by Mark Dawson
Jasmin looked bilious, too, and her face bore the unmistakeable signs of fright.
“The car that was blocking the road,” Usman said. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know,” Salim said. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“There was a backpack inside, with military equipment in it. Do you know why that might be?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve no idea.”
Salim had composed himself. He, too, had been cowed into timid silence by the display on the road, but as Isabella looked back at him now, she saw that he had settled himself enough that he could start to try to assess the situation into which he and his family had fallen. Whatever this was, it had taken him by surprise.
She thought about what Usman had just said. There had been weapons inside the car. What if there had been a passenger? She hadn’t seen anybody else, but what if there had been? What if it had been Pope?
Pope rode fast.
The vehicle carrying Isabella had about a ten-minute head start. Assuming the car was travelling at sixty, and that the road was straight and that there was no traffic, he guessed that it would be around ten miles down the road. But the road was winding, clambering through the mountain pass via a series of hairpin bends and switchbacks. Forty miles an hour might be the best average speed that they could manage, with the result that they might only be four or five miles ahead of him. He thought he might be able to reel that in.
The E91 continued to the southeast, passing through Halilbey and Kici. Pope rode as quickly as he dared. The road was in good condition, mostly three lanes across and demarked by a series of white posts along each side. The terrain climbed to the left of the bike and descended on the right, the slope occasionally dropping away in vertiginous plunges that would certainly have been fatal if he misjudged the corners. The vehicle that he was pursuing was large and would have limited manoeuvrability. The Suzuki was powerful and nimble, and as Pope leaned through the corners and powered down the straights, he was confident that he would be able to close on them. He pushed the bike up to 120 before he felt the need to pull back. He took one particularly vicious left-hander too fast, and had to let most of the throttle out and lean all the way down as the bike edged out too close to the side of the road and the drop beyond. The rear wheel chewed through the loose gravel before he was able to point it back in the right direction, gunning the engine again and quickly returning to his previous pace. He looked down at the fuel gauge as he raced down toward Halilbey. He guessed it was a seventeen-litre or four-gallon tank, and the needle showed that it was still half full. Fuel wouldn’t be a problem.
Halilbey was a small town, a series of buildings gathered around the road, and Pope raced through it at eighty miles an hour. He had expected to have closed on them by now, and he was beginning to wonder whether they might have turned off the road. He didn’t think it was likely—he had seen no obvious turnings, and the Grandis wasn’t built for off-roading—but it was beginning to reach the point where it would have been impossible for them to stay ahead of him.
He was about to slow down and refer to the satnav in his pocket when he saw them.
The road had descended a little and reached a roundabout. The E91 continued on a southeasterly route. It merged with the D825, a similar road that headed to the northeast and the southwest. Pope had just negotiated a very sharp hairpin when he saw the vehicle a half mile ahead. The road to the southwest lead to Antakya. The town of Kirikhan was six miles to the northwest, and it was in that direction that the Grandis turned.
Pope reduced his speed. It would be difficult to lose them now. There was the one SUV, and the road was otherwise almost empty. But that cut both ways. It would be a simple enough thing for them to notice that he was following them. He still had no idea what had just happened in the mountains. He had no idea who the masked men who had intercepted Salim’s vehicle were, nor what their motive was. And most importantly, he had not decided what was the best course of action. There were four of them, all armed with Kalashnikovs. He was very well armed, too, but he was at a loss as to how he could stop them on his own, especially without putting Isabella at risk.
Until he had worked that out, he would follow them.
They drove on throughout the afternoon and into the evening.
Isabella had been watching Salim for the last few miles. He had been silent, but it was obvious that he had been quietly ruminating about their predicament. When he finally spoke, his face was clouded with anger. “What is this about?”
“Quiet.”
“You have abducted my family. I want to know why. What have I done?”
Usman said nothing, but he raised his pistol so Salim could see it more clearly.
“At least tell me who you are?”
The man smiled and shook his head.
“You’re with ISIS?”
“No more questions,” the man said.
Isabella watched him. He was very calm, with a wry upturn at the corners of his mouth as if he was perpetually on the cusp of laughter. He spoke occasionally with the driver. Isabella was close enough to hear the odd word over the noise of the engine, and he spoke with a strong London accent. The driver, on the other hand, had a singsong drawl that she thought was Scandinavian. The two of them made for an odd couple. The other two men had been quiet.
“Please,” Salim said. “Where are we going?”
“I said no more questions. You are not in control now, Mr al-Khawari. You’re my prisoner and you’ll do whatever I tell you to do. If you do not, there will be consequences for you and your family.” He raised the pistol and tapped the index finger of his left hand on the barrel. “The caliph only told me to collect you. Your wife and son are still alive because I’m a considerate man. But don’t test my patience.”
Isabella looked back at Salim and willed him to be silent. She had no doubt that the man meant what he said. She had no doubt either that she was of even less value to him than Khalil and Jasmin were. If demonstrations of violence were required, she knew that the first would be directed at her.
Salim looked as if he was about to retort, but, thankfully, the threat finally seemed to register. He bit his lip, his teeth pressing down enough that the flesh whitened, and turned away, looking out into the looming darkness. Isabella noticed that his hand snaked out across his lap to his wife’s hand, clasping them both together.
Pope followed. He stayed a minimum of a half mile behind them, driving without lights as dusk fell. He saw the glow of the brake lights as the Grandis slowed and pulled off the road. The terrain had continued to be rugged, but now the mountains of the Belen Pass had been replaced by a series of gentler hills. The road had continued to wend its way down the slopes, and now, ten miles from Syria, it had passed into a thickly wooded area. Pope had expected them to continue and then take one of the tracks and trails that would lead to the porous border; the sight of them slowing and drawing to a halt was a surprise. He killed the engine and brought the bike to rest.
He took out the satphone that Bloom had given him, activated it, waited for it to acquire a lock on the satellite and then called the number that had been stored in the memory.
The call connected. “This is Archangel.”
“Copy that, Archangel.” Pope recognised Bloom’s withered voice. “Where are you?”
“North of Akpinar.”
“Still in Turkey?”
“Yes.”
He told Bloom about the attack in the Belen Pass, about how Salim and his party had been abducted by the four masked men. He explained that the quartermaster had been killed, and that he was in pursuit.
“Do you know who they are?”
“I don’t.”
“ISIS?”
“Seems most likely. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would ISIS capture Salim if he was running to them anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“I found a satnav in Salim’s car. They were heading south, not east. Their route would have taken
them through Turkey, right through Syria and then into the Lebanon. They were avoiding ISIS. They were headed for Beirut.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, sir. It doesn’t.” Pope squeezed the phone between his chin and shoulder as he scanned down into the valley with the binoculars; the car was still parked. “The jet—do you think they could have been headed for Beirut before it turned back?”
“It’s possible. We assumed they were going to Raqqa. The military airbase at Tabaqa seemed likely.”
“But they weren’t. If they were going to Raqqa, why didn’t they drive straight there? And why were they attacked?”
“I can’t answer that.” There was a pause on the line and then a burst of static before Bloom spoke again. “What do you propose?”
“My options are limited. I’m outnumbered. I could attack them, but I can’t guarantee I can get Isabella out.”
“Don’t be sentimental, Archangel. Your orders are clear. You’re there for Salim.”
“I know that, sir, but not at Isabella’s expense.” Bloom started to speak, but Pope forestalled him. “I’m going to follow them. If I think I have an opportunity to attack when I get to her, I’ll take it.”
“And Salim?”
“I’ll kill them all.”
“And if you can’t get to her?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pope heard the helicopter before he saw it. It was the end of dusk, the light quickly fading, and the sound of the engine rumbled through the valley. It was coming from the east, from the Syrian border. The sound was familiar. He stayed down low, took out his binoculars and scanned the landscape until he saw it. It was a UH-60 Black Hawk, the workhorse chopper used by the American military. It was coming in fast and low, cutting through the valley at no more than fifty feet above the ground.
He pushed the bike into the trees at the side of the road, took off his backpack and rested it against a trunk, and then unslung his M4A1. He hurried forward on foot. There was a quarter of a mile between him and them. He followed the road, staying close to the margin of trees, sheltering in the deeper gloom that could be found there. He collected his phone from his pocket, and as he ran, he dialled Bloom’s number again.
“It’s Archangel.”
“Report.”
He spoke between breaths. “We have a problem.”
“Go on.”
“They’ve got a helicopter. They’re going to exfiltrate them by air.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m closing on it. Do you have any reconnaissance assets in the vicinity?”
“We’re off the books. You’re not even supposed to be there.”
“I realise that, sir. But if I can’t stop it, you need to know where they’re going. What if you said this information was provided by a British intelligence asset in Turkey? And that you needed to track it?”
“Hypothetically? Perhaps.”
Pope ran harder, struggling to find the breath to carry on the conversation. “I’m going to try to stop it. Make sure it’s tracked. I’ll let you know what happens.”
Pope reached the turning that the Grandis had taken. It was a pitted and potholed track that led through a fringe of wood to the clearing that Pope had seen from his vantage point farther up the slope. He sprinted hard, the noise of the chopper still echoing around the valley. He reached the edge of the clearing and stayed low, hiding behind the trees and brush.
The chopper was coming down. It descended into a storm of downdraft, the wash throwing out a vortex of dust and small pieces of debris. It touched down with its tail facing in Pope’s direction. If it had been the other way around, with the cabin facing toward him, he might have been presented with a shot to take out the pilot. That would have been the cleanest way to prevent the bird from taking off again, but it was facing away from him, and he didn’t think that he would be able to remain unseen if he tried to skirt the undergrowth so that he could open up an angle. He could try to put a few rounds into the rotor assembly, but there was no guarantee that it would work, and he would immediately reveal that he was there.
Isabella and the others watched through the dirty windshield of the Grandis as the helicopter descended. It touched down ten metres away from them, the downdraft sending a blizzard of tiny debris to ricochet off the glass and ping off the bodywork. Isabella looked back at the al-Khawaris. They were all aghast as the next stage of their abduction was revealed to them.
“Out,” the man with the London accent said, opening the door and climbing out of the people carrier.
Isabella was taken by the arm and dragged outside by the driver of the Grandis. She was hauled across the clearing to the open door of the helicopter. Khalil came next, with Salim and Jasmin behind them. One of the other men was behind them, marshalling them with his Kalashnikov. The other two had gone to the edge of the clearing.
Isabella was pumped full of adrenaline.
She was still uncertain as to what had happened to her, but she knew one thing for sure.
She did not want to get into that helicopter.
There were only two guards with them now. The moment would pass, the chance gone as soon as the other two returned, but, for now, it was an opportunity.
She planted her feet and struggled to free her arm. She wanted the man to be irritated with her, to get in close. He pulled harder. He was bigger and stronger than she was, but she knew how to make herself a dead weight.
“Don’t make me hit you,” he said, raising his voice above the roar of the turbine.
She kept struggling. “Let me go!”
Isabella heard the sound of laughter behind her. “You having trouble, Mehdi?”
“Come on,” the man said firmly.
“She’s half your size. Pick her up!”
The man stopped trying to drag her. Instead, he turned and grabbed her with both hands on her shoulders. He forced her around so that they were facing each other, and then released his right hand and drew it back, ready to strike her across the face. Isabella was ready for that. She moved quickly and with purpose, taking a step with her left foot so that the distance between them was halved, and then, before he could do anything to defend himself, she brought up her right knee into his crotch. The blow landed flush, the bone of her knee sinking into the man’s groin. He gasped with the shock of the sudden pain and dropped to his knees. Isabella saw his face as he slumped down; it was almost comical, his eyes bulging and his mouth hanging open.
Isabella tried to run. She managed a step before she felt a firm grip around her ankle. There came a yank and her leg was pulled from beneath her. She slammed down onto the dirt, the breath knocked out of her. She craned her neck around and looked back, saw that the man the others had called Mehdi had managed to reach out and snag her ankle. She tried to kick her way free. She couldn’t do it. Mehdi was strong and his grip was tight. The others were laughing at the show, deriding him for being given the run around by a girl, and now he was angry, too.
She managed to scramble to her knees, but Mehdi pulled her leg from underneath her and she landed face first in the dust again. He stood. Isabella could see what was about to happen and was able to draw up her knees and protect her kidneys with her arms. He kicked her, hard, making her breath spurt out.
When she raised her head, she was looking down the barrel of the Kalashnikov.
Chapter Fifteen
Pope dropped to one knee and raised the M4A1 rifle. He pressed the stock to his shoulder, held the foregrip loosely and put his eye to the sight. He reconnoitred. Isabella was fifty yards away, between him and the helicopter. Salim, his wife and his son were behind her. Isabella and Salim were each next to a guard. The two others had moved from the edge of the clearing to the rear of the procession, their AKs carried in loosely cradled grips that would make them easy to bring up and fire.
Pope assessed the four guards. It was obvious that one of them was senior to t
he others. He stayed close to Salim, and it seemed that he was the man giving the others their orders. The remaining three men certainly deferred to him. He was older, and he had the bearing of a soldier. He wore a pair of desert boots, while the others wore trainers. He was cautious, whereas the attitude and posture of the others looked a little frivolous to Pope’s eye.
Isabella started to struggle and the others laughed as their companion was unable to drag her ahead. The fourth man did not share in their boisterousness, regarding the scene with a cool eye.
The other men looked comfortable with their weapons, but that did not mean that they were seasoned. It was possible that they had been soldiers, but he didn’t think so. They carried their weapons a little too nonchalantly. They were a little too relaxed. No, he thought. The first man was in charge, and he had been given the other three to help him make the excursion into Turkish territory. The other boys were civilian recruits, wannabe jihadis who had answered the call to join the caliphate.
That was useful information.
Pope knew what he would do. The leader would be his first target. He was fifty feet away from him. Not an easy shot, by any means, but Pope would have been able to put a round through the middle of a playing card with the M4 from this distance. The man was a large and inviting target. Pope was confident that he could take another of the guards down before he would face any return fire. There would be confusion as soon as he pulled the trigger. Their leader would be the first to die, and without his guidance, Pope anticipated that they would fall apart. There would be wild return fire, and they would waste their clips going full auto with no target in sight.
Pope would wait in cover and pick them off.
It would take four shots.
The only question would be whether he fired a fifth at Salim.
