“They’re coming… four at least.”
Wasim’s hands opened and closed on the steering wheel in a mechanical gesture.
“How far away are they?”
“A mile, perhaps less.”
“We need to get to the bridge before they stop the 4x4.”
“How far is that?”
“We’re nearly there, ten minutes at the most… I can see the structure already.”
“Is the bridge guarded?”
“It will be… but they won’t be stopping everyone.”
“Shit… How about we wait it out?”
“Too risky, the others will notice we have stopped and if they stop too, we’ll be done with them.”
“How far are they?”
“They’ve slowed down again, only one car away now.”
“Can you overtake them?”
“If I push this piece of junk hard enough, probably… why?”
“Just do it.”
Henry grabbed his rucksack, and took out the Glock. He rummaged around the bottom of the bag and found what he was looking for. He fitted the silencer quickly to the muzzle of the gun.
Wasim had picked up speed – the engine complained in a racket of metal but the truck lurched forward. Henry took out his army knife, cutting a small opening in the material that covered the back of the pick-up. He sat on the bench, his shoulder wedged against the truck’s frame and his boot squeezed underneath the bench leg for balance. Wasim overtook the vehicle that separated them from the 4x4. They were coming now alongside their escort’s vehicle.
“Do you want me to slow down?” Wasim shouted through the opening.
“I’ll tell you when.”
Henry trained his Glock low on the 4x4. “NOW.”
A series of rounds hit the other vehicle, like corks popping, hardly audible over the roar of the truck’s engine. One tyre exploded, sending the 4x4 swerving dangerously close to the truck. Wasim floored the accelerator and the truck lurched forward once more. They left behind the sound of skidding tyres and crushed metal. Henry removed the silencer, replaced it in his rucksack and stuck the Glock in the small of his back.
Ali woke up from his slumber, rocked by the truck’s acceleration. He looked at Henry, puzzled. Henry ignored him and walked to the front of the loading bay, carefully creating an opening to survey the scene. The Land Rover had rolled on its side, barely avoided by other cars in a flurry of car horns. No one had bothered to stop. And in the distance the military convoy of five armoured vehicles was closing in.
* * *
Henry went back to where he had been sitting before, at the back of the truck near the driver’s cabin. He placed his rucksack underneath the wooden bench that served as a chair. He leaned against the metal frame and met Mattie’s eyes. They were feverish and somewhat out of focus but beyond the pain, Henry saw she had followed the scene and missed none of its significance. She said nothing but for the first time since they’d met, she was scrutinising him.
Who are you?
The force of her eyes startled him, an intense stare, uncompromising yet open minded. But the effort soon became too much. She closed her eyes and slid back into her drug-induced torpor.
“We are approaching the bridge… get ready.” Wasim shouted in Arabic through the small opening.
Henry used one of the rugs they had taken with them to cover the two rucksacks. He sat on the part that was also covering the bench. Ali had straightened up since the accident and observed Henry without a word.
“What happened?” His voice was low and hesitant. He had moved to the place where the knife opening could still be seen.
“Why don’t we stick to the plan?” Henry moved his head. The idea had been for Ali to sit on the ground next to Mattie, a son caring for his mother or an older relative. Mattie pulled the niqab over her face. The truck slowed down to a walking pace and then stopped altogether. They heard voices in the near distance.
Henry could not make out what they said. The tone of the conversation rose until shouting started. Car doors slammed open and shut. Henry fought the desire to stand up and check the cause of the commotion.
The guards at the Euphrates crossing were asking people to step out of their cars. Refusal was not an option.
A voice startled him. Someone was speaking to Wasim, asking for their final destination. Wasim mentioned Tell Abyad, a small city only a few miles away. The tarpaulin was wrenched open, a guard looked around, satisfied with the alarm evident on everyone’s faces. He returned to Wasim. One of his colleagues joined him and cast a quick eye over the scene. A woman and a young boy huddled at the back in one corner, another man in tattered clothes sitting on an old blanket.
Nothing to report.
The radio of the man still in conversation with Wasim crackled. Henry could hear his voice receding as he answered. He suddenly called his colleague and they both ran towards their own vehicle parked at the side of the bridge entrance. Henry stood slowly to see their SUV leave at speed. He brought the thick material covering the truck down again. Wasim started the truck’s engine, moving forward at a slow pace. No one was left to man the checkpoint. Wasim kept his nerve and drove unhurriedly over the bridge. On the other side he resisted the temptation to floor the accelerator. Other cars started overtaking them. Only when the structure was far in the distance did he finally let the truck pick up speed and escape.
* * *
Steve Harris reached his desk on the third floor of Vauxhall Cross. It was gone 6am and he has already gathered a day’s worth of updated information. The small room did not enjoy the views that most of the SIS LEGOLAND building boasted but Harris liked it that way. It was ideally situated close to the Middle Eastern Operational Data Analyst team, DATA OP for short, which was devoted to evaluating information of importance, identifying trends, the movements of goods and people that might be of relevance to live operations. Operation RED HAWK Control Room was also close to the operational managers’ Middle Eastern team. Their role was to gather information of any kind on the ground. Between these two resources, Harris was certain he would get what he needed at the pace he needed it; sometimes even raw data could be a game changer, giving him an edge. Harris had spent enough time on the ground to be helped in his decision making by what he gathered from the OMA team, decisions that could make a life-or-death difference to his assets on deployment.
Bruce had started preparing for the handover to Amina. Although he doubted she needed much of that, having called him through the night for updates. His inexhaustible patience impressed Harris. He plonked a cup of coffee in front of him. Bruce nodded his thanks and resumed his work. Harris moved over to his screens, drinking his own coffee still standing. He certainly needed the caffeine after his conversation with The Chief. He liked what he had seen though. His chunky hand loosened the tie he had knotted too tightly before the meeting. It came off with a sharp yank which almost toppled his coffee.
“Shit.” Harris moved his hips sideways to dodge the hot liquid. He mopped it up with an old used paper towel and wiped his fingers. He glanced through the large window overlooking the grey building that rose at the side of Vauxhall Cross. It housed a collection of diverse organisations from Comic Relief to Macmillan Cancer support, its architectural simplicity contrasting with the skyline of the SIS building’s contrived structure: LEGOLAND was an apt nickname. Harris sipped his coffee slowly… a very milky affair (skimmed to make the quantity he added less questionable) and a very sugary one (no excuse for this one). He finished his cup, replaced the lid and dumped the lot in the recycling bin… LEGOLAND was going green.
Harris moved his computer mouse a few times. The monitors came to life. Time to work on his next target for the day, James Radlett.
Henry had been eloquent about ‘Jamie’, his capabilities, the most reliable second in command he had ever had. A man he had without hesitation
promoted within a year of his arrival, much to the consternation of other team members. Henry had been impressed by his lieutenant’s sagacity and frankness. He had quizzed Henry when no one else had dared to and for good reason, never just to feed his ego.
James had been the only one who sensed Henry’s dark side – he had had a hunch.
Harris kept re-reading James’s clean, perhaps too clean, psych profile. Nothing he could lean on. There would be no bribery, no charm offensive and seduction to persuade the target fall into the trap.
Play it straight had been Henry’s advice.
Don’t tell me how to do my job had been Harris’s first reply. But now that he had read the file, Harris had to admit it. Crowne might just have a point.
Play it straight he would.
Harris called up the email box of his recruitment alias, Steve Jackson. He composed an email to James.
Just happen to be working in your neck of the woods. Fancy lunch?
He pressed the send button and leaned back. He was curious to see whether his judgement had been right.
James Radlett wanted a change…
* * *
Mattie had started to come around, the heavy duty painkillers she had been given wearing off. She had asked for some water. The man whom she called Abu Shabh had given her a bottle. He had unscrewed the cap for her without thinking about it. She was almost certain she had caught the other man Wasim calling him Henry, though she wasn’t sure. He looked at her in the eye when he gave her the drink. He was no Muslim that much she could tell or perhaps a new convert, but she doubted it. She lifted the veil to drink from the bottle. But judging she would offend neither Ali nor Abu Shabh, she removed the face veil altogether to drain the bottle.
Despite the pain and the tiredness, she hadn’t lost the sagacity that made her who she was, a powerful observer and interviewer. She caught Henry staring at her. He quickly lowered his gaze when she noticed.
He shuffled his tall body against the hard steel of the truck’s frame and looked through the opening to the driver’s cabin.
“How far are we?”
“Only a few miles before we enter ISIL territory.”
Mattie had closed her eyes. The pain in her arm had returned, but she no longer wanted to ask for more painkillers. The road was better and she needed to gather as much information as she could about her new captors since they somehow did not quite fit the profile of the jihadists she had met previously. She let her head roll in a lull, hoping to catch through half closed eyelids more of their conversation.
Henry moved around a little. This time focusing his attention on Ali. He was following each exchange in English between Wasim and Henry more out of interest than suspicion it seemed to her. He had been half asleep during the shooting incident. Mattie hadn’t.
The truck took a sudden turn to the left and its nose rose sharply. The shuddering started again, indicating Wasim had left the smooth asphalt of the main road. Everyone in the back grabbed part of the pick-up’s frame. Mattie bit her lips, grateful the ride only took a few minutes. A short while later the vehicle came to an abrupt stop.
“We’re stopping just for five minutes.” Wasim’s voice came through the small window. His door was opened and slammed shut. Henry stood up and reached the back of the truck before Wasim did. He unbuckled the straps of the cover, lifting one side of the material to jump out.
“Comfort break?”
Wasim answered in a low voice something Mattie could not make out and the oilcloth fell back again.
“Catch up break…”
Wasim’s voice was grave and his lips formed a straight line. It was perhaps the last call he could make freely before they reached Raqqa.
Henry landed on the ground effortlessly, throwing a cloud of dust in the air in the process. He surveyed his surroundings. They had reached the top of a small hill, the landscape around it a flat and dry expanse with a just discernible splash of green in the far distance, thanks to the Euphrates’ waters. Wasim had stopped the vehicle next to a deep enough ridge where a few bushes had managed to take hold to provide cover.
Ali pushed the tarpaulin all the way up over the truck’s frame. He jumped out in one agile move. He spoke to Wasim briefly. He moved back to the vehicle, retrieved the AK-47 he had hidden in the flank of the car, took a pair of binoculars Wasim had left on his seat and started walking quickly towards the top of the hill.
“I’ve asked him to check whether we’ve been followed.” Wasim was walking away from the vehicle.
“Do you think we have?”
“No… we would have been stopped a while ago if we had.”
“What now?”
“I’ll contact Raqqa again. I was given a new number yesterday. They’ll tell me where to find our escort. We’re less than half a day away.”
“Sounds good.” Henry was about to turn around.
“What did they see… Ali and Mattie?”
“When I shot the 4x4?”
Wasim jaw tensed quickly, his beard rising in a sharp move. “What else?”
“Ali was dozing. He didn’t wake up fully till he heard the crash.”
“And Mattie?”
“She was out of it on painkillers… not sure she registered anything at all until we stopped to cross the bridge.”
Wasim’s eyes bore into Henry. There was no margin for error and they both knew it.
Or did they?
Wasim kept silent.
“I understand infiltration is no small task, Was… I really do.” Henry looked frank. He did know.
Wasim waited for more.
“What do you want me to say… that I’m prepared to kill for the mission?”
“I won’t be there to do it for you when we reach Raqqa.”
“And I need to be ready for it… I understand that too.”
Wasim said nothing as he walked away. He took out his smartphone and started dialling. Henry was left to his deliberations… could he go all the way?
Wasim stopped dead. “I need to make another call before Raqqa.”
“Problem?”
“Don’t know… need to call MOTHER.”
* * *
The response came within the hour. Steve Harris was almost surprised at the speed of it. Or perhaps he should have expected it. Crowne had told him. “He’ll call a spade a spade.” Honest to a fault with the people he trusts, happy to take on anybody who tries to BS him. Harris could not expect to belong to category one yet and did want to ensure he did not fall into category two.
Harris re-read the short reply, which suggested a time and venue.
“You want to be in control of your meeting.” Harris sent an email reply, amused at Radlett’s attempt to take control.
Perfect… meeting in the City at Lamb Tavern in Leadenhall Market. 12.00pm.
Harris pondered on the choice of meeting place: good quality yet not ostentatious according to the Square Meal Good Food Guide. James Radlett was almost certain to meet friends and colleagues.
Good tactic, Harris smiled… Hiding in plain sight.
Chapter Six
Rumours about the fate of two journalists who had crossed into Syria and not been seen since were starting to filter through social media. Harris walked across to the Mid East OMA room. He swiped his card, entered his ID code, the door opened with a small sigh. He walked over to the desk of one of the analysts he had known and worked with for as long as he’d been at Vauxhall Cross.
“Any interesting chatter coming from Syria or Turkey?”
“What’s in it for me?” Ahmed swirled his chair around to face Harris, arms crossed over his chest.
“Pint of beer or a bacon sandwich, mate… or even both if it’s worth that much.” Harris grinned. “And don’t tell me I don’t look after you… bad boy.”
“Done.” Ahmed started
typing on his keyboard, calling up several chat surveillance screens he was monitoring. He pointed to a couple of them. “Just started last night… more speculations about the journalists. Nothing concrete yet.”
“If it’s a hostage situation the group that’s taken them will keep things under wraps.” Harris stood close to the screens and started reading.
“Normally, yes… but nothing’s normal in Syria. Still, if the kidnappers want a ransom then the chatter will die pretty quickly, and then we’ll know.”
“Where does the chatter come from?”
“We picked up material from an Al-Qaeda source in Syria… We’re still monitoring… may be ISIL too… bit of a newcomer so not so sure who we’re picking up.”
“I can’t imagine those two working together.” Harris would not give his own Op intel to Ahmed and Ahmed would not have expected him to. The data analysis had to come directly from Ahmed’s group without any bias from the individual agents.
“You’re right on that one. Since their recent split, no chance. I’ll keep you posted as soon as something more concrete emerges.”
Harris nodded his thanks and walked out. He hesitated. Asking DATA OP for their analysis of the situation might be premature. He had his own idea as to where the new jihadi group called ISIL was going. The question was whether it would inspire the devotion Al-Qaeda and Bin Laden had inspired in their followers. From what Harris had seen first-hand 18 months ago, he was convinced it would. Harris returned to RED HAWK Control Room. It was just gone 8.15am. He logged back into his machine, scrolled through his emails, switching between several mail accounts he held under different aliases. Another of his assets, Brett, was feeding in information he had received from the region. His art trafficking, a lucrative business that had become a key source of income for terrorists’ groups like Al-Qaeda had provided Brett with the perfect cover. Brett had been lying low since his successful involvement in the dismantling of a new terror cell in London run by The Sheik. It was time for him to dig a little deeper into his knowledge of the market and refresh his links with his contacts.
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