A flicker of irritation passed over James’s eyes. “They did.” The matter would be closed before it could even be opened, Harris registered.
“And why did you leave?” James’s dark blue eyes ran over Harris. It was his turn to assess Harris’s credibility.
“Afghanistan was not what I had anticipated it would be. I gave it two tours…” Harris let his voice hang. “I guess I didn’t want to come back in a box like my best pal.” Frank and almost abrupt, Harris did not avoid James’s eyes. A soldier that could admit he was frightened of dying without sounding a coward always impressed.
“Were you with the territorial?”
“No, Para Regiment…”
“First Battalion?” James asked, slowing down his hand before the glass could reach his lips.
“If I had been, I couldn’t disclose where my tours had taken me… as you well know…” Harris said with a lopsided smile. He liked James’s ability to smell BS a mile off. “So, Second Battalion.”
“Still, a first-class unit.” James emptied his glass.
He knows my story might have a big hole in it… excellent. Harris chose another line of attack.
“After leaving the army what did you find yourself rolling towards?”
“Investment banking…” James had waved the waiter for another glass that Harris had accepted too. Harris’s contact had by now faded away, retiring before the second round of drinks.
“Much better pay cheque.” Harris nodded in acknowledgement. “And a different kind of warfare of course.”
“But not entirely dissimilar,” James added. “It’s all about intelligence gathering.”
Harris sat back in the large armchair… the word he was looking for had been spoken.
Intelligence.
“You were part of the Intelligence Corps?”
“Deployed alongside several regiments.”
“Don’t you miss it though?” Harris held his glass in mid-air, fingers propping the bottom.
James’s body straightened. He locked eyes for an instant with Harris. “In what way?”
“Don’t you miss the field? Data gathering, making sense of it… penetrating the mind of the enemy to anticipate their next move.”
James replaced his untouched glass on the low table.
“Is it an offer?”
Harris nodded. “Let’s find another place and time to discuss it further.” He offered James a business card. James took it without hesitation. Harris had to owe it to Crowne… he knew the people of his former team remarkably well.
Harris could almost hear Crowne say… I told you so.
* * *
The 4x4 had stopped behind a barren mound in an almost lunar landscape. They were now only a few miles away from the Euphrates. They all needed a short rest before negotiating the crossing. The truck that was carrying the wounded journalist had finally taken a different route in search of another ISIL camp to offload their cargo, or perhaps the town Ali had mentioned. Henry hadn’t spoken a word since they had bundled the British journalist into the back of their vehicle. He recollected her name, and her face was familiar, memorable features transformed by a deep scar etched over her left cheek. She held her wounded arm without asking for help, giving an occasional small yelp of pain when the vehicle hit a particularly bad patch of road. Ali had been trying to look threatening with his AK-47 held prone on his knees. She had hardly noticed him, and Henry was not sure whether she was in too much pain to care or had seen through the young man already.
Wasim jumped out of the car, Ali followed. They would be setting up camp for a few hours. Wasim moved slowly away. He stopped and looked around, getting his bearings. He resumed his walk and disappeared behind another small mound surrounded by heavy rocks. Henry had slid out of the car too, stretching his tall body; at least the front seat was less cramped than the back.
Setting up camp consisted only of throwing a few army sleeping bags on the gravelly ground and preparing some tea. Ali hesitated for a moment. The hostage had been left under his responsibility.
“I’ll look after her.” Henry used his Arabic again. He had never used it to give orders before but his intervention in Bab al-Hawa had subtly changed the balance of power. Ali’s smooth face blushed slightly, his dark eyebrows forming a straight line.
“I won’t let her escape… go on.” Henry took the Glock out of his rucksack and Ali started unpacking the gear they had stashed away in the 4x4 boot. Henry would make sure Wasim had enough time to make his daily call to London… MOTHER had been waiting for her dutiful son to enquire about her health and relay the information he had gathered since their last call.
Henry walked to the side of the car and opened the door slowly, rejoining the journalist. They did not need a distraction so close to the crossing and he did not fancy having to shoot her down to stop her from fleeing.
“Thirsty?” Henry handed over a bottle of water. Her face had remained in the shadow of her makeshift scarf. She turned it towards him so that Henry could see her features more clearly. A tall forehead, deep-set eyes the colour of which he guessed was blue-green, her face a soft oval cut by strong expression lines around her mouth. He was about to repeat his question wondering whether she perhaps was scared into silence. He had not realised how badly sedated she had been when moved to the 4x4. Henry unscrewed the cap of the bottle and brought it to her lips. She held his hand as she started to drink. The roughness of her palms surprised him, her hands still stained with dry blood. Once Ali had finished setting up the camp, he needed to inspect her wound. Her hands tightened suddenly on his. “Where are we?”
“In Syria.”
She did not reply and finished off the bottle, still unable to hold it on her own.
Henry looked towards the place where Wasim had disappeared. The hostage situation was not something London had planned for, but Henry relied on his ability to read a situation and make the most of it.
“What is your name?” He did not intend to initiate a chit-chat between two passengers. He just wanted the facts.
She pushed the scarf away from her face. If there was going to be an introduction, she would do it without hiding behind a veil, the way women had to in ISIL-held territory.
“Mattie Colmore, pleased to meet you.”
No, she was not afraid to speak up.
“Who do you work for?”
“Freelance but currently the Sunday Times.”
“When were you taken?” Henry’s voice had turned blunt. He had always been good at giving his voice the edge it needed to cut into people. Years on the trading floor at GL Investment Banks had given him plenty of time to refine his technique.
“Yesterday morning… Aleppo.” Mattie’s voice had become a little clearer, the tranquilliser was wearing off and the water had helped. Her eyes roamed over Henry, not a full-blown investigation but moments of observation that gathered vital clues.
Skilful.
Someone had been observing them and Henry turned around.
“Have you finished?” he growled in Arabic. Ali nodded. The tea was ready and the sleeping bags spread over the ground.
Henry checked his watch… Wasim had been away for more than 15 minutes… a little too long for a simple comfort break.
* * *
The phone was ringing. Amina waited for the third ring before picking up.
“Wasim, my son… it is so good of you to call your ill mother. Praise Allah you are well.” Amina’s voice aged through a synthesiser sounded old and tired. The coded words had informed Wasim that she had detected a change in the route they were meant to take.
“Mother, I am so glad I can call you and we can speak.” Wasim indicated he was able to speak freely on their secure line.
“What’s happened in Bab al-Hawa?”
“The crossing went fine until the idiots who accompanied us ma
de contact with other fighters who had been delivering two hostages to one of the factions in Syria.”
Amina took stock. “Who died then?”
“Their captors… One of the hostages is badly wounded and I got the two cretins that had started the whole thing to take him to a doctor. He needs serious medical attention.”
“The other?”
Wasim sighed. “With us.”
“What? Whose bloody idea was that?”
“Hold your horses… It was Henry’s idea but he may have a point…”
“What nationality?”
“British but…”
Amina butted in. “The Brits don’t pay ransom. For fuck’s sake, Henry is not asked to have ideas until he is in Raqqa and meets al-Baghdadi.”
“That’s the point… a hostage may be a good calling card.”
Amina grunted. “Who are you left with then?”
“One other fighter, young but reliable.”
“And what happens if you encounter other rebel groups… You’re a bit on the light side.”
“Trust me, these guys were bad news, too keen and too nosy.”
“I still think this is too risky…”
“Everything is too risky here… This is Syria. We are in ISIL territory. I don’t need a couple of bozos with me who I need to keep an eye on.”
“Your call… you’re on the ground.” Amina relinquished a smidgen.
“I need some intel on movements between the territories at the east of the Euphrates and Raqqa. We are crossing into Iraq and I need to know where the best place is to make contact. The IS territory lines are shifting all the time. My contact in Raqqa will tell us who they are sending.”
“No prob. Will redirect the satellites and see whether I can borrow one of the Reaper drones from RAF Akrotiri.”
“Good stuff… you’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah… How’s Crowne coping apart from having brainwaves?”
“Better than I thought… still needs a bit of fine tuning and throws a curved ball when I least expect it, but…”
“Keep him on the straight and narrow.”
Wasim laughed, shaking his head.
“Any other helpful advice?”
“Don’t get yourself killed…”
Chapter Three
The dusty earth and rocks crumbled underneath his feet as he retraced his steps to the camp. The moon was almost full, giving the landscape a silvery glow and making its details clear. Wasim was on his way back to the place where he had left the 4x4. His solid frame appeared in the distance and Henry stepped away from the car to meet him. Ali was warming up the last of a mutton stew. They had stocked up on some khoubz, the typical round Arabic flat bread that Wasim could hardly get enough of. For all his efforts at finding a good source in London he could never find one that was as good as the one he found in the Middle East. Henry stopped to listen before moving forward. There was no sound apart from the crunching noise that Wasim’s boots made as he approached the camp.
Henry moved a few more paces in his direction. They now had an English speaker which might complicate communication.
“Any news from MOTHER?”
“Grumpy and unimpressed…”
“What’s new.” Henry took it that his idea had not gone down very well but that it had not been rejected outright.
“Not compromising the op… we’ll see what MOTHER decides.”
The people at Vauxhall Cross had been clear with Henry… Operation RED HAWK was their only priority.
“Fine… Let her and Harris think about it… they’ll come around.” Hostages not only meant ransom, they meant publicity. Henry had studied the new ISIL group enough to have noticed that their communication skills were far superior to that of any other terrorist group MI6 had ever encountered. It also meant he might have a say on what happened to the woman journalist, but not something he would discuss with Wasim or MOTHER just yet.
They carried on together without another word. Ali had poured some tea into tin cups as he saw them coming. Mattie was sitting against one of the boulders, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Ali’s face was relaxed, tending the bubbling pot, his features looking older than they usually did in the dancing light of the gas canister.
Henry had taken control of this small team in just the same way as he had done in the past. That felt an eternity ago and yet the skill of leadership had not died with his former banking career. He had made Ali at ease without pushing the young man too hard and he was gradually earning his respect. Even Mattie had joined the small group as if she fitted in.
Wasim sat down in silence. Ali handed him a tumbler full of hot tea. A coil of steam unfolded slowly and rose in the air. The temperature had dropped below what would have been seasonally comfortable and they all warmed their hands on their mugs. Everyone ate their food in silence, grateful they could finally feed themselves. Ali took the dishes, gave them a summary clean and restacked them in the boot of the truck. He wouldn’t waste valuable water on the task.
“Ahtaj ci’am ‘atahadah ‘iitayk.” Wasim told Henry he needed a debrief after speaking to his ISIL contact in Raqqa. Ali wouldn’t be part of the conversation and the young man did not expect anything else. Wasim and Henry moved out of earshot and sat on the ground with a fresh mug of tea.
“There is nothing new from London, but they are pretty pissed off about the journalist.”
“Amina is so goddamn protective…”
“And that’s what has kept us alive so far.”
Henry shrugged. “Don’t care what they say at The Cross. What did Raqqa say?”
Wasim rolled his eyes but gave a conciliatory smile. “They like it… a lot.”
Henry hit Wasim’s mug in a small ‘cheers’ gesture.
“What I said about her not finding out your name stands though. If she does, Harris will put us under pressure not to…”
“Compromise the mission…” Henry cut him short. Yes, he did get it. “But at least she is alive and in damned sight better company with us… one day at a time. I am learning as I go in this environment.”
“And you’re learning pretty fast.”
“I would drink to that if we could.”
“We are drinking…”
“I’m missing the bubbles somewhat…”
Wasim shook his head. “Your sense of humour is going to get you into trouble in this country… there is zero tolerance for making fun of anything.”
“I know… I’m just making the most of it while I still can.”
“How about getting used to it right now.”
“Nah… You’d get bored with me.”
Wasim ran his solid hand over his face. “Sometimes I wonder whether you truly measure who it is we are going to meet.”
Henry slapped Wasim’s shoulder gently. “I get it Was… I don’t want to get killed and more importantly I don’t want to get you killed either.”
Wasim’s unconvinced face hesitated… Perhaps he believed Henry did get it…
Perhaps.
“The plan remains the same.” Wasim changed the subject. “We are crossing the Euphrates at the M4 bridge, moving east inland, not following the river, therefore moving south towards Raqqa. It is ISIL territory. The route is not the most secure; the Syrian Army still roams around the area and the various militia factions opposed to Assad do too.”
“So, we need to establish contacts with ISIL commander al-Haddawi asap.”
“That’s the plan.”
“What are we going to do with Mattie?” Henry moved his head towards the place the others had already fallen asleep.
“You spoke to her?” Wasim’s tone stiffened.
“Relax. I haven’t become pally with her. I just needed to know a bit more.”
“But you didn’t need to, just don’t take any bl
oody unnecessary risks.”
Henry shrugged. “Her name is Mattie Colmore… Sunday Times, war correspondent. I couldn’t place her to start with, but I remember now. I’ve read some of her articles, she’s good.”
“If you’re trying to ascertain how big a ransom ISIL can get, forget it… The UK does not pay.” The lines on Wasim’s forehead had deepened.
“But her newspaper might… and don’t worry. It’s not because I want to understand what we can negotiate for her that I am going to become one of the beardos. The Sunday Times will move heaven and earth to get her back and this might just save her life.”
“Or ISIL might use her for their propaganda.” Wasim’s eyes bored into Henry. “You don’t know them well enough yet to anticipate how they think, at least not the way you used to in banking.”
“Point taken.” Henry raised his hands. “We’d better go back and grab a few hours’ sleep.”
“Agreed… we are crossing early morning before there’s too much traffic and the Syrian army’s on the move.”
* * *
The distant buzz of his mobile phone dragged Steve Harris out of a dreamless sleep. He rolled onto his side, blinking to adjust to the brightness of the screen. Amina was calling him as soon as she’d heard, as agreed. It was not meant to be until the following morning though.
“I thought you’d gone for the day?”
“Bruce needed a bit of moral support… I spoke to Wasim.”
Harris grunted and settled on his elbow. “I’m listening.”
“The fight we spotted at Bab al-Hawa has brought complications. Wasim had to gun down a couple of beardos…”
“Part of the job down there.” Harris turned on his back. “And…”
“And the reason why he had to do that is because they were involved in kidnapping hostages.”
Harris sat up in one move. “What hostages?”
“Yep… two of them, although one is seriously wounded. Two journalists. Wasim has sent part of his escort away in search of a doctor to try and save him.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve kept one of the journalists with them?”
“How did you guess?”
Spy Shadows Page 3
