Henry half turned towards Wasim. “I was being flippant.”
“Serves you right… You’d better remember… These people have zero sense of humour.”
“Which is why I’m spending my very last minutes of relative freedom cracking a…”
Wasim’s smartphone rang. He slowed down and picked up the call. Henry could hear a voice giving instructions in a tone that did not sound friendly.
“They’re asking us to stop and wait for them.”
Henry inhaled. His smooth and pleasant face took on a mask of harshness.
He was ready.
* * *
The Reaper drone had descended from its clean mission altitude of 50,000 feet to reach a more effective 40,000 feet. Amina was not in control of the drone the way she was of the satellites’ imaging, but she could still zoom in and angle the camera carried by the drone to improve the pictures she was receiving.
The Humvees had increased their speed and the ISIL black flags were now visible at the back of the trucks that followed.
Henry and Wasim’s pick-up had stopped, exposed in the middle of the valley that lead to the Euphrates. Amina sent another text to Harris.
Where the fuck are you?
If her texts were ever audited, she would end up filing data for the rest of her career… never mind. She chewed on her nails and pulled a face. A friend had convinced her to paint them with a terrible-tasting concoction.
You’ll never find a man if you keep biting your nails as if you’ve not been given enough to eat.
But the only man who mattered now was Wasim and he was too far away to see what effect the mission was having on her hands.
The scene was unfolding without sound and it made it even more unnerving. She was accustomed to this by now but occasionally the silence of the action that unfolded in front of her made surveillance almost unbearable.
Henry and Wasim stepped out of the truck. There was no point in staying put – there was now no chance of escape.
The ISIL convoy stopped 300 yards away from them. There was no movement on either side for a couple of minutes. Three men stepped out of the second Humvee. Amina asked the operator to drop the drone to 30,000 feet. Every descent made the drone more visible and this would be the lowest it could go. Amina grumbled and drew her armchair even closer to the desk. She stretched her hand towards her now very cold coffee and mechanically took a sip.
Two of the three men started moving forward at a slow pace, each training their AK-47 on the truck and its passengers. Their uniform was recognisable, black trousers, black shirt, black scarf wrapped around their heads. These were not recycled army uniforms or the tribal outfits either Al-Qaeda or the Taliban wore. There was a strong desire to unify the fighters into one army, behind one flag, a potent image that told her much about the intention of its leader.
The two men had reached Henry and Wasim.
A request was made to Wasim. His body language told Amina he did not like what he had been asked to do.
Suddenly, Wasim was thrust against the truck. Amina could almost hear the thud of his body against the metal of the bonnet and feel the stab of pain from his arm being twisted behind his back. Henry had a rifle pointed at his chest. Amina stopped breathing. Her heart missed a beat when her mobile rang.
“Am I missing something?” Harris sounded less cocky than usual.
“Crowne and Wasim… it’s not going well.”
“They’ve made contact.”
“Crowne has a gun to his chest and Wasim a gun to his head.”
* * *
He stopped his car abruptly, almost causing the vehicle behind him to collide into his rear. The angry driver shouted insults and would have got out of his Mercedes to give Harris a piece of his mind and perhaps more. Harris moved his car around in an expert U-turn and floored the accelerator. He had stuck his mobile to the dashboard holder, listening to Amina’s blow-by-blow description of what was happening in Syria.
Crowne has put his hands over his head, knees on the ground.
Wasim is leaning against the truck, arms stretched forward… one of the hostiles is frisking him.
They’ve found the side gun he keeps strapped to his left calf.
The other hostile is taking Mattie Colmore and a young guy out of the back of the truck… they are made to kneel down.
Amina’s voice sounded constrained, gripped by fear.
They’ve taken the rucksacks out of the boot and are emptying the contents on the ground.
A sense of powerlessness almost overwhelmed Harris. If there was to be an execution in slow motion, it would be atrocious for the four of them.
They’ve grabbed the young guy and are walking him over to the man who has stayed behind.
Amina had resumed her running commentary.
He is asking him questions.
No… he is taking a gun out. He is moving towards the truck. The gun is back in his belt.
“Who is he?” Harris interrupted.
“Don’t know, he’s limping a little though, taking his time to get to them.” Amina was moving something around.
“Oh my God,” Amina almost shrieked. “Oh my God… it’s Kasim al-Haddawi.”
“One of al-Baghdadi’s closest commanders?” Harris’s voice rose. He was still far away from Vauxhall Cross, using his horn to move people along.
“Yes… I’m certain… the limp sustained in a fight with the US army during the Iraq war.”
“What now?”
“He has almost reached them. Wasim is straightening up… speaking to him.”
“How about Crowne?”
“Still on the ground. Haddawi is speaking to Crowne now. He’s going around him… his gun’s out…”
“Shit.” Harris drove through a red light.
“He’s fired the…”
Silence.
“Amina… Amina… What now?”
His phone had gone dead.
* * *
Lunch had been planned for noon. James glanced at the clocks on the wall of his office. The London one marked 10.17am. He had retired there a few minutes ago from his desk on the trading floor to think. This gave him a solid hour to consider what he was hoping to achieve from the meeting with Steve Jackson. He had searched for his name on the web but very little was available… intriguing. He could perhaps call some of his former pals still working for the British intelligence service within the armed forces. But it felt wrong to be soliciting favours when he had not troubled to keep in touch for a while. If it had been an emergency he might have got over his shyness, but he would rather keep his powder dry for a more worthy occasion.
James slid the engaged sign on, closed the door and the blinds over the glass wall that formed the trading floor-facing side of the office. No one would dare ignore his request for peace.
The room had not changed much since his former boss, Henry Crowne, had left… some of the old tombstones celebrating the closing of the large deals they’d worked on together were still lining the shelves. James smiled, remembering his confusion when Henry had asked him to choose the shape of the tombstone for the deal he had closed successfully. He had nodded, sensing it was an honour and enquired with Henry’s PA. Morag had winked and given him a catalogue of glass slabs that were customised to commemorate the closing of significant business deals in investment banking. James ran his hand over the desk of solid wood: nothing too fancy. The armchair too was the same, a good ergonomic chair; two monitors for his PC; and the famous clocks that gave the time for Sydney, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Frankfurt, London and New York. James recalled Henry’s silly mental gymnastics, moving from one city to another. It was in this same room that James and Henry had had their last face-to-face fractious conversation and the loaded word murder had been spoken.
The dark secret that Henry had been harbouring for years had not entirely sur
prised James. A former army intelligence officer working for an IRA operative… there was some bitter humour in this that he had not been allowed to ignore. He had been disappointed more than angry. James had been thoroughly questioned by the police and the Counter-Terrorist squad.
Had he not suspected?
No…
Or had he?
Had there not been any signs?
No.
But it was not quite the truth.
Was he not a former intelligence officer?
Yes.
And he still understood what this meant.
Should he have paid more attention to what Henry was up to, even in his private life?
Henry had a flawless record when it came to his banking deals… and James was not his mother.
Was he part of it?
James had almost clocked one to the little git who was enjoying asking the question. Still, in all fairness, he might have asked the same question had he been in his place.
Henry Crowne ran the most successful team at GL Investment Bank, possibly the most successful team in the City, London’s financial district. And yet he had not been able or willing to shake off his association with his IRA friends from Belfast.
Had fame and prosperity not been enough? Was he not leading the dream life so many wanted? To Henry’s former colleagues, his betrayal was not hurtful, it was beyond stupid… Henry Crowne was perhaps not so clever after all. And yet, in some strange way James understood. It was all about camaraderie, being authentic, being true to old friends. It was one of the reasons why James had enjoyed working for Henry.
The phone rang. It diverted to James’s PA.
James sat back in his armchair and wondered why memories of Henry had come flooding back. Perhaps because he owed him his second chance at the lucrative career he had enjoyed for a while. Perhaps because having replaced Henry at the head of his old team he had realised it was not only about technical ability but about navigating the political minefield the bank had become. Henry had been a natural; James had to make the effort every day.
James wanted something new. He was not quite sure what.
Steve Jackson had an agenda. James did not care what it might be… he was going to explore this avenue. He knew what he was good at and what he was no longer prepared to accept. He had made the necessary changes, stabilised the platform, to borrow terms he did not like. The business was growing again after the financial crisis… job done.
* * *
The gun discharge rolled over the plain in a single burst of energy. It echoed against the hill they had just left. Henry had not flinched. He had held his breath but managed to keep his eyes open. He was still alive. He wanted to look around, to make sure the others were alive too.
The young man’s body is limp and lifeless. The camp on the Turkish border has a reputation to maintain. This would-be jihadi has not done well in training, too slow and awkward. He has soon lost his eagerness for the cause. He doesn’t say it, but he certainly does not shout loudly enough “death to all infidels” and “may the armies of Allah burn the West to a cinder.” The few friends he had when he joined are now avoiding him. It is only a matter of time before he too becomes kafir. What he has not been told by the recruiter who has added his name to a long list of young recruits, is that ISIL does not only believe in the ultimate battle of Dabir in which the Muslim armies will defeat the legions of Rome but that any Muslim who does not follow their strict Wahhabism will be declared an infidel and death will come knocking.
The shouting has started after the last exercise, a simulation of guerrilla warfare tactics in a city environment. The young man is being pushed by the training officer… the insults are raining down on him. The other young fighters first huddle in a group, one moves forward, bold and angry. He spits on the ground in disgust at the man whom he no longer considers his brother. The frenzy starts, more shouting, more spitting until the trainer takes his gun and shouts at the ground in front of the young man with a single instruction.
Run…
Anger has ripped through Henry like a wildfire. The screams inside the maze of streets are inhuman. Wasim grabs Henry’s shoulder. There is nothing they can do.
Another hand fell on his shoulder, bringing him in a flash to the here and now.
“I am taking you to Raqqa… Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi wants to meet you.”
* * *
Steve Harris burst into Vauxhall Cross. He swerved around his colleagues without apology. The lifts were full and he waited for one he could get into, fist clenched on the frame. He ran down the corridor and flung open the RED HAWK Control Room door.
“Are they…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.
Amina waited to respond, turning away from her desk slowly. “No… they’re on the move. They’ve separated them.” Her face like thunder.
“What the fuck happened? Who took Henry?”
“The big man… al-Haddawi.”
“Did he shoot anybody?”
“I would have said… no, just a bit of extra testosterone to burn. Intimidation… all that good beardo stuff.”
The screen was showing satellite images. “I thought you had requested Reaper drone access?”
“I asked them to stop. Those can easily be spotted at 30,000 feet.”
Amina had returned to her monitors.
“Are they going to Raqqa?”
“Looks like it.”
“Anything else?”
“Get your bloody phone charged so I don’t lose you in the middle of one of the most dangerous times in the op.”
“Sorry… forgot my charger.”
“That’s so lame… you’re working for bloody MI6 for Christ’s sake.” Amina suppressed a smile.
“Don’t rub it in…” Harris rolled his eyes. “What’s the other news?”
“More chatter about Mattie Colmore.”
“Bugger… not my day.”
“Doesn’t look like it. You’d better charge your phone before you call the Reuters analyst.”
Chapter Eight
The sun that had decided to make an appearance made the City streets much warmer. James removed his jacket and slung it over his left shoulder. City workers had not yet reached the street in droves around the Royal Exchange or the Bank of England.
James stopped at a set of traffic lights and waited for a moment, then changed his mind. He could walk up Threadneedle Street instead and cross at the top of the street, no need to wait for the green light. The City’s heart, with its imposing buildings and narrow lanes, had taken time to feel like home. It looked too impregnable, too dense, the perfect place for a sniper to strike.
He shook his head to dispel the thought. Leadenhall Market was only a few minutes away. The old architecture, highly decorated and painted in bright red and gold felt solid and welcoming. James avoided the pavements and stepped onto the cobbled stones. He lifted his head. The sun coming through the spectacular square dome at the centre of the market almost blinded him. The history of the place had interested James when he first discovered it. Built in the 14th century, it had always been a market, eventually becoming the City granary. The famous fire of London in 1666 almost completely destroyed it. It was rebuilt as a market to house fishmongers and butchers. Today only one butcher remained in the central alley, all the other stalls turned into bistros, cafés and shops.
James arrived in front of the Lamb Tavern almost without noticing. He was one of the first customers. In less than 30 minutes’ time the market would be teeming with people. A young woman in a sober black dress welcomed him. Had he made a reservation? Yes, he had. Would he like to go to the bar or the table? The table, please.
They climbed a flight of stairs, creaky and well worn. The odour of beer floated in the air as he ascended, replaced by the smell of cooking that made him want to check the menu for his favourite
dish. The restaurant advertised Great Seasonal British Food.
If the meeting with Steve Jackson yielded no result at least he would enjoy a proper lunch of Angus steak and triple-cooked chips.
The head waitress pointed out a table for two, situated in the middle of the room. James stopped and looked around. He moved to another table, one that gave him the vantage point he was looking for, a good view of the market alleys, the staircase and its landing. Much could be gleaned from observing a man preparing to enter a meeting or walking into a room, unaware of being watched.
11.50am. James pulled out a chair noiselessly and waited for his guest to arrive. He took out his Blackberry, checking there was no last-minute crisis back at base. He stopped paying attention to it but kept holding it loosely in his hand, thinking it better to appear absorbed than expectant. James turned his attention to the market entrance.
* * *
The shop offered a variety of large, small, expensive or affordable pens. Steve Harris had been browsing through its selection when James Radlett arrived. The tall shelf holding stationery and other accessories provided an unexpected shelter. James would have had to look right into the shop to notice him.
He hadn’t.
Harris smiled. James had arrived a good 15 minutes earlier, presumably choosing the right table, the best angle from which to observe his guest’s entrance.
Once a spook…
Harris put down the pen he had been fingering for the past few minutes and bought a large pencil rubber in the shape of a London bus. The shopkeeper looked disappointed, hoping that the Montblanc Harris had been inspecting would take his fancy. Harris pocketed the item. He would give it to Amina on his return to base… something to fuel her fighting spirit… Is that the best you could do?
An enjoyable tease.
Harris walked through the door of the shop as James disappeared into the pub. He retraced his steps along the pavement, crossed the cobbled stone lane and moved to a spot a few yards away from the market entrance. If James had chosen a table at the window, he would see him arrive… as expected. At 11.57am Harris set foot into Leadenhall Market, again, and walked into the Lamb Tavern for a lunch he was eager to have. If the meeting with James did not go well at least he would enjoy a good lunch of Angus steak and triple-cooked chips.
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