The Asset: Act II (An Isabella Rose Thriller Book 2)

by Mark Dawson

  The satellite dishes were all pointing in the same direction, many of them hopelessly corroded, the assortment looking for all the world like a collection of oversized mushrooms. She picked a path to one of them, particularly large and blackened with rust, and hid behind it. She turned back to the door and knelt down. She brought the butt of the rifle to her shoulder, sitting down on her right foot and supporting the flat of her left arm, just above the elbow, on her bent left knee. Her mother had taught her the position, lecturing her when she tried to rest the point of her elbow on her knee; this, she said, was as unstable as a ball sitting atop a ball. She cupped her left hand, giving the fore end of the rifle something to settle into, and then relaxed until she felt stable.

  She aimed, peering down the iron sights just as the door flew open, crashing against the wall. One of the insurgents stood framed in the doorway. He must have been green, or perhaps he had underestimated her, because as he looked out and saw Isabella, he was practically already dead. She squeezed the trigger and fired off a single round. There were only twenty feet between them, she had a stable firing position and she had already taken aim; she knew that she would be able to hit him, and conservation of her ammunition was becoming a pressing concern. The round struck the insurgent in the breastbone, on the centre line of his body, where all of the vital organs were to be found. The sudden impact knocked him back a step, and his heel caught against the sill of the door. He overbalanced, toppled over and fell back into the gloomy landing.

  Isabella knew that the others would be behind him, but they would have to be very careful now. Perhaps they would wait for reinforcements. It didn’t matter. Isabella did not intend to wait for them to formulate their plan.

  She turned and ran, crossing the roof of the building and vaulting a shallow sill that marked the beginning of its neighbour. She crossed that building, clambered atop a waist-high wall and then dropped down the six feet to the roof of the next building along. The skyline was dark, with only a few lights shining, but she could make out the spectral fingers of minarets, the bulk of a particularly large office block and electricity pylons that strode through the centre of town. The next building was taller than the one she had just crossed, so she tossed the AK-47 up before her, clambered atop an air-conditioning unit that was next to the wall, and leapt, her hands fastening around the lip of the roof so that she could haul herself up and over the edge.

  She ran on, running out of roof as the block came to an end. She risked a glance down and saw the Humvee parked in the centre of the road, blocking it in both directions. It looked as if it had been abandoned so that all of the occupants could give chase, and for a moment, she contemplated the possibility of stealing it. She dismissed the idea as foolish: there was no easy way down to the street from her eyrie, she had never driven a Humvee before and it was a particularly conspicuous mode of transport. Better to make less noise.

  She turned left, to the east, and hurried on. The block continued for another dozen buildings before it ended at another junction. The sixth building was interesting. The roof was taken up by a large cupola, and to the left, there was a flight of iron stairs that descended into a courtyard. She edged around the cupola, her feet just small enough to manage the meagre lip of concrete that was all that stood between her and a twelve-metre drop into the courtyard. She put her rifle in her right hand, held onto the guard rail with her left and started down the stairs. They were ancient and badly corroded, and the addition of her weight swung the top flight of stairs away from the wall. She clutched the guard rail, but the newel posts were loose, and the rail and several of the balusters detached from the structure and tumbled down into the courtyard. The metal parts landed with a deafening crash. Isabella thought she was going to be sent plunging down to the ground herself, but managed to adjust her balance so that she could launch herself, dropping down to the landing. It was more substantial than the stair and was able to absorb her impact.

  She paused, the sound of the impact still ringing out, and cursed her misfortune. There were windows facing into the courtyard, and she saw a pale face in the one that was opposite her, and then another in the one adjacent to that. She was making too much noise. She was clumsy. Her mother would have been furious with her.

  She heard the sound of running feet above her and settled back down into a kneeling position, aiming the AK back up at the roof.

  She inhaled and exhaled, regulating her breath and trying to slow her racing heartbeat, just as her mother had instructed, and as she waited there, she saw the shape of a person silhouetted against the moonlight. It was a man, and she could see the top half of his body as he looked down into the courtyard. She slid the rifle to the right, sighted on the man and fired another single shot. The round found its mark and the man clutched his gut, taking a step forward into space and then toppling over the edge. His body flipped over as it raced by Isabella’s vantage point, and bounced with a sickening thud against the courtyard’s tiled floor.

  Two down, but Isabella knew she needed to keep moving. She continued down the stairs, more carefully now, negotiating the remaining flights without further incident. She paused at the body of the insurgent. His right leg was bent back and pinned beneath his buttocks, and blood was running from the bullet wound, slowly filling the grooves between the tiles. Isabella spared a moment to frisk him. He was wearing green camouflage, black boots and a bandolier with ammunition pouches. There was a pistol in a holster that was clipped to his belt. She took it and then unbuckled the bandolier and slung it over her shoulder. It was heavy; that was good.

  The courtyard was accessed through an open arch that led to a passage that ran beneath the building to the road beyond. It was comfortingly dark, but Isabella raised the stock of the AK and pressed it into her shoulder, taking an offhand aim; it was more difficult to keep the gun stable this way but by far the best for mobile, fast, urgent shooting. She proceeded into the darkness, gasping a little from her flight across the rooftops, but trying to keep her breath steady so as not to disturb her aim. She reached the mouth of the alleyway, paused to listen—there was no sound beyond the plaintive mewling of a hungry cat—and put her head out and checked left and right.

  She saw the running lights of the Humvee and the scoops of light that were thrown against the facing wall by its headlamps. She couldn’t see anyone. Where were they? In the first building, where she had shot the first insurgent? On the roof, following the second man? She was considering her next move when she heard the wail of a muezzin. It reminded her of being home, in Marrakech, and prompted her to look up to the sky. The first call was fajr, offered between the very beginning of dawn and the sunrise. She hadn’t checked the time, but it must have been just after five. The sky was lightening; it was barely perceptible, but the darkness was a little less black when she looked between the buildings to the distant horizon. She had intended to flee the city, but now she reconsidered. It might be safer to wait until night.

  She took a deep breath, and after checking once again that the way ahead was clear, she sprinted out of the alleyway and headed east toward another block of apartment buildings.

  Chapter Forty

  Isabella jogged down the street until she reached a crossroads. The four apartment buildings that were built around the intersection had all been badly damaged by another explosion. One of the buildings had received the worst damage, but its neighbours had all been wrecked, too. The road had been cleared, with piles of rubble pushed back by excavators so that they formed a slope up against the walls of the buildings. Huge concrete slabs had been dislodged from one of the buildings, looking now like the overlapping plates of an armadillo. A truck had been flattened by debris and was covered in dust. The fascia of another building had been stripped, revealing the skeleton of iron struts and girders beneath. The buildings had been abandoned. Isabella picked the one that had suffered the least significant damage and made for it.

  The entire ground floor was open, and Isabella hurried into the deeper darknes
s inside. Most of the internal walls had been blown away, revealing a staircase that had been left at least partially intact. She ascended, climbing to the first and then the second floor. The damage was less severe here, and she followed a corridor that offered access to a dozen doors. The third door she reached had been left ajar. She listened carefully and, happy that the room beyond was quiet, took her AK and used the barrel to push the door all the way open.

  She advanced, her finger on the trigger, and scouted the apartment. There was a gash in the wall at the other end of the first room, and it admitted enough of the dawn’s light for Isabella to be able to make out the details. The place was small, just three rooms: a room with a bed and a sofa, a connecting kitchenette and a tiny bathroom. The windows had lost all of their glass and had been covered with sheets, and shafts of light arrowed inside through bullet holes that had been torn in the fabric. The sofa and bed were covered with fragments of rubble, and thick dust was everywhere. Isabella felt something shift beneath her feet, and as she reached down, she could feel the shapes of dozens of spent cartridges. This apartment must have been used by a sniper.

  She went to the opening in the wall and looked out. She was directly over the junction, with good sight lines in three directions. The sun was rising, a spectrum of greys that were gradually smearing the black. She went back to the door and closed it, heaving the largest chunk of rubble that she could find and resting it against the door so that it wouldn’t be able to be opened without disturbing her. Then, satisfied, Isabella rested the AK against the sofa, swept away the biggest pieces of debris and sat down. Dust puffed out around her as she leaned back into the cushion. She closed her eyes, finally allowing her body to rest.

  Isabella woke to the amplified ululation of another muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. She opened her eyes to find that light was streaming into the apartment from the jagged gash in the wall. She collected the AK from the sofa and made her way to the opening. The sun had risen all the way now, almost to its apogee, and she guessed that the summons must be for dhuhr, the noontime call to prayer.

  She went back to the sofa and laid out the equipment that she had stolen. She checked the AK first. She ejected the magazine, careful not to get grit into the mechanism, and checked the witness holes that had been machined into the side of the magazine tube. She looked for the lowest hole with brass showing and counted: she had just ten rounds left. She hooked the front of the magazine into the receiver and pulled it back so that it clipped home.

  She checked the pistol next. It was a Glock 17, probably captured from the Syrian army or police. Isabella had practised with Glocks before and was comfortable with it as a side arm. She pressed the release button and collected the magazine from the grip. It felt satisfactorily weighty, and when she checked, she saw that it was fully loaded with 9×19mm Parabellum cartridges. Seventeen rounds. Twenty-seven rounds between the two weapons.

  She examined the bandolier next. The ammo pouches contained an additional four magazines for the Glock, and as a bonus, the four grenade pouches were full with Russian-made RGD grenades. Isabella tore one of the pouches open and removed a grenade: it was an oval cylinder with no external ribbing except for a ridge where the two halves of the grenade joined. The surface had a few small dimples on it and was painted in olive drab. She hadn’t used this kind of grenade before, but the principle of its operation was identical to the American-made variants that she had practised with, and she was confident that she would have no problems should the need to deploy them arise.

  Isabella checked the kitchen. She turned the taps, but there was nothing; the water supply had been disconnected. There was a tiny fridge, and as she opened it, her nostrils were assailed by the pungent odour of rot. Food had been left inside, but with no power to maintain the temperature, it had become rancid. She checked the cupboard, but it was empty. It reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday and she was hungry. She hadn’t had anything to drink since she and Aqil had escaped, and with the temperature already hot and stuffy in the apartment, she knew that could quickly become a problem. She would have to find something to drink before she left the city tonight. She had a significant distance to cover before she reached the border, and she would need to be properly hydrated.

  There was a flimsy wardrobe in the corner of the room between the bed and the sofa. Isabella went over to it and opened the doors. Whoever had lived in this flat had vacated it in a hurry, because they had left their clothes behind. Some of the clothes were for a child, with a cute pair of dungarees, vests with poppers that fastened between the legs, plus jeans and tops for an older child. Hanging among the children’s garments were a woman’s clothes. Isabella took them out of the cupboard and laid them out on the bed. There were loose-fitting trousers and blouses, plus an abaya, a niqab and gloves.

  She went back to the opening in the wall and risked another glance outside. The road beneath her was busy with traffic, impatient drivers leaning on their horns as they were snarled in a slow-moving queue. Pedestrians went about their business, hurrying along in the gap between the traffic and the walls of the buildings, others crossing between the cars. The difference between now and the night before was stark. The road had been empty before, and it was busy and alive now.

  She would have to wait it out.

  Isabella stayed in the apartment throughout the afternoon. It became stuffier as the air grew warmer and warmer, but she knew that she was safe here. She planned on leaving as soon as it was dark. She would find another vehicle and head north again. If there were roadblocks, she would abandon the car and skirt them on foot. Aqil had said it was only about twenty-five miles to the border.

  Isabella thought that she heard something and went to the hole in the wall to check. She stayed there for a moment, far enough away from the opening that she would be cloaked by the gloom, and as she watched, a curious vehicle approached the junction. It was a van with a flatbed in the rear and, arranged there, a triangular hoarding that allowed for posters on the two longest sides. There was a poster fixed to the side of the van that Isabella could see. It had a picture of a life jacket on the left and a military vest on the right. The caption was in Arabic, but Isabella was able to translate it. It said ‘What would you rather wear on Judgment Day?’ and was, she guessed, a reference to the locals who were fleeing the country to risk their lives crossing the sea to Europe.

  She heard the noise again. It was a man’s voice, rendered tinny by an amplifier and played out through speakers that had been lashed to the cab of the van. The man was speaking in Arabic, his diction emotive and deliberate, each word invested with fervour.

  The language was archaic and formal, but Isabella was able to translate.

  “In the name of Allah, the All Merciful, tonight will mark the execution of emissaries of the Crusaders whom Allah, may blessings be upon Him, delivered unto the soldiers of the caliphate, and a traitor who wished to exchange the caliphate for the false sanctuary of Crusader lands. Their crucifixions will take place in the main square, following the Isha prayer, and the men and women of al-Bab shall come and observe so that they may bear witness to the consequences of those who choose to involve themselves in the Crusader campaign. This will be a warning to those who wish to learn. Allah is the greatest.”

  Isabella watched as the van proceeded to the crossroads and then passed out of view. The man began to recite the message again, as if by rote, but Isabella didn’t need to hear it again to know what it meant.

  A traitor who wished to exchange the caliphate for the false sanctuary of Crusader lands.

  Aqil?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Isabella spent the next two hours in confused indecision. She knew that she was safest staying where she was. She could wait until it was dark and then leave the city. She would be better able to escape on her own, without Aqil to slow her down. She was confident that she would be able to do it, too. She was well equipped and she was well trained. Even if she was unable to find transport
or was forced to abandon it, she had experience trekking across desert. Beatrix had taught her both orienteering and endurance, and as part of her training, she had taken her out to Lalla Takerkoust, thirty miles south of Marrakech, and instructed her to find her way home while her mother and Mohammed, their housekeeper, had tried to find her. Isabella had covered the distance in two days without being detected. This was no different.

  But leaving now would mean abandoning Aqil. She couldn’t know for sure that he was the ‘traitor’ whose execution had been announced, but it would have been an unusual coincidence given what had happened last night. And it almost didn’t matter. Even if Aqil was not condemned to die tonight, it would be soon. And if it wasn’t at the hands of the regime, it would be another way. A drone strike, like the one that had killed his brother. Or on the front line, as cannon fodder in the battle against the government. He was hopelessly out of his depth. He wouldn’t last five minutes.

  But despite all of that, he had risked his life to free her. Isabella found that hard to ignore. Her mother, she was sure, would have counselled her to abandon him and think of herself. But she was not her mother, and she didn’t know that she would be able to do that.