Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  “The Sunday Times war correspondent… daughter of Colmore MP?”

  “A person of interest?” Harris puzzled.

  “Not her… but I know her father well… in fact only too well. We have crossed swords in matters of government policy in the Middle East.” Sir John moved forward towards his desk, forearms pressed against its top. “He barely speaks French although he thinks himself fluent, does not understand Arabic at all, knows little about the culture and complex issues facing the region, but has an opinion on Syria, Lebanon…” Sir John interrupted himself abruptly. “Apologies… I’m rambling.”

  “A demand for ransom is going to complicate matters.”

  “It most certainly will… You were right to come to me.”

  Sir John looked away for a moment. “How much terrain experience do you have?”

  The question was unexpected. Surely The Chief would have received Harris’s profile for the vetting of Operation RED HAWK.

  “Not on paper, Harris… everybody tries to look good when an op is put together, even here at The Cross… proper terrain experience.”

  “You mean infiltration, working on the ground with the military, negotiating with terror groups and the warlords or tribal chiefs?”

  “That sort of thing.”

  “I was deployed alongside the UK army during Afghanistan in 2001. I gathered information about Al-Qaeda and the Taliban from the locals, getting to know the local chiefs… I speak good Farsi and Pashto… some Arabic.”

  “Afghanistan… you must have been pretty young.”

  “Twenty-eight, sir… but I had a family of Afghani refugees living in my street in the East End. I became friends with one of the boys my age.”

  “Did they come from Kabul?”

  “Yes, sir, ordinary people. The father was a tailor and the mother helped him with the sewing… They left when the communist regime came along.”

  “The East End is not very common for that community. I thought they congregated more towards Hounslow?”

  “Now, yes, but the first wave of immigrants that arrived were not fussed as long as they had a roof over their heads.”

  Sir John nodded. “Back to my question then… how much did you achieve?”

  “I recruited quite a few locals who helped with our intel gathering.”

  “And Iraq… what did you do there?”

  “Same type of thing, but I also got inserted with the Yanks… I mean the Americans. The CIA was pretty keen on finding weapons of mass destruction then.”

  “What a lot of bull that was… by the way, ‘Yanks’ works for me.” Sir John nodded, vivid blue eyes amused.

  “No comment, sir.” Harris grinned. “I’ve worked in the main cities there too, Baghdad, Basra, Mosul… I know Syria less well, although I’ve been to Damascus and Aleppo.”

  Sir John stood up abruptly and moved around his large mahogany desk. “Come with me.”

  Harris’s short body sprang into action. Sir John walked out of his office, through the antechamber decorated with the portraits of some of the previous chiefs. He barely stopped in front of his PA.

  “I’m going to Level -2, Emma… not to be disturbed.”

  “Certainly, Sir John.” The woman smiled briefly and picked up the phone. The Chief was on the move.

  “Sir, I’m sorry but I don’t have clearance for Level -2.” Harris hesitated outside the door.

  “You have now.” Sir John turned towards Emma. She nodded. Sir John summoned the lift.

  The two men stepped inside together. The lift started moving down noiselessly. Harris wondered what it was in his background that had suddenly prompted this interest. RED HAWK was audacious, some might have even said foolhardy: the infiltration of ISIL not here in London but in its heartland, Raqqa. Henry Crowne had been the perfect, if unexpected candidate. His financial background, his extensive money laundering experience on behalf of the IRA, were attractive skills for a terror group rapidly building its financial base. Even more attractive was the fact that Henry had not been arrested for his illegal activities. Had one of his competitors not tried to pin a crime on him he had not committed, Crowne would never have been found out. His knowledge of fiscal paradises, opaque corporate structures and fund movements around the globe would serve anybody who aspired to keep their illicit money well hidden. Crowne was one of the best assets Harris had recruited in a long time. And working with Wasim, he was learning the skills of the trade fast.

  The doors opened. Sir John went through a rigorous palm scan, retina scan and voice recognition sequence. The reinforced glass doors of Level -2 opened and they entered.

  “Please register your name.”

  Harris moved to a screen display. He keyed in his name and authorisation credentials. A thumbprint pad appeared. He completed the task and turned towards The Chief. They moved alongside a long and narrow corridor.

  “This is the way in,” Sir John explained. “The adjacent corridor is for the way out… it minimises staff meeting each other.”

  They entered a small room. Sir John locked the door and moved towards a row of large monitors that he logged into from a central console.

  “I am working on a plan involving Syria… it means direct intervention in the Syrian conflict. You have your team on the ground. I need to know what they have seen and heard… anything helps to build a detailed picture.”

  Sir John spoke as he waited for the information he sought to materialise on the screens. Maps appeared… Syria, Turkey, Iraq, Lebanon.

  “I would not want to defocus them from their task.” Harris ran his stocky hand through his light brown hair. “One of my assets still needs some coaching… he’s learning fast but still learning and…”

  Sir John lifted an appeasing hand. “I’m not asking them to be proactive and I fully appreciate how perilous their mission is, but… they may have come across, or have access to, information that could be helpful, information about the Rebel Syrian Army for example.”

  Harris nodded slowly. His eyes ran over the coloured maps that looked almost playful now that they were displayed on a floor-to-ceiling screen. It was extraordinarily detailed work, the exact positions of the various militia groups, some names he had hardly heard about, a completely up-to-date, in real time, map of the complicated geopolitical position of the Middle East.

  “I like your honesty, by the way.” Sir John was leaning against the small conference table at the side of the room, arms crossed over his chest, absorbed by the complex picture on the screen.

  “Thank you, sir,” Harris replied, reminded that his frankness had not always been that welcomed. “May I ask what it is that you are proposing… you mentioned direct action.” He moved over to the conference table, leaning against it next to Sir John.

  “First, let me make you part of the project team… unless you feel conflicted?”

  Harris dropped his chin against his chest for a short moment. “I need to be realistic about how much I can contribute.”

  “Just intel, Steve… nothing else.”

  Harris hesitated.

  “This project could be a decisive move in resolving the Syrian conflict and ending the civil war.” Sir John stayed silent for a moment. Harris had to be free to decide without undue pressure.

  “If I feel it becomes too much, I’ll have to pull them back from intel gathering.”

  “Understood and agreed.” Sir John gave an approving nod. He moved to the central console again, going through the sequence of passwords with rapid and precise gestures. Harris observed him, energetic, focused yet affable and, more to the point, open minded, a man who could definitely think outside the box.

  “In summary…” Sir John was still finishing the job of adding Harris’s name to his project team. “…extract, equip, train…” He turned towards Harris.

  “You mean who… the Syrian Rebels, the p
eople who oppose Bashar al-Assad’s regime?”

  “Precisely.” Sir John moved away from the keyboard. “There are only two ways of stopping the Syrian conflict at this stage. Let al-Assad win or defeat him outright. There won’t be a middle ground and he won’t compromise.”

  “Especially as he’s backed by the Russians.” Harris shared his boss’s view.

  “It is not the way he saw his father rule and ultimately, despite all this so-called Western education or how modern he and his wife appear to be, it is not the way he will rule either.”

  “This is Shia Muslim against Sunni Muslim… in any case,” Harris added.

  “Perhaps a little more complex but not far off. The Russians back Iran, Syria and Yemen, all Shia Muslims.”

  “A proxy war against the US who back the Saudis and Iraq who have had Sunni leaders for a long time.”

  “As I said it’s a lot more complex but not a bad summary for what we are trying to do… to stop this goddamn conflict that is going to help ISIL and Al-Qaeda recruit more fighters.”

  “I’ll see what they can do. One of the team will be in contact again tonight.”

  “Excellent… Thank you.” Sir John finally grabbed a chair at the conference table and Harris joined him. “But we haven’t spoken about RED HAWK much.”

  Harris finished his update. Sir John interrupted a few times with pertinent questions:

  Was Crowne up to the task? Yes.

  Would Wasim’s legend hold under scrutiny in Raqqa? Most definitely.

  How did Crowne propose to become integrated into ISIL top circles? A few options had been explored.

  “Crowne is on a mission. It’s not only about doing the job and surviving. It’s also about a personal crusade… if I dare say so.” Harris waited to see the result of his aside before continuing.

  “As long as we don’t end up with a Lawrence of Arabia…” The Chief grinned.

  Harris smiled in return. “You’ve read his file. It’s all about making amends. He doesn’t even hide the reason himself. He’s prepared to put himself in danger… possibly a little too readily, though he knows he needs to come back here to deliver what he gathers out there, to complete the mission.”

  “What about endangering others’ lives?”

  “Good question. He was ruthless in banking so, if it fits the purpose, I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate. But strangely enough I don’t think that would extend to the people in his team.”

  “You don’t think he would try to double-cross us?”

  “Not yet, in any case… He is still learning, and he needs our support for that.”

  “A reliable asset, you would say.”

  “For the time being… He will learn to become as proficient in the field of intelligence-gathering as he was in banking, of that I have no doubt.”

  “And later on…”

  Harris pursed his lips. “Too early to tell. The psychometric testing and evaluation indicate that he likes taking sides and he sticks to that bond come what may. Part of his downfall as you know.”

  “The O’Connor brothers, IRA operatives…”

  “Childhood friends, he felt he had a debt towards them… and of course he thinks his father was IRA himself.”

  “Hasn’t he asked you about his father?”

  “No. And I don’t intend to give him much information even if asked.”

  “So, he is content with assumptions for the time being…” Sir John tapped his fingers on the surface of the conference table. “It will come one day though.”

  “Almost certainly, but we have some time before having to cross that bridge.”

  Sir John glanced at his watch. It was time to head back up. He had another battle to fight and Harris needed to prepare for a second interview he was very much looking forward to.

  * * *

  The 4x4 had stopped veering on the small rocks of the rough terrain they were traversing now they had found a better dirt track. The rendezvous point was close and Henry wanted to make sure they arrived before the truck did. Wasim told him to stop. They skidded to a halt. He opened his door, stood on the door frame of the car, scouring the landscape with his binoculars.

  “I can’t see them.” Wasim sat back into the car. Henry moved the car towards a slight depression in the land that was hardly deep enough to hide the vehicle. The M4 motorway was now visible in the distance and the sun, although still low on the horizon, was giving enough light for their surroundings to become discernible.

  Henry stopped the vehicle again. Wasim opened the door and resumed his binocular watch. He turned his head towards the M4.

  Empty.

  Wasim looked around again, not satisfied with their current location.

  “Two o’clock… there are some shrubs that will give us better cover.”

  Henry started the engine again. “You need to call them.”

  “Not yet… I don’t fancy them having been followed without noticing.”

  Henry parked the 4x4 now they had found a better hiding place. Wasim brought the binoculars up to his eyes again. “I see them.”

  Henry stepped out, moved to the boot and started taking out old rags. He threw one to Wasim. Ali walked out to join the activity whatever it was.

  “Start cleaning…”

  “Are you out of your mind? This is not London suburbia.” Wasim looked annoyed.

  “Couldn’t agree more, old chap, but a clean motor looks so much more attractive and visible than a shitty looking one.”

  Wasim looked at the rag and shook his head, smiling.

  “Boys will be boys… if you want to swap the car… get it looking good.”

  The three started vigorously rubbing the dirt and dust off the body of the vehicle. Within minutes it started to shine in the glow of the morning sun.

  Wasim’s mobile rang. The other two men had arrived at the meeting point yet couldn’t see them. Wasim gave fresh instructions. They would be with them within moments.

  Henry walked around the car, surveying their handywork and giving it a final rub.

  “As good as new… ready for our friends.”

  Chapter Five

  The rickety truck skidded to a halt when it reached the cluster of bushes where Henry and Wasim were waiting. The two young fighters jumped out of the vehicle and launched into their stories… how the hostage had survived, how the other mujahidin would make sure their leader knew they had done swell. Wasim indulged them for a moment. Henry stayed a pace behind, leaning against the as-good-as-new 4x4.

  Wasim praised them… surely, they would be well recompensed, but he also reminded them that another important task remained… to ensure Abu Shabh reached Raqqa rapidly, today if possible. Their doubtful glance did not escape Henry. How could a kafir be allowed to carry such a grand battle name? He would not be a brother, a fighter, until he had embraced not only the Qur’an but also ISIL’s interpretation of it. The question of conversion to Islam would come as soon as he had reached Raqqa. And yet, Henry had been given one of the best recommendations any infidel could have wished for from a man he had met at HSU Belmarsh. Abu Maeraka had been the mastermind of several successful terrorist attacks around the world before being caught in London. He was close to al-Baghdadi. ISIL had spent time and money bringing Henry over, based on that trust, and he would serve his purpose… inshallah…

  Wasim slapped the two men on the shoulder, an acknowledgement that mattered. They had gained rank. He led them away from the Land Rover and explained their next move. They had to swap vehicles. The old truck was much better for transporting the woman hostage and the UK banker… Ali would be looking after them in the tarpaulin-clad back of the pick-up. Wasim would drive and they would take the 4x4 opening the way, making sure that all was clear in front of the small convoy.

  The two men listened intently, glancing at the gleaming transport�
� they nodded, adding to the conversation with fresh suggestions, excited with the new arrangement, it seemed. Finally, Wasim simply walked to the 4x4 and opened Mattie’s passenger door.

  “We are changing vehicle.”

  Henry shrugged, looking disappointed, snatching up his rucksack in irritation. Ali opened the boot, started taking out some of the other bags and loaded the truck. The grinning young men did not find this odd.

  Wasim handed the keys to them ceremoniously, giving a few pieces of advice about how to best engage the four-wheel drive. They jumped in, beaming.

  It had been almost too easy.

  The convoy started again. Less than 15 minutes later they were on the highway. A few clouds had gathered on the horizon, giving occasional respite from the morning sun. The oilcloth cover of the truck had been rolled down and secured tightly. Henry sat at the far end of the vehicle, next to the driver’s cabin. The pane of glass that used to sit in the small opening between the cabin and the back had disappeared long since. Henry craned his neck a little. From where he sat, he could see the road ahead and speak to Wasim.

  The truck slowed down as they started encountering some traffic. The 4x4 matched their slow progress; the two men were still paying attention. A large SUV approached at full speed. Wasim slowed down a little more and allowed it to squeeze between the truck and its escort. Other trucks and vehicles in various states of disrepair were now catching up with them. Wasim kept slowing down. This time the 4x4 did not match their speed… they were all going in the same direction, why not allow the engine a little free rein on the highway?

  Tempting.

  “How are we doing?” Henry stuck his face against the small opening.

  “They haven’t noticed we have two cars now between them and us.”

  “OK, good.” Henry stood up, clinging to the frame of the truck to retain his balance. He reached the other end of the loading area, looking through a small opening in the tarp cover.

  He moved back towards the seat where he had gathered both his and Wasim’s rucksacks. He found the binoculars and returned to the tear in the fabric. He held the frame, stuck the glasses to his eyes, adjusting the vision with his thumb, and found what he was looking for. Several military vehicles were making their way towards them. He could see at least four. Henry rushed back to the small window, almost tripping.