by Chris Ryan
'How far from us?'
'Still the two hundred metres. Stand by… No — it's OK. The dog's OK. He's only having a piss on a tuft of dead grass. That's all he's about. Now he's carrying on.
Herders the same. One herder pissing… Now they're clear. They're squared away.'
'Thanks, Pat.'
'You're welcome. By the way, what's that godawful noise?'
'That's the local vicar clearing his throat, having a gargle.'
'Are his congregation bloody deaf or something?'
'Yeah, I should say they are by now.'
The parade over, everything went dead again, both in the desert and in the camp. The camels vanished into the heat haze, and inside the wire, after their mass bollocking, the inmates dispersed to hangars or classrooms for their morning instruction. I tried to get my head down, but was bothered by the steadily rising temperature. 'What did they predict for us?' I asked fretfully. 'Wasn't it thirty-six? This feels more like fucking forty.'
All the same, I must have dropped off to sleep, because I came to with Tony shaking my elbow and found that two hours had passed.
'Anything doing?'
'The duty officer's been round — a jerk wearing a red sash and carrying a cane under his arm, sticking his nose in everywhere, throwing his weight about. And now they're lining up for the big event of the day, midday prayers.'
From all corners of the camp men were trudging towards the mosque. The wind had got up, blowing into our faces as we watched, and the heat seemed to have eased a fraction. I reckoned that hot air was rising off the desert floor behind us and drawing slightly cooler air down from the north, ultimately from the sea.
At any rate, the breeze had cleared some of the haze, and through our glasses we could see the faithful taking off their boots and socks, which they left neatly set out in a long line before they went in to pray.
'I always wonder how in hell they know whose are which,' said Tony. 'Look at that: three hundred pairs of goddamn boots in a line. Just imagine what a screw-up there'd be if we put a couple of bursts into the tower: they'd be fighting like lunatics to find the right pair.'
But before I could answer another terrible cacophony burst from the loudspeakers as the mullah launched into his chant of'Allah akhbar! Allah akhbar!', and the prayers were under way.
At 1230 the personnel fanned out from the mosque and disappeared indoors again, presumably for lunch, and the next we saw of them, an hour later, they were ready for the off, queuing at the guardroom for the duty officer to sign their exit chits.
'They all get searched when they go out,' Tony said.
'Nobody trusts anybody.'
'But what could they possibly nick?'
'Weapons, ammunition. Anything liftable.' Tony looked at his watch and added, 'Know what? This is the beginning of their weekend. They're on their way already.'
'What about Shitface? I hope he's not going to thin out as well.'
'He is, though. That's him in the white jeep. Don't worry. He'll be back for that special meeting tomorrow.'
The afternoon slowly dragged itself away. The heat hammered in on us, in spite of the wind, and tiny black biting flies hopped around the sand. We squashed dozens of them as they landed on Our bare arms and necks, but every nip from the ones we missed left a red mark and started up an itch. We sweated and drank, sweated and drank, but so great was the rate of evaporation that neither of us wanted a piss all day.
During my stag Tony dropped off again with his shamag spread over his face, and I had a struggle to keep alert. Looking down at his peaceful form, I felt glad that he was with me, yet at the same time wondered if I'd boobed in making legal arrangements for him to become Tim's guardian. If both of us got written off now, my affairs would be in chaos.
At 1530 we heard another call to prayer, but this meeting was poorly attended compared with the morning effort, because most of the faithful had departed in that exodus after lunch. Aside from that there was practically no movement inside the camp, nothing to engage my interest. What kept me awake was the saccession of disturbing thoughts that chased each other through my mind.
The idea of killing someone in cold blood isn't a pleasant one. It is true that I had a personal grudge against our target, for the way he had treated me and Tony, and for his callous, cynical attitude in general.
Yet that alone didn't justify murdering him. To weight the scales against him I mentally threw in the fact that he was financing and supplying the IRA on a massive scale. It was his support — or, at any rate, the support of people like him — that had led indirectly to Kath's death and, now, to the kidnapping of Tim. The flow of money and weapons from overseas was what kept the IP going.
And in any case, I told myself, this isn't a personal matter. The fact that I happen to have a personal involvement is coincidental. The operation is one that the R.egiment has been tasked to carry out, and fate — or luck, or whatever it is — has decreed that I'm the guy in charge. That's all it is: a job to be done.
Trouble was, I had a far more difficult job to do back in the UK. Now we'd got as far as the OP, the topping of Khadduri seemed relatively simple. I felt sure that Tony and I would hack it, no bother. Infinitely more complex was the problem of recovering my family.
As I wrestled with this prospect, my mind kept harking back to the scheme I'd proposed to Pat — that a gang of our lads should take the law into our own hands, spring Farrell from police custody and hand him back to his mates in Belfast. Once again I heard Pat saying, 'You must be fucking mad!' and I realised the plan was probably quite unworkable. Nevertheless, I couldn't banish it from my head — and gradually, as the baking afternoon wore on, it evolved into a new version.
What if I kept the basic idea, but instead of trying to do something unilaterally, I brought the Regiment and the police on side, and got their backing? “gith the cooperation of the police we'd snatch Farrell while he was being moved between gaols, hold him in some safe house, tell the PIIA he was free, and exchange him for Tim and Tracy. But we'd arrange things so he could be immediately recaptured, possibly by putting a bug into his clothes or the heel of one of his shoes, and having a chopper airborne to follow whatever car he got into.
The scheme seemed so brilliant I felt quite lit up, and ceased to worry about the heat or the sand flies. But would the Regiment wear it? Impossible to say. In fact, I supposed, even if the head-shed agreed, authorisation for any such operation would have to come right from the top, from the Home Orifice, the Home Secretary or the Prime Minister. As in Operation Ostrich, permission would have to be completely unattributable, and deniable. Yet why shouldn't it be? Here I was, stewing deep inside Libya, about to.murder a senior army officer with the direct connivance of the British Government. If Whitehall sanctioned the elimination of dangerous foreigners, why should it baulk at a plan that merely ran rings round the II:(A?
I was so chuffed with my idea that I wanted to discuss it with someone immediately. But it didn't seem fair to wake Tony, who was sleeping quietly. I could hardly start honking about the plan over the radio to Pat.
So for the time being I had to bottle it up inside me.
I was still on stag when Khadduri reappeared. It was after six, the sun hanging low over the desert, and the heat had at last started to abate. Tony was getting some food down his neck when I saw the clean, white land- cruiser hurrying down the approach road towards the main entrance. Instead of detaining it, as they had every other vehicle, the guards whipped up the barrier and saluted it-past.
'Watch this,' I said. 'It looks like the VIP visitor. I thought the bastard was supposed to come tomorrow.
Looks like he's a day early — or our intelligence was Out.'
The jeep drove straight through the camp to our corner and pulled up outside the front door of the accommodation block. Out stepped Khadduri with one other guy, both went indoors, and the vehicle drove away.
The sight prompted me to a quick decision. 'Listen, Tony,' I said, 'we're going in toni
ght. There's nothing to be gained by waiting. Quite the reverse. He might clear off before tomorrow evening, after all. D'you agree?'
'Fine by me. Provided the bird stays on the nest.'
'Right, then.' I held in my pressel switch and called, 'You there, Whinger?'
'Roger. How 'you doing?'
'Fine. Onpass to head-shed that the bird's on the nest and the operation can go down tonight. Get them to clear that, OK? And ask if there's any update from their end.'
’Roger. I'll call you presently.'
I imagined Whinger going through on the Satcom a direct, one-to-one call to the comms centre in Hereford: 'Zero Alpha, Zero Alpha, this is Delta Four.
Over.' At the other end I could see Yorky and Mac, and probably the CO, sitting round in the ops room while the duty signaller kept an eye on the set. 'This is Zero Alpha,' Mac would answer, 'go ahead.' Whereupon Whinger would pass on what I'd said and ask for permission to proceed. There'd be a slight dday after each person had spoken, but the voices would be crystal clear. There was no question of anyone eavesdropping on the exchanges because speech was automatically encrypted; the snag was that a satellite transmission created a much bigger electronic splash than high- frequency radio, and so was easier for a direction-finder to pick up. Exchanges were therefore kept as short as possible.
I also imagined the Prime Minister taking the closest possible interest in the operation. By my calculation the time in London was four o'clock, and probably the PM was in the House of Commons, fielding questions and giving stick to the Opposition. But at the back of his mind, I told myself, I bet he's thinking of us. I bet he's wondering how we're doing.
In the baking, sandy confines of the OP we waited for an answer, and presently Whinger came back on the air. 'OK,' he said, 'I've been through. I told the head- shed that two guys have eyeballed the bird, and that he's definitely on the nest. They just want to be sure you've seen enough and are confident about going in.'
'Tell 'em we're fine. No problem. We've seen everything we need to. We'll aim to go in at midnight, when the rest of the personnel have thinned out. If all goes according to plan, we'll want the chopper on ERV Six by 0200. Check that with them too. And ask if there's any news on the personal front, please.'
'Will do.'
Again we waited, and soon Whinger relayed confirmation through: no personal news, but the operation was on.
'In that case,' I said, 'we need you three guys up here by 2200. That'll give us plenty of time to brief you on details before we move up to the wire. Make sure Norm has his lock-picking kit. Bring both lPGs and the Dragunov. Don't forget — plenty of Semtex, and a can of fuel for a distraction charge.'
We saw them before we heard them: dark figures moving lowly towards us through the moonlight.
When they were thirty metres offI said quietly over the radio, 'OK, lads, we have eyes on you. We're right in front.'
We stood up and let the three come to meet us.
Then we led them round the front of the dune to give them a view of our objective.
'There's the building,' I began. 'And there's the lighted window. As in the script. The main entrance is the one facing us, but there's a back door round the corner to the left, in the shadow. Look at the fence. See where the first missing floodlight is? Up that side, fourth from the left-hand corner, more or less behind the building. We aim to cut the wire at that point, in that pool of darkness. Once we're through, Norm — you'll accompany me and Tony to the building, to pick the lock on that back door. When we go in, you'll stay in place to cover the door. All right?'
'Aye.' Norm nodded.
'Whinger, you stay on the fence to secure the gap.
You'll have the Dragunov as well as your AK-47. If any Libyan threatens our withdrawal, you can drop him from there with the sniper rifle. OK?
'Pat, 1 want you to range right-handed along the front fence.' I swung a hand across. 'Get down as far as the gate beside the tower there and get ready to crack offa distraction charge. If we can, we'll keep everything quiet. But if things go noisy, set a time-fuse and pull back this way. When the charge goes, put a rocket into the satellite dish where those red lights are showing.
From the gate, the range should be about three-fifty metres. Is all that clear?'
'What if it doesn't go noisy?' Pat asked.
'We'll call you as soon as we're back through the wire. Once we're together again, you may still get a go at the dish. Then we'll tab off in orderly fashion to the OP. There we pick up our kit, leg it for the LUP, and away. Any more questions?'
'What if you can't find the target?' asked Whinger.
'We'll find him. We know the bastard's in the building. Ten to one he's sitting in that room right now. But if anything goes wrong we'll have to play it by ear. If he gets out of the building, by any mischance, one or other of you fence guys will probably have to drop him.'
The temptation to go in early built steadily. By 2300 the camp had fallen totally quiet. The light burned on in the target room, but nobody else seemed to be stirring. I imagined Khadduri at his computer terminal, working out details of his strategy for a mass Arab attack on Israel.
We'd told the head-shed that zero-hour was going to be midnight, and for a while I reckoned we'd better stick to that.
Then, as we sat in the moonlight on the face of a dune opposite the corner of the wire, Stew came on the air with a question that fairly put the wind up us. 'Aye,' he said, 'Are you guys on the move somewhere?'
'No,' I told him. 'We're sitting tight with eyes on the target building. Why?'
'I've just seen three people moving out to my left as I face you.'
'What were they doing?'
'Walking in single file. Apart from that, I couldn't tell. They were right at the limit of visibility.'
'Any weapons?'
'Not that I could see.'
'Roger. It could be the camel herders. We'll carry on regardless.'
I pretended to be cool, but in fact the sighting changed my mind about waiting. If there were people about in the desert, the less we hung around the better.
'Bollocks.to it,' I said. 'Let's go in now. There's no point in farting about any longer.'
I called Stew again. 'Tell the Kremlin we've advanced the deadline: we're going in right away, and we'll keep them informed.'
While the others hung back and covered me, I crawled forward seventy metres to the fence at the darkest point and went to work with bolt-cutters. A thick ground-wire ran along the bottom: it felt as if it was under tension, so I left it alone and made an L- shaped incision in the mesh, with sides two feet long.
The wire was fairly soft, and the blades have practically no sound as they bit together through each strand.
Having stowed the cutters in my belt-kit, I pulled up the flap of mesh that I'd made, put my AK-47 through and crawled after it. Tony and Norm followed, and all three of us scuttled for the shadow at the back of the accommodation block.
There we waited, each on one knee, facing outward.
Close under the wall the noise of the air-conditioning units was considerable: a steady roar which drowned out all other small sounds. From here I saw that, to anyone inside the camp, the lights on the perimeter fence made the desert beyond seem black as a witch's tit. Even for us, it was impossible to detect that our other guys were out there.
'Right, Norm,' I whispered. 'There's your door.'
Tony and I remained on full alert as he set to with his torch and little bag of tricks, ten metres from us. We were both sweating like pigs, partly from the heat, partly from tension. I saw Tony's forehead gleaming in the faint light and beads of moisture trickling down his cheeks.
Inevitably Norm made a few clicks and scrapes exactly the sounds I'd heard in my nightmare at the cottage — but nothing to compare with the steady background drone that filled the air, and in an incredibly short time he had the door open.
'Rubbish,' he muttered, indicating the lock. 'Just a Yale-type. Opens from the inside with a tur
n of the knob.'
'Brilliant! We'll see you soon.'
We slung our rifles over our backs to leave our hands free, slipped inside and closed the door gently behind us. Inside was a passage, dimly lit by a single fluorescent tube. A smell of spicy food hung in the air — turmeric or cumin — and I guessed we were in the kitchen area.
After the heat outside, the air-conditioned atmosphere bit cold. I began to shudder, and felt the sweat congealing in the small of my back.
Two metres to our left the corridor came to a dead end in a closed door; to the right, it turned a corner. I calculated that our target room was almost directly above our heads.
I peeped round the corner. Another passage, longer, with doors on both sides, almost dark. This one lay parallel with the-front of the building. I reckoned it must lead to stairs opposite the front door.
The floor was cement painted with some dark-green compound. Our boots made no sound on it as we tip toed along. In fifteen paces we were at one side of a small entrance-hall or lobby, bare of furniture. The front door was to our right, and stairs with a metal banister rail and the same dark-green paint on the treads rose to our left. Beyond the reception area the passage carried on through the other half of the building.
Tony put a hand on my arm and pointed. Farther down the corridor, on the left, light was showing through the crack of a partially opened door. The room could have been an office — but equally it could have been the bog. Whatever it was, nobody was moving, and I shook my head to show we should ignore it.
I went.up the steps first, the Browning cocked, while Tony covered me from below. At the head of the stairs another corridor ran directly above the one on the ground floor. Dim fluorescent tubes glowed in the ceiling.
Standing on the second-top step, I put my head cautiously round the corner of the passage. From under the last door on the left, at the end, light was showing.
Without turning back, I waved my left hand to bring Tony up. A moment later I felt him materialise at my shoulder.
