by Greg Barron
When his arms feel like they will fall from their sockets and his hands have fused into claws, Kruger calls him across. Léon stands, chest heaving, while the South African directs their efforts to the ceiling of the excavation.
‘Softly, slowly,’ he hisses, ‘it is close. Very close.’
Minutes pass before there is an imperceptible click as one of the men on Léon’s right strikes reinforced concrete.
‘That’s it, take it easy now.’
Across three metres of shaft the undersurface of the slab comes into view, encased in plastic sheet in most places, rough mottled concrete in others. They finish off with their hands, attacking the work with new vigour, despite blisters and exhaustion.
When a section of the slab is clear Léon confers with the South African, then announces, ‘Get the men out of the tunnel, bring up the explosives.’ He stays and watches while the charges are set, unable to tear himself away from an operation that he understands might be the most important few hours of his life. The powder monkeys — thin, nervous types with an obvious close rapport — unpack their bricks of plastic explosive and set their detonators.
‘Ready to go?’ Léon asks.
The ranking expert shows a black box with a Perspex-encased switch. ‘Once I press this, that slab will be history.’
Léon waits until they are done and turns back down the tunnel to where the Special Forces team waits in grim double ranks, an officer passing through, sharing a few words with each man, shaking their hands like tennis players before a tournament.
Walking past, Léon says, ‘Best of luck,’ to the nearest of the men. It is good to feel like an equal with these machine-like troops. Some look up and nod, some remain silent, others talk softly to each other.
Léon tries to imagine what it will be like for them — he knows from his training that this is the most difficult of all hostage situations, and not just from the point of view of personal danger. There is a real possibility that mistakes will be made, that in a few minutes not just the terrorists might be dead, but the innocent, killed by an accidental bullet — someone’s mother, someone’s brother, or even someone’s president. There is also a strong chance that the entire room will go up — that these elite troops will find nothing but pulped flesh and spot fires, disembodied limbs and screaming survivors. Some will be dead themselves within a minute or two. He stops beside the officer. Serious and tall, as broad shouldered as the others, yet bowed a little, as if with the extra weight of responsibility.
‘Good luck, captain.’
‘Thanks. You better get out of here. We’re moving up now and as soon as the charges go,’ he slaps a fist into a hand like a truck hitting a rabbit, ‘we’re through.’
Léon turns away, more than a small part of him wishing he could go in also.
PJ faces what might be just two or three minutes of intense action, a time when milliseconds could be more important than weeks of normal life — when the decision to squeeze a trigger might have ramifications for his career, his future, and even the world’s political landscape.
Looking down, his kit is unfamiliar to him — a desert camo pattern instead of dull grey. The weapons are his. The HK53 and the SIG Sauer automatic at his waist. Already he has changed the sequence of cartridges twice, and resists the temptation to do so for a third time.
The ranking officer addresses them, and there is soothing authority in his voice and bearing. ‘You all know what to do. Time is critical. We have three minutes until the terrorists detonate their explosives. Follow me, and good luck.’
The reply is heartfelt. They are dependent on each other to a degree impossible in any other situation.
PJ does not know who determined the safe distance they should wait from the explosion, but it seems close. The tunnel ends only metres ahead before heading up to the shelter above. A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead.
‘Down,’ someone orders.
PJ does as he is told, making sure the protective ear muffs are tight over his ears.
Day 7, Maghrib — Sunset
When the explosion comes PJ feels rather than hears it — an oncoming rush of dust and air and the earth itself shaking as if in a signal that things will never be the same again. That the old world order is crumbling.
There is no shouted command, just the ranks of men moving off at a run, onwards and through the shattered, broken blocks of reinforced concrete — into the unknown.
Ali Khalid Abukar watches Zhyogal take up the microphone for what might be the last time. So many countries have not gone far enough, paying lip service to the demands. A thrill goes through him, of pleasure and revulsion and atavistic terror.
Zhyogal’s voice echoes with triumph. ‘I am sorry to announce that the response has been inadequate. In two minutes, at the expiration of the deadline, we will destroy this room and everyone in it.’ Then with a final shout he exclaims, ‘Allahu akbar.’
Yes, Ali decides, now I am truly bringing glory to God. Something akin to ecstasy begins to course through his veins as he walks away from the dais and to Sufia. It is time to say goodbye.
Again they go to the cubicle. He takes her in his arms. His breath comes fast. He wants to live, yes. He does not want it to end. But are there not more important things than life? He hears footsteps, and turns to see Zhyogal walk into the area, scowling.
‘Ah, the bitch continues to work her poison.’
Ali shakes his head. ‘Leave us, I am entitled to some privacy.’
‘No. The Americans and their puppets in the GDOIS have sent her here. I told you, she is with them.’
‘That is a lie.’
Before Ali can stop him Zhyogal takes two quick steps forwards, grips Sufia’s collar and rips it open, revealing the fine microphone with its wires against the clear dark skin of her chest and white underclothing.
‘See? See that she is the tool of the kufr.’ Zhyogal slips the handgun from his holster and passes it across, pulling back the slide. ‘Kill her yourself, brother. Prove to me that you will not falter. Remember how we talked of the glorious world when Islam outshines the insanity of Christ followers and the Zionists?’
Ali’s gaze settles on Sufia. Yet even now there is no begging in her eyes. ‘You wore a wire in here?’
‘I agreed so they would know if you planned to disarm yourself. So that when the soldiers come they will spare you.’
‘They are coming?’
‘Yes.’
Zhyogal speaks through gritted teeth. ‘She is a liar. She is a tool of the capitalist machine that you and I must destroy. Kill her.’
Ali focuses his eyes on Zhyogal and passes the handgun back. Taking Sufia’s arm, he leads her from the cubicle, while the deadline comes with the inexorability that is unique to time — never stopping, never slowing or speeding, despite sometimes giving the impression that it might.
Twenty seconds.
In Paradise are rivers of water …
Ali looks at Sufia, now as close to despair as he has ever seen her. The delegates too are restless now that the time is close. The weaker souls are gone. All that remain had the courage not to sell their honour for freedom.
One man stands up, shouting, ‘Murderers.’
Ali’s body shakes as if from a physical blow. Never has he imagined that such a word might apply to him. He hears snatches of prayer, as the delegates prepare themselves.
Hail Mary, full of Grace …
The sound of the explosion down below is muffled, yet unmistakeable. Ali turns and locks eyes with Zhyogal. Both know what is happening. They are coming; the Special Forces troops are on their way. Ali feels a treacherous but profound relief.
Zhyogal, however, wears a sudden and terrifying expression on his face: fear that someone might snatch the moment of glory away from him.
Ali tries to turn but already Zhyogal is coming for him. With a thrust of outstretched hands he attempts to push him away but the Algerian is too strong. At first Ali thinks that the other man is trying to hu
rt him, but instead the focus of Zhyogal’s strength and determination is the carbon fibre trigger that Ali takes from his pocket and holds in his hand.
‘Push the switch,’ Zhyogal shouts. ‘Let it end the way God wills it to end for us.’
Ali knows now that he cannot kill the woman he loves. Cannot allow her beautiful face to feel shrapnel and pain. Here in this room are other men and women who love also. This is not the way, he wants to shout. I was wrong.
The strength of the other man, however, is too much — his fingers have the power of pliers and he uses them to prise away Ali’s grip on the switch, a knee on his chest. Now Ali knows that he is seconds from death, and his wonderful, beautiful Sufia …
PJ moves through the opening, familiarising himself with the darkness — finding himself close to the front as they take the bunker staircase three steps at a time, reaching a small alcove and two doors beyond it. A single guard waits for them, getting a round or two away before his chest is torn apart by concentrated fire.
Two men swing a ram and the door smashes open. CS gas grenades arc into the space beyond. People scream. Pandemonium.
He enters the room, seeking targets, hearing the man ahead of him fire twice in quick succession. Someone goes down. PJ is no longer nervous, but is instead filled with a feeling of invulnerability, of abnormal strength. Over to the right he sees a militant running, grasping for bodies to use as human shields. Even as he fires, another rifle discharges behind him and the man dies where he stands.
The tear gas is disabling people now, forcing eyes closed, some vomiting and retching. Leaning over, hands covering faces. More than a few crawl on the floor towards the entrance, trying to get below the toxic cloud, anxious to be among the first to leave when and if the doors open.
PJ comes off the dais and turns the corner to see two men struggling on the floor. Almost a second — a long time in this kind of operation — passes before he realises that the man on the ground is Dr Abukar, and Zhyogal pinning him down.
He would have already fired but the Algerian has just wrested something from his adversary’s hand. PJ recognises it as the trigger that will detonate the explosives.
‘I have it,’ shouts Zhyogal. ‘Die! Feel the wrath of God.’ He is on his knees, swaying in religious ecstasy. ‘There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet.’
PJ knows that there is no one else beside him — they have dispersed throughout the room hunting down the militants one by one. He knows that he has just microseconds to act — to do something. To do nothing and die, or act and die also.
Isabella looks up from the floor at Jafar, looming over her with the gun in hand, the barrel on her neck. The explosion has changed everything. Fear fills his eyes at first, and then a strange kind of determination. Lifting her by both hands he crushes her against his chest. She tries to struggle but his grip is like iron.
The Special Forces men are everywhere now, like alien creatures in their gas masks, rifles levelled. Impersonal and strange.
‘Get back!’ Jafar cries. ‘You cannot shoot me without killing her also.’
His grip shifts so that the crook of his elbow is underneath her chin. In this position he begins to back away, pulling her with him. At first she lets her legs drag but he frees a hand to slap her face hard, and the shock is enough to force her into moving her feet, supporting her own weight, drawing her deeper into a nightmare. The gas makes her eyes water. Nausea builds in her throat.
‘Let me go,’ she croaks.
‘Silence.’
She can tell by the timbre of his voice that he too is affected by the gas, yet somehow is still functioning. It occurs to her that perhaps some people are more resistant than others.
Shadowed by three soldiers, the terrorist backs towards the wall, adroitly using her body to shield him all the way. Reaching the bathroom door he pushes backwards through it, shouting to the men who follow: ‘If you try to enter here I will kill her.’
He closes the door behind him, locking it, shoving her to the ground as he does so, withdrawing his pistol from his belt. ‘It was you,’ he shrieks, ‘who brought this upon us, with your cell phone. Move, across the room.’
These are the men’s toilets, and they pass a row of porcelain urinals, half screened from each other, then the cubicles. The air in here is free of the debilitating gas. Her eyes and nose stream less.
The terrorist stops before the window with its view out to the sea. He reverses his handgun and raps at the glass. It makes no impression. Again, harder, he smashes the butt against the glass and nothing happens.
‘In the name of God,’ he swears.
Isabella has only to look out the window to see that they are at least twenty metres from the ground. What does he expect to do? Climb down in full view and make a miraculous getaway?
Now he stands back and fires at the glass. The sound is shocking, numbing, in that confined space. Isabella feels tiny shards strike her face, and raises both hands to find her skin slippery with blood. She screams, but again he fires.
When the smoke clears it is obvious that there is no way through. The surface is chipped but not cracked. Isabella gathers herself to try to run while the terrorist stands facing the glass, chest heaving.
Realising her intention, he turns and is on her within a few paces. ‘Bitch,’ he cries, and with a grip on the back of her shirt, drags her down to the floor. Her head slams against the tiles and he is climbing onto her, his breath on her face. ‘Damn you.’
His face is filled with a thousand sleepless nights of sexual confusion and desire. The war in his mind between passion and religious law. Isabella senses his need to expunge his own guilt with her blood.
‘Whore!’
Stunned from the knock on her head she cannot move a muscle as he smashes his hand against the side of her face.
‘Prostitute,’ he grunts. ‘Western pig.’ Hatred fills his eyes and now she is more afraid than she has ever been in her life.
For a moment she stares, her mouth open as if it might let the grief escape rather than build. ‘No. God. No, please …’
Her vision comes back into focus. Summoning reserves from deep in her subconscious she tries to fight. Her brother Peter, long ago, as a fifteen-year-old tough, taught her the rudiments of street fighting, and the tactics come back to her in a rush.
She tilts her head with the suddenness of lightning, forehead butting into the soft flesh and gristle of his nose, breaking it so blood pours from both nostrils. He grunts in pain.
Still off balance he tries to raise himself. Isabella brings up her knee, catching his genitals. He rolls off her, moaning and writhing in pain. She expects him to come for her again with his hands, but instead he kneels, slips a knife from a hidden sheath. She sees his fury as he raises the weapon then brings the blade down; the sting as it enters her chest, brutally hard, rising again, plunging inside, cracking against a rib this time before sliding free.
At that moment Isabella understands that he is not merely killing her, but is killing everything he is afraid of and cannot understand, killing her as a way of killing the things inside him that he cannot control. Killing the gods of the others. The rotten and the good. All those things that nothing this side of death can explain.
The blood floods from her chest, and she scarcely hears the ram on the door, heavy-booted footsteps. Isabella’s eyes register three men, alien in their gas masks and fatigues. Muzzle flashes. Gunshots.
Isabella Thompson stares with unseeing eyes as her rescuers fill the room. Soon someone lays a blanket over her body and face. On the tiled floor her blood mingles with that of Jafar Zartosht, a man whose primary battle has always been within his own soul.
PJ sees himself from outside, elevated as if through some hidden camera as he makes the decision to fire. There is no other choice. He will die no matter what, but this is the only way of saving hundreds of lives.
Taking careful aim, he shoots Zhyogal in the cheek, seeing the neat round hole appear just
below the left eye. The second round catches him in the temple.
At the moment of violent death, human muscles can behave in either of two ways: to grip, or release. After the passage of a bullet through the frontal lobe, a man is not capable of thought — is brain dead at that moment — but still there are tricks the body can play before all functioning and movement ceases.
Dropping his weapon, PJ lunges across the intervening ground, reaching out for the terrorist’s hand as it swings through the air — the hand that holds the plunger, seeing the gripping reflex of the fingers, wondering just how far the trigger has to fall before contact is made.
PJ’s hand closes around the fingers, dragging them off the trigger. As he recovers his balance he brings his other hand to bear also, hearing the terrorist’s dead fingers snap under the force of his grip.
Coming to his knees, breathless with relief, he sees one of the SAS troopers bring up his rifle. A single shot catches Dr Abukar in the back of the head, spinning him around.
A woman’s shriek. The tall, regal Somali woman goes to her husband, kneeling over the body, cradling him like a child.
Other men reach PJ. Congratulatory thumps on the back or a gentle touch on the shoulder or arm. Yes, somehow, they have done it. It is over.
‘Felix on the way,’ someone says, using the British army nickname for a bomb disposal expert.
More men arrive, and with the explosives in the process of being neutralised, PJ watches the tall woman weep over the body of Dr Ali Khalid Abukar. The love in her dark brown eyes is plain to see.
The main door now open, Marika comes in behind the second wave, with the medic and relief teams, who focus on the delegates huddling in their shocked circles, hanging blankets on their shoulders and leading them out in silent, shattered groups.
Sufia is on her knees and it is the end of the world; just one of a thousand small deaths that will make up the whole. When the medics come she stands and lets them cover his body and face. Then, her voice carrying to every corner of the room, she begins to speak. Footage, recorded on cell phone cameras, will later be beamed across the world.
