by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
Ashe reached forwards with his left arm and patted Aslan’s breast pocket.
‘Don’t be stupid, Tobbi. Your men have frisked me already. These papers come from our enemies!’
‘One can never be too sure.’ Ashe reached into the pocket and brought out a folded bunch of papers. He replaced the Browning.
A flash… Another flash! An explosion! The whole gorge lit up as the Chinook’s fuel tanks ignited.
‘Hit the floor!’ screamed Richmond as the long shoe of the helicopter separated itself mid-air from the twisted, whirling blades, then tumbled out of the night, crashing with an unbearable roar into the narrow sides of the gorge.
Silhouetted against the rippling night sky, a group of Taliban fighters from Bin Laden’s advance party, holding a Katyusha-bearing SAM rocket launcher, shot several rounds into the night air before disappearing into the blackness.
The quivering Chinook creaked with busting rivets as it hung suspended halfway down the gorge sides. Another explosion ripped apart its body. The remains slipped, groaned, then crashed violently into the riverbed, swiftly followed by wild spinning chopper blades and torn tyres.
Ashe and Richmond kept their hands over their heads, their faces sunk into the earth and their eyes closed, as flaming debris shot everywhere. Burning petrol flowed into the stream, lapping against the sides. When the heat became too much to bear, Ashe looked over to Richmond, then to Aslan and al-Qasr.
They’d gone.
Ashe pulled at Richmond’s jacket and screamed at his friend above the noise. ‘Inside the cave! The cave!’ Richmond nodded. The two men crawled on their bellies, the backs of their legs singed by the heat, towards the cave entrance. They made their way under the twisted metal and, finally, into the foul gloom of the now-stinking interior.
A third explosion: this time from inside the cave complex; then another, followed by a rapid series of smaller detonations that rocked the covert labyrinth. The facility had been booby-trapped: a final, bitter adieu from Aslan and al-Qasr.
104
Rain was beating against the high window in Karla Lindars’ office at Shrivenham. The dreary autumn light cast phantom shadows across the pale room. Ashe’s secretary was on the phone.
‘No, Melissa. No news at all. It’s been nearly a week now. Anyway, darling, what do you care? Fucking off to Dublin like that with your girlfriends.’
‘Seemed the right thing to do, Karla. The strain gets to you, you know.’
‘Yes, but it’s how we cope with the strain, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe I’m just not made for this sort of thing, Karla. Anyhow, I’ve met someone.’
‘I don’t want to know. I’ll call you if I have any news. Goodbye Melissa.’
US Field Hospital, Mosul, Iraq
A beautiful face. Jolo Kheyri was looking down at Ashe.
‘I try to grow a moustache like my uncle’s, Tobbiash. But is no good.’
Ashe’s eyes adjusted to the sight. ‘You’re looking… fine, Jolo. Where’s the party?’
Jolo stood up and twirled his sumptuous gold-edged black robe. His spotless linen headscarf, bound by an elaborate pitch-black ogal, caught the hard light of the strip-bulb. Ashe squinted. His head was pounding. ‘Very nice.’
‘The men of the Sinjar always wear best things for the Jema’iyye.’
‘The…?’
‘The pilgrimage.’
Ashe realised Jolo was talking about the all-important Autumn Festival at Lalish, the Great Assembly feast. He knew that thousands normally attended, and that it always took place in the first week of October. ‘Starts today?’
Jolo counted on his fingers. ‘This is five day.’
‘Fifth day?’ Ashe sighed heavily. ‘I’ve been in hospital for over a week?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t feel so well, Jolo. Where’s Simon?’
Jolo sat down again. ‘Very sick.’
Ashe closed his eyes. He thought of his friend’s open, lightly freckled face, the warm smile, the kindly, no-nonsense voice: the man he could trust with his life.
‘Like you, Tobbiash, Major Richmond is caught in… cave. Rock falling on body. We dig you out. Major Richmond very, very sick. You have… operation. You have metal, here.’ Jolo pointed to the back of his skull.
‘Great, Jolo. Now I’m bulletproof.’ Ashe tried to laugh, but it hurt.
‘For Major Richmond,’ Jolo shook his head mournfully, ‘is very serious. American doctors here in Mosul try very much, but he is sent back to Britain.’
‘The other guys?’
Jolo looked very uncomfortable. ‘Yes. It was hard day. Evil things are happening.’
‘How many?’
Jolo smiled. ‘D Squadron. All are safe! Very good!’
‘The others?’
‘Very good for eight men.’
‘Eight killed?’
‘Yes, but many Ansar al-Sunna dead! And Tobbiash! Very, very good! Baba Sheykh is found! Yes! Thanks to you!’
‘Me?’
‘When Major Richmond is attacking. Many explosions. Sheykh is lying down. He has guards but bombs are too much for them. They are scared and don’t know what to do. Sheykh tells them, “Go outside! Help your friends! If you cannot help your friends, now is the time to run away because the soldiers have more guns, and they kill you.” Then they are thinking to kill the sheykh. And the sheykh looks in their eyes and says, “I am dying. I pray to God for you.” And the men leave the sheykh. And the sheykh is not dying. He still has strength. And he follows way through caves. All the time guns, explosions, and men are running. Now Baba Sheykh know these caves near Nerva Zheri in Hakkari Mountains. Our people have hidden in them many centuries. He is not well. But he finds way! And he climbs and he climbs, out into the mountainside. All the time he is thinking of his people and of the pilgrimage. And he sees the stars. And he goes to sleep in love of God. And British soldiers find him. And they bring him here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He is at Lalish of course! Without Baba Sheykh, no Jema’iyye! Now, is thanks to you, he is with Yezidi people! You are servant of Tawusi Melek, yes! Thank God! Thank God! Tobbiash!’
Jolo’s excitement caught the attention of a passing US air-force flight surgeon.
‘I think you’ll have to leave now, sir.’
Ashe looked over to the doctor in the steel-rimmed pilot’s glasses and glimpsed the name sewn onto his sleeveless, dark-green surgeon’s shirt. ‘Captain Hong.’
‘Yes, Dr Ashe?’
Ashe extended his hand.
‘How do you do, Dr Ashe?’
‘Can I get up now?’
Hong looked surprised. ‘Since CASEVAC brought you in to the field hospital here, you’ve had serious surgery on your skull, sir. The stitches have dissolved now, but you should be taking it easy for a few weeks. You had a hole in your skull the size of my thumbnail. We’ve been very concerned about possible brain injury.’
‘You got the piece out.’
‘Pieces, sir. We got them all out. You should be taking it easy.’
‘On my back?’
‘Well, you’ve come round… May I take your pulse, sir? And your temperature? Here, don’t swallow.’
Hong put a thermometer on Ashe’s tongue. ‘I don’t know if you’re up to it, sir, but there’s been a guy from home seconded to the DIA up here. He’s been in and out. Damn keen, sir, to speak to you.’
‘Name wouldn’t be Beck, would it?’
‘Yes, sir. Sherman Beck. Nice fella. Now, if you can sit up, I’d like to take a look at the scars.’
Hong deftly felt along the lines of the surgical wound. ‘Pretty good. Very good! You shape up well, Dr Ashe.’
‘Did Beck say when he was coming back?’
‘Well, he’s been coming back every four hours or so. So… I guess he’ll be here… pretty soon. He’ll be delighted to see you back in the land of the living.’
‘And the dying.’
‘Well, sir… we do our be
st. I guess he’s got a lot to say to you, Dr Ashe.’
‘I bet he has.’ Ashe took Jolo’s arm. ‘Jolo, give me a hand! Got my kit, Dr Hong?’
‘I’m not sure I’m authorised to let you outta the hospital, sir.’
‘Listen, Dr Hong. I’m a British citizen, on a very important mission for a very important man in Baghdad.’
‘Covert work, sir?’
‘Would I tell you?’
‘I’ll get your kit, sir. But you better be taking it easy. And I want to see you back here for a check-up and X-ray in twenty-four hours, d’ya hear?’
‘You’re a brilliant man, Dr Hong.’
‘I doubt it, sir. But if I was you, I wouldn’t be getting out of bed like this.’
‘No choice, Doctor. Here, Jolo! Help me on with what’s left of my trousers!’
Ashe reached for his combat vest, still caked in dust and myriad fragments of carbon. He felt a bulge in the breast pocket and withdrew a sheaf of dusty papers: scan-copies of printed Arabic.
‘What on earth are these? I don’t remember seeing them before. How’s your Arabic, Jolo?’
‘No problem.’
Jolo seized the papers. His eyes darted down the sheets. ‘Ansar al-Sunna! Tobbiash, these are plans. Who give this to you?’
Ashe shook his head. ‘No idea.’
As Jolo studied the papers more closely, his body began to shudder. He looked up at Ashe in horror, hands shaking. ‘Tobbiash! We must go! We must go now! I must warn my men!’
‘What the hell is it?’
‘Plans to attack the Yezidi people! At Lalish. You see here! On the fifth day: at the Assembly! Six agents.’
‘Why Lalish?’
‘We always fear it. In our hearts. Many hate us. They say our tradition is not true, that we worship a devil. You know Arab word for “tradition” is “al-Sunna”. By killing us, they claim to be guardians of tradition. Is propaganda for al-Qaeda. We have heard warning before. Who find this?’
‘I can’t remember. My head’s too…’
105
Jolo’s knuckles were white as the pinkie SAS desert Land Rover stormed north to Lalish. The three SAS-trained irregulars carrying M16s with grenade launchers in the back seat were tingling with fear for their people.
‘I am sorry for your head, Tobbiash, but we must do everything to save the people.’
‘You’ve radioed ahead. You’ve got guards at all the entry points. Patrols on the mountaintops. Men in the streets. At the shrines.’
‘You not understand, Tobbiash. There are thousands of Yezidis in the holy valley. Also on the hillsides. At the tomb of Sheykh Adi. At the shrines. At the sacred springs. There is dancing. There is singing. There are people selling. There are Muslims there who come to watch. The Baba Sheykh. Where do we begin? Will they bomb the shrines? Snipers against the prince? People have tried to kill him before.’
Suddenly, Ashe realised that the return of the Baba Sheykh and the presence of the prince – both vital for the Autumn Assembly – would almost certainly bring Princess Laila and Sinàn to the valley. He felt something of the panic that had enveloped Jolo Kheyri.
‘Look, they only have six agents.’
‘Six agents. Six bombs.’
‘I understand that. So, if you had a limited number of agents and you wanted to make the biggest impact, what would you do?’
Jolo looked bereft, shaking his head.
‘Think, man! Think!’
Jolo thought hard. ‘Tobbiash, today is the five day. Today sacrifice of bull.’
‘Perfect. Ansar al-Sunna must know this. Describe it!’
The men in the back pointed to the mountains in the north. ‘Mount Meshet!’
Mount Meshet bounded the holy valley to the south. The men urged Jolo to put his foot down. The pinkie could go no faster.
Jolo shouted to Ashe, ‘On day of sacrifice. Always in afternoon.’
‘What time?’
‘Every year is different. No special time. Head feqir and prince decide on day.’
Ashe looked at his watch. 13.10. His heart raced. He took three of the painkillers given him by Dr Hong. He felt dizzy. Jolo continued the description.
‘You know Market of Mystical Knowledge?’
‘The walled place in front of the Sanctuary of Sheykh Adi?’
Jolo nodded. ‘Men come with guns. They line up round walls. Even the holy men and the nobles in the sanctuary guesthouse. They stand to see.’
‘Who’s in the guesthouse?’
‘The nobles and holy men. They stay there. Sleep on mats on floors. It is fine pillars and good stone floor.’
‘Are they all there?’
‘Most, yes.’
‘That’s where they’ll strike! Alert your guards, Jolo! They must search the guesthouse!’
‘The nobles will not like this!’
‘Can you persuade them?’
106
The road towards the valley from Meshet was packed. Battered old cars from the days before the first Gulf War, held together with string and hope, jostled for every available place. There was no way the pinkie could get through.
Jolo’s men had brought horses. Even so, the hundreds of men, women and children from the Sheikhan, from the Jebel Sinjar, ancient Nineveh, Mosul, and even Syria, made it impossible to get any speed up.
Everywhere Ashe looked he could see qewwals with daff and shebab, playing and singing as the pilgrims hogged the narrow paths towards the Shrine of Sheykh Shems.
Ashe was repeatedly jostled by late-comers carrying the striped tents they would erect at the traditional ojakhs, the campsites where the clans spent their week at the holy valley, cooking, playing and sleeping.
To Ashe’s astonishment, Jolo’s men had already rooted out five terrorists attempting to conceal AK-47s in tents. They’d been dragged outside Lalish, given a beating and tied up, pending interrogation. The method of capture had been simple. Gathering round a group, Jolo’s men would suddenly request the people to crouch, in Kurmanji. Arabic speakers would immediately stand out, literally, from the crowds. Given the conditions, the irregulars’ efficient operation was little short of miraculous. But then, miracles had always happened at Lalish, and none but Ashe was surprised.
Miracle or not, that still left one agent – and one determined agent of Ansar al-Sunna would be more than enough to wreck the entire community forever.
Jolo told Ashe to dismount and remove his boots and socks. They must all walk barefoot in the valley, security or no security.
Down the valley, the call had gone out that the ceremonies culminating in the bull sacrifice were to begin soon. Jolo, Ashe and over a dozen of Jolo’s irregulars ran up the stone paths, dodging dozens of startled pilgrims. From among the trees, young men in Western gear and girls in lace and gold and silver brocade pointed at them, wondering what was going on. One word in the wrong ear, and there would be massive panic, a stampede, and death.
Finally, they arrived at the courtyard outside the sanctuary. The place had been thoroughly searched. Jolo bowed to the prince. There was a tap on Ashe’s shoulder.
‘Laila!’
She kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Oh, Tobbi! What you and Major Richmond have made possible! Look!’ Laila pointed to the Baba Sheykh, who was sitting beneath a wooden gazebo in a corner of the courtyard, deliberating with visiting Yezidi headmen. ‘My brother is overjoyed. He is so sorry. He wants to speak to you.’
‘Please, Laila! Not now! Please, leave the area!’
‘No one leaves now, Tobbi. We have our guards.’
A group of men dressed in baggy trousers and white shirts appeared with sticks, striking people lightly in a well-understood gesture to clear the square before the arrival of the guns.
Ashe strained to see. He looked over to Jolo; Jolo shrugged his shoulders.
There came the echo of fast-moving feet on stone. The crowds began to quieten. Some twenty-five Yezidi men in cream-coloured surcoats over black sweaters and trousers ran into
the courtyard and lined the sides, raising their AK-47s above their blue-chequered turbans and into the air. Jolo ran over to Ashe. The crowd gasped.
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Any time now, guns fire to signal beginning.’
‘That must be the time. That’s why they chose this day. Everyone’s in one place.’
Jolo pulled Ashe into a crouching position. ‘Look at the people’s feet! Follow me!’
Ashe followed Jolo, who pushed through the crowd with his unwelcome M16. Foot after foot. It was maddening. ‘What am I looking for, Jolo?’
‘Anyone who is not naked foot.’
They approached the sanctuary guesthouse. Ashe saw pools of goats’ blood, glistening. This was where the goats gathered to be slaughtered and then fed to the guests.
‘Look! Look!’
‘Where?’
‘Look there! A man with a goat! His feet.’
Ashe saw a pair of feet in thick woollen socks.
107
An urgent wave of expectancy swept through the crowd. Everyone stared at the great coal-black serpent at the sanctuary gate. Suddenly the murmur ceased. Shuffling feet on stone. Jolo whispered quickly to Ashe, ‘Muslims, when asked to remove their shoes, often take only the shoes away. We do not ask them to remove sock.’
The two men stood up to inspect the suspect who’d entered the courtyard in socks. Several Muslim dignitaries had been invited. They wore socks also. But this man was dressed like a Yezidi. He was leading a goat towards the interior of the guesthouse.
‘Look at his eyes, Tobbi. Something is wrong.’
Ashe looked at the cord attached to the goat. Not the usual rope. It was a cable. Ashe grabbed Jolo’s shoulder and pointed to the goat. ‘Look at it!’
Staring intently through the shifting gaps in the wavering crowd, Jolo could see the goat had been shaved. A new coat of goat’s hair had been carefully bound around it.
‘The cable’s the detonator. In his hand.’
