by Mark Dawson
The words were whipped away on the storm, but she didn’t need to hear them. She recognised the chequered keffiyeh.
It was Pope.
He drew alongside and leaned down to put his mouth next to her ear.
“Are you all right?”
“Bumps and bruises,” she called back. “What happened to you?”
“I jumped.”
“What about the checkpoint?”
Pope pointed down at the dead jihadi. “All dead. He was the last one.” He gestured down into the watercourse. “How are the others?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“They fired an RPG.”
“I didn’t mean that—I saw.” He nodded at the jihadi he had shot. “Why didn’t you shoot him?”
She held up the Beretta. “Useless piece of shit jammed. The exposed barrel. It’s all well and good giving the shell somewhere to go, but you’re still fucked if you get sand into it.”
Pope allowed himself an amused chuckle. “Take his AK. Much more reliable. And we might need the firepower.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
They clambered down the slope together. It was obvious that the pickup wasn’t going any farther. The armoured plate had broken away from its fixings completely, and had shattered the windshield and sheared through both window pillars. The grille had been crumpled and a cloud of steam was issuing from the radiator, quickly snatched by the wind. Even if they could have fixed the radiator, there was no way that they would have been able to make the pickup mobile again. Isabella remembered the ominous sounds coming from the axle. It was finished.
“Well,” Pope said as they reached the bottom of the slope, “that’s not going anywhere.”
“What about the cars at the checkpoint?” she asked.
He shook his head. “One of them blew up. The other one is Swiss cheese. We’re going to have to walk.”
They saw that one of the pickup’s rear doors had been opened, Salim’s side of the car, on the opposite side to them. The wind dropped for a moment and they heard a sobbing in its place. Pope went first, switching on the flashlight that was attached to the barrel of his M4. She edged around the front of the car and saw Salim in the glow of the flashlight. He was leaning against the side of the pickup, bullet holes studding the panel on either side of him. Khalil was lying on his back, his head in his father’s lap. Salim was stroking the boy’s hair. Khalil wasn’t moving, and the blood that stained the boy’s shirt looked almost black in the flashlight’s harsh glare.
Salim looked up, squinting into the sudden brightness. He mumbled something, too quiet for them to hear. He realised that they couldn’t hear him, so he called out, louder, his voice cracked with sobs, “He’s dead.”
Pope swung the barrel of the rifle up and swept the light into the interior of the pickup. Aqil was slumped forward, held in place by the seat belt that was around his waist, his head pressed against the back of the seat in front of him.
Pope held the beam of the flashlight on him. “See if Aqil is alive,” he said. “I’ll speak to Salim.”
Isabella went back around to the other side of the truck and tried to open the door. The impact had deformed the wing so that the door caught against the frame; Isabella gripped the handle and heaved. The door came free of the obstruction and opened. Aqil was still held in place by his seat belt. There was no obvious sign of serious injury, but there was a vivid bruise on his forehead and blood was running out of his nostrils and dripping into his lap. It looked as if he had been thrown forward by the impact, striking his head on the seat in front of him.
“Aqil,” Isabella said, putting her hands on his shoulders and very gently squeezing them. Aqil blinked his eyes and tried to raise his head. He groaned. She reached down, unclipped the seat belt and then gently shook his shoulders. “Wake up, Aqil.”
He blinked again, his eyes staying open this time. Isabella put her head inside the cabin and reached up for the courtesy light. She flicked it on, and it cast enough dim light for her to be able to see him without the need for Pope’s flashlight. Aqil tried to speak, but the wind was rushing into the cabin and she couldn’t make out the words. She leaned farther inside so that her ear was closer to his mouth.
“What happened?”
“We crashed. Are you hurt?”
“My head. I must have banged it.”
“You did. Anything else?”
He closed his eyes again and then reached up with his hands and felt down his ribcage. “I don’t think so. Bruises.” He ran his fingers along the top of his thighs and groaned. He reversed them and looked down at his fingertips: the light fell on the blood that stained them.
“It’s from your nose,” Isabella said. “It’s nothing. Come on—we need to get you out.”
Isabella reached in, put her hands underneath his shoulders and very gently helped him slide around so that he could get his feet out and onto the hard rocky bed of the watercourse. She grabbed on and pulled him up, sliding around so that she could reach her arm beneath his shoulders and help him bear his weight. She helped him take a few steps away from the car until he was able to stand unaided. Isabella disengaged from him, staying close enough to intercede should he stumble.
He looked left and right into the darkness of the wadi that loomed on either side of them. “Where are we?”
“We got through the checkpoint, but we crashed. The truck is finished.”
“How are we going to get away?”
“Unless we can find something else, we’ll have to walk. You think you can do that?”
He nodded a little gingerly. “I think so. It’s just my head. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
Isabella joined Pope at the front of the pickup. Salim was on his feet to one side, standing over the body of his son. Aqil had slipped back inside the cabin to shelter from the sand.
“How’s Aqil?” Pope asked her.
“He was knocked out. Says he has a headache.”
“It might be a concussion. Walking through the desert in this”—he gestured around at the storm—“isn’t going to be the best thing for him, but he can’t stay here. There’s no other choice.”
“Salim?”
“He’s coming. He knows he doesn’t have any other choice. We’ll have to leave the boy here. There’s no time to bury him.”
Pope took a small handheld device from a pocket and switched it on. Isabella recognised it: it was a Magellan GPS receiver. He studied the screen for a moment and then switched it off. “We’re twenty-five miles from the border,” he said.
“How long will it take to cover that?”
He closed his eyes in momentary thought. “We would normally be able to cover three miles in an hour, but the wind and cold won’t help. Your friend might slow us down, and if there are dunes that we have to go around, or if the sand is soft, it’ll take longer. I’d say ten hours to be on the safe side.”
“We don’t have eight hours before sunup.”
“No,” he said. “We don’t. We’ll see where we are at dawn. We’ll either gamble and press on or find somewhere to hide.”
“Could we find another car?”
“I’d rather stay off the road. They’re looking for us. We’ll walk unless someone can’t go on. Then we’ll reassess.”
She nodded that she understood.
“Stay here with them for a moment,” he said.
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Look at them. They need better clothes or they’ll freeze to death. And we don’t have enough water. I’ll go back to the checkpoint and see what I can find.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “If you hear anything, or if I’m not back in fifteen minutes, you need to start walking. Head north.” He pointed to one of the walls of the wadi. “Climb out and get going. Don’t stop for anyone. If either of them slows you down too much, leave them and go.”
She didn’t answer.
Pope pointed to his backpack. “I�
��ll leave that here. There’s some rations, extra ammunition and a satphone. I’m coming back, Isabella, but if I don’t, take what you can manage and go. You’re resourceful; you can make it. I know you can.”
Pope squeezed her shoulders, let go of her and climbed up to the desert floor. She saw his shadow as he paused at the top, but then he disappeared over the edge and was gone.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Isabella waited anxiously for ten minutes until she heard the sound of footsteps in loose sand and saw the same dark shadow as Pope scrambled down the loose slope and joined her next to the beached truck. His M4 was slung over his shoulder and he was carrying a bundle of clothing and two large half-gallon bottles of water. He dropped the bundle to the floor; it was composed of three padded jackets. He gave one to Aqil, one to Salim and the last one to Isabella. She pulled it on. It was baggy and too big for her, and when she zipped it up, the back of her hand ran over an opening in the fabric. She investigated with her fingers and found that the hole went all the way through the garment and was, she noted with mild distaste, still damp on the inside. It was blood. The jacket had been worn by one of the men that Pope had shot at the checkpoint. She didn’t say anything. The other jackets were likely in the same condition, and she didn’t want to draw any attention to it for fear of upsetting Salim or Aqil.
Pope handed one of the bottles to Salim and the other one to Isabella.
“You need to fill up on water,” he said. “It doesn’t matter that it’s cold. You can be dehydrated in the cold just as easily as when it’s hot.”
Isabella remembered what her mother had told her: the vapour that she could see escaping from her mouth, the clouds that vanished into the wind, was moisture. It was precious, and it needed to be replaced. She unscrewed the bottle, took a long gulp, and then another. She took a third and final swig and handed the bottle to Aqil.
Pope reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed four chocolate bars. He handed them out. Isabella looked at hers. It was in a blue and white wrapper with a picture of a tropical beach on it, and the name—“Hum Hum”—was emblazoned across it in blue type. She didn’t wait; she hadn’t eaten for hours and she was hungry. She tore the wrapper and took out the two small bars inside. She stuffed the first bar into her mouth. It was milk chocolate with a coconut centre, and it tasted delicious. She finished it and then the second.
Salim and Aqil were both wearing their coats, and Salim had put on a woollen hat that he had found inside the pocket of his jacket. Isabella could see that he had been crying, and Pope had to gently move him away from his son’s body.
The wadi ran east to west, and they needed to head north. Pope helped Salim clamber up the treacherous slope and then came back down to help Isabella with Aqil. The boy seemed to have found a little more steadiness on his feet, but he groaned as they dragged him up the slope with them, and Isabella wondered whether he might have been keeping quiet about another injury. She said nothing.
Pope arranged them: Aqil and Salim were in the lead, with Pope and Isabella bringing up the rear. Isabella could guess why he had chosen that formation. Pope didn’t trust Salim and wanted him to be in front of him at all times. And it would allow them to keep an eye on Aqil. Their pace would be governed by the slowest member of the party, and it was likely to be him. Isabella had no intention of abandoning him, but she knew that Pope would not have the same qualms. She didn’t know what she would do if it became clear that he couldn’t go on. She would try to persuade Pope to find somewhere for them to shelter from the storm while he recovered his strength. But if he didn’t agree? She would consider that when the time came.
They set off to the north. The sand was firm, and save the occasional rock that appeared from out of the darkness, the footing was secure. Isabella turned back after ten minutes. There was still a faint glow from the fire that had consumed the exploded car, just enough for the structure of the sentry house and the square blocks of concrete to be discernible through the debris that was being flung up by the wind. She narrowed her focus, but she couldn’t see the pickup. The wadi was deep enough that it had been hidden from view. The desert was flat and featureless, and she was already unsure of where they had started. The orienteering that she had practised before had been much easier than this. Visibility was constantly changing. She was glad that Pope was with her.
The wind had brought clouds overhead and the cover was complete; there was no natural light at all. The wind rushed around them, stinging every exposed inch of Isabella’s skin. She walked with her head bowed forward, the jacket zipped all the way up to her throat. It was quilted inside and provided decent protection from the worst of the wind. She put both hands into the pockets of the jacket and wore the AK on its strap. She would be able to get to the rifle quickly, should the need arise.
“Look,” Pope said.
He was pointing back toward the city. She turned her head and looked. The checkpoint was a mile away from them. She saw the lights of two cars; one of the cars was already at the checkpoint, the twin beams picking out the concrete blocks and the hulk of the overturned vehicle. The other was approaching from the south, halfway between the first buildings of the town and the checkpoint. They walked on, and when she turned back again, the second car had joined the first and she could make out the silhouettes of people milling around between the blocks.
“They’ll come after us,” Pope said. “We’ve been lucky. They won’t be able to see the pickup from there. They won’t know where to start looking. The storm will help, too. And we won’t be hanging around.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
They walked for two hours. The farther they walked, the colder Isabella became. The jacket kept her body reasonably warm, but the wind still found its way inside through the bullet hole, and she had to rearrange it so that the fabric could be folded over itself in an attempt to close the gash. It was her legs that were particularly cold; the jeans that she was wearing were made from thin denim, and her legs were quickly icy cold. She kept her hands in her pockets, but they soon chilled, too. There was a moment when Pope had paused, his hand on his weapon, and Isabella had instinctively removed her hands from the pockets and reached for the AK-47. Her fingers were so cold that it was an effort to bend the joints and uncurl her fists.
“What are we going to do when we get across the border?” she asked Pope.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I need to think. There’s too much going on that I can’t work out. I’m not sure who to trust.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m going home.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Not right away. You need to stay with me.”
She turned her head to look at him. He was angling down, his head bent into the wind, and his face might as well have been carved from stone. “For how long?”
“Until I can work out what’s going on.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t say whether it’s safe.”
“No one knows where I live,” she said.
“Don’t be naive. I found you, didn’t I? You think the Firm wouldn’t be able to do the same if it wanted to? No. You need to stay with me.”
They trudged on in silence.
Pope spoke again. “We’ll go to Tuscany. I have an apartment in Montepulciano. It’ll be safe. I spoke to my wife before this all happened. I knew something was wrong. I should’ve listened to myself. We can meet them there. Me and you.”
“And Salim?”
“We get him over the border. Then I need to talk to him.”
They crossed a narrow track. Pope had his GPS tracker, but he looked at it only sparingly. The ambient light from the display would risk revealing their location, and even with the additional cover of the storm, he did not want to take unnecessary risks. He had evidently remembered the features that they would pass, though, because he remarked with satisfaction that the road meant that they were on the right heading.
“What time is it?” she asked.
&n
bsp; “Five. We’re still twelve miles from the border. We need to think about somewhere to hide out. It’ll be light soon.”
They pressed on. Isabella looked back frequently, but she couldn’t remember where the main road was and wasn’t even sure that she would be able to see it. It was a surprise, then, when Pope issued a curt order to get down as the lights of a vehicle bounced across the desert three or four hundred metres to the right. The car didn’t stop, but it did reveal the location of the road. Pope was tabbing close to it, using it as a reference point, but not so close as to risk their discovery should another car travel by.
They pressed on for another twenty minutes. Isabella found it more and more difficult to continue. Her body complained: the cold, the effort of traversing softer stretches of sand that made her calves burn with the effort of picking up her feet, the wind that scoured the moisture from her eyes and her mouth. Pope was not immune either: he walked with a steady stride, but his head was down and she could hear that he was breathing hard from the effort of hauling the heavy backpack that was loaded with his equipment. Salim was slumped forward, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and he had fallen on three occasions, staying down until Pope had hauled him back to his feet again.
Of the four of them, though, it was Aqil who was struggling the most. He moved slowly, so much so that Isabella estimated that they were covering only half the ground that Pope had suggested might be possible. It was half an hour after they had seen the car when he finally collapsed. He had been stumbling for the last ten or fifteen metres, barely able to lift his shoes from the ground, but his toe caught against a rock that he hadn’t seen or had been unable to avoid, and he staggered ahead for a further pace before he dropped to his knees.
Pope had moved ahead of them for a moment.
“Mr Pope,” Isabella called, “wait.”
