Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  'Put your hands behind your back,' the voice called.

  Will did as he was told.

  'If I see your hands or you make any sudden move, then I shoot. Do you understand?'

  Will stared straight ahead, but then became aware of the little red dot moving up to his face. 'Do you understand?'

  'I understand,' he said, flatly.

  There was a pause. Everything around seemed still and Will began to wonder if Ahmed had silently continued his escape. Maybe he should give chase.

  But then, slowly, a figure emerged out of the darkness.

  Faisal Ahmed looked different from the picture Will had seen in Lowther Pankhurst's office. Even in the midnight gloom the dark rings under his eyes were visible and his beard was less well groomed. But it was unmistakably him and Will couldn't help but stare and scowl.

  When Ahmed was only a few metres away, he stopped; but he kept his gun trained on Will. 'My sister tells me you saved her life,' Ahmed said, softly. His voice was almost gentle and, unlike Latifa, he had no hint of an accent. 'For that, I thank you.'

  Will's eyes narrowed. 'You just killed two of my men,' he retorted. 'Forgive me if I don't come over and shake your hand.'

  'I would not recommend doing anything with your hands,' Ahmed reminded him. 'I meant what I said. As for your men, they were, presumably, instructed to shoot me on sight?'

  Will felt his cheek twitch momentarily.

  'I thought so,' Ahmed said, almost pensively. 'They were soldiers too. I am sorry for their deaths, but if it wasn't them it would have been me. I'm sure they would understand.'

  'I wouldn't bet on it, Ahmed,' Will said with distaste. 'They weren't the ones planning to kill thousands of people.'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Don't try and play dumb with me, Ahmed. We know the score. We are going to stop you.'

  Ahmed raised his gun slightly. 'Stop me doing what?' he demanded. 'Tell me immediately or I shoot.'

  'A terrorist hit. On the capital.'

  For a moment, Ahmed's face remained emotionless; then he smiled. But it wasn't a smile of pleasure, it was a smile of understanding, as if something that had previously been unclear to him had suddenly been revealed.

  'I see,' he replied quietly. 'So that is what they have been telling you.'

  'Yeah,' Will spat. 'And it's not the only thing either.'

  'That is not a surprise,' Ahmed replied, before pausing. 'My sister tells me you are a man to be trusted. Is this true, Will Jackson? Are you a man to be trusted?'

  'That depends who you are,' Will replied, flatly.

  Ahmed nodded his head and seemed to be considering something. Finally he spoke. 'It isn't true, of course,' he said. 'What they have told you. But you are an intelligent man. No doubt you suspected that already.'

  'Not really,' Will told him. 'The intel seems pretty clear.'

  Ahmed smiled again. 'Intelligence,' he almost purred. 'It is an interesting thing. It is amazing how often people can be made to believe a lie in the name of intelligence. Take my sister, for example. The whole of this country now believes she is a wicked Afghan terrorist, but you and I know that is not the truth. What you have been told about me is not the truth, either.'

  'Enlighten me,' Will said, unable to stop himself sounding dismissive.

  'I will,' Ahmed replied, oblivious to the contempt in Will's voice or at least hardened to it. 'You have risked your life to save my sister, it seems. You at least deserve to know why. My guess is that you have been manipulated just as I have. Sometimes we think we are knights when in fact we are merely pawns. I would guess that you are familiar with some of my history already - that I was trained by the Americans to be a mole for them within the network of al-Qaeda in Afghanistan. That I was discovered and made my way back to England.'

  Will continued to look balefully at him.

  Ahmed inclined his head. 'My American handlers instructed me to start working for MI5, infiltrating terrorist groups in the UK and alerting the authorities to potential strikes. I was, I should tell you, extremely successful.'

  'You're not telling me anything I don't know already, Ahmed.'

  'Not yet, perhaps. What I think you are unlikely to know is that my orders changed.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'I was instructed by the CIA to go dark.' His face became pinched. 'They had a new policy, they told me. One that they hoped would save lives.'

  Ahmed paused. Will had the impression that the Afghan was scanning his face for signs of doubt.

  'My new instructions were these. To instigate a series of low-level terrorist strikes across the UK. No catastrophes, no deaths. I was to do it through my network of al-Qaeda sympathisers. The Americans believed that if the British saw that the terrorist threat on their streets was real, it would keep them on-message - more likely to do the Americans' bidding whenever they came asking for help.'

  Will blinked. 'You're trying to tell me that your terrorist campaign was started by the CIA?'

  'Of course,' Ahmed replied.

  'That's ridiculous. I don't believe you.'

  Ahmed shrugged. 'I cannot control what you believe,' he said. 'Nevertheless, it is the truth. The man who sent you to kill me, his name is Donald Priestley, is it not?'

  Priestley. The image of the friendly, almost avuncular American CIA official flitted through Will's head. 'How did you know that?'

  Ahmed nodded. 'It was Donald Priestley that I reported to. It was all Donald Priestley's idea. He called what we were doing Operation Firefight.' He sneered. 'Because we had to fight fire with fire. A favourite saying of his.'

  Will remained silent.

  'Of course, MI5's intelligence network is impressive. We always knew that they would realise I was involved in these strikes, but Priestley had the confidence of somebody high up in the British intelligence services. Every time MI5 came close to discovering my location, I was tipped off by the CIA. I did the Americans' bidding for three years and they were, I think, pleased with my success rate. Casualties were low, but the profile of my attacks was high.'

  Casualties were low. The very words felt like darts being hurled into Will's body. Not low enough, you bastard, he felt like saying. 'If they were so pleased with you,' he managed to ask, 'why the hell would they want me to put a bullet in your head?'

  'Operation Firefight was successful,' Ahmed said. 'Maybe too successful. The British became anxious. They became the Americans' poodles and that suited the US very well. Priestley wanted me to take things further. Up a level. He wanted deaths in the UK. Collateral damage, he called it. A loss of life here to save greater loss of life elsewhere. But these would be innocent civilian lives. I refused to do his bidding. The very next day my cover was blown by the CIA. The terrorist cells I was working with found out the truth about me. I had to run. Hide.'

  As Faisal Ahmed spoke, Will's mind spun around in circles. He did not want to believe it; he didn't want to believe anything that came from this man's mouth. Yet Will couldn't for the life of him understand why Ahmed would feel the need for this sudden confession and he couldn't shake off the sensation that pieces of a jigsaw were fitting together.

  Yet there were still anomalies. Things that didn't make sense. 'There are other sources,' Will said. 'Independent sources from abroad. They all say the same thing: that you're planning a major terrorist strike.'

  Ahmed looked contemptuous. 'More intelligence?' he asked. 'Tell me, was this so-called intelligence by any chance extorted from extremist sympathisers? Were they taken to an American black camp to have information tortured out of them?'

  Will didn't reply.

  'It's how they work,' Ahmed continued. 'The CIA leak information to unsuspecting sympathisers; they then extract it under duress from their victim in front of their British allies. Even the source doesn't know he's misleading his interrogators - he thinks he's having the information coerced out of him. Trust me, they've been doing this for years. I know, because they taught me how to do it. And whateve
r you have been told about me instigating a major civilian terrorist strike is a lie. I have turned my back on it. My plan is much more simple.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I intend to stop Donald Priestley and the Americans from continuing their policy of death.'

  'How?'

  Ahmed didn't answer.

  'Where's Latifa?'Will pressed.

  Ahmed shook his head. 'Latifa is no longer your concern. Nor am I. I don't expect you to take my word for everything, but I'm sure when you confront Priestley you will see that I am telling the truth. No doubt you have been taught, as have I, to tell when somebody is lying.' He made a flicking gesture with his gun. 'Turn around,' he said. 'And walk away.'

  Will didn't move. Ahmed's face became suddenly more ruthless.

  'I mean it, soldier,' he said. 'Move away or I'll shoot.'

  'Not yet,' Will whispered. 'There's part of your story that you left out.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Operation Firefight, or whatever the hell you want to call it, wasn't entirely without casualties, was it? What about the bomb in Knightsbridge? Outside the department store? The one that killed a woman and her daughter?'

  Ahmed's face remained stony. 'A mistake,' he said, flatly. 'An extremely unfortunate one. The device was not meant to explode in that location. It wasn't part of my plan.'

  'I don't care if it was part of your plan or not, Ahmed,' Will whispered. 'The people who died that day were my wife and daughter, and you killed them.'

  Faisal Ahmed's eyes widened slightly as some of his smug omniscience seemed to be knocked out of him.

  'You might as well kill me now, Ahmed, because I swear to God I couldn't give a shit what excuses and lies you throw in my path. You murdered my family and I will not rest until I've avenged them. I will not rest until you are dead, just like them.'

  'I am sorry for your loss, Will Jackson,' Ahmed said. 'Truly sorry. I know what it is to lose one's family. But you would be wise, my friend, not to follow this course. I think it has been shown that I am the better soldier. That I have the better mind. And anyway, if you kill me, another person will take my place. Is it not better to target the real criminal behind this? That is what I intend to do and you would be well advised to leave me alone to do it.'

  He raised the laser sight to Will's head once again.

  'Turn around,' he repeated, 'and walk away.'

  The eyes of the two men were locked. For a moment Will considered disobedience, but a stronger instinct kicked in. Faisal Ahmed had already shot two people tonight; he wouldn't hesitate to make it a third. And if that happened, he would never pay for what he did to Will's family.

  In an instant, Will drank in every feature of Ahmed's face. He wanted to be sure that he would recognise it again without even thinking. Then, slowly, he turned his back on the Afghan and started walking.

  One pace.

  Two paces.

  Three paces.

  He was several metres away when he heard Ahmed's voice again. More distant this time, but with a strange sense of urgency.

  'Make no mistake about it,' Faisal Ahmed called. 'I have no quarrel with you. But if you interfere with what I have to do, it is I who will kill you.'

  Will stopped, then turned. The path ahead of him disappeared into the darkness.

  Faisal Ahmed was nowhere to be seen.

  SIXTEEN

  The sun rose upon the country house and upon the dead bodies of Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy.

  There was no way Will could ever recount the precise number of dead bodies he had seen in his life. Hundreds, certainly. Like an abattoir worker, he had become used to corpses and the sight of horrific wounds did not make him shudder as they might other people. Death had been his job for most of his adult life.

  But some deaths were different. He had only been flung together with Drew and Kennedy a few days ago, but he realised, as he sat there with them, that they had formed a bond - a bond that had been shattered by Faisal Ahmed.

  Deaths, he knew, were easier to take when you had someone to blame. Back in his Regiment days, blame had been an easy thing to dish out. It was them and us. Black and white. Clear cut. And someone to blame, he realised as he sat amid the devastation of the room, was what he had been seeking when he agreed to go after Faisal Ahmed in the first place. In the two years following his family's death, he had been wandering in the dark, not knowing why it had happened or whom to blame. And then he had learned about Ahmed. It was as if he had been given the final piece of a jigsaw and all he had to do was slot it in place.

  Now though, things had changed. He had come face to face with his family's killer. And though he did not loathe Ahmed any less, if what the man had told him was true the apportionment of blame was not so simple.

  Who was to blame for the death of his wife and child? Faisal Ahmed and his bomb that went wrong? Or Donald Priestley and the CIA? Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.Will had been in enough situations where that was true; but there were limits and Operation Firefight - if it even existed - went far beyond those limits.

  And what of Drew and Kennedy? Who was to blame for their deaths? Ahmed? Priestley? Or Will himself, for bringing them into this situation, then being outwitted by the man they were intending to capture? The idea made him bang his fist against the wall in frustration. Jesus, he thought to himself. Why the hell does everyone around me seem to end up dead?

  Faisal Ahmed, of course, would blame Priestley. Priestley would blame Faisal Ahmed. Nobody took responsibility for their actions. And so the memory of the dead was abused, trampled upon, forgotten.

  In the last few hours, the world had grown more complicated. What was more, Will couldn't shake the feeling that the dead around him were waiting for his response.

  The mobile phone attached to the laptop rang, making him jump. It could only be one person - Pankhurst. No one else knew the number. And if Will didn't reply, the DG would know something was up - this place would be crawling with spooks before he knew it. But Will needed to get his head straight, to work out his next move, and he couldn't do it here. He grabbed a sturdy bag from their stores, then filled it up with equipment. The NV binoculars, grenades, ammo and, of course, weaponry. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed the ephedrine tablets. God knows when he was going to get a chance to sleep again. He nodded, briefly, at the lifeless bodies of Drew and Kennedy, then walked out of the room. As he did so, he thought he heard Kennedy's voice. Get the fucker for me, Jackson, it said. Get the fucker.

  Will headed through the forest. He moved quickly, running uphill not so much out of a sense of urgency as because he wanted to feel his body receiving a bit of punishment. It seemed only fair, after all. Soon he was at the top of the Downs. It was still too early for anyone else to be up there, and he was glad of the solitude. Looking down, he saw the sprawl of the nearest provincial town. He knew there was a railway station, so he started jogging downhill.

  It was nearly eight o'clock by the time he got to the platform for the train to Waterloo. He wondered if they had found Drew and Kennedy's bodies by now; if so, they would know it was a possibility that he himself had bought it, given that he hadn't been in touch. That suited him. It gave him a bit of time.

  From Waterloo he crossed London to Paddington. He stowed his bag in a left-luggage locker, then hit the streets to find some scran. Sitting in a café waiting for his food, a cup of hot, sweet coffee in front of him, he tried to get his head straight.