Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  “Don’t change the conversation.”

  “I’m not trying to. I need to know whether we are good with the Maeraka exchange.”

  “MOTHER’s on board… she just needs to convince the rest of the family and just as well, because al-Haddawi’s men would have enjoyed throwing us in one of the stadium’s underground cells otherwise.”

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “No.” Wasim cut that conversation short.

  “Is MOTHER not concerned about the caliphate declaration?”

  “Everybody’s concerned about the declaration.”

  Henry stood up and moved to the stone balustrade. He looked over it, not trying to spot anything in particular, allowing his mind to process the information he had collected so far.

  “The operation is not going to last for as long as we had hoped.”

  Wasim opened his mouth to chastise Henry about the use of the forbidden word ‘operation’, but why pretend?

  “I think you’re right. There are too many moving parts and ISIL or rather IS is morphing into something even more radical.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Henry nodded. He should have been scared or at least worried. But there was something strangely exciting about not yet having a plan. The buzz he used to feel when finding a solution no one had even thought of before was coming back and he was enjoying the sensation. After all, he had been one of the most successful bankers in London because he could think laterally like no one else could. Granted, a mission in Raqqa was probably a little more dangerous than a complex deal even on the trading floor of a large investment bank, but it hardly felt so to him.

  “What’s your thinking?” Wasim clicked his fingers.

  “Not sure yet. Let me think it through. I’ve got a couple of questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Aleppo is closer to Raqqa than Mosul, yes?”

  “Right. Especially on Route 4.”

  “Mosul is on the border of Iraqi Kurdistan.”

  “Right again.”

  Henry came back to sit next to Wasim. “I’ve noticed that no one ever prays at the same time in The Treasurer’s office.”

  “They don’t need to. Muslims have a few hours within the designated times for each prayer to fulfil their commitment to pray five times a day.”

  “Is there a moment everyone goes at the same time?”

  Wasim scratched his head. “That’s possible… the evening prayer when everyone goes home might be one. Why?”

  “And the last prayer will be lasting what… five minutes for the actual prayer and, with ablutions beforehand, say ten minutes?”

  “Stop talking in riddles. What do you have in mind?”

  “If we’re going to have to bail out sooner rather than later, I’d like to gather as much intel as I can in one go rather than over time as I was supposed to.”

  Wasim gave Henry a sideways glance. “I don’t think I like where you’re going with this.”

  “I’m here to do a job and I wouldn’t mind finding a way to complete at least some of it.”

  “By doing what, downloading data?”

  “Yes, onto a USB key. And by taking some pictures of other documents.”

  “We don’t have a USB key.”

  “Oh yes we do.” Henry produced a small black item from one of his army slacks pockets.

  “How did you…?”

  “One of The Treasurer’s boys was a bit absent minded this morning.”

  Wasim grinned… the rookie was doing good.

  “OK, let me see what’s on it in the first place.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find anything. It was left too casually on the desk.”

  Wasim raised his hand. “Key please.”

  “I already know the password of two of The Treasurer’s boys. All dealing in oil… Hamza is the one who is the most careful… still haven’t got his. I need a few more keystrokes for The Treasurer’s.”

  “That’s good stuff.” Wasim moved the USB key a few times around his fingers. “To be effective you need a few more of these.”

  “That would enable me to do all the data collection in one go.”

  “I’ll find some more.”

  “And then… I need people to be out of the office, everyone but me… during prayer time.”

  “Henry, have you completely lost your marbles? As you said, Prayers last ten minutes, and they’ll notice you’re not in the room with them.”

  “Then I need to come up with some reason why I couldn’t go, but I need a bit of help from you.”

  “What? Beg them not to slit your throat when you are caught red handed?” Wasim was not joking.

  “That might be helpful… but no. I’d rather you created a diversion so that I have a little more time.”

  Wasim ran a critical eye over Henry.

  “My God. You are completely serious, aren’t you?”

  “Exceedingly serious. If I can pull data at least from The Treasurer’s computer and pick up intel from Hamza’s as well as the other two, we’ll come away from here with something worth the 18 months of shit we’ve been through.”

  “If we save some of the hostages, we will not have come here for nothing either.”

  “That’s true too.” Henry avoided Wasim’s eyes for a few moments. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to do much for those men who are still in captivity.”

  “Nor I. But we can try.”

  “Is it not you who told me to focus on the doable?”

  “You’re right, but if we get Mattie and perhaps one of the other guys out in exchange for Maeraka, then we may be able to replicate…”

  “Was, I know what you’re going to say. Find more prisoners to exchange and keep going… But it only really works because it is Maeraka we’re talking about and because I know him. Al-Haddawi knows that too.”

  “That’s still not the point.”

  “Yes, it is, Wasim. It is. If you think it’s going to be hard to steal some data from The Treasurer’s office, then I can guarantee you it’s nothing in comparison with trying to extract those men from al-Haddawi’s clutches.”

  Wasim stood up. It was his turn to walk to the edge of the terrace and look over the drop below. “You can’t imagine what he’s going to do to them.”

  “I think I can. I saw it the last time he came to the Treasury. He is a monster. So, what do you want to do? Negotiate the release of all prisoners against Maeraka…? It’s impossible.”

  “Why? The Israelis and the Jihadi do it all the time.”

  “Except that al-Baghdadi thinks Hamas are a bunch of wusses, who aren’t nearly tough enough, and he calls them kafir as well.”

  “Where do you get that from?”

  “From one of the IS magazines… It’s in the hotel’s foyer.”

  Wasim turned around to face Henry, his hazel eyes full of sorrow. He had witnessed so much more destruction than Henry had.

  “Look, if MOTHER thinks we have a bit of time… Let’s see what impact the proposed exchange with Maeraka has. But if she thinks things are going to descend into chaos too fast, then I’ll get the information I came here to gather, and off we go.”

  “OK.” Wasim nodded. “Agreed. I’ll think about how to give you more time and you concentrate on getting the Maeraka exchange done.”

  Henry nodded and smiled. “How about Ali then?”

  “Do you ever give up?”

  Obviously not.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Our leader, Caliph Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, requires one of you to be sent to Mosul for his entertainment.”

  The sentence still echoed in the three women’s minds.

  “You have one hour to decide who it will be.”

  Gretta pulled a b
lanket around herself, knees to chest. She had not uttered a word.

  “I’ll call Abu Shabh.” Mattie was about to knock on the door to make her request, but Jean stopped her.

  “I know you trust him and I’m not saying he won’t do his best to help us, but this is al-Baghdadi, now Caliph al-Baghdadi, asking.”

  Mattie hesitated, her fist still poised to knock at the door of their bedroom.

  “Mattie…” Jean’s voice was kind but firm.

  Mattie walked back to her bed underneath the window. She had managed to convince Jean to take it in turns to sleep on the least comfortable of the three beds.

  “We can’t give up… There must be a way.”

  “We are not giving up, we are resisting within our means.”

  “Sorry Jean, I didn’t mean to imply you both have stopped fighting. I’ve got to find a way out… for all of us…” Mattie stood up again, pent-up energy almost impossible to control. She sat next to Jean and squeezed her arm. Gretta had buried her face in the blanket. She mumbled something neither Mattie nor Jean could make out. Her body started rocking and it took a long moment for both women to understand the stream of words Gretta kept repeating.

  Can’t do it, Can’t do it, Can’t do it.

  Jean stumbled out of bed, her feet almost caught in the sheets. She moved to Gretta’s side and threw her arms around her. She did not stop the rocking but followed it with her own body, taking in the pain, soothing it. Mattie felt helpless. She had not noticed the despair rising in the other woman, and her inability to help, to find a way out of this desperate situation, was tearing her up inside.

  She would speak to Henry and tell him he had to negotiate for all three of them. She rehearsed the conversation in her mind… He might agree. Mattie opened the eyes she had shut a few moments ago without realising.

  The silence in the room was heavy with fear and untold violence. Gretta opened her mouth, desperately trying to hold back an uncontrollable shriek that needed to be voiced. Jean placed her hand over her mouth. Mattie joined the two women, holding them in an embrace, tight and desperate.

  “Shush, shush, shush, Gretta, you won’t be going. Shush,” Jean kept repeating.

  Mattie squeezed her arm tighter around their shoulders. It was her turn to go to al-Baghdadi.

  “I’ll go.” Jean pulled away from Gretta as soon as she had nodded she had calmed down.

  “No, you have both already suffered enough. I will…” Mattie steadied herself. “I can do this.”

  “Mattie,” Jean squeezed Mattie’s hand, “You are the only one who has a chance of escaping and taking someone else with you.” Her voice was soft but the light in her eyes spoke of her determination.

  “Al-Baghdadi can’t abuse me as much as he would someone else. He needs me for whatever they are planning to do, to negotiate with the UK…”

  “You know that’s rubbish.” It was a gentle rebuff. “He will do as he pleases and now that he has been made caliph, he won’t stop at anything. He needs you alive and that’s it. Nothing else.”

  Mattie looked at Gretta, still holding her blanket so tight her fingers had turned white. She turned her attention to Jean’s beautiful face. She had not noticed how striking she was, the soft features of her oval, the large brown eyes and straight eyebrows, but above all her smile, full of generous energy and hope.

  “You won’t be able to help any of us if you go to Mosul. You need to stay in Raqqa.”

  Mattie laced her fingers into Jean’s hand and tightened them around it. Jean was right.

  The door of the bedroom opened again. Jean squeezed Mattie into her arms. She kissed Gretta on top of her head. The dark niqab came over her face. The door closed with an unbearable softness.

  * * *

  Steve Harris checked his watch again. Brett Allner-Smith was late. Harris relaxed into the comfortable leather chair at Brett’s gentlemen’s club and waited for his whisky to be brought to him. He did not mind waiting. Brett was on to something and he wanted Harris to know about it. For a toff, Brett was a pretty bright chappie and much more daring than Harris had ever anticipated. He had handled days of meetings with The Sheik so very well, despite the treats and the real danger he was in. He had kept a steady hand on his business. Could antiquities plundering and trafficking qualify? Perhaps not in a conventional way, but it gave him rare access to the war zones of the Middle East and its factions, relevant to today’s meeting. Brett was willing to visit these countries in order to meet his suppliers and oversee safe transport of cargo of value to them both.

  Harris checked the Union Jack mobile; nothing there. James Radlett was still not playing ball. Harris resumed reading the Telegraph, the only paper available at the club. Finally, Brett plonked himself in the armchair next to Steve’s. Harris took his time to finish the leader article and fold the newspaper.

  “How quickly?” He reached for his glass and took a sip of the exceptional Macallan whisky that had been served to him.

  “Drinks first.” Brett turned to the steward, hardly raising his hand. He did not have to order. The old steward would know what he wanted. His whisky came almost instantly. Brett allowed himself a mouthful. “There is a route I used to use to get my best pieces out of Iraq.”

  “You mean for the early plundering during the Iraq war.”

  “I like to refer to it as a salvaging operation; at least my pieces went to appreciating collectors.”

  “As opposed to international museums where ignorant punters can see them?”

  “As opposed to being destroyed by ISIL fighters who can’t calibrate their artillery to miss the sites or use them for target practice.”

  The banter could have carried on a little longer, but Harris wasn’t in an indulgent mood.

  “Whatever. You have an established route.”

  “Indeed. It goes through Kurdish territory and then runs into Turkey. It takes time and it is not a route that people tend to use because of that.”

  “Why do you think it can work then?”

  “Because no one else is going to remember it.”

  Harris took a sip of his drink. “What makes you think I need a route that is so covert?”

  “Please grant me some brain. I’ve now been involved in your goddamn hair-raising operation for years.”

  “Fine, let’s say we go down this route, what are we exactly talking about?”

  “It starts in Mosul… you mentioned the city and it’s close to Kurdish territory. Rojava is in western Kurdistan stretching between Iraq and Syria. It should still be possible for someone to travel in that territory and cross the border to reach Al-Hasakah in Syria, then make the crossing into Turkey. The terrain is difficult but nothing that can’t be managed.

  “How long ago did you last use this route?”

  “Five, six years ago?”

  “That’s an eternity in a region like Syria, way before the war started there.”

  “What do you take me for?” Brett raised an eyebrow. “If I’m talking to you about it now, it’s because I have reached out to my former contact.”

  “Still happy to do business after all this time?”

  “Of course, I am professional in all my dealings.”

  Harris rolled his eyes. Please. “And how much does your preferred contact wish to make out of this transaction?”

  “Well, if you are talking something other than antiquities then the price…”

  “How much?”

  “$250,000 per unit.” Brett took another sip of whisky.

  Harris did not flinch. “$100,000.”

  “I would not come up with a price without negotiating in the first place.” Brett was miffed. Who did Harris think he was… a petty criminal?

  Harris nodded. A crook. A pretty good one but still a crook.

  “Perhaps you could try harder?”

  �
��Why don’t you go back to base and see what MI6 can afford?”

  “I don’t need to disturb my boss with this… $250,000 per unit, as you call it, is out of the question.”

  “You are such a bore. I’ll go back to my contact but don’t hold out any hopes for a discount.”

  “I’m always prepared.” Harris downed the rest of his whisky and left Brett looking disconsolately into his empty glass.

  He placed a call with The Chief… $250,000 per unit it might have to be.

  * * *

  He would never see him, but the greasy voice of the fixer befitted the man’s job. The voice so calm and detached at the start of their conversation had become more engaged as the discussion progressed. Henry translated it as positive results from London. He let the fixer talk up his intervention. Of course, it had been a difficult conversation to have. Of course, there was still a lot of work to do. Of course, he was not charging them as much as he should. Henry didn’t care, the idea of spending IS money on a deal that would turn out to be different from the one they were hoping for, gave him untold satisfaction. He doubted Maeraka would be allowed to reach Raqqa, but even if he did, the main thing was that Mattie would be safe and sound. The thought of engineering her release filled him with hope. Perhaps his skills could be put to further use after all.

  “Now, for the equally difficult part.” The voice of the fixer had changed tone again. “You need to find a place neutral enough for both parties to effect the exchange.”

  “Near the Turkish border?”

  “Perhaps, certain NGOs might facilitate…”

  “No NGOs,” Henry interrupted. “A direct exchange.”

  “Have you done one of these before?”

  “Why ask… by then you will have been paid.”

  “But I have a reputation to preserve. I don’t do deals if I know there won’t be a positive result.”

  “The UK government won’t risk another aid worker being abducted.”

  “There are plenty of NGOs in the region that are represented by Muslims.”

  “I don’t think IS trust any of them.” Henry paused. He was being recorded, or at least listened to, on his phone. Was it a planted question? “It has to be close to IS territory so that we can plan for unwelcome surprises.” That would be good enough for whoever was listening, even al-Haddawi’s men. The thought lingered as the fixer kept talking. He had always assumed The Treasurer was the man who had ordered his phone to be tapped, but perhaps not.