Hijack: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 6)

by Wendy Cartmell

  A. No, he is my brother’s son. He was sent to England years ago to give him a better start in life. But just because my wife didn’t give birth to him, doesn’t mean he is not our son.

  Q. And how do you feel about what he is doing?

  A. We feel he is doing the honourable thing. He’s risking his life to help those oppressed by the British and Americans in his home country of Afghanistan.

  The interview finished and the reporter thanked them for their co-operation. Watching the segment again with Harry, Diane noticed that it was the man who answered all the questions, his wife standing meekly by his side. So it looked like, despite their western garb, they still adhered to the traditional ways.

  ‘Isn’t it fabulous, I’ve got quite a scoop here,’ she said and couldn’t stop the grin which was spreading from her eyes to her mouth.

  ‘Oh dear. Sorry, Diane, I think you’ve been had. It’s not much of a scoop I’m afraid.’

  ‘What? What the hell are you talking about, Harry? My contact assured me no one else had this.’ Then realisation drained her enthusiasm and after a moment she continued, ‘It’s been sold to someone, hasn’t it?’

  Harry nodded his agreement.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sky News. It’s been on the air for the last couple of hours. Sorry.’

  Diane counted to three to calm herself down. ‘Oh well,’ she smiled brightly, ‘better luck next time, I suppose.’

  She walked away so that Harry wouldn’t see her pink-faced embarrassment. She had just learned a valuable lesson. Trust no one. Reporting was big business and that interview had just been too valuable. She couldn’t really blame her contact for selling it. In all honesty she would probably have done the same thing. So absorbing her disappointment into another layer of her thick skin, she held her head high and strode off to see what else she could find out about the hijackers.

  09:00 hours

  Crane was wandering through the exhibition centre at the Ribblehead Station. He was intrigued to find that at its height, construction of the Carlisle to Settle railway line employed 7,000 men. Nearly 1,000 of those worked at Ribblehead on the major engineering tasks of building the Ribblehead viaduct and Blea Moor tunnel. The area was bleak and isolated and so accommodation had to be specially built to house this army of workers. Construction camps, or shanty towns, as they were popularly called, grew up around 1870.

  Most of the workers lived in prefabricated single-storey wooden houses set out in terraces, or even in large tents. But the Ribblehead settlement also included more substantial buildings such as shops, public houses, a school, post office and library, as well as a small isolation hospital built during a smallpox epidemic.

  It reminded Crane of the large army base of Camp Bastion in Afghanistan. At its height that was as large as the town of Reading, providing accommodation and support for thousands of troops. Currently being dismantled and the area once again being returned to desert, Camp Bastion would disappear as effectively as the Ribblehead shanty town had disappeared after the construction of the viaduct had been completed.

  His inspection of the bleak black and white photographs was interrupted by his phone ringing. Eagerly drawing it from his pocket, he saw it was not from Billy, but from his boss, Captain Draper.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning, Crane, any news?’ Draper asked, so Crane filled him in on the unsuccessful mission by the Imams late last night.

  ‘So, I take it that now things have settled down somewhat and we’re probably in for the long haul, that you’ll be returning to Aldershot, to your regular duties.’

  Crane considered this comment that wasn’t quite an order, but a tacit request. Crane wasn’t about to fall for that one and had been prepared for just such a move by Draper.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir.’

  ‘Why not? What potential role could you have that warrants you staying in the command centre? I realise Billy is still a hostage, but is that sufficient reason for you being part of the team?’

  Crane couldn’t quite work out if Draper really meant what he was saying, or merely covering his arse. No way was Crane leaving until Billy was freed and both men knew that. So deciding Draper was covering his arse, Crane said, ‘I understand your concern, sir, but I’ve been invited to stay. Ordered actually. And I’m sure you don’t want me to deliberately disobey a direct order from Colonel Booth, do you?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah, sir?’

  ‘Well, in that case, carry on, Sgt Major.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, that’s precisely what I intend to do.’

  Crane cut the call. Booth, of course, had done no such thing, but Crane doubted anyone would actually ask him to verify the order. In the meantime, Crane had a supply run to make. Keane said it was important that the same faces appeared each time, to make Kourash feel more secure and Crane intended to make one of those faces his.

  10:05 hours

  The telephone at Ribblehead Station rang at precisely five minutes past the hour.

  ‘So, you and your Government have decided to ignore my demand,’ said Kourash. ‘Why have you not set any prisoners free from Bagram? Why hasn’t President Karzai been on the television?’

  Kourash’s questions tumbled out, his anger a living thing, snaking its way down the railway tracks to Ribblehead Station. Forcing Keane to face his actions, or rather lack of them. Keane did the only thing he could do, which was to answer a question with a question.

  ‘How do you know they haven’t been released?’

  ‘Because it would have been on the news by now,’ Kourash spoke to Keane as though addressing a child that was having difficulty understanding something.

  Keane decided to ignore Kourash’s disrespect. ‘What news?’ he asked. ‘Do you have radios? Internet? Secure mobile phones?’

  ‘Never mind what we’ve got, you’re fishing and I’ve no intention of telling you anything. I know that you haven’t done as I demanded, so I will carry out my threat and the death of a hostage will be on your head and on the heads of the members of the British Government.’

  ‘Kourash, don’t,’ Keane interrupted. ‘Let’s talk, perhaps we can work it out,’ but Keane was talking to a dead line. Kourash had slammed the phone down.

  Keane slowly stood, pushing himself up to his full height and walked into the waiting room. Everyone turned to look at him. Their mouths opening and closing as though they were gabbling. But no sound came out. You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Hardwick sat down heavily onto the nearest chair. Dudley-Jones’ face was that awful putrid red. The Colonel looked around the assembled team, as though looking for someone to blame. And Crane? Well, Crane appeared to be praying - eyes downcast, hands held together, mumbling something only he could hear. Keane did the only thing he could do, which was to join them as they waited for the inevitable.

  Kourash stayed in the driver’s cab, looking down at the telephone, still trying to assess what had just happened. He had to face it now. It was time. Time for him to show the British establishment that he meant what he said. That he was serious. He had prayed for this moment for a long time, since receiving the call to do Allah’s work. This was his opportunity to make the world aware of the injustice being meted out day after day in Afghanistan by the occupying forces. He held his gun just that little bit tighter, to stop his hands shaking. He could feel the anger building in him. That was good. His anger would be the weapon he would use to carry out his threat.

  Flinging open the door of the cab, his eyes swept over the hostages and his fellow hijackers. It was clear they all knew there was something wrong. None of them would meet his gaze. Tension cracked around him like electricity from a pylon, as he decided who he would take.

  Making his choice, Kourash said, ‘Mick, come with me,’ and his nearest compatriot reached over, grabbed a handful of Mick’s clothing and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Billy shouted. ‘Where are you taking him?’r />
  Mick looked bewildered. He looked first at Billy, then at Kourash. But Kourash ignored the silent plea in the man’s eyes and pushed Mick in front of him into the cab.

  ‘For God’s sake, leave him alone!’ shouted Peggy. ‘He’s done nothing to you! None of us have!’

  Charlie squirmed in his father’s arms, burrowing his way into David’s coat like a rabbit disappearing into a warren at the first sign of a predator.

  Emma stood. ‘Kourash,’ she said. ‘Don’t, please don’t.’

  Kourash so very much wanted for all this to be over, but knew the only way to make that happen was to show the authorities strength not weakness. So he turned away from Emma and pushed Mick into the driver’s cab.

  The barrage of protests that followed him from the hostages, were suddenly silenced as Kourash heard his compatriots ready their guns. Training his own gun on Mick and picking up the phone he waited until it was answered.

  ‘Keane,’ Kourash said. ‘I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you,’ and he handed the telephone to Mick. ‘Tell him your name,’ Kourash instructed, ‘and don’t forget to mention the gun I’m holding to your head.’

  Mick did as he was told and then Kourash grabbed the receiver from the hapless man.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said to Keane.

  But before replacing the telephone on its cradle, he discharged his weapon.

  Crane burst into the shop, following the words he was spewing. ‘What the fuck just happened, Keane? Has he shot someone? For God’s sake, why did you wind him up earlier? Now look what’s happened. And all because you made him angry.’

  ‘Crane, I was just trying to get information out of him.’

  ‘Well you failed miserably at that, didn’t you? And now it looks like all you’ve achieved is to endanger the life of one of the hostages. He could very well have shot the bloody train driver!’ Crane’s anger was like a train itself, thundering towards Keane at full steam. ‘And I’ve already told you what I’ll do to you if you manage to get Billy shot.’

  Keane, as calm as ever said, ‘It’s alright, Crane. The driver is still alive.’

  ‘And how the bloody hell do you know that?’ Crane sneered, not yet ready to give Keane any dispensation.

  Keane pointed to the television screen on the desk next to the telephone. It showed the immobile train atop the viaduct. ‘Because if Kourash really had shot someone, he would have thrown the body out of the train.’

  10:10 hours

  It was as if the gunshot was still reverberating around the carriage. The sound of a weapon going off in such a small space left their ears ringing in its wake. It seemed as though everyone was holding their breath, hostages and hijackers alike. Billy was in shock. What had Kourash just done? Surely he hadn’t really shot Mick? The tension in the carriage ratcheted up another notch as they collectively watched the door handle on the driver’s cab door turn. As the door opened, Billy could only see Mick’s back as he was pushed out of the door and tumbled to the floor in the aisle of the carriage.

  Billy was out of his seat and at Mick’s side with one bound. The train driver was still alive. Gibbering incoherently, but alive. After Billy checked him for blood and injuries and finding none, he pulled him up and manoeuvred him into a seat. Mick grabbed at Billy’s shirt.

  ‘I thought he was going to kill me! I was convinced I was going to die! What are we going to do?’

  But Billy had no answer. All he could do was pat Mick’s arm.

  The sound of hysterical sobbing reached Billy as his hearing cleared and he looked over to see Charlie on the floor. He’d wriggled out of his father’s arms and had taken refuge in the small space under a seat. His father and Peggy were trying to coax him out, without much success.

  ‘Just leave him,’ Billy said. ‘He’ll come out in his own time. When he feels safe enough.’

  ‘And when the hell will that be?’ his father snapped. ‘We’ll only be safe when we get off this bloody train.’

  A true enough statement and one that brought a fresh round of hysterics from his son.

  ‘For God’s sake, watch what you’re saying,’ hissed Billy. ‘Have you no idea what your son is going through? If it’s bad for you, just imagine how much worse it must be for an 11 year old boy.’

  Suitably chastised, David dropped to the floor of the carriage and sat by the seat his son was under. He grabbed Charlie’s hand and clasped it in his own. Neither spoke.

  Satisfied that Charlie was being looked after, Billy turned to look at the other passengers. Emma appeared calm, but was as pale as someone who hadn’t seen the sun for many months, not just the two days they’d been held captive.

  ‘He didn’t shoot him,’ she mumbled. Billy had to strain to hear her. ‘Kourash didn’t shoot him. I knew he wouldn’t.’

  The idea seemed to comfort her and she smiled at Billy, who personally didn’t think there was anything to bloody smile about.

  Hazel was rocking and keening, her hands wrapped protectively around her bump. Billy hoped to God all these shocks didn’t bring on an early labour.

  But it was Colin that was the problem, Billy realised. The man’s pallor was as grey as his business suit. He was still sweating profusely and was now grabbing at his arm, as if he was trying to keep hold of a limb that refused to obey his brain’s instructions. Billy bent down by Colin’s seat and reached to undo the tie that Colin had insisted he kept on. More than likely his one grip on reality in a situation as alien to them as a Hollywood disaster movie.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ Billy said as he removed the tie and undid the top few buttons of Colin’s pin-striped shirt.

  ‘Emma, get Colin some water.’

  No reaction. She was staring at Kourash. Her face wore a beatific expression, like a believer staring at a picture of Christ.

  ‘Emma,’ he called harshly, ‘get Colin some bloody water!’

  She responded as if coming out of a trance. ‘What?’

  ‘Water for Colin. I’m really worried about him. I’m afraid he might have a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes, of course,’ and she proceeded to do as Billy asked, her eyes coming back into focus.

  Billy left Colin’s side to go and berate Kourash for his actions, but didn’t get a chance, as the hijackers turned on their leader, gibbering and gesticulating. Billy couldn’t understand what they were saying, but saw the sneer on Kourash’s face. He doesn’t care what they think, Billy realised, as Kourash majestically tossed his head and looked around the carriage with distain. This is his show and we’re all just along for the ride, hijackers and hostages alike.

  Needing to contact Crane, Billy casually stood up and slipped, un-noticed, into the toilet.

  10:15 hours

  ‘What in Allah’s name do you think you are doing?’

  ‘This was supposed to be a peaceful protest.’

  ‘This is the second time you’ve fired the gun.’

  ‘There was to be no shooting.’

  Kourash held up his hands, signalling for silence.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ he said. He realised that his fellow hijackers hadn’t a clue what needed to be done. And would be done. ‘The oppressors need to fear and respect us if we want them to agree to, and act upon, our demands,’ he continued. ‘Otherwise we’re just sitting ducks. A target for anyone who wants to take a pot shot at us.’

  ‘Well,’ said one, appearing to be slightly braver than the others, ‘let’s hope that’s the end of it.’

  ‘No my comrades,’ said Kourash, ‘it’s just the beginning. Now go and do your jobs. Two of you go to the other carriage as lookouts and the rest of you stay here and keep your eyes on the hostages.’

  As the hijackers scuttled to do Kourash’s bidding, Emma stood and asked, ‘How could you do that to Mick? He’s a fellow human being. What is wrong with you?’

  By way of a reply he grabbed her arm and dragged her into the cab, the staring eyes of the remaining hijackers following them.

&n
bsp; Once he had closed the door he asked, ‘Do you have a family, Emma?’

  ‘No, not really,’ she replied. ‘My mother died in childbirth and my father brought me up until he died in a car accident when I was 11.’ She sat down in the driver’s seat, the springs creaking in protest.

  ‘So you were orphaned and abandoned?’

  ‘I suppose so, if you want to put it that way. Why do you want to know? What difference does it make?’

  ‘Because I was orphaned and abandoned also,’ Kourash said.

  ‘But I thought you came to live in England with your uncle and aunt, who became your surrogate parents.’

  ‘Oh yes, I did, but my real parents discarded me. Pushed me away. Didn’t want me. I’ve resented them for doing that all my life.’

  Kourash turned around and leaned against the instrument panel, looking directly at her.

  Emma was silent for a moment then said, ‘I suppose you could look at it like that. But you could also say that your parents made the ultimate sacrifice to give you a better start in life than you would have had in Afghanistan.’

  ‘But Afghanistan is my home, my life, my destiny. Not England. And they took that away from me. Took my homeland away,’ Kourash felt himself becoming emotional, so turned that sorrow into anger. ‘So now I’m fighting for it.’

  ‘To show how dedicated you are, I suppose?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. What about you, don’t you feel abandoned by your parents?’

  ‘Of course, but it wasn’t their fault. They didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Aren’t you lonely and alone, though?’ Kourash desperately wanted this calm, serene young woman to feel as he did.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said slowly. ‘But I’m trying to make the best of my life without them. Trying to make them proud of me.’

  ‘See, I knew it! That’s the same as me. I’m trying to make my parents notice me. To make them proud of me. Proud of the way I am standing up for Afghanistan. And to make the Afghan people proud of me as well. When this is all over, Emma, will you tell them? Tell the world that I did what I did for my country? Tell them how I feel about Afghanistan?’