“Why the fuck did they get involved?”
“Crowne’s brainwave… hostage means money.”
Harris refrained from launching into more expletives. “He wants to impress al-Baghdadi with an early offering.”
“Are you for real?” Amina bit back. “We can’t afford to have her identifying Crowne.”
“It’s a her… I’m impressed… in the middle of one of the worst war zones on the planet.”
“Steve… I don’t care whether you’d like to ask for her autograph… This is trouble.”
“My brain might be slow at processing at 1am but give Crowne a chance. I too do not want to get Wasim killed. Who is she anyway?”
“Wasim did not know her name. I contacted GCHQ to get a list of all the known female journalists in the region… and one name stands out: Mattie Colmore, Sunday Times.”
“Any recent contacts with her paper?”
“That’s the point… nothing for the past three days.”
“Mattie Colmore… very good articles. That’s a high-profile catch.”
“You bet. She is the daughter of Harold Colmore MP, Tory party and particularly vociferous when it comes to Al-Qaeda and terrorism.”
“Now THAT really IS going to make life complicated.” Harris stretched as he spoke. “I’ll see you at The Cross early morning and not a word until we get more data on Colmore MP.”
* * *
A small cry woke Henry. He sat up with a jerk, fully awake, eyes darting around to survey his surroundings for threats. Wasim was holding Mattie Colmore’s arm and cautiously lifting the soiled bandages. They needed to be changed again or an infection might set in. Mattie had not said a word after her short conversation with Henry. He couldn’t quite decide whether this was still the effect of the drugs she had been given or fear, perhaps a mixture of both? But he doubted she would be that easily unsettled… if he recalled correctly from her articles, she had covered Afghanistan, Iraq and now Syria. Wasim had settled her against the wheel of the 4x4, the last of their first aid kit open and items laid out ready for use. Mattie winced once more. Henry looked away and tried to locate Ali. The young man was nowhere to be seen. It was 5.07am and Henry expected Ali had retired to start with the first prayer of the day.
He rubbed his face with both hands to make himself fully awake. They would be on their way to the M4 bridge as the sun was rising. He pushed his army duvet away, rolled it up without a noise and stood up carefully. He looked around giving the landscape a thorough check and made his way towards the top of the small hill, crouching when he reached it. The glow of the sun on the horizon gave the air that was rising over the arid ground a golden shimmer. A few clouds had formed during the night, but the warm air would soon dissipate them.
The complete silence did not unsettle Henry. He had learned to enjoy it, a welcome moment in which he could imagine what it might be like to be at peace. The harshness of nature he had encountered in the desert had had some slow transformative effect… the shading of his skin. This snake-like comparison was perhaps apt. Many might have seen his IRA connection as treason and Henry could not blame them for feeling that way. He could have told them it was, rather, a misguided sense of brotherhood that had motivated him. But here, it no longer mattered. He had no time to revisit the reasons, the motivations. He had no time to indulge in remorse-fuelled reflection. He had a task to complete and that task was part of The Plan. Henry found a quiet spot to relieve himself and moved back to the camp. Ali was back and already producing a good pot of cardamom-scented coffee. Henry grabbed a mug and poured some of the freshly brewed liquid into it. He tore off a piece of khoubz and wolfed it down standing up. Everyone finished their drinks, throwing the dregs onto the ground. The 4x4 was packed and ready to go. Mattie had already taken her seat at the back, looking pale and tired.
“Is she going to be OK?” Henry asked before stepping in.
“She’ll be fine. The wound is not deep, which lessens the risk of sepsis.”
Henry inhaled, relieved.
“But I need to find something to cover her up for when we cross the bridge.”
“You mean a proper abaya?”
“And a better scarf too.”
“Where do you propose to find this in the middle of the desert?”
“Don’t know yet but we need something that covers her body completely, otherwise we’ll never cross that bridge.”
“Any villages showing on the GPS?
“Why? Do you think we are going to find a shopping mall there?”
“No, but if we pay a good enough price, I’m sure some villagers might be very happy to sell us a piece of black cloth.”
Wasim pulled a face. Not a bad idea.
Henry changed seats with Ali, who would now guide Wasim using their GPS.
Mattie had been given more sedative. Her head, loosely covered with a scarf, rolled softly with every movement the car made. Wasim drove the 4x4 away from the dirt track and onto the pebbled earth. He stopped the car at the top of the hill and Ali gave him directions. They were not very far from what looked like a cluster of farmhouses.
The drive took less than 15 minutes on the rocky ground. Wasim stopped and turned towards Henry.
“You stay here… I don’t want anyone to lay eyes on you both.”
“What happens if the farmhouses are held by hostiles?”
“We’ll be fine.”
Wasim left the car, placing his Sig Sauer in his waistband underneath his jacket. He and Ali took the two AK-47s that never left the front of the vehicle and disappeared behind the next hilltop. Henry brought the shemagh closer to his face. The Glock 17 that he had fished from his rucksack he placed in the small of his back ready for use. He would give them 20 minutes before he drove all the way to the farm. He stepped out and sat himself in the driver’s seat, ready to make his escape.
Mattie’s eyes fluttered open. For an instant fear crossed her face. She had forgotten where she was. “Thirsty.” Her croaky voice hardly audible.
Henry took a bottle from a supply he kept in his rucksack, unscrewed the cap and handed it to her. She almost dropped it. Henry bent over the front seat, helping her to hold the container to her lips. She started with small sips, firming up her grip on the bottle, then she took longer pulls. She gave him the bottle back.
“What’s your name?”
Wrong question.
Mattie stared at him. Her light blue-green eyes were already searching for an explanation.
“I’ve got to call you something…”
Henry smiled. His full beard rose with the movement of his face.
“Abu Shabh…” Henry’s chosen battle name.
“The Shadow… an interesting name for a jihadist from London.” Mattie held her hand up, requesting the bottle back.
Henry held her gaze, hoping she would not detect his slight concern. He had been foolish to assume that Mattie was anything but fluent in Arabic.
“Many of us have made the journey.”
“I know.”
“Why did you cross into Syria?”
“To interview a rebel faction leader in Aleppo… I have been doing a lot of this since the beginning of the Arab Spring. The West needs to be aware of the horrendous crisis that’s coming to Syria.” Mattie flinched as she moved to find a more comfortable position.
Henry looked at his watch. Wasim had been gone about ten minutes.
Mattie was about to continue when her eyes shifted to the left of Henry. He heard the sound of pebbles shifting before he saw the little boy standing near the vehicle. A young lad perhaps no more than seven, clad in rags and herding three goats. He was near enough to see what was in the car, curious. Mattie drew the scarf around her head closely and pushed her body into the shadows of the 4x4 frame.
“He won’t move unless you give him something,” she whispered into he
r scarf.
“What if I talk to him?”
“He won’t answer and he will almost certainly not understand you…”
Henry looked around. There was no one in sight. Wasim and Ali had been away for almost 15 minutes. He reached into the rucksack, looking for inspiration and took out a small battered sweet bag he had forgotten all about. He slowly secured the Glock in the back of his jeans, opening the door very carefully.
The young boy did not move but looked ready to make an escape. He stayed still though, fascinated and uncertain. His dark brown eyes darting from the vehicle to the six foot two, blue-eyed man who was sliding out of the large vehicle.
Henry smiled and extended his arm in slow motion, his fingers dangling the packet of sweets. The lad looked around, still hesitant. His grubby little hand snatched the goodies from Henry’s grasp. Mumbling an almost inaudible ‘Shukraan’, he stepped back carefully. The young shepherd suddenly took off, gathering the goats that had gone their separate ways. Henry watched him push them along, rushing to leave as quickly as he could.
Wasim and Ali had already been gone for far too long. Henry closed the door of the car and started the engine. The sound of a bell distracted him. He saw the young boy running back towards the vehicle chasing the most reluctant of his three goats. Before Henry could move away, he arrived at Mattie’s level and looked inside the car. The woman sitting at the back was certainly not Muslim.
“Fuck.” Henry followed the lad with his eyes as he ran away behind the hill. “Has he seen you?”
“You mean has he noticed I am a foreigner… yes.”
“Shit… We need to get out of here.” Henry released the clutch and started moving the 4x4 in the direction of the farm.
He was still deliberating whether he should move the vehicle closer or drive right up to the building when Wasim and Ali appeared in the distance, bearing under their arms a couple of bundles. Henry accelerated and skidded the car in front of them.
“Why did you not wait?” Wasim was already opening the passenger door.
“We had a visitor… a small boy… I gave him a few sweets to make him go away.”
“That’s good…” Wasim pushed a black length of material onto Mattie’s lap.
“Except that one of his bloody goats wanted to join our party… He saw Mattie.”
Wasim’s jaw clenched.
“Drive.”
* * *
Harris knew who Mattie Colmore was. Her father was a less well-known figure. Hard-core Tory party MP, supporter of David Cameron’s view on terrorism. He had voted enthusiastically for the Iraq war, quipping he never thought he would support Labour policy. He was a zero-tolerance man… a phrase he liked and repeated to whoever spoke to him about the subject. Harris finished his cup of coffee, re-read the zero-tolerance paragraph of the GCHQ paper and wondered.
“What will you say when your own daughter is at stake?”
More urgent than speculating on the answer, Harris needed to compose an update for the man he reported to on operation RED HAWK. No intermediary for this high impact mission: it went straight to the top. Sir John Sawers, chief of British Intelligence was awaiting his paper. At least Sawers had seen from close up what the Syrian regime of al-Assad could do. He also knew the Middle East remarkably well. He would have an informed view and Harris hoped they would have this in common.
Harris called back on his monitor the images of what the satellites had recorded. The car had stopped again on its way to the M4 bridge.
More trouble?
One of his burner phones rang… one of his assets had been doing work for him on Syria. Time to gather some fresh intel before meeting The Chief.
“Brett… old chap… what have you got for me?”
Chapter Four
“We’ve got to ditch the car.” Wasim’s voice had lost its colour, almost speaking to himself as he looked ahead.
“Where?” Henry was holding the steering wheel firmly, fighting against the rough terrain.
“Ali, any town close by?”
“Manbij… very close.” Ali gestured in the direction he wanted them to take. Wasim googled Manbij on his smartphone and scanned the short description of the 100,000-inhabitant city.
“Shit… I think it might still be in the hands of the Syrian Rebel Forces… too risky.” Wasim sat back, weighing up options.
“Are the two other fighters who were taking care of the other journalist joining us for the crossing?” Henry glanced quickly at Wasim.
“That was their plan… although I did not encourage them. Why?” Wasim cast an eye towards Mattie. Henry read his hesitation. English was their usual language of choice for messages not meant for the ears of other passengers, but no longer.
The second lot of painkillers Wasim had given Mattie was starting to work through her system. She looked dozy and defocused.
“Call them back and make sure they join us…”
“Right.” Wasim clenched and released his fist a few times and started dialling the number. Henry had a plan… He spoke in short abrupt sentences, redirecting the two men to another rendezvous point. They had lost time with the wounded journalist, finding an IS camp 20 km to the south. They were back on their way for the bridge crossing. Wasim gave them new coordinates. He killed the call and turned towards Mattie.
“You’d better put this on now before you fall asleep.” Wasim pushed the bundle of black cloth towards her.
“You want me to put an abaya on.”
“Just do it… It’s clean, by the way, and the best we could find.”
Mattie loosened the bundle. She took off her khaki jacket, wincing as she did so, and slowly manoeuvred the robe over her head. Her sore arm was complaining but she could not expect help from any of them. There was another piece of material that she finally unfolded, a large hood with a small opening for the face. She put it on and left the veil that came with it to the side.
“If I’m going to be compliant with the ISIL dress code, I need a pair of baggy slacks and gloves.” Mattie’s eyes had changed colour, locking them with Wasim’s.
“That’ll do for the time being.” Wasim nodded.
“How far away are they?” Henry glanced at his watch.
“On this dirt track… an hour, maybe a little less.”
“And on the M4?”
“That would be risky…” Wasim stopped in mid-sentence. Henry was a devious bastard. He smiled. Wasim called the two men again and told them the time frame had changed. There was a debate about using the main road but Wasim assured them that for such a short distance it would be safe. They would all soon be travelling on it after all.
“What’s the new ETA?”
“Twenty minutes tops.”
Henry nodded. He recalled what Wasim had said to him in the suburbs of Manchester as they were about to leave the UK forever.
“You’re ready.” Today he felt he was.
* * *
The doors of the lift opened on to a very different space and decor. From the functional and minimalist style of RED HAWK Control Room, Harris had travelled to the grand and yet cosy atmosphere of the management floor. Harris took a moment outside the lift to adapt to the transition. He ran his hand through his hair. He was glad he had it trimmed recently.
Sir John’s PA was seated at her very large desk, barely noticing him it seemed. She lifted her head at the muffled sound of Harris’s steps.
“He had to take an urgent call, I’m afraid.” She removed her glasses with a swift and precise gesture. “He’ll see you as soon as the call is over.”
Steve Harris looked around to find a suitable chair. He had little choice. The chief of MI6 did not expect people to hang around his office. Harris chose the chair closest to the lift, stretching his hands across the iPad he had brought with him. Harris checked his shoes. He had given them a quick shine
this morning, but the bright light of this immaculate office showed him what a bad job he had done.
Harris shuffled a little on his chair.
“He’ll be with you shortly.” Sir John’s PA’s voice expressed the patience you would give to a child.
He was not a kid, thank you, but he was entitled to feel nervous about meeting the boss of his boss’s boss. And Harris hated waiting, although he was quite happy to keep some of his assets waiting when they met with him. A smile crept over his face. Brett Allner-Smith with whom he had spoken only yesterday was a favourite. The art dealer he had recruited a few years ago wore a habitual pinched expression of disapproval that amused Harris every time they met. The gentry did not like to be made to wait by the commoners… What fun. Still Brett had proven more than adept at his job. His connection with the shady world of art trafficking had been invaluable in creating a connection with The Sheik, the head of a newly formed terror cell in London.
The door of the anteroom opened and Sir John walked out, handing his PA a couple of sheets of paper. He gestured to Harris to come in, walked back through the entrance of his office without waiting.
Harris jumped to his feet. Sir John’s PA raised an eyebrow. He grinned in return. He could never quite make out why The Chief, an easy to talk to man, had chosen such a stuck-up assistant. Harris had met him a few times before, when presenting Operation RED HAWK but always in the presence of his own boss. Today he was on his own.
Sir John was already sitting at his desk in the palatial room. The green-tinted windows, designed to safeguard against laser and radio frequency flooding techniques, gave the building its strange look, but they were even more noticeable from within.
Harris took his seat in front of Sir John’s desk. He opened his iPad.
“Operation RED HAWK… you said you had urgent matters to discuss?” The Chief opened the file Harris had sent him.
“Yes, sir, a recent development is about to cause concern.”
Sir John pushed his body further back into his armchair. “Shoot…”
Harris went through the events of Bab al-Hawa and was only interrupted when he mentioned Mattie Colmore’s name.
Spy Shadows Page 4
