Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  “…’Tis not brotherhood when a man seeks his own profit over that of his own tribe…” Wasim speaks slowly and with feeling. “You thought you knew them but perhaps not… why would they want to steal our transport… perhaps they sided with Bashar al-Assad after all…”

  The big man who has insisted they should help has slunk away. The other two fighters look at him now with suspicion.

  How easy it is to turn the minds of these young men. Henry slips his gun into the small of his back. He can see the blood splatters spread on the side of the pick-up truck. He tries not to look at the faces of the two dead fighters. Still, he moves forward and helps Wasim pull the bodies away from the road and into a shallow depression at its side. Wasim gives his instructions and this time no one argues.

  Ali stays with them. The other two will take the pick-up, one driving, the other one looking after the hostages until they come to the next ISIL camp. Henry collapses into the back of the 4x4. He has not said a word. Silence is wise and yet trying his patience. The two vehicles turn off the main road and the dirt tracks immediately feel bumpy and uncomfortable. Henry can’t stop thinking about the injured journalist. The shot of morphine he has been given will only go so far. He has seen much worse since his arrival in the Middle East.

  They are running an obstacle course. They run it every day, several times a day. Crawling on their bellies, vaulting over makeshift barricades, darting around low walls, crouching as they try to avoid detection. Today, however, the blank munitions have been replaced by real ones and the fighters who use the guns have been told to aim half a metre over their targets… this is generous according to the trainer. On the battlefield the enemy will not be so thoughtful. One young man gets caught, collapses in agony. No one comes to his rescue. When the training is done, another two men limp out with injured limbs, but they’ve completed the course. They will recover. The youth who fell and did not get up is less fortunate. He has been caught in the gut. The training officer walks over to where he is still lying; he prods the moaning man with his boot. Henry can see the desperate attempt at getting up, his feet trying to get a hold, scraping the ground, sliding and pushing the pain level up again. His face desperately turns towards the standing man, begging. Henry turns around before the officer draws out his gun. The shots are two clear slaps that send the shrapnel of fear into everyone’s belly.

  Ali had jumped in next to Wasim. It was his idea the truck should go first… perhaps he too would rather not have two young men who have just witnessed a shooting they don’t understand or agree with driving behind their car.

  “This is complicating matters…” Wasim is speaking to Henry in English. “They need to guide us towards our crossing but also deal with the hostages.”

  “Only one of them is badly injured, right?”

  “I gave him morphine… he may not wake up.”

  “What about the second one?” Henry changes position at the back of the car. Ali is listening intently. His English is not up to scratch, but he is keen to learn.

  “Just a light injury. He hasn’t said anything.”

  “Which is he, the Brit or the Yank?”

  “Don’t know… either way the Yanks certainly don’t pay ransom and neither will the Brits… These idiots thought they were worth a lot of money.”

  “What happens if they won’t pay?”

  Wasim casts a sombre look at Henry from the rear-view mirror. Henry can hardly see it through the darkness, but he can feel its potency. Wasim won’t answer the question.

  Ali is thinking hard. Henry can just about make out his features, a face still smooth and fresh, a wispy beard he is trying to grow forms small clumps that he desperately tries to spread to make it look fuller.

  “No pay… no life,” he eventually says, turning back towards Henry with an almost childish grin.

  “You mean… they might kill them?” Despite everything, Henry likes the young man. He must be in his late teens. He started to train as a doctor or similar. He has a good knowledge of how to treat wounds. Jihadis needed people like him and Henry surmised he was not given much choice when it came to recruitment.

  “Enough,” Wasim snaps in Arabic. If Wasim refuses to speak about something it is not Ali’s place to answer in his stead. Ali shrinks back into his seat. But Henry acknowledges him with a nod.

  They have been driving for almost three hours non-stop. They are now nearing the crossing of the Euphrates, the large river that throws itself into Lake Assad, Syria’s largest expanse of water, near Raqqa. Henry almost smiles at the thought of crossing this near mythical watercourse. There is something epic about coming in contact with the Euphrates, the basin of which gave shelter to early men 450,000 years ago. It has for all this time been shrouded in legends from Babylon to Hercules. It resonates with Henry’s path, with what he is trying to achieve by crossing it to join ISIL, to infiltrate them as an MI6 agent. The river reaches back into ancient history… it is part of the land that witnessed the defeat of Darius III by Alexander the Great. Henry has drifted into his own past, the life he has left behind. Serving his 30-year sentence at HSU Belmarsh had never been an option… a man like him needs to prove himself. He had done wrong, so very wrong. Putting together an almost undetectable financing structure for the IRA, contributing to their finances… he knows why he did it. Still there are no excuses. How could he atone for what he had done by remaining in the confines of a prison cell?

  He cut an almost impossible deal with the British intelligence service. He is glad of it… a life for a life. He has left everything behind… He had no time to say his goodbyes, but this too was part of the deal.

  After his escape from Belmarsh, it has all been about training. Combat intelligence gathering – interrogation. Wasim is working under legend for MI6. The agency has spent years building a credible background so that he can navigate the world of terrorism unsuspected. His infiltration into ISIL has taken years and it has now given MI6 the opportunity to place someone else: Henry.

  The sun is about to rise. The two vehicles are still bumping along the dirt tracks. The pick-up truck slows down. Ali’s mobile rings. They should be very close to the camp they have been aiming for, but there is no sign of any encampment, just an arid landscape, bare and dusty. The two cars stop. Ali jumps out of the vehicle first without waiting for Wasim’s order. He turns back then, hesitating, and Wasim nods. He goes to the back of the truck.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get rid of the other blokes… we have nearly reached the bridge and Ali knows the road after that. I don’t trust them.” Wasim slides away from the driver’s seat. Henry grabs the Glock again. Ali is shaking his head. The wounded man needs assistance right away.

  Henry can make out a few sentences.

  He is doing better than I thought… need hospital soon… there is a dispensary in a town not very far if we can’t find another camp…

  The fighters have moved to the back of the truck too.

  Henry pushes the gun into the back of his jeans making sure it is secure but ready.

  “I want these hostages alive so that I can negotiate with their countries. I will remember what you have done when I meet with Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, our leader.”

  They all turn around, stunned by Henry’s almost fluent Arabic. Henry speaks in a guttural way that hisses at whoever he addresses. Wasim hesitates… but he gets it.

  “I want the other hostage now so that we can negotiate immediately.”

  Henry moves past the group, grabs the frame of the truck and heaves himself into its back. In the dim light he can make out the small figure of the journalist who has also been taken. Henry stops. The silhouette rises, holding an arm. Lost in large army fatigues and an old army jacket, a woman staggers to stand up. She has dropped the scarf that was covering her head. Henry hesitates and fumbles to help.

  “I’m fine.” She replaces the scarf ov
er her head. She winces as she jumps down from the vehicle.

  Wasim shouts an order to Ali, who pushes the woman towards the 4x4. The truck is leaving and Wasim slows down. He speaks between gritted teeth. “You know you might have signed her death warrant, don’t you?”

  “Why?” Henry looks astonished. He fancies she has a better chance with them than with the beardos.

  “She can’t know you are here.”

  Chapter Two

  Steve Harris entered RED HAWK Control Room for his daily check on his two operatives with feigned nonchalance. He hovered next to a screen on which two dots were advancing and popped yet another stick of gum into his mouth.

  “They’ve moved away from the route they were supposed to take.” Amina Brown kept focusing on the screen and did not bother to look up.

  “Is it a worry?”

  “Not sure… They are going in the right direction but making a detour, it seems.”

  “Any sign of hostile activity near Bab al-Hawa?”

  “The satellite has picked up another car… a truck… They are both going in the same direction.”

  “Any contact with Wasim?”

  “Not yet… It’s complicated by the other three beardos who have been assigned to him to deliver Crowne.”

  “I’m glad Henry is not working undercover.”

  “Makes it easier, agreed… although perhaps a little light on his psy evaluation.”

  “We’ve been collecting information about him for long enough now. At least his profile is clear… what are you worried about? That he will join ISIL?”

  “No, I worry we haven’t tested his stress resilience enough and that he will be discovered quickly.”

  Amina shook her head. She had been Wasim’s prime minder for over five years now. “It would be bad enough if Crowne were taken but I don’t want to think about what they might do if they found out about Wasim.”

  Her voice had an edge Harris had rarely heard before. True, this operation, one of the most audacious they had put together so far, had not had nearly enough time to be prepared down to the smallest detail.

  “I am aware,” Harris said. Wasim mattered to him too.

  Amina moved forward swiftly. She had been using a network of satellites to get a better sense of what was happening on the ground. Her fingers surfed the keyboard at speed. She pressed enter.

  “Shit… Someone is down… no… two guys are down.” She played back the recording of the live feed and slowed down the images. Dusk made it hard to always get a clear daytime image and infrared would not give her enough clarity yet. On the other screen she caught sight of a dot moving away from the scene of the shooting.

  “What just happened?” Harris leaned forward over Amina’s chair, his chest almost touching her head.

  “Two people have just been shot…”

  “Fuck… our guys?” Harris threw his over-chewed piece of gum in anger into a small bin.

  “No, the dots are moving again…”

  “Could it be the body of one of them being moved around?”

  “Not sure yet…” Amina worked the satellite feeds again. “The cars are moving together now…”

  “When will you know for sure?”

  “That they are OK? Not until Wasim makes contact again.”

  Harris grunted. “He has to find a way to isolate himself from his escort first.”

  “He’ll do that during prayer time… which is…” Amina looked at the clocks lined up on the wall showing both London and Middle Eastern times. “Nine hours’ time.”

  Harris laid his head on the back of her chair. “Bugger… who is taking over tonight?”

  “Bruce is… but I’ll be on call.”

  “Fine… but any sign of complication…”

  “We call you… yeah, yeah.” Amina returned to the screens. “Anything else you need to know?”

  “Nope…”

  She nodded and prepared for the handover. She would be back long before the nine hours had elapsed.

  * * *

  Harris moved away from her desk. There was no point in hanging around. Amina would as usual get on with the job and he was reluctant to live up to his reputation. He did not mind being a pain in the butt but only for the right reasons. He walked out of the control room dedicated to Operation RED HAWK and moved along a long corridor. Control had been organised around several clusters to avoid breaches and non-critical ops having access to classified data. Harris glanced again at his watch. It was gone 7pm and yet he was not done by a long way. He had a last meeting that would require all his skills at recruitment. Harris took the lift, alighting three floors down. He left the Vauxhall Cross SIS building, hailing a cab for the short journey across the bridge to Pimlico. He would move to the AIRLOCK as he always did before a meeting with a potential recruit. Harris made himself comfortable in the back of the taxi. He closed his eyes and went through the file he had been reviewing all afternoon, ready to meet James Radlett at the Army and Navy Club, 36 Pall Mall.

  As much as Harris enjoyed wrangling with some of his best assets, in particular the rather stuck-up and yet well-connected Brett Allner-Smith, Harris would be frank with James. He had read the file MI6 had compiled on him, asking for more research to be done on the man who was once Henry Crowne’s number two in the successful team Henry headed at GL Investment Bank. His profile was not the usual business school/MBA graduate one would expect. James had started his career in the army. He had joined the Intelligence Corps after completing a degree in engineering at Imperial College London. James had been deployed alongside several regiments, always assisting with tactical intelligence on the ground. His last assignment in Kosovo with the 2nd Rifles had cost him dear. He had suffered multiple wounds when his military vehicle was hit by an RPG. He had been told he would never stand up again… But after two years in rehab he had walked out of the centre unaided. The wounds still occasionally caused him pain at the most unpredictable of moments. Harris admired his determination. Despite his promising career in the field being cut short, James had turned his life around by accessing a GL program for mature students and landing in one of the most prestigious financial engineering teams in the City, Henry’s. And within a year of his joining, James had been promoted to the much-coveted position of Number 2 to his boss.

  Harris walked down St James’s Street and turned into Pall Mall. He never felt completely at ease in this upper-class part of London, with its imposing architecture and private clubs, but he recognised its influence. The glass façade of the Army and Navy Club was suitably intimidating for an institution of such reputation. A couple of young men, sporting the requisite Savile Row suits, were climbing the few steps that led through the entrance of the ‘Rag’, chatting purposefully. Their voices carried by the wind sounded poised yet excited. A middle-aged woman got out of a black cab, adjusting her suit by running both hands down its well-tailored front panel. She looked a little tense. Perhaps she too was coming for an interview.

  Harris entered the Rag Club briskly, signing the guest book with his recruitment alias, Steve Jackson, and moved to the Smoking Room. He scanned the busy room for his contact. He had already arrived, engaged in conversation with James Radlett. Harris took his time to observe his target thoroughly… a solid frame, well built and of average height, brown hair still cut close to the skull, army style… once a soldier always a soldier? Radlett was focused on the conversation, nodding occasionally and taking notes.

  Harris waited until he caught his contact’s attention. They exchanged a quick look… time to engage. He walked purposefully towards a non-existent destination, until his contact stopped speaking to James, hesitated and half stood up… uncertainty showing on his face, a consummate piece of acting. Harris slowed down his pace, stopped, frowned and turned his head. Had he noticed someone he knew?

  Yes, so pleased he seemed.

  The men
shook hands, all smiles at the unexpected pleasure of such a fortuitous encounter. James Radlett stood up as well. There was little sign the interruption had irritated him.

  Good man, Harris thought, not fazed easily and able to enjoy positive human contact. Crowne had said as much.

  “I wouldn’t want to distract you from your business,” Harris added after having been introduced. He had shaken James’s hand, a firm, warm yet restrained grip. Harris’s contact looked at James with a knowing smile. “Well, we were talking about military personnel transitioning into other careers… You’ve successfully done so, Steve. Perhaps you could join the conversation?” Steve’s contact had already moved a chair he had appropriated from the cluster of seats next to theirs. “Unless of course, you’d rather carry on with me solely, James?” James smiled a welcoming smile. Harris sat down. It felt natural that they should talk.

  “So, you’re ex-army as well?” Harris raised his hand casually to place his drinks order. “How long ago was this?”

  “Afghanistan, 2001.” James leaned forward to take his whisky, his hand square yet attractive, holding the crystal tumbler carefully. He dipped his lips into his drink, no urgency. Harris could not detect anything that betrayed the severity of his injuries – broken legs, broken pelvis, a punctured lung and shrapnel across his body that still required him to carry a form from the military since he triggered every single metal detector he went through.

  Harris simply nodded, giving time for James to decide how he wanted to play the meeting. How much he wanted to say about leaving the service and why.

  “Bad injury, I decided I could no longer do the job the way I wanted to… there was a brief stint in Afghanistan, then I made my decision.” James took another sip.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Harris had just been handed his own drink, choosing the same brand of whisky, and took a mouthful. He raised an appreciative eyebrow. “Did they treat you well?”