“Sending an email to OMA – the guys can check that out for us. If it’s the case, ISIL might have some key information they want to release and they will time it for the maximum impact.”
“Can’t be about Crowne, too early. They haven’t tested him yet… It’s more likely they are working on a new move they can’t afford to leak.”
“Whatever the reason, it won’t prevent Wasim from contacting us. The Fire Chat he is using will work even if the internet or access to Wi-Fi is blocked.”
“When are you expecting Wasim to make contact again?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll see whether he’s allowed to call his MOTHER. So far it has worked and, if it doesn’t, we’ll use the other route.”
“Anything else?”
Amina stopped her hand in mid-air, before landing it back on her mouse. “How about this new bloke, James Radlett?”
“He is going to join… He’s missing the action, and banking is not really his world…”
“Even if it means working with Crowne?”
“Especially because of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“James is as straight as you can get… and I think he is the sort of guy who won’t forget when someone has done him a big favour, even if he says the contrary.”
“But we are talking Henry Crowne, right… disgraced financier, money launderer for the IRA…”
“It’s got nothing to do with that. Of course he could not work for Henry, he’ll be working with him. No, it’s more about fairness. Given the opportunity, I think James Radlett will want to even things out. Henry employed him when no one else had any time for James. Henry promoted him to become his number two, despite the fact he was ex-British army… He too could have held a grudge. Henry could have used his influence to make James’s life at work a misery; after all, the British boys haven’t always been whiter than white in Belfast.”
“Interesting.” Amina stopped what she was doing, giving the idea consideration. “Your point is that James may want to give Crowne a chance too.”
“I’ll take a bet on that.”
Amina sighed. “Steve, every time you take a bet, you know you’re on a winner, you’re not much fun.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport.” Harris scrunched up a piece of paper and threw it at her. It went wide of the mark.
“Thank God you’re a better agent than a cricketer… otherwise…” Her sentence was interrupted by an alert on her screen. The OMA team wanted her attention – something material had been spotted in the chat rooms of the Middle East.
* * *
She had almost stumbled twice on the flowing material of her abaya as she descended the treacherous staircase. Her face was covered by the niqab so that only her eyes were visible. The veil kept sliding and obstructed her vision if she moved too quickly. They must have gone down at least three flights of stairs when they finally arrived at their destination in the basement. The concrete floor was dusty and grey. The walls were of the same ashen colour, marred with streaks of dirt, the origin of which she could not or perhaps did not want to identify. A stench she had not smelled for a while hit her unexpectedly, rancid, overpowering. It made her stomach heave. She had encountered it in other makeshift prisons… Iraq, Afghanistan.
A bunch of fighters were sitting at the entrance of a long corridor. There was no conversation going on, no smoking or drinking together. They stood, a heavy lurking presence. Mattie walked past the men. They did their best to ignore her, yet a few sly glances were cast in her direction. The fighter accompanying her stopped in front of a door that looked unmistakably like a prison door with its opening at face level and small flap. He did not say a word. He did not need to. When he opened the door, Mattie walked into a cell that stank of rot and human waste. The door shut behind her with a low creaking noise.
She was on her own.
Her feet were rooted to the floor. She closed her eyes and tried to control her fluttering heart. She was still alive… there was hope. What was it the English man called Henry had said to her? Don’t do anything stupid. Not so much a warning but a piece of advice coming from someone who might help. She shrugged. Why would this perfect stranger help? And how could he?
The scarf around her head felt hot and she pulled it off. It might be risky to show her hair, but she was willing to appear unafraid. She took a couple of steps forward. The cell was dimly lit by a naked lightbulb. It had flickered a few times when the door had been closed. She advanced in the direction of the mattress that lay in the corner of the room. It looked stained and filthy. In the other corner there was a bucket – no need to check this one to know what it was for.
Mattie’s eyes became accustomed to the faintness of the light. She spotted writing on the walls and moved closer, discovering names, dates and a few words or comments scratched into the stone.
Hussein killed 25/1/14, Abu Mana – 113 days, Abu Hussein Dwer (in Russian) had written a few words she could not understand, Abu Karan from France… She worked her way around the cell walls discovering more names and more of the same, days spent there and often, too often, a date of execution. ISIL had already started the cull… amongst its own people if they were felt wanting, amongst the people of Raqqa if they did not follow orders. The sorry end of those who would not embrace their blind fanaticism.
She had almost finished going round the room when she came across a strange manifesto written in English:
If you are reading this, there are 4 reasons:
You did the crime and were caught red-handed
Using twitter gps locations or leaving gps locations turned on the mobile phone (sic)
Uploading videos or photos from a WIFI internet source, i.e. you need your Amir’s permission, which you didn’t get
A suspect, off the street!
The police have a good reason to do this – Be Patience! Be Patience! Be Patience.
The enemy of the Muslims Satan will do every whispering while you stare at the wall or the floor.
Mattie read the few lines again. Already ISIL was looking at protecting the exchange of information, and its geographical position. The stadium, with its rooms dug deep underground, was the perfect building to house their operations. ISIL was already way ahead of its rival Al-Qaeda in so many ways. The few recruitment videos she had seen were slick, combining strong imagery, powerfully themed music and snappy one-liners that would inspire young Muslims, discontented with the West but also with their own countries around the world.
Voices were coming along the corridor. Mattie fought the panic at having perhaps removed the niqab too hastily. She controlled her movements, slowly, purposefully folding the piece of cloth into a triangle, adjusting it around her head, tucking the sides against her face and bringing the pieces of material across one another.
The voices were now clearly audible, arguing it seemed. The cloth almost fell out of her trembling hands. She swore, steeled herself; making the final knot and picking up the last piece from the floor, she hurriedly placed the veil across her face.
The door rattled. Her fingers were fighting to close the brooch that fastened the pieces together. The door of the adjacent cell opened. Voices raised turned into shouts; this time a third person had joined in. Protestations of innocence, it seemed to her. Mattie moved close to the cell’s door; her face next to the window flap. The man’s voice had turned shrill. The blows started raining down on the prisoner without stopping, oblivious to the shrieks and begging. Mattie walked to the far end of the small room. She collapsed on the makeshift bed, hands covering her ears, eyes screwed shut… the sound of her own heart beating in her palms. In her years as war reporter she had seen some beatings but the one happening a few feet away from her cell had a savagery she had never witnessed. It took some time for her to notice…
Silence.
Two voices spoke again after a moment and with them cam
e the muffled sound of a body being dragged across the floor. She put a hand over her mouth and willed herself not to scream. The men disappeared down the corridor. She held back for as long as she could and let a muffled cry escape.
She would never walk out of here alive.
* * *
The Mattie Colmore kidnapping was preying on Harris’s mind more than he had anticipated. Harris had run some difficult ops in the past but RED HAWK ranked at the top of his list. The chance of both his assets making it out alive was uncomfortably low. Both men were aware of the challenge and willing to take the risk. Harris owed it to them to do whatever he could at his end to tilt the probabilities in their favour.
Harris was queuing for a coffee. He did his best thinking when lining up with people, waiting to be served… He shuffled along and returned to the thorny issue of Mattie Colmore. The Chief was right, it would become a political matter. Her father’s position both ideologically and in government was ideal for a group like ISIL. It might mean she would be kept alive for a while, but it could just as well sign an early death warrant. The Chief had also warned him… MI6 could not facilitate a ransom demand even if it were to be paid by a third party. European countries did… but not the British.
Harris ordered two coffees, one black no sugar, one white with plenty of the stuff… He found himself back at his desk almost without noticing. He unlocked one of the drawers and fetched out a new burner phone. It would take only a few minutes to charge with this latest high-performance, instant-charge battery. When the mobile was ready, he would place a call he had delayed making until now.
Time to speak to CIA Jack at Langley, Virginia.
* * *
The dampness of the mattress had started to seep through her clothes. In the absence of a watch, Mattie guessed she had been lying there for a couple of hours, perhaps a little more, trying to quieten her mind and calm her fears. Since the assault on the prisoner next door everything had been remarkably silent. She stood up wincing as the painkillers had now worn off completely.
Once more she surveyed the cell she had been placed in. The space had once been fitted with wall furniture, perhaps it had been used as a changing room. She could see the delineation of their structure. Perhaps some top player had readied himself here before the reign of ISIL had destroyed all forms of sporting event.
The sound of a door lock opening made her jump. Two guards entered, both clad in what she now knew was the ISIL uniform: black shirt, black baggy trousers and white trainers, black scarf worn on the head. The quality of their outfits was shabby, unlike the clothes she had seen on the man who had brought her here.
The younger man held a plate of what looked like food. He put it down in front of her and threw a water bottle on the mattress, retreating a couple of steps to fall in line with the older man.
No one moved.
Mattie’s grumbling stomach was urging her to step forward and check the contents of the plate. Her mouth started to water uncontrollably.
She knew better.
The two men were looking at her with interest. Too much interest. The scarf had moved down without her noticing, uncovering a part of her face she should have kept hidden. Was it enough to provoke? The silence that grew between them swelled with possibilities.
Offence was perhaps the best form of defence.
“You must give me time to dress properly when you enter,” Mattie said in perfect Arabic. Not what the two men had expected. The younger one recoiled at the words but the older one’s surprise dissipated fast. He nodded towards the door and the other guard disappeared. He took one more step into the cell, eyes roving over Mattie’s body. Despite the faintness of the light she sensed the intensity of his gaze.
Don’t move, don’t cry.
“I want to see Abu Shabh… he knows who I am.”
Mattie’s Arabic, spoken with confidence, the mention of someone who might be a high-ranking fighter, made the man hesitant. Was she worth it?
The older guard stepped backwards over the threshold of the cell. His eyes had one message for Mattie though.
Your time will come.
* * *
Raised voices came from the corridor, the bedroom door slammed open and three men walked in, a fourth one waiting outside. Henry stood at the sliding doors, his Glock stashed away in his rucksack at the other end of the room. Wasim followed the men, white in the face and arguing.
“What do you want?” Henry had entered the room. The men looked him over but kept moving around the space. They had a task to fulfil.
“They want the laptop and phone.” Wasim stopped in the small entrance that led to the main room, assessing the situation.
“On whose authority?” Henry’s Arabic was aimed at the man he thought was in charge. Athletic and muscled, he moved his head towards the devices that lay on Wasim’s bed. One of the men grabbed them and slid them into a bag.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I wonder what The Treasurer has to say about that?”
“Nothing.” He laughed and the others followed.
Henry glanced towards Wasim for a clue. Wasim shook his head almost imperceptibly. There was no point in fighting now.
The men opened the wardrobe and the drawers of the bedside tables. Neither Wasim nor Henry had very much by way of possessions and their clothes were old and tattered. The disgust on the men’s faces was almost funny.
Henry’s body tightened, ready for a fight. He was not yet prepared to give up but Wasim shook his head. Henry breathed in. The leader looked around the room, satisfied they had disturbed a place where there was so little to disturb in the first place. His eyes fell on the rucksack stashed away at the back of the wardrobe. He barked at one of the men who had not been thorough enough, and the rucksack’s contents were poured over the floor. The thud of the Glock prompted the man to bend down and pick up the piece, handing it over to his leader. He grabbed the piece appreciatively, pulled back the slide and aimed at Henry’s head in a swift, emphatic move.
Henry locked eyes with him.
“It’s not going to do much damage without a clip in it.”
The man’s grin disappeared. Should he check Henry was right, or fire anyway but look foolish if he was? He crossed the distance between them in one long stride and crashed the Glock over his face with such force it threw Henry off balance, his tall body hitting the side of the sliding doors, almost dislodging them.
The man pocketed the gun, kicked one of the chairs, breaking its legs for the hell of it and moved out of the room.
Henry staggered up. Wasim crossed the room and dragged him to the nearest bed, checking his wound.
“Lesson 1… don’t make these guys look stupid, it doesn’t pay.”
“Lesson 1… well understood,” Henry mumbled.
Wasim raised his head towards the door. Someone was still there. Ali didn’t know what to do. Wasim waved him in.
The young man darted in, apologising… He did not think they wanted to mug them… he did not understand… shocked and scared they might think he was with them.
Wasim shook his head in an appeasing movement. “We know it wasn’t your fault.”
Henry half turned towards Ali. “Did they say who their commander was?”
Ali nodded. “Commander al-Haddawi.”
Chapter Twelve
The dawn call to prayer barely disturbed Henry. He had eventually managed to find a position in which his wound stopped pounding and had not moved since. Wasim got up, silently moved to the bathroom and then disappeared onto the terrace. It would be peaceful to pray there. Henry turned on his back, stretched and placed his hands under his head. In the room next to theirs, he heard someone going through the same ritual. The low chanting started, words of praise and prayer to Allah and his might.
Henry’s mind drifted to the edge of sleep. He would soon be joining them
, one more step in the direction he had chosen. When Wasim came back into the room and disappeared one more time into the bathroom, Henry got up for good, throwing the sheet away from his legs. He went to the sliding doors and leaned against them for a while. The morning was strangely peaceful. The smell of freshly used soap told him Wasim was ready.
“How is your head?”
“Swollen… nothing unusual about that, some might add.” Henry turned around, gingerly touching his wound.
“Thanks to the beard and hair, the bruise won’t show too much.” Wasim got closer to inspect it.
“Are we seeing Mr Podgy Man today, d’you think?” Henry changed the subject. Henry had been an idiot to react… point taken.
Wasim grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and sat on the sofa that occupied one of the bedroom’s corners.
“We are… unless there’s been a change of plan, but I don’t think The Treasurer will take any nonsense from al-Haddawi.” Wasim threw one of the bottles to Henry. “Why?”
He caught it with one hand, unscrewed the cap and took a long pull.
“Because I need to befriend Mr Podgy Man so that we can get on with the plan… for that I need to be a regular feature in his diary.”
“And what else?”
“Can’t hide anything from you.” Henry shook his head.
“That’s my job.”
“I’m thinking conversion…”
“With The Treasurer as witness?”
“Yup.” Henry finished his water. “The more I delay, the more it costs us in credibility. And after last night the sooner I get on with it the better.”
“I presume this is not the royal we.”
“Nope… trying to show I too can be a team player.”
Wasim nodded. For a fleeting moment Henry thought he saw relief in Wasim’s eyes.
“I also need to know what’s happening to Mattie.” Henry was gathering his clothes, avoiding Wasim’s eyes.
“What are you trying to achieve?” The coolness of the tone surprised Henry. All signs of relief had evaporated.
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