where it came from, but Danny sensed that it was from above. One of the soldiers fell to the ground.
‘Sniper fire,’ Taff hissed. ‘Don’t fucking move.’
Danny didn’t need telling. The soldiers, on the other hand, were thrown into chaos. They started barking instructions at one another, losing formation and bunching up – the worst thing they could do. There was a second shot – a second direct hit. The remaining soldiers scattered.
‘Go!’ Taff whispered. But Danny was already moving, keeping to the shadows, taking advantage of the soldiers’ bad luck. Twenty seconds later they had turned off that street and were standing in a slightly narrower one. Danny scanned ahead. There was a small fire on the side of the road about sixty metres distant. Five silhouettes around it. If they’d heard the sniper fire, they didn’t seem to pay it any mind. There was no sound of artillery. If you closed your eyes, you’d never know you were in a city at war. Somehow it made Danny more tense. If he was a Syrian government strategist, he knew when he would strike the hardest: during a religious festival, when the population and the rebels were least expecting it. But so far there had been no fast air and no ordnance.
