by Mark Dawson
They were led through the reception to a flight of stairs. They climbed the stairs, emerging on an outside pathway that overlooked a pleasant garden, and continued along the pathway until they came to a door. One of the guards knocked on the door and, at a command from inside, opened it. They went inside.
It was a pleasant room, clean and tidy and with decent furnishings. There was a wide desk facing them and, behind it, the man who had been on the helicopter yesterday.
He smiled warmly at them all. He was dressed in a loose black robe, and his greying beard reached down to the surface of the desk. She remembered the promise of cruelty in his face and the way his black eyes glittered.
“My name is Abu Abdul al-Fatma. I will be in charge of you during your stay with us in Raqqa. I am sure I need not explain this, but you are deep within the caliphate. I hope that you can understand this fact. You will not be able to get away from us, and no one will be able to find you here and help you escape. Accepting that to be the case will make things easier for you. Can we all agree on that?”
No one spoke. Abu frowned.
“Mr al-Khawari,” he said, “please—I need to know that you understand your situation.”
Salim nodded. “I understand.”
“That is good. I would like us to proceed on as friendly a basis as possible under the circumstances. As I say, I will be responsible for you now. It might be helpful for you to know a little about me, yes?”
He paused to take a sip from a glass of water and then gestured to the jug and the other glasses. Jasmin nodded her thanks and poured out water for herself, her husband and Khalil; she ignored Isabella. If Abu noticed the snub, he did not acknowledge it. Isabella was thirsty and didn’t know when she would next be offered something to drink. She took a glass, filled it and drank it down before anyone could stop her.
Abu continued. “I was a lieutenant colonel in the Istikhbarat, Saddam’s military intelligence unit. I was also a Special Forces officer in the Special Republican Guard. The invasion changed everything. I was decommissioned after the U.S. arrived, and I joined Sunni insurgents to fight back. I was captured and spent time in Camp Bucca, where I met the other men who are leading the caliphate. When the opportunity to establish our new state presented itself, I made sure that I was involved, and now I have a senior position. I oversee the governors in the various cities and regions of Syria that we control. Al-Bab, where you are now, is one of those cities.”
Isabella filled her glass again. Jasmin turned to glare at her but said nothing. Isabella ignored her.
“That is me, then,” Abu said. “I know something of you, of course. The al-Khawari name is well known, and I recognise your wife and your son.” He turned to Isabella. “But I do not know you.”
Isabella sipped the water, buying a little time to compose herself and consider what she should say. She knew that she had to stay within the bounds of the false identity that Pope and the others had created for her. “My name is Daisy,” she said.
“And why are you here, Daisy?”
She knew that Daisy would be frightened, reluctant to speak, afraid of the man who was smiling at her from behind the polished desk. She forced herself to swallow and, when she spoke again, it was in a quiet and timorous voice. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t understand what’s happened to me. I just want to go home.”
Abu turned to Salim. “What can you tell me?”
“I—”
Jasmin interrupted, speaking over her husband. “She is a thief! She was in our house, trying to steal from us.”
“She is more than a thief,” Salim said.
“How so?”
“What you said yesterday—about what they are saying about me. The evidence they say they have. None of it is true. The evidence—it must have been planted in my house. And she was in my house.”
“Daisy?”
“I was there for his party,” she said, pointing at Khalil. “I’m just at school with him. I shouldn’t be here.”
“So why is she here, Salim?”
“It must have been her,” Salim said, his anger getting the better of him. “She planted it. She was in my study, with my computer. She did something.”
Abu stood and held up his hands. “Calm down, Mr al-Khawari. We will get to the bottom of everything.” He poured himself a glass of water and drank it; Isabella noticed how the dampness darkened his whiskers around his mouth. “Now—I understand that what has happened to you must be disconcerting. I doubt that you have had the opportunity to have any of your questions answered, and I will be happy to put that right. But before then, I must ask you another. Would you like to tell me what happened as we boarded the helicopter? There was an attack. Who was it?”
“I do not know,” Salim said.
“Please think about your answer, Mr al-Khawari. If we are going to work together, it is important that we get off on the right foot. Trying to mislead me would not be a profitable way to start our relationship. Let me ask you again. Who was it who attacked us?”
“I swear it. I do not know.”
“I wondered whether you might have been able to call on security.”
“No. It was nothing to do with me. The only security I had was my driver, and your men shot him.”
“Then humour me. Speculate.”
Abu spoke in a gentle tone, with a ready smile, but there was glittering steel in his eyes, and when he smiled, he revealed a mouthful of shockingly white teeth. Isabella thought he looked predatory. It was obvious that she wasn’t the only one who felt that, because Salim looked as if he was about to panic.
“I do not know,” he repeated, and then, as Abu curled his fingers to indicate that he should expound further, he said, “Something happened on the road, the Belen Pass, at the same time as your men stopped us. There was a car across the road. It was trying to block us. Someone else was trying to get to us. Your men shot at the car and killed the driver. Maybe you should ask—”
“I have spoken to them,” Abu interrupted, his tone still urbane and friendly. “There was a woman in the car. We have her identification papers, and it says that she has a mundane job in Ankara. We believe that her papers are fake. There were weapons in her car. A lot of weapons. What do you think about that?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing to do with me. Why would I attack my own vehicle?”
“Yes,” Abu said. “I can see that. It does seem unusual. Let me ask another question, then. Who might have wanted to stop you?”
“Tell him about what happened at the house,” Jasmin urged. She pointed to Isabella. “Tell him about this little bitch.”
Salim scowled, irritated with his wife’s intervention. “The FBI stormed my house. I do not know why. We found this girl in my study, like I said. She had attacked my wife. She knocked her unconscious and tied her up.”
“Is that true, Daisy?”
“She attacked me. I hit her and she fell and banged her head. I panicked.”
“This all sounds rather far-fetched,” Abu said. He turned back to Salim. “I want to be honest with you, Mr al-Khawari. I will share what I know and I hope that you, in turn, will share what you know.”
“Of course,” Salim said. “Anything.”
“That is good.” Abu took an iPad from the desk and pressed the button to wake it. He swiped the screen until he had what he wanted, and then he reached over the desk and handed it to Salim. Isabella could see the screen over his shoulder. It was the front page of the BBC News website. The headline was “Swiss Police Seize House of Alleged ISIS Financier.”
“This is ridiculous,” Salim said. “I have no relationship with—”
Abu interrupted. “We have established that. Keep reading, please.”
Salim looked back down at the screen.
“No, Mr al-Khawari. Read it aloud, please. I would like everyone to hear.”
Salim paused, then started to read. “‘International police have issued a warrant for the arrest of the suspected chi
ef financier of ISIS on suspicion of channelling money from Switzerland to the terrorist group’s operatives worldwide, including the London cell that orchestrated the Westminster attacks in the UK.’”
“This is preposterous.”
“Keep reading.”
“‘Police attended the Geneva property of Salim al-Khawari, but were unable to arrest him. Reports suggest that a gun battle took place and that Mr al-Khawari was able to escape by helicopter to nearby Sion airport, where he left the country aboard his private jet. Mr al-Khawari’s whereabouts are presently unknown, although a police source suggested that it was likely that he would flee to parts of Syria that were controlled by the terror group.’”
“At least your location is accurate,” Abu said with another of his unsettling smiles. “The rest, though?”
“Lies.”
“Hmmm.” Abu took the iPad and sat down again. “Let me tell you something else. We believe that the Western media will soon be reporting that the authorities have excellent evidence that demonstrates that you funded the bombing of Flight 117. Financial proof that ties your money to the purchase of the missile system that shot it down, proof that would be difficult to fabricate. They will also say that there is further proof that makes it clear that you are connected with us, and that the attacks were in our name. Of course, Mr al-Khawari, we admire the blessed soldiers who carried out those attacks. The crusaders in the United Kingdom have been attacking our people for many months. I praise Allah that its citizens are now paying for that policy with their blood, but although we would be happy to claim the credit for the attack, we cannot. Because we had no connection to the operation. We do not know the martyrs who carried it out; they have never visited the caliphate; they have never trained in one of our camps. They simply have no connection to us. It seems to me that a connection has been engineered that would implicate us. Western public opinion has been less martial since the debacles of Afghanistan, Iraq and Libya. It seems to me that the Western public is being given a reason to support a more substantial campaign against the caliphate. And we would welcome that. The Prophet predicted that the Day of Judgment will come after the Muslims defeat the crusaders at Dabiq. The Muslims will then proceed to conquer Constantinople. The apocalypse is coming, Salim, and we anticipate it eagerly.”
Abu stood again and came out from behind the desk so that he was standing before them.
“It is my job to understand our enemy, Mr al-Khawari. And it seems to me that there are two possibilities when it comes to you: either you are working for the crusaders, or you have been used by them. I am going to find out which of those possibilities is correct. One way or another, I will find out.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Pope had walked through the night. He decided that he would find somewhere to hide out of sight when the sun came up. He was tired, and he knew that his success in finding Isabella was dependent on him looking after himself. More than that, he was much more likely to be discovered by an enemy patrol if he tried to continue during daylight. He would find a shelter where he could get a little sleep. He would call Bloom for an update and then continue again once the sun had gone down.
It was just before dawn when Pope saw the wrecked convoy. The road had crested a shallow hill, and the vista beyond was wide and generous, visibility improved by the brightening sky. The road continued through a valley formed by the ridge that he had just surmounted and another ridge, a little taller, two or three miles away. The road arrowed down the slope, across the valley and then up the opposite bank. The convoy was in the middle of the valley. Pope counted eight vehicles on the road. He put the binoculars to his eyes and observed them. The convoy had been composed of military and civilian vehicles. He recognised two T-72 tanks, a BMP-1 and a Type 63 armoured personnel carrier, a large truck and three cars. They had all been destroyed in an air strike. The tanks were blackened shells, both sets of tracks still intact but the hulls peeled open by the missiles or bombs that must have struck them from above. The other vehicles were similarly wrecked, panels thrown aside and charred debris tossed for metres in all directions. Despite the damage, they remained in formation, neatly arranged, pointing to the east, deeper into Syria. It must have been an ISIS convoy, and it had been attacked by bombers. It reminded Pope of Highway 80, the road between Kuwait and Iraq that had been the scene of a massacre as fleeing soldiers had been targeted by coalition aircraft. This was on a much smaller scale, but the overwhelming impression was the same: this had been a turkey shoot.
He glassed the rest of the valley and saw a building to the south of the convoy. He focussed the glasses and examined it more carefully. It was derelict, the sand blown up against the brickwork so that it looked as if the building were being swallowed. The roof had been peeled away in parts, and it didn’t look as if there was any glass left in the window frames. Despite all that, Pope thought it looked perfect. He would shelter there.
Pope started down the shallow slope to the vehicles. They were a mile away, and he made good progress. He kept his eyes on them, but there was no sign of life. No wildlife either, as if the birds knew that the carrion was long since gone, or perhaps they were too frightened to alight on the crisped wreckage. The vehicle at the rear of the convoy was one of the T-72s. Pope approached it, his weapon ready, but there was nothing there. The turret had been pierced by the explosion, the jagged edges opening out like the petals of a charred metallic flower. The barrel had been flattened at the mantlet so that the muzzle had carved out a furrow in the road before the tank’s momentum had been arrested. Pope reached out and rapped his knuckles against the hull; when he looked down at his fingers, they were blackened with ash.
He walked on, passing the burnt-out cars and the troop carriers and then the second tank at the front of the convoy. The sun was cresting the next hill now, the brightness reaching up into the gloom. Pope felt the day’s first warmth on his face. He left the road, crossed the sandy verge and then started out across the scrubby desert to the house. He estimated that it was half a mile from the road. He would be in shelter within ten minutes.
Pope had only been walking for a handful of seconds when he stopped. He thought that he had heard something. He looked to the east. Plumes of dust announced the approach of vehicles. Pope saw the twin fingers of sand that resolved from out of the murky blur where the desert met the awakening sky. He stopped, pressed the rubber cups of the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focusing knob.
Two vehicles, black dots at this range, solid objects that were descending the road on the opposite ridge, standing out against the beginning of the desert haze.
He adjusted the binoculars again and brought the vehicles into sharper focus: two pickups, perhaps Toyota Hiluxes, with machine guns fitted on the flatbeds. Technicals. The retrofitted vehicles were favoured by insurgents here and all around the world.
He hadn’t seen them because their approach had been hidden by the hump of the hill; now that they had crested it, they had taken him by surprise. He knew how far it was from the ridge to his position: no more than two miles. He was between the road and the derelict house, a moving figure against the blankness of the sand; they must have seen him already. His assumption was confirmed as he heard the sound of a horn, still distant but audible across the wide-open space. The second technical sounded its own horn in answer, and then both vehicles increased their pace.
It was inevitable: there was going to be an engagement. They would want to know who he was, walking alone through the desert, and Pope would not be able to answer their questions. They would arrest him or shoot him.
Pope cursed himself for not staying with the convoy; he could have hidden in one of the vehicles and been perfectly safe there. He discarded the recrimination—it wouldn’t serve him—and made a tactical assessment. The ruined house was still the better part of half a mile away. The technicals would be able to cross the desert faster than he could run across it. He wouldn’t be able to get to it before they did. They would catch him
out in the open, with nowhere to take cover. The big 7.62mm machine guns would pick him off.
The alternative was to retrace his steps to the road.
Pope moved quickly. He sprinted as fast as he could, the heavy backpack thudding against his back, his bruised calf stinging with every footfall and push-off, and his thighs burning from the effort of bearing the weight on the give of the sand. He was still two hundred yards from the convoy when he heard the first sound of firing. He glanced to his right and saw the tracer lancing out from the first technical. It was still too far away for a hit to be very likely, but Pope knew that this wasn’t an attempt to hit him. It was a warning shot. They wanted him to stop.
He didn’t. He ran harder. The machine gun fired again, and the desert twenty feet ahead of him was kicked up into a storm of sand and rock as the rounds landed. It was a little too close for comfort, but still Pope did not stop.
He reached the road and was able to pick up his pace, putting the hulk of the leading tank between himself and the two vehicles. At least he had a moment of cover now, a pause while he was safe and out of sight. He sprinted farther along the road, passing deeper into the shattered convoy, giving them more vehicles to search before they reached him. He hurried by the personnel carriers and the civilian vehicles until he arrived at the second tank. It was in better condition than the one at the front of the queue.
He unslung his backpack and propped it against the hull. He checked his M4 and ascertained that the spare magazines were properly arranged in the pouches of his tactical jacket so that he could reload as quickly as possible. He took his grenades and stuffed them into another pouch. Only when he was satisfied that he was ready to defend himself did he take the satphone from his pack, power it up and call in.
