“We have therefore come to the conclusion that a military intervention is the only way forward to resolve the current issue.” Again the emphasis on the ‘s’.
“Which means locating with the hostages absolute certainty.” Sir John eyed the two men coldly.
“Which is where the immense skills of your operation come in,” the aide piped up. Flattery would get him nowhere. Harris pursed his lips.
“And it will take a lot of time before we can gather intelligence reliable enough to mount that type of operation, by which time the hostage might have come to harm.”
Colmore stiffened at the words. The aide said nothing.
“But I have an alternative to put to you.”
Colmore and the aide looked at each other. What? An alternative they had not thought about.
“A prisoner-for-hostage switch. The UK accepts these from time to time and they have taken place before.”
“You would have to find the right IS terrorist to switch and…”
Sir John raised a hand. “We have Kamal Al Qhatani also known as Abu Maeraka serving time at Belmarsh.”
“You mean, the mastermind behind the Paddington bombing?” The Home Office aide could hardly articulate the words.
“The very same…”
“You cannot be serious?” Colmore’s face had turned crimson.
“I am incredibly serious, unless you’d rather take the risk of seeing your daughter killed before we can intervene.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hamza had tried to attract his attention, but Henry’s mind was elsewhere. The Treasurer was working the ropes, satisfying whomever he needed to, including al-Baghdadi, that they could free Maeraka.
Anger, the old lifelong friend and foe had flared up. Henry needed to go back to his hotel soon and let it pass.
The truck moved along the same road he had taken in the early afternoon. It would soon be prayer time. Henry was looking forward to this moment during the day that might afford him a little peace. Henry parked the truck and moved through the lobby without looking around. He did not know anyone and did not care. Wasim was right – it would take a while for him to be accepted. Infiltration was a slow and painful process of belonging and yet knowing it was a façade. Henry had been good at this in the City. But in the end, he had simply become yet another successful and wealthy banker who played at being a terrorist. What a lot of crap it had been.
“Allo, Abu Shabh, allo…” The young man’s voice calling him felt familiar and its sound slowed Henry down. He did not recognise him to start with. Hobbling on crutches towards him, Ali’s body looked even slighter than when he last saw him. His left leg was wrapped in heavy bandages that needed changing. Henry stopped and smiled at Ali, waiting for Ali to reach him. Henry threw out an outstretched hand. Despite the smile and the clear happiness at meeting again, Ali’s eyes had lost some of their spark. Life had been sapped out of him and what had been stolen would never be returned. Henry walked onto the terrace and found a place where Ali could sit comfortably.
“Wasim told me you were brave.” Henry nodded encouragingly.
“We all were. All ready to die so that the word of Muhammad could resound around the world.” Ali’s voice trembled a little, repeating one of the sentences that had been in turn repeated to him over and over again.
“It does not take away any of your bravery though.” Sadness sank into Henry’s chest. What were these people doing to this gentle boy who was not meant for the jihad?
“We killed a lot of soldiers, infidels.” More of the same rehearsed nonsense. Henry waited for the propaganda to stop and for the real Ali to speak.
“Did you kill a lot of people too?” The question shook him when it came. Ali dropped his head down and nodded.
“The first time… must have been hard.”
Ali’s eyes swelled with tears and alarm flooded in his eyes.
“That’s OK. It’s OK to feel sorry, even for your enemy.”
“I had to.” Ali’s voice had become a whisper and the young man’s gaze dropped to the ground.
“You did not have any choice and that’s what war is all about.”
Ali shook his head. That was not what he meant. Henry paused, unsure of what else he could say.
“I had to do it, to prove.” Ali had raised his head again. He quickly wiped away a tear that had started rolling down his cheek.
A shiver ran through Henry’s body; he no longer wanted to have that conversation, no longer wanted to know what had happened to the soldiers Ali had killed. But here he was, and Ali needed him. Henry nodded slowly, encouraging him to tell his story. It was OK to talk, he would understand.
The word that came out did not make sense and, at first, Henry did not react. What? Ali mimicked a cross and still Henry did not comprehend. Until Ali stretched his arms across. Henry closed his eyes briefly and willed himself to stay where he was… The full force of the revelation would hit him later but now he had to focus on the young man.
“Crucified… And you don’t want to do that any longer?”
Ali nodded wiping away the tears that were now rolling uncontrollably down his face, his eyes pleading for an escape. No, he did not want to do this any longer. This was not Islam.
“You can’t say that to anybody. You understand?”
Ali nodded and wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his brand-new shirt.
“You stay here, I’ll bring you back something to drink and we’ll talk.”
Henry found a free drinks dispenser in the hotel lobby. Pressed the button that seemed to dispense lemonade. He was not too bothered about which flavour. Henry needed a moment on his own before he could go back to Ali and make sure the young man did not crumble in front of other people. Henry walked out again through one of the French doors.
Voices and laughter were bouncing off the wall that surrounded terrace. Three young men were talking to Ali; one had started to prod him with his finger and Henry understood in a flash. He dropped the phone into his pocket and ran to the scene.
“Hey, what’s so funny?”
The youth turned around. “He’s crying.” His high pitch voice seeking to imitate a girl’s.
“No, he’s got sand in his eyes.” The smaller one burst into laughter, followed by the other two.
“Three against one, it’s you lot who should be crying in shame.”
The laughter was cut short like a blade of grass by a sickle.
“He’s a coward,” the tallest youth shouted, turning toward Henry.
“No, you’re the coward.” Henry’s eyes drilled into his.
The knife came out in a flash of silver. Henry jumped aside, sucking in his stomach just in time to avoid the blade. The blow sent the young men off course. Henry swung his leg high in a back-foot karate kick that got him in the back of the head. The youth fell on his knees and a punch caught him in the solar plexus. His eyes opened wide, so did his mouth, gasping for air. Henry’s fist slammed in his face and it was over.
Henry didn’t wait – another high back-foot kick into the chest of the second youth who had moved forward; a left punch connected with his lower jaw, sending blood into his mouth and crunching some bones. The third young man had disappeared but Henry was not sure whether he would lie low or come back with others.
“We need to go.” Henry helped Ali to stand up.
“What about him?” Ali asked.
“He’ll come around soon enough… who were these people anyway?”
“My room-mates.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Your former room-mates. Come on.”
* * *
“Did he say that?” Amina’s eyes lit up. “Wow. I’m impressed.”
“Colmore and the aide… can’t remember his name, didn’t know what to say in return.”
“You mean you don’t want to r
emember his name… and what would you say to having your daughter murdered?”
“Sir John has a meeting with the Home Office Secretary this afternoon.” Harris looked at his watch. “Any minute now.”
“Is that enough?”
“What would you suggest then?”
“Perhaps placing a call to the Chief of Defence? Wasim gave him some valuable intelligence and both he and The Chief are pursuing the same policy for settling the conflict in Syria. The last thing they need is a cock-up in Raqqa to divert attention away from their plan.”
“He did mention a call to the MoD. I guess he had the same idea… a bear of some brain then.”
Amina could not help but smile. “Wasim asked that we keep all ears on the chatter coming out of Raqqa. There is a lot of planning going on. He still doesn’t know for what.”
“If al-Baghdadi confirms his caliphate?”
“More to the point, it depends…” Amina stopped, to check on an incoming email, “How he declares a caliphate.”
Someone was knocking at the door. Harris opened it, surprised.
“Ahmed, what on…” He pushed Harris aside. Going straight to Amina’s multiple screens, he typed a series of instructions on the keyboard. “You’ve got to see this. It’s happening right now… Live from Mosul. And, yes, I know I shouldn’t be here…”
The man speaking was clad in black, a black flowing robe and a black turban. The surroundings in the background looked sumptuous, exquisite pillars carved out of marble. The man was standing at a pulpit, addressing a congregation. The man was confident, working the crowd the way an evangelical preacher would.
“Is this al-Baghdadi?”
“Yes, and this is what he now claims.” Ahmed had stopped tapping the keyboard. The man’s right hand, index finger pointing towards the sky, kept the rhythm of his speech, slow for maximum effect.
“Where is this happening?” Harris has come closer to the screen.
“Probably the Great Mosque of al-Nuri in Mosul.” The voice suddenly changed cadence, its pitch had moved up a tone, the words projected like stones at the crowd.
“The formulation is a little difficult to follow…” Amina frowned.
“He’s replicating a follower’s address in an ancient style. I can’t quite make which one yet, but it’s serving a purpose.”
“And he has chosen the first day of Ramadan… makes it an even more powerful announcement.”
Both Harris and Ahmed nodded in unison.
And then the crescendo came. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi transformed himself and the future of his group. He announced that ISIL was no longer a jihadi group but that the latest conquest of Mosul and other territories in Iraq and Syria justified its transformation into a caliphate. It was renaming itself Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, exalting all Muslims around the world to join the only state where true Islam was practised. And leading them in the true fight against the infidels was their caliph, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi himself.
“Shit, this changes everything.” Harris had been fiddling with his packet of gum that was almost empty. Al-Baghdadi had achieved what Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda never could.
Amina passed her hands over her face. “He takes his name after the man who always replaced the prophet Muhammed as prayer leader according to Sunni tradition.”
“Well spotted.” Ahmed nodded. “And he wears the black turban as those who claim to be descended from Mohammed would.”
“Guys.” Harris raised his hand. “Guys, we need to give this video a good deal of attention, but my main priority is we engage in understanding how this changes the way al-Baghdadi runs his operation and whether this affects our strategy.”
Amina slumped into her chair. The shadows under her eyes had gone darker.
Ahmed left, promising he would keep them informed in real time.
“Steve, this is so not good for RED HAWK.”
“I know. Everybody is going to want al-Baghdadi dead.”
“And he will know that, too.”
“Which means, more protection around him, and more paranoia amongst his people.” Harris threw the packet of gum into the bin. “I need a cigarette.”
“You should call Jack at Langley now. I’d be surprised if they are not already having talks about launching an attack on Raqqa or Mosul.”
“They will need to coordinate so that gives us some time.”
Amina took a key from her keyring, opened the drawer at the base of her desk and handed Harris a packet of Camel cigarettes. “It’s been in here six months, but I imagine you won’t mind.”
“You’re the best.” Harris grabbed the packet, tossed it in the air, deftly caught it and disappeared with his mobile phone. Time for an international call.
* * *
“Have you seen the video?”
“Everybody has seen the video. A whole load of Sunni Muslim theologians and historians are fighting to declare the caliphate void under Sharia law. The Middle Eastern states are doing the same.”
“I know but he’s not interested in convincing Mid East leaders and he doesn’t care about the theologians. He is stirring up the people, especially the young Muslims who want something different. I think IS has become the most dangerous terrorist organisation ever… beyond Al-Qaeda or the Taliban.”
“The Taliban were pretty fierce.” Jack’s experience in Afghanistan had left its marks.
“But they’re not asking Muslims of the world to unite behind their flag.”
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t take them seriously – I’ve got to admit this is pretty big. With the fall of Mosul, we need to speak with the Iraqis and the coalition nations.”
“And that’ll take time. I get it.” Harris took another drag of his cigarette. He walked to the far end of the glass-protected roof terrace, without paying attention to its spectacular view over the Thames.
“Anything concerning Raqqa, you’ll let me know?”
Harris’s cigarette was finished. He crushed the butt against the sole of his shoe. Jack kept going on about the Mosul address. Harris opened the packet again, took the lighter out of it and lit a second cigarette. His wife would be furious this evening, or whenever he would go home, but he needed the kick and inhaled the smoke deeply. Harris fired the lighter a few times more in a rhythmic movement, gazing at the flame as it came and went. He let his contact go on for a bit longer, frustrated at the lack of intel coming from the CIA. Jack was not holding back. There was simply not enough transparency between the agencies.
Harris stayed on the terrace to finish his smoke.
There was no denying that Crowne was doing much better than he had expected and that Wasim had done an excellent job of training him.
“You’re a hell of an operator Was.” Harris released a straight plume of smoke that faded away skywards.
The hostage situation was endangering the mission beyond what might have been deemed reasonable, but reasonable was not a word that made much sense for an operation designed to infiltrate IS heartland. The new caliphate added yet another layer of danger. Despite the offer of an exchange, Harris was certain Colmore would not play ball. And when the politicians and the intelligence community came to an agreement about al-Baghdadi’s latest move, there would be hell to pay on the ground in Raqqa. The question for Harris now was how much time he had, or rather how much time Henry and Wasim had before they needed, or even could, leave. Harris doubted Henry and Wasim had had enough time to collect the information they needed but they needed to move soon if their escape had half a chance of succeeding.
Plan B.
Harris inhaled the last of his cigarette. He took the leather-clad mobile out of his pocked and called Brett.
* * *
“Henry has scored… He has convinced the ISIL treasurer to let him see their financial report and start working on the legal structure with them.”
/>
“Seriously?” Harris fell into his seat. “I don’t mind admitting it… I’m almost amazed.” Harris shook off his jacket. “A financial report… does he mean a proper presentation of ISIL’s finances?”
“Wasim did not give much info on this. I gather he hasn’t seen it, but Crowne told him it was exhaustive.”
“That’s different… good record-keeping… dangerous but clever. So Henry got to see the guts of how they operate.”
“Wasim thinks it’s genuine as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Henry has committed.” Amina pushed her chair back to face her boss. “He has taken THE big step… He has converted.”
“It had to be done and he knew it, but still...” Harris nodded. “A bit of positive news is good to hear.”
“If he ever gets caught… you know what awaits him, though. Death will be a relief.” Amina bit on one of her nails.
“Beg to differ… he knows that, and he is relishing it. There is something of a zealot in Henry. He wants to atone with a vengeance.”
Amina’s eyes locked with Harris’s but he was right. Henry would never shy away from danger.
A life for a life… he had once said.
Amina was expecting a little sparring with Harris, his eyes slightly shut and his right shoulder up… looking how to land his next question.
“Mattie Colmore?” she asked. “What’s the plan?”
“What is the plan?”
“Crowne has already moved to Plan B it seems…”
Harris straightened up. By the look on Amina’s face it was going to perhaps surprise him. “So he too has a Plan B?”
“Forget about ransom… how about a prisoner exchange?” Amina nodded.
* * *
“Are you absolutely out of your mind?” Wasim held in his anger, fearing it would explode.
“We can’t leave him to be bullied or worse.”
“I’m not saying we should. I’m saying we need to think how we tackle this rather than your getting into a fight with some of al-Haddawi’s men.”
Henry shrugged. What else could he have done?
“Have you spoken to MOTHER?”
Spy Shadows Page 27
