* * *
The door of the Humvee had been left open. The tall man who had fired a gun just a foot away from him and then laughed, asked him to follow. He was now speaking to Henry in Arabic and Henry responded in short yet fluent sentences. Between the two front seats a raft of electronic equipment had been installed. Henry climbed into the back and waited. The rear of the Humvee was packed with jerrycans and two large boxes containing armament. He heard the man give instructions to one of the fighters who seemed to be the leader of the pack of trucks. Wasim had already joined the convoy with the pick-up. The tall man would deal with its occupants once they reached Raqqa.
He finally climbed inside the armoured vehicle. The two men who had advanced first joined them; one jumped into the driver’s seat. He waited until the first Humvee had started its engine and followed. He tapped on one of the screens installed next to his seat and an image of the terrain materialised. A second screen was activated showing the best route to their destination. Henry failed to hide his surprise.
“We can tap into international satellites to give us our geo-position as well as ground imagery.” His English was heavily accented yet fluent.
“Impressive.” Henry nodded.
The convoy was on the move. The tall man handed Henry a bottle of water, opened one for himself and finished it in a few gulps.
“Abu Maeraka tells us you want to join our fight.”
“I do.” Henry’s lowered his voice a few tones, his baritone reaching bass notes for effect, serious and focused. He had hoped his recent actions would make this clear: escaping from Belmarsh prison, the most secure in the UK, taking months to reach Iraq including time in ISIL’s training camp, was, in his view, a good indication. He was not visiting the country on a tourist visa.
The man sat back and Henry waited. He racked his brain. Was he expecting Henry to recognise him? He was senior and feared. Henry had known it the second he had reached his men near the old truck, noticing the slight recoil under his gaze, the concern that they might not have carried out his orders to the letter.
The long face, the expected untrimmed beard, the smile that uncovered a perfect row of teeth and sharp incisors and, more noticeably, his eyes, often moving upwards to invoke the heavens, yet devoid of humanity… The name finally came to Henry.
“I am Commander Kasim al-Haddawi,” he said turning towards Henry. “I have been sent by Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.”
“Abu Maeraka spoke about you a great deal.” A small lie to stroke the man’s ego might not go amiss… MI6 certainly had a lot to say about him though.
“Your Arabic is much better than I expected.”
“Thank you.” Henry dropped his head a little, an appreciative yet unassuming response.
“He also said you had managed to organise the finances of the IRA for many years without leaving any trace. I want to know how you did it… and what made it so successful.”
Henry nodded. He had prepared for this moment for months. Time to live up to his reputation as the number one man in complex financial structures.
Henry did not need a flip chart or the usual 200-page PowerPoint presentation. He had been carrying the details of these intricate corporate structures in his mind for years. His description was factual, omitting unnecessary embellishments or boastfulness. He wanted to be clear and he was.
The multi-tier company and fund framework that protected the cash the IRA received from generous donors in Ireland and Irish communities in the UK, the US and further afield had survived countless attempts at unravelling it.
Al-Haddawi smiled faintly… the great nations of the West could finance terrorism too.
Henry explained the level of protection he had used, including nominee accounts, companies registered in fiscal havens or countries that did not disclose vital corporate details such as share ownership… It flowed effortlessly. Whatever al-Haddawi had expected, Henry knew he would impress once he had the opportunity to describe the intricacies of his well-honed system. He had been, after all, one of the most successful financiers in the City of London and none of his schemes had ever failed.
The Commander asked pertinent questions. He had thought about it or discussed it with someone in the know. Still, his ability to grasp so quickly a raft of new, more detailed information, impressed Henry. He had a nimble intellect capable of integrating strategic and tactical aspects of a complex area of which he appeared to have no direct experience, dangerously focused.
Or, had they found someone just as clever as he was? The old Henry would have dismissed the idea immediately. He had after all been the best in his field. However, the past tense rattled him. Almost five years away from the front line of investment banking and innovation felt an eternity. Henry’s throat had gone dry; he took a sip of water. In the back of this Humvee that was taking him to Raqqa, there was no space for doubt.
Al-Haddawi paused. His eyes had not left Henry since he had taken his seat next to him.
“So why were you caught?”
Henry closed the water bottle tight and dropped it into the side pocket of the vehicle door. Anything to gain a few moments before he spoke about a wound that might never heal.
“I was betrayed.” Henry had not expected to be spared during his interrogation, but the words felt like dust in his mouth.
Betrayed by his oldest and best friend. He had understood why. Presented with the impossible choice between his brother’s life and Henry’s future, Liam had chosen his brother. Henry had accepted Liam’s decision. But it did not diminish the torment it had caused.
Henry finished his story in a few sentences. There was not much to say after that. He had not had to disguise his disappointment; on the contrary. He hoped this would be seen by the ISIL leader as a convincing motive to join.
“Forgiveness is sweet, but revenge is sweeter,” the Commander smiled.
* * *
The choice of pub as old and reliable as the Lamb Tavern had worked well. James Radlett was making a conscious statement with this choice. It reflected the type of man he was – straightforward, reliable, no nonsense and yet appreciative of quality. Harris had composed himself as he climbed the stairs to create the impression he had wanted as he emerged onto the landing. Openness, a touch of eagerness, an air of confidence – the whole to be served with a dash of friendliness. That should set Harris on a good footing. James was scrolling through his emails, keeping an eye out for the man he was expecting. He stood up with a nod of the head… perfectly rehearsed and equally friendly. It seemed they had gone to the same school.
Good tactic, good choice of table and good attitude… James had forgotten none of his former training.
They shook hands, sat down, exchanged a few banalities about the weather and the beginning of the rugby season. Food was ordered.
Angus steak, triple-cooked fries, times two.
“We didn’t have much time to speak about your current situation.” Harris was tucking into his meat with appetite. “I gather you have a pretty senior position at GL?”
“It is an excellent team… although a lot of its success is based on the work of its previous boss.”
Harris looked puzzled, convincingly so. He stopped himself from asking who it was. Then he recalled his own advice… no bullshit. “You mean Henry Crowne.”
James squirmed a little. Perhaps he had not expected Harris to be so forthright, or to remember that Henry Crowne had once led his team at GL. “I did some digging around before I came. I hope you don’t mind,” Harris offered with a smile. “Tell me about Crowne. Why did you work for him?”
* * *
They had been journeying for over two hours. Al-Haddawi had listened to Henry, prodding him astutely when he felt Henry was being vague, and absorbing all the details of Henry’s former life.
Al-Haddawi returned to the connection Henry had made with Abu Maeraka in Belmarsh. He coul
d not quite believe Maeraka had approached Henry first. It rankled the commander. He came back at it, revisited the issue several times, asking the question differently and always receiving the same answer.
“He approached me in Belmarsh library… we started talking about books.”
“How very educated… perhaps too educated.” Al-Haddawi’s eyes drilled into Henry.
“His education is what enables Abu Maeraka to recruit so many new followers in prison.”
Al-Haddawi changed tack. He pushed Henry again on why he had joined the IRA, forcing him to speak about his father. Henry’s father had joined the cause and died for it, young…
“Would your father be proud?” The question hit Henry in the gut. He had never considered it before. Al-Haddawi sat back a little. He had just scored a point and inflicted pain… a pleasant feeling.
“Who knows… he died when I was very young. I hardly knew him. But at least I honoured his memory.” Henry locked eyes with al-Haddawi, challenging the side of him that refused to be cowed by anyone. He too could be dangerous. Al-Haddawi’s nostrils flared a little. He had not expected such provocation.
Al-Haddawi abruptly stopped the conversation. He made a request for food and his aides handed over some khoubz and shanklish dried cheese, covered in Aleppo peppers. They would not be stopping until they had reached ISIL’s headquarters. They ate in silence, al-Haddawi scrolling though the messages he had received on his smartphone… He was an important, busy man. Henry had not been allowed a device. He certainly had none in Belmarsh and had accepted the embargo.
The convoy had picked up speed as the roads on which they were now driving had improved. Henry was not ready for the sudden change in the landscape when it came, lush green fields spread on each side of the Humvee, a patchwork of different crops that grew enough to feed people beyond the immediate area. In an arid country like Syria, Raqqa and its surrounding land was priceless. It was no surprise that ISIL had targeted the city and established its HQ there. The vehicles reached another hill, beyond which nature’s cornucopia retreated and the lush green of plant life became sparse.
The Humvee gradually slowed down. They had come to the first checkpoint indicating that Raqqa was now close. Henry noticed the same outfit on the fighter who manned the post: either black or camouflage trousers, but always a black shirt and a black scarf wound around the head. There was no doubt in Henry’s mind that al-Baghdadi was not only building an army, he was building a new brand of jihadists.
Some more trucks bearing the ISIL flag and a couple of armoured vehicles appeared as they approached Raqqa. Henry’s convoy slowed down for the final checkpoint before they entered the city. On the surface, Raqqa’s streets felt surprisingly calm. White-painted buildings of modern architecture, constructions that were only a few storeys high, broad avenues planted with large evergreen trees providing much needed shade. Henry had seen it much worse in Belfast. The cars on the streets were driven by civilians, with numerous ISIL trucks joining them. Perhaps al-Baghdadi’s group had not yet dug its claws too deep into the belly of the city. Few people were on the street, though at 2pm, with the sun now high in the sky, they would have been foolish to be. On the first junction they encountered, Henry noticed a large hoarding had been covered in black paint and large Arabic letters painted over it in white, erasing the former name of the street.
“We no longer tolerate names written in English,” al-Haddawi commented.
Their vehicle turned left into a smaller avenue, then left again. Fifteen minutes later the Humvee drove into the driveway of a modern hotel. It could have been a Hilton or a Sheraton. Today, however, the words Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant had replaced the original name and Henry doubted the room service would be as impeccable as under the previous management.
“You will stay here for the time being.” Al-Haddawi was already giving orders to his aides.
Henry nodded. He was about to leave the armoured vehicle but stopped. “What about the woman?”
“What about her?” Al-Haddawi looked puzzled. She was only a woman.
“She is a valuable asset, a journalist for the Sunday Times in London.”
“The UK does not pay ransom for hostages.” Al-Haddawi had turned his muscled body towards Henry.
“Perhaps not, but others might… for a price. I can perhaps be of help in finding the value of that price.” Henry’s voice was level… no emotions. This was business.
“Already keen to write a deal?” The other man grinned but his eyes were of steel.
Henry leaned back into his seat. He would not be pushed around so easily. “Is it not the idea… the reason why Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi wants me here?”
“Fine.” Al-Haddawi clenched and released a fist. “I’ll see she is treated as a valuable asset.”
“Good.” Henry left the car and walked to where Wasim and Ali were already waiting, beside the old battered truck.
Al-Haddawi gave more orders.
“Get into the hotel. I’ll follow shortly.” Henry waited a short moment and lifted the tarp away from the back of the truck. Mattie’s dark shape had moved forward at the sound of his voice.
“What’s happening?” Her voice muffled by the niqab.
“Can’t give you the details but don’t do anything stupid.”
She was about to respond.
“Trust me,” was all Henry had time to say before a man appeared at his elbow. “If anything happens to her, you’ll regret it.” Henry’s Arabic delivered the message perfectly. His cold stare followed Mattie and her new guard until she resumed her position at the back the truck. The man looked back. Henry meant business and he understood it.
Henry grabbed his rucksack from the boot and slowly ascended the large steps that once had belonged to a five-star hotel.
* * *
James put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth elegantly with the linen napkin. “Why is this so important?”
Steve cocked his head and gave James a sideways look. “Seriously? You were working for one of the most brilliant financiers in the City who turned out to be IRA… and you ask why I ask?”
James crossed his hands in front of his face, elbows on the table. He was torn. Torn between the desire to tell Steve to get lost… it was almost five years ago… and the desire to present his own side of the story… reiterating that he had No God Damn Idea… officially.
Steve read the situation.
“You can’t expect never to be asked that question again, no matter how annoying it is for you.” Steve’s sounded conciliatory and he was. The Crowne story was too big to be ignored by anyone who would either offer or facilitate a new job – any interviewer worth their salt would broach the subject.
James straightened back in his chair, picked up his knife and fork, cut a piece of the excellent steak and savoured it.
“You’re right of course… I can’t expect people to simply remember what I said in court five years ago.”
Steve nodded encouragingly. He salted his chips again, ate a couple, waiting for James to gather his thoughts.
“I was an unconventional choice for H… I mean Henry.” James’s face expressed disappointment. He had been close to his boss.
“Because of your retraining after you left the army.”
“That’s right.”
“He gave you a chance.”
“He did… a pretty big chance.” James took a sip of water. “There were almost a dozen people applying for the job, better qualified, MBAs, top business schools.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m not sure you can unless you know the environment well.”
“I think I know enough.” Not a defensive statement. Steve smiled. He did understand.
“It was a choice that few expected. His boss didn’t like it, HR didn’t like it and yet he stuck with it.”
“He eve
n promoted you after less than two years.”
“Yes, he did… another battle with his boss and HR to do so…”
Steve simply nodded. “So, people inferred that you had turned a blind eye to his terrorist connections.”
“They did, and I get it… but…”
“You knew nothing about it… I believe you,” Steve interrupted.
“Just like that?” James’s eyes crossed Steve’s briefly.
“You’re a former intelligence officer. You’ve been trained to detect people like Crowne… If you had had an inkling you would have protected yourself better for a start. I also doubt whether you would have joined in any case the very people you fought against in the army just because they offered you a job… It doesn’t fit your profile.”
“How do you know my…” James did not finish his sentence. The truth had just dawned on him. His jaw tensed. Before he could erupt at the thought of having been played, Harris lifted his hand. No bullshit.
“I’m going to be straight with you.” Harris picked up another chip. James hesitated.
“I am offering you a chance to re-join the British intelligence service. I think you miss it, and you’ll be good at the work in the same way you were before.”
“Despite the fact that I didn’t spot Henry?” James eyes narrowed, a faint smile on his face.
“No one spotted Henry… we had a file on him and yet zip, nada, nothing… my colleagues at MI5 are very sore about that.”
“You had a file on Henry?”
“Yep… but one thing at a time.”
James put his hands up.
“OK, sorry. I know the rules… but you must give me something. Why me and why now?”
“Very good questions of course.”
“And…”
“You know how the recruitment works.”
“I have been there before… but you’ve done a lot of due diligence already. Am I correct?” James tucked into his steak again; a couple of bites and it was finished. “You need me.” He wiped his mouth.
Spy Shadows Page 9
