Masters of War

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Looks like you’re out of luck, ladies,’ said Skinner. He nodded at Hector, who grabbed Clara by the hair and pushed her towards the tent.

  ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  There was silence inside the tent. A sense of expectation. The light was dim, coming from a couple of red spotlights trained on to the centre of the tent. Sorgen stood in the middle, his robes and moustache bathed in the red light. A couple of metres behind him, lying on the ground, was a leather suitcase. His commanders, who still wore their scarves around their heads, were dotted about the tent’s perimeter – fifteen or so of them – an audience watching the show unfold. Skinner and Hector nodded at a third Western man standing guard by the entrance as they forced the women into the tent. Standing next to Sorgen was the man Clara assumed must be Taff. He was older than the others, somewhere in his late fifties, with straggly grey stubble. He watched the women approach with a curious lack of expression.

  Sorgen shouted something in Arabic. One of his commanders stepped forwards. He was clutching a small, hand-held camcorder. The viewfinder was flipped open.

  Basheba spoke angrily in Arabic. A sharp word from Sorgen did nothing to silence her, so Skinner, whose knife was still pressed against her neck, kneed her brutally in the small of the back. Her body went momentarily limp from the pain, and she appeared to be hanging by the fistful of hair Skinner was still clutching. Then he threw her to the ground.

  Too terrified to scream again, and restrained by the strong arms of the man called Hector, Clara could only watch the horror that unfolded.

  It was an order from Taff that started it all. He nodded at Skinner and said, ‘Do it.’

  ‘Basheba first,’ Sorgen said. Still bathed in red light, his eyes were filled with a kind of greed, as though he was about to feast on the sight of this poor woman’s execution.

  Skinner nodded. He was still holding the vicious knife. With the red light glinting off it, it looked as if it was already covered in blood. The guy with the camcorder held it at arm’s length. Clara saw a light on the side switch from red to green.

  Skinner walked up to the terrified woman, whose head was in her hands as she wept uncontrollably. Grabbing her hair again, he hauled her to her feet.

  ‘What’s your name, bitch?’ he said.

  Basheba couldn’t answer. She just stared at him with undisguised horror.

  Skinner raised the knife to her face. In full view of the camera, he sliced each cheek vertically. The blade was sharp, cutting through Basheba’s flesh as though it was barely there. She screamed as blood leaked from each incision, smearing her cheeks and lips.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Skinner repeated.

  ‘B . . . Basheba,’ she managed to say.

  ‘To the camera.’

  ‘Basheba.’

  Skinner smiled then. It was an expression of such cold violence that Clara could barely look at him. Something, though, some kind of horrible magnetic force, kept her eyes glued to Skinner as he raised the knife again. He was standing behind Basheba now, his knife arm around her neck, the blade pointing at her throat.

  He pressed it against the skin.

  Clara closed her eyes as Basheba screamed.

  But that scream was not the only sound that suddenly filled the tent.

  There was a gunshot. It came from the front flap of the tent. The shock of the ear-splitting noise was enough to make Clara wonder, for just a fraction of a second, if she herself had been the target. Her eyes jerked open again, just in time to see Skinner go down. The bullet had hit him in the head, ripping a chunk from the skull and causing a gruesome shower of blood, bone and brain matter to rain down. The impact of the shot threw his body back a couple of metres. He hit the ground with a solid, terminal thump. His knife fell a metre from where he dropped.

  Basheba screamed again. Her hands were covering her face, but blood was still seeping between her fingers. For some reason she ran towards Clara, as if Clara was in any position to protect her as Taff, Hector and the rest of Sorgen’s commanders turned towards the front of the tent, their weapons ready.

  In trepidation, Clara did the same.

  She saw a figure at the entrance.

  It was too dark to make out his features. She could tell that he was tall, that he had a rifle strapped across his body and a pistol in his outstretched right hand. His left hand was above his head, and it held something small and cylindrical.

  ‘Kill him!’ Sorgen roared. But at the same time, Taff shouted an instruction of his own.

  ‘Hold your fire!’

  Taff launched himself forwards. When he was five metres from the intruder he turned his back on him to address the rebel leader and his men. ‘He’s got a grenade. If you shoot him, he’ll release the detonation lever. It’ll kill us all. Tell them to drop their weapons, Sorgen!’

  Sorgen looked unsure, but after a moment of deliberation he issued an instruction in Arabic. With obvious reluctance, his commanders lowered their weapons.

  Taff turned back to the man with the grenade, who was standing motionless at the entrance to the tent. ‘You shouldn’t have come here tonight, kiddo,’ he said quietly. ‘I tried to warn you.’

  No reply.

  The only sound in the tent was Basheba’s continued sobbing.

  ‘Damn it!’ The words seemed to explode from Taff’s mouth. ‘You don’t understand what the hell’s going on. You’re still just a fucking kid!’

  The intruder stepped farther into the tent.

  Clara gasped as she recognised the grim features of the soldier Basheba had tried to kill that very morning. Gun still pointing at the rebels. Grenade clearly visible in his left hand.

  ‘Not any more, Taff,’ the soldier said quietly. ‘But then I guess we all have to grow up some day, don’t we?’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Danny turned to look at the English woman. ‘Get outside,’ he said. ‘Take Basheba with you.’ And when at first neither woman moved, he shouted, ‘Now!’

  He waited for them to scramble past him and out of the tent before turning back to Taff. His old friend – if that was the word Danny still wanted to use – was standing five metres from him. Sorgen stood five metres beyond that, some of the self-satisfaction wiped from his smug face. Between them lay the bleeding body of Skinner. Hector and De Fries were edging towards the perimeter of the tent, where Sorgen’s men were dotted at intervals of two or three metres. Every one of them, Syrian and mercenary alike, had their eyes on the frag, which they knew would cause a lot of damage in an enclosed space like this.

  Except for Taff: his gaze was fully on Danny’s face.

  ‘You crept up quietly, kiddo,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘You taught me well.’

  ‘Perhaps. Sometimes I think I didn’t teach you enough.’ A pause. ‘You’re so naive, Danny. I should have given you a crash course in how the world works while I could.’

  ‘I’m learning pretty fast.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s stick a pin in that frag, eh? Talk this through man to man.’

  Silence. Danny didn’t move.

  ‘You can still run, kiddo,’ Taff said. ‘If I say the word, none of these cunts will follow you. It’s your best call. Buckingham’s dead. You’ve got no reason to stick around.’

  Danny whistled. He could sense the flap opening behind him and didn’t need to turn round to know that Buckingham had just entered. He could see that written on Taff’s face.

  ‘You’ll bloody well answer for this . . .’ Buckingham started to say.

  ‘Shut up!’ Danny and Taff gave the command in unison, but neither of them stopped staring at the other.

  After ten seconds, Taff smiled. He turned round and waved his arms in the air to indicate everyone in the tent. ‘Fine, kiddo,’ he shouted. ‘Take us all out. Great idea! But, before you do, ask yourself a question.’ He faced his protégé once more, and even took a couple of steps towards him. ‘When – if – they find your body rotting in the Syrian des
ert, what will the powers that be say about you back home? Do you think they’ll remember your name in Whitehall? Do you think they’ll be toasting you down at their fucking gentlemen’s clubs? Or do you think you’ll be swept under the carpet like all the other rubbish? Eh? Sorry, kiddo, can’t hear you! Cat got your tongue?’

  Silence.

  ‘Here’s the bottom line, Danny,’ Taff continued, his voice a little quieter now. ‘Nobody . . . gives . . . a . . . shit. Do you really reckon anybody outside the squadron hangar gives a fuck that your mate Jack caught it? Do you think those twats at the MoD have made a single phone call to Damascus to get the other two off the hook?’

  ‘I’m just a soldier, Taff,’ Danny replied. ‘I do what I’m told.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Taff spat. ‘Spare me the Queen and Country bullshit. You want to know what this is about? All this?’ Without waiting for an answer, he stormed to the back of the tent, where a tatty leather suitcase lay on the ground. He picked it up and carried it back to the centre of the tent, stepping nonchalantly over Skinner as he returned. He opened the suitcase and let the contents fall to the floor: wads of notes, maybe fifty of them. Danny couldn’t begin to guess how much money was there. ‘Do you think the British, or the French, or the Russians would come anywhere near this place if there wasn’t money to be made? How many mates did you lose in Iraq so that a bunch of Yanks could hold on to a few oil contracts? Half these Syrian rebels are propped up by Al Qaeda anyway, so don’t give me that crap about patriotism. You and me are just tiny cogs in one great big fucked-up machine, and you know it.’

  ‘All I know,’ Danny said, doing his best to keep his voice level, ‘is that you’re out of control. Skinner was going to butcher that woman, just like he butchered the family back in Homs.’

  Taff waved one hand, as if to say, let’s not sweat the small stuff. It made the rage boil hotter in Danny’s blood. ‘I had a lot of respect for you once, Taff,’ he said. ‘Back in the day when I didn’t realise you made your living killing defenceless women.’

  ‘I make my living the same way you do, kiddo. The only difference is that you get paid in worthless medals and empty words, and I get paid in cash.’ He bent down, picked up a wad of notes and casually flicked through them. ‘US dollars,’ he said. ‘Used, non-sequential, untraceable.’ His eyes brightened as if a very good idea had just struck him. He tossed the bundle of notes at Danny’s feet. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Skinner’s not in a position to use his share. You take some of it. There’s five grand there.’

  For the first time, Danny’s eyes left Taff as he glanced down at the money. Taff nodded knowingly. ‘Feels like a good pay day, eh?’ he said. ‘Let me tell you, that’s not the half of it.’ He walked back to where Sorgen was standing, positioned himself behind the rebel leader and put both hands on his shoulders. Annoyance flickered over Sorgen’s face, but he managed to suppress it and to stand silently. ‘Take Sorgen,’ Taff proclaimed. ‘If he comes to power in Syria, the French are going to be pissing rainbows. I’ll have influence, kiddo. Real influence. You’ve met that tosser Max Saunders. You think I want to be working for him for the rest of my life? Do you want to be working for him the rest of your life? Because, believe me, that’s what’s in store for you when the Regiment finally sends you packing – if not with Saunders, then with some other Rupert happy to sit behind a desk and fuck his secretary while you risk all the bleeding. But the French? I just need to say the word and they’ll set me up with my own private military contracts.’

  He nodded again, then sauntered back towards Danny. ‘I’ll cut you in,’ he said. Danny wasn’t sure if he was trying to stop the others from hearing him. ‘You and me, kiddo. We can sit behind a desk in Paris, count our money and fuck French tarts till our dicks bleed, while some other mug risks his life on the ground instead. You’re not going to tell me that isn’t better than a paltry army pension or an unmarked grave if you’re KIA.’

  Taff was again facing Danny, just a metre between them, and he dropped his voice once more. It was definitely a private conversation. ‘You did the right thing, nailing Skinner,’ he said, and for once Danny saw a bit of honesty in his eyes. ‘You’re right. He was out of control. I should have done something about it before. I owe you one.’

  No reply. ‘You can take his place. We’ll let the women go. Sorgen won’t do anything. He’s too scared the Frogs will withdraw their support. We’ll finish the job together – you, me, Hector, De Fries – and split the money.’ He looked up at the grenade that Danny still held aloft. ‘Let’s be honest with each other, kiddo,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, and you’re not going to hurt me. Too much water under the bridge for that, right?’

  Right.

  Danny was aware of Buckingham stepping back outside the tent. Slowly, and without taking his eyes off Taff, he lowered his arm but kept his fingers tight around the grenade’s detonation lever.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Taff. He bent down and picked up the wad of notes. ‘Plenty more where this came from, Danny,’ he said. ‘You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking you could do with it. Get your dad out of that shitty little bungalow. Pay for someone to come in twice a day, wipe his arse, cook his food.’ Danny felt himself blushing at the reminder of his father’s incapacity. ‘He’s only going to get worse, you know. You think you’ll be able to help him out on a Regiment wage? Because it’s not like Kyle’s going to be there for him, right?’

  Kyle. What was it he’d said, what seemed like an age ago back in the UK? ‘Sometimes he thought you were more like Taff’s son than his.’ And now here he was, holding his own mentor at gunpoint, threatening to wound or kill them both with a fragmentation grenade.

  Had he ever, he asked himself, truly believed that Taff made his living in a straightforward way? Was he being a twat, only pretending to have scruples about it now he had come face to face with the reality?

  Taff took a step forwards, ignoring the grenade, ignoring the gun, ignoring everything but Danny himself.

  ‘Tell Buckingham and the women to get out of here,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll finish the job off. Asu’s a cunt anyway. Him and his commanders are all in one place tonight, just like I planned it. Easy target. Then we’ll head home and sort your dad out. And then . . .’ He waved the bundle of notes under Danny’s nose.

  And Danny had to admit it. He felt his resolve weakening. Maybe Taff was right. He always had been in the past. If his bosses cared about the lives of him and his men, they’d have pulled them out of Syria the moment they were compromised. If they’d done that, maybe Jack would still be alive.

  He felt his weapon lowering.

  Taff moved with incredible speed. His right hand shot out and his fingers curled round Danny’s clenched fist, squeezing both his hand and the detonation lever. He had an immensely strong grip. At the same time, he pulled out his own pistol and pressed it against Danny’s skull. Danny’s gun was level with Taff’s stomach. Stalemate. Danny’s advantage with the grenade was neutralised. To get it back, he had to kill Taff, and they both knew he was never going to do that.

  ‘So what do we do now, kiddo? Kill each other? Or let each other go?’

  Danny had no answer.

  Taff looked over at Hector and De Fries. ‘Get Buckingham and the women.’ The two men left the tent. Silence. Then the sound of a struggle outside. A minute later they marched the captives in at gunpoint.

  The atmosphere in the tent had changed. Sorgen’s men were no longer standing rigid and uncomfortable around the edge. Three of them had moved forwards a few steps, and they all held their weapons with a little more confidence.

  ‘I know what you’re doing, kiddo,’ Taff said. ‘You’re estimating the distance to each target in the tent. You’re thinking, should I take out Sorgen? He’s only ten metres away, and unarmed. You’re thinking, if I could get to my M4, I could take out his commanders in a few bursts. But you’re holding your Sig, aren’t you? You could take one shot, maybe two, before they disobey my ins
truction to hold their fire and put you down. You’re thinking, how did this happen? I was on top, and now Taff’s calling the shots.’

  Danny didn’t reply. Each one of these thoughts had passed through his mind. He didn’t have an answer to any of them.

  ‘Let me put you out of your misery, kiddo, and tell you exactly what’s going to happen. You’re going to very gently release your grip on that grenade. Then you’re going to roll it into my hand so I can keep the detonation lever pressed. If I get the idea, even for a moment, that you’re fucking me around, Hector here will take out each of his three prisoners in turn. First the raghead, then the blonde, then the spook. I’m going to count to five, and then we’re going to do it.’

  He looked over at Hector and gave him a nod to indicate that he wasn’t joking. Hector raised his weapon to the trembling form of Basheba.

  ‘One,’ said Taff.

  Distance between him and Hector: no more than four metres.

  ‘Two.’

  Danny’s pistol was still pressed into Taff’s belly. He could put Hector down with a single shot, but it would mean shooting Taff first.

  ‘Three.’

  He’s not the guy you thought he was, Danny realised. You can’t trust him. Think of the women. Hector will kill them without a second thought. Look what he and Skinner did in the bakery.

  ‘Four.’

  Do what you have to do, Danny told himself. He felt his finger exert a little bit more pressure on the trigger.

  ‘Five, kiddo.’

  He couldn’t do it.

  But he didn’t need to.

  The movement came from his left. Not from Hector, or even Buckingham, but from the British woman. She launched herself at Hector, knocking his rifle out of Basheba’s way. There was a burst of fire as Hector accidentally sprayed rounds to Danny’s left, ripping holes not only in the canvas of the tent but also in the belly of one of Sorgen’s commanders. Danny didn’t wait to see the guts burst from the guy’s stomach. Instead he took advantage of the moment of distraction.