The Widow's Son

by Daniel Kemp

“Tell me, Henry. You will always find a listening ear with me.” He laughed at my reply.

  “One day you'll read them I'm sure of it. London sent me into Chechnya, via Armenia, with a Russian passport about this time of year in 1994 to photograph the Soviet weaponry and whatever I could get on their military. I was raped there, Mr Joseph. I bet that's something you never knew.”

  Wow! He was right I had not read that, but apart from feeling sickened by it, what could I say. I left any response to him, as, thankfully, he never lingered on the event. I guess the screams inside his head were mostly his own, but from somewhere came the solace that allowed him to continue.

  “I want to become as impersonal as that milking machine yet hold on to my personality. I don't want to become a robot which I feel I'm being groomed for here. Same questions, same answers, only repetition of what's led to our introduction. Can we not move on from that and speak of my future in Canada? Will I still have a role to play, be of use; that kind of thing? I don't expect you to be specific, but just an idea of where you see me being of service.”

  My raised voice of frustrated protest rebounded inside the car, causing Jimmy and Frank to run towards us and before I could say or do anything both rear doors were slung open and two HP-35 pistols were pointing at Henry's head.

  “As I just said, Henry, I think we should concentrate more on what I want from you rather than what these two men might do to you if I raise my voice again. Ask yourself who would pine over you? Who would ask where you are? Is there anyone? No, there's not, and we both know that. I'm not blessed with as much patience as Elijah. My question was about Razin. Please address that.”

  “Razin, yes. The Russian.”

  As he spoke the guns were holstered and we were left alone with the promise of more coffee to come, away from the exactitude of rape.

  “Okay, I start again at the beginning for you, because you know who can make good coffee and where the heating valve is, not because you threaten me. I had been in Damascus for a matter of days. I arrived at 10:28 on Saturday morning and it was late on the Wednesday that I met with Razin. That's as precise as I can get. My wristwatch broke the day I arrived and the thing which ferried me from place to place had a broken clock. I'm sorry.” I interrupted.

  “Ferried you say. I have a Mercedes mentioned in the file and a driver by the name of Hadad as your guide. Is that correct?”

  “It is, yes, Mr Joseph. I used the wrong word. I apologise for my lack of understanding of your English idioms, but really it was a wreck on four wheels. Hadad met me at the international airport in that Mercedes. From there we followed the trail of Alaz Karabakh, the man London had sent me to trace and report on.”

  “What did London tell you of this Karabakh and what was he up to exactly?”

  “Control said that Karabakh was a Syrian-Armenian who was stirring the Sunni Kurds up along the M4 corridor of Northern Syria to rebel against the government led by Bashar al-Assad. He was, according to what I was told, instrumental in forcing the Damascus Spring uprising upon Assad after President Hafiz al-Asad died.” He stopped and lit another cigarette and when satisfied all was well with it added, “Karabakh was killed in a place called Al Hasakeh.”

  “That's not written down anywhere! Why have you never said that, Henry?”

  “I did! I told Elijah because he was the first person I saw when I came to England.” His tired, brown eyes fell on me and without blinking held that apologetic gaze for longer than I liked. His confession had decimated me and he knew it.

  “I think we could both do with that other coffee, Mr Joseph. My throat is dry and I reckon you could do with the distraction.”

  If I was distracted it didn't last long. Henry Mayler was into his stride before any thoughts of mine could drown out his dialogue.

  “Hadad, my driver, was given to me by London but I never trusted him. After following this Karabakh character for four and a bit days and getting names and photos for Control, Hadad comes to me with a story he'd heard from someone inside Assad's holy of holies. Karabakh is to secretly meet a high official from the Arab Socialist Ba'ath Party, the same party where Assad is the God, to discuss a union between an Islamic State of Iraq, an umbrella grouping of a number of Iraqi insurgency groups and Osama bin Laden's Al-Qaeda. Those were the exact words he said. He then told me that the Al-Qaeda man was from ISI, the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence. This meeting was to convene at a place called Al Hasaketh, in the north-east corner of Syria.

  “In my initial briefing London told me that Karabakh was one of the people who made massive amounts of legitimate money by something called 'put-options' placed on two airlines before bin Laden's attack on the Twin Towers. I wanted into this operation so much. I wanted those photographs. This was the holy chalice, the stone of the sacred philosopher. Pure uranium for Henry, to power many more operations.”

  “Were you under the impression that your cover, and therefore your value to us, was coming to an end, Henry, only you made that last statement sound rather sombre and despondent?”

  Our coffee arrived via Jimmy, and I took the opportunity to have a smoke outside the car. Henry joined me with his sweet smelling Turkish cigarette that he had still to finish. Before I had left what Harwood called 67, and I referred to as The Hole, I had directed the morning security chief officer to thoroughly sweep my car, my office and my upstairs living area. Nothing had been found, but I still had that uneasy feeling of being intrusively spied upon, if not that then at least evaluated.

  “I did think my usefulness was ending, Mr Joseph. This operation was my first since the one in Afghanistan that I told you about. Over a year doing kosher freelance photography was making me question if I'd ever be used again.”

  “You hadn't spoken to Control for almost a year, is that true? Was this strange, or had you had breaks of that length before?”

  “Yes, it was very strange. Before Afghanistan we would message each other on the phone if I was out of reach for any length of time. Sometimes we would meet and chat if nothing was on and we were near each other. Not often, that's true, but sometimes. Once when everything was warm and friendly we went to a party together. But after Afghanistan …” He shrugged his shoulders with his eyes visibly moist.

  “Was there anything different about how Control contacted you with the information about Alaz Karabakh, and were you told at the same time that Hadad was to be your driver, or did that come at a different time? It's important that you're accurate and precise, Henry.”

  “I am always accurate and precise, Mr Joseph. Control's instructions came the usual way with a series of numbers in an SMS. The numbers translated into a designated street somewhere close to where I was. On a wall along that street would be a chalked written message in code again. That would direct me to an address somewhere close by. At the address I would be given yet another number coded message. Once I had deciphered that final message I was aware of Hadad and Karabakh.”

  “Okay,” I quietly replied before setting off towards the yard and those milking sheds he previously referred to under the clear sky with a full moon to guide our steps. When we out of sight of the main house we started where the file had finished; Karabakh in Al Hasaketh with a political leader and a Pakistani hood, presumably to oversee the proceedings.

  “The meeting was in a grocery shop in a bazaar in the town. A difficult if not impossible place for me to get close for photographs of London's target meeting Assad's man, and the ISI agent, but I had what I thought was a piece of luck. Hadad knew the owner and while they exchanged hugs and greetings by the thousands I got my look into the backroom. I was wearing a wireless pin-hole camera that shot the video into a remote receiver I'd left in the car. It was on record for a regular ten-second burst and although I figured I had enough from the first take, the element of uncertainty was too strong to ignore. It then went-tits up, as you English say.

  “I pretended I'd tripped over some crates beside the closed curtain beyond which was the meeting. By the tim
e I'd dusted myself down the camera had run for a full cycle again and I was certain I had the three of them on film. That's when Razin and I saw each other. He must have been there as the Pakistani ISI. He slit both Karabakh and the Arab Socialist man's throats in a single movement. He used the same knife that I'd seen in Khost. 'Follow me,' he said in a cold, calm voice and I did. 'Grab your driver,' he said and I did. If he had said cut your driver's head off and here's the knife to do it, I would have done it. How do you kill two men and act as if it's a normal day, Mr Joseph?” Although I had an answer to his question I decided not to offer it. Instead I asked a question of my own.

  “I need an opinion now, Henry. A core feeling you may have had. Would you say Razin butchered the other two to protect you, or do you think he would have killed them had you not tripped?”

  “Oh, I believe strongly that he murdered them for me, Mr Joseph. Of that I have no doubt. I wish it were different or I could fool myself into believing your second theory, but that would not be the truth. Have you an answer as to how I can go on knowing that my stupidity cost two lives, or should I carry on ignoring it do you think?”

  It was Henry's act of stupidity that cost those two lives as Razin would not risk being exposed without a good reason. He wasn't there to murder anyone, he was there to listen and direct. I had no words that could have cured Henry's debility, his sickness was irreparable.

  “Why was it that you needed London to extract you from a situation that Razin seemingly had under control, Henry? I mean it wasn't as though your life was under threat, was it?”

  “Yes, it was and it still it is. I told all of this to Elijah when I reached London. My Control had vanished. Don't ask me how I knew, I just did, but Elijah never mention it. He had a typist type my report as I was telling him, although I can't be positive he recorded it on his machine—

  “After what had just happened I was acutely aware of the danger I had put myself in, but if there was to be any reaction I was expecting it inside the market, not outside. In my haste to get away I tripped over something just before getting to the car. My knee hurt badly and the fall shook me up but I managed to stand quickly and open the car door, that was when the glass in the door shattered. I had no idea what had caused that as I had heard no other sound. For a split second all I could do was stare at what was once a normal car door, thinking that somehow I had broken it. Other than the normal loud noises of a packed street market I'd heard nothing that would indicate someone would be after us so soon. When I eventually got my head into gear the first reaction was to partially turn my head towards the back of the car, that's when it hit me. The only way I can describe it is that it was like having a cricket ball bowled very hard into my upper thigh. It hurt like hell. A similar thing happened to me when I'd played in a varsity cricket game in the Parks one year against a really quick bowler. I know this will sound stupid and melodramatic, but time seemed to stand still for me. Everything was moving in slow motion to the point of stopping. The bazaar went silent to my ears. I have no idea why I looked to the rear of the Mercedes and not the front, but that's where I looked. I was lucky in some ways as the bullet had hit hard muscles and was imbedded in them. I was thankful to have done lots of walking and standing in my job as a photographer. There was very little blood coming from the wound and just a small hole in my shorts and my upper leg. It was as I was looking at my wound that he pulled me inside the car. I was completely dazed and out of it all. He was the opposite. He just stood there in the open, firing off round after noise round in the direction from where the bullet in my leg must have come. He was shouting, but I haven't a clue what he said. All I could see was his mouth opening and closing very quickly. My ears were hurting from his gunshots as much as my leg from the bullet. The firing stopped and I had a peep through the back window. I saw one of them. He was black, but not an Arabian black. Perhaps a European black going by his modern, stylish clothes. He was on the ground and not moving, but there was another man running away in a zig-zag fashion. That man was tall, thin and had blonde hair. Hadad, that was my driver, was also on the ground by the rear door of the car. He was lucky having taken only a grazing shot to the shoulder and was meekly seeking cover. I gave him my hand to help him into the back of the car. Then the Russian drove the car as though possessed with its tyres screaming under clouds of dust.

  It was I who noticed the car that was chasing us. Razin, the Russian, had his eyes notched up five times their normal size and fixed like glue on the road ahead, for that I was thankful; the car was travelling as if there was a rocket under the bonnet. I told him about the car that was following and he pulled a gun from under the thawb that he wore. There was another gun, I presumed that to be the one he'd used outside the bazaar, tucked under his left leg as he drove. I remember thinking that I hoped the safety was on. Very calmly he told me that as soon as he had a chance he would pull our car off the road and ambush the one behind. That wasn't the exact language he used, but that's what it amounted to. He spoke in Russian but I can understand the language. He gave me the gun from under his leg and a new clip from the pants he wore under that robe. He asked if I'd fired a weapon; I lied and said I had.

  We rounded a sharp bend past some low, sandy hills and then the road turned abruptly right in the opposite direction we wanted to go. Razin slung the car behind one of those hills off the road and shouted at me to get out. Clutching his gun to my chest, I did. He ran across the dusty road and hid. From across there he had the clearer shot than me and hit the driver before the car had fully rounded the bend. It veered violently towards me before it overturned and came to a halt. I shot the passenger from where I'd been hiding, but Razin got to the car before I had and I saw him take something from the driver. I have given thought since then about what it could have been but honestly I have no idea what it was other than it was small and flat like a phone. But I can't swear it was a phone. It could equally have been a letter. In fact, I think it was a letter. After he put two more bullets in them both then setting the car on fire, we drove off, not speaking again until we reached Aleppo.

  “I left Razin in Aleppo with Hadad. He had spread some sort of gel on Hadad's wound after we'd dealt with the pursuing car. Razin said he would take him to a safe address and get him help. I took the car, which was covered in dried blood on the back seat, and made it to the British Embassy in Damascus without incident. There I had the bullet removed from my leg. My leg ached like mad but on the Saturday morning after arriving I carried everything I needed in my rucksack and had my passport ready in my hand as I headed towards the Turkish Airlines check-in desk at Damascus airport, when Razin appeared like the ghost he is and grabbed my arm, spinning me around to face him.

  'We will meet again, my little Rosco and it will be then that I decide if you live or die. In the meantime play the game that you do, but do not antagonise me again.'

  “So perhaps now you can see why I am worried, Mr Joseph, and not only about a big Russian bear. It seems obvious to me that Elijah has not told you all of my escape from Al Hasaketh. That is either because he does not trust you or he works against you and for someone else. Neither of those scripts are written in my favour. I'm grateful for any changes you can make for my present welfare, but I want to know if I have a future and if not it would be nice to know why I am to die?” I did not answer his question.

  “Did you ever think to ask Razin what it was he took from the driver of the pursuing car, Henry?”

  “No, Razin is not the type of man who someone like me ask questions of.”

  “Why did you say you thought it was a letter after you said it was a phone?”

  “Oh, I don't know. I think I was dreaming of a letter. I had one once from a lover, but, yes, you're right. I don't know if it was a letter or a phone. I think I thought of a letter because the driver was dead and hopefully my lover is not. It may have been the sight of so much blood in one day had turned my mind inwards on itself, Mr Joseph. I think you are a man who is used to seeing blood.”
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  Memories can be killers in themselves so much so that no matter how many times or how many ways one tries to eradicate them, they never diminish or leave the mind. Some stay at the front of the queue whilst others hover in dark places and attack when the rest of the body is sleeping. I have a moderate memory, no better or worse than most people, but Henry was so different, he was cursed with a unique memory.

  “When did you contact Razin and tell him that I was to take control at Group, Henry?”

  “The second day I was kept in the lovely hotel that overlooked Lord's cricket ground. It was the medical man who attended to my leg who left instructions to call him. I followed the instructions, leaving a message at their embassy in plain English. 'A Mr Patrick West will be in charge at Group from the tenth of this month'. Plain and simple he'd said and I kept it that way.”

  “And did you go through Elijah to sanction that call, or did you call without asking permission?”

  “No, I'm not a Russian spy, Mr Joseph, as you well know. The request went through Elijah. He was the man I was taken to after arriving at Heathrow airport in the rain. He said he was to be my Control until they could place me in Canada.”

  “Was this man Scottish, Henry?”

  “You really are wandering around in the dark, aren't you? Yes, he was, and it was he who first told me your name.” He stopped speaking to stamp on his cigarette, grinding it into the concrete before he began again in a sombre voice.

  “You know London sent me back to Chechnya in 1999, this time to photograph the slaughter in the capital of Grozny. London had no regard for me being raped. Maybe they are all like you and never read of it. If they did read it, they could not have cared less. I was not raped again although I feared it every day I was there and I was there too long to let go of that fear. After the devastation of Chechnya they ordered me into Dagestan to watch more killing. I was cold there, Mr Joseph, like I'd never been cold before. At least I will be warm back in the hut before one of the guards comes to shoot me, eh?”