Sam had no idea why, against the backdrop of sickening pain, she was suddenly feeling so flippant. Shock? Possibly. If that were the case she’d need to keep checking her heart rate and look out for on-hand bodily warmth should she start to feel faint. Oh God, there I go again. Get serious. It was the grey-suited welcoming party that had kicked her off. She regretted her mood change, but it was better than falling to her knees and sobbing uncontrollably. Which was the likely alternative.
Sam’s attention was drawn to one corner of the enclosure. A tall, slightly hunched man was surrounded by three much shorter men—at first glance they were from the Pacific Rim, likely Chinese or Korean. Always the analyst. The tall man was late twenties. A handsome man. Blond hair—rakish, but well cut. Angular features, someone straight out of Hitler’s guide to the ideal Bavarian, and dressed in a low-key but classy combination of gentlemen’s clothes. He was six three, maybe six-four, and slim built. Franz the Austrian—she had already named him—was in deep and animated conversation with the three shorter men. But he paused and looked across at Sam, stopped himself, and then resumed his conversation in lower tones.
Sam shot her glance away, embarrassed—which took some doing—having been caught staring. Curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced over again and met Franz’s gaze. He returned an accusatory look, which unnerved her. Good-looking, confident—and a bugger. She wouldn’t do that again.
Sam spent the next couple of minutes staring across at the wreckage. She tried to take it all in, but she couldn’t. She was usually an expert at looking and registering. She could pick out a face in a crowd and get an artist to redraw it as if it were a photograph. But today, here with Uncle Pete, she knew that she wasn’t getting any detail. She saw, but didn’t register, the smashed fuselage, the burned seats, and other important bits of aircraft—she recognised the fins from an engine. With three or four people in hooded white plastic suits, she guessed there was the odd body part still being bagged. Gross.
Her fuzzy thoughts were interrupted as, out of the corner of her eye, Franz—she widened the nationality to well-heeled German or Danish—slipped out of the enclosure and started to make his way down to the checkpoint. He’d obviously seen enough.
So had she. She turned in the direction of the tent to grab a quick coffee. She needed a jolt before embarking on the rest of the day. But she was met by the three short men who, without meaning to, blocked her way. Sam moved to her left and they, trying to make room for her, collectively stepped right, inadvertently stopping her again. She grimaced a little and turned to her right and was just about to circumnavigate them when she found herself wanting to ask them a question. Maybe I need some company right now.
“Hello.” She paused, allowing the men to register the fact that she had engaged them. As a threesome they stood still and stared at her, an intense but unthreatening stare. “Do you speak English?”
The three quickly stole glances at each other, and then the eldest looking of the three said, “Yes, I do. Fluently. My colleagues also speak the language well, but mostly centred on a scientific vocabulary.” At that point, he brought his hands together and bowed from the neck, just enough to show respect.
Sam found herself doing the same. She had no idea if that was the right thing to do, but it seemed polite. The other two men followed suit.
“Where are you from?”
“We are from Korea. South Korea. And you? You are either English or Australian?”
“English. Definitely English, although it’s nice to be confused for someone with as relaxed an attitude as an Aussie.”
“Are you a relative?” The senior Korean man was taking the initiative now.
Sam had already clocked what they were wearing. Smart, outdoor clothing. Sturdy, but not necessarily expensive. They smelled very clean, a soft deodorant scent wafted gently above the stench of burned grass, metal, and rubber. They all had pens in the pockets of their jackets, and one man carried a narrow, brown leather briefcase, big enough for two or three slim files. She thought that they were probably executives from an engineering firm, or maybe university professors. They had a kind demeanour, one that associated itself with trust and confidentiality. She felt she could tell them her closest secret and it wouldn’t leave the valley.
“Yes. My uncle died on the flight.” Sam held back a sharp rush of emotion. She so wanted to expose how she felt to these kindly gentlemen. She coughed to hide her embarrassment. “And you?”
“No. We are colleagues of a man, no, sorry, a great man, who passed away here. We have come to show our respects and hope that the gods allow some of his greatness to be bestowed on us whilst we are at his side.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope the gods answer your wishes.” They had Sam’s attention now. She was curious, if for no other reason than that three colleagues would immediately fly thousands of miles in the hope that they might soak up some imaginary greatness that was seeping from the devastation. She caught herself. Who am I to rubbish their beliefs?
“Your colleague must have been very special. Do you mind if I ask why?”
The eldest man tipped his head to one side and smiled.
“We are from KSTAR, which stands for Korea Superconducting Tokamak Research.” He spoke purposefully, with a slight Eastern accent. “I won’t bore you with scientific detail, but at our laboratories in Daejeon we are close to achieving localised nuclear fusion using a very big magnet. Professor Lim was our lead researcher. Within him was the gift to complete small-scale nuclear fusion—limitless energy from the simplest of atoms.”
Sam interrupted the gentleman.
“Hydrogen. You fuse atoms of hydrogen together and it releases a huge amount of spare, but very clean energy. The principle of the hydrogen bomb?”
“That is correct, Miss . . . ?”
“Green. Sam Green.” She held out her hand. The man took it, and very quickly the other two men shook it warmly, nodding and smiling all at the same time. Sam returned their smiles a little awkwardly and bowed at them again. Why not?
“I am Professor Lee, and my colleagues are Professors Park and Kim. We all work on the project together, but always in support of Professor Lim. Recently we have had success with our latest round of experiments, but with the loss of Professor Lim, I’m afraid our project could be set back at least two years, maybe up to five. His death is devastating for KSTAR, but also for the world.” Professor Lee maintained the look of complete dignity, but Sam could sense a real feeling of loss among these gentle men.
“I am very sorry to hear that. I really am. I do hope that some of Professor Lim’s greatness and understanding is granted to you from this visit. I really do.” She bowed again. If the atmosphere weren’t so grave, the whole exchange might be seen as comical. The three men bowed in reply.
“And, Miss Green, we sincerely hope that you find peace here with the loss of your uncle. I do not know you, other than to speak to you here in this dark place. But I know that you are a fine woman, with great integrity, compassion, and empathy. You will find your place in this world, and your uncle will be more proud of you than you could ever know.” He paused and looked beyond Sam to the crash site. “It is so.”
Sam closed her eyes and bowed her head again, this time to avoid the three men seeing the start of her tears. With her head still slightly bowed, she nodded and replied so quietly that Professor Lee had to lean forward to hear, “Thank you. Good-bye, and have a safe journey.”
Looking up and catching the briefest of acknowledgements from the three professors, she turned and rather unceremoniously dived into the coffee tent.
A little later Sam was back down in the town, heading for the woodenly disguised pizza joint she had spotted earlier. On the way down she’d managed to pass the airline staff without shouting “airheads” out loud. She was proud of herself for that.
To her left in stationary traffic, Sam noticed the tall German—or Danish, or Austrian—man in a VW Golf hire car; the green Europcar sticke
r on the window was an easy giveaway. He was waiting to head down the hill. She didn’t mean to stare, but there was something about him, something that infatuated and unnerved her all at the same time. It drew her eyes to him.
As she gawped, the man casually turned and looked directly at her. He didn’t flinch. He just looked. Sam had stopped walking; the car was also stationery. The traffic was at a standstill. It was a sort of surreal standoff, their gazes caught in a time lock that seemed to last for ever. Sam knew she had an intense frown on her face. A sort of, “I’m looking at you, mate, because you interest me. And I don’t know why.” It couldn’t be a good look. Especially as she was wearing her Quo T-shirt and hair that needed an appointment with a gardener.
After a couple of seconds, she thought Franz the Austrian’s returning stare was arrogant, along the lines of, “Be careful, Sam Green. You don’t know what you could be letting yourself in for.” But she might have misjudged him by a country mile. Could he be a darling?
And then the traffic moved, and he was gone in an invisible cloud of pungent diesel. But not before Sam had clocked the car’s registration number.
A Nondescript Office, Fourth Floor of No. 17, Third Avenue, New York
Ned scrunched up his face as he looked at his screen. The latest edict from Herbert needed his attention; the deadline for this one was shorter than usual. It was therefore a bit of a distraction to have to pursue a potential security infringement on his machine. There was a little red triangle at the bottom of the screen with a yellow exclamation mark at its centre. The icon told him that something wasn’t right.
He reached for a Jelly Baby and ate it in his usual manner. He clicked on the security app, which opened up a dialogue box; its aim was to interrogate the system for breaches. He was just about to type in a command when, all of a sudden, CNN became very interesting. He turned up the sound and clicked the “Enlarge” icon on the corner of the inset screen.
The video was of two white men in orange boiler suits sitting in front of a black curtain. The curtain was decorated with an odd, black-and-white, comic-looking flag that Ned didn’t recognise. There was a terrorist-type bloke behind them, his face covered. Ned saw he was carrying a gun. One of the men dressed in orange was talking at the camera. He was straight-backed, but his face was a mess—all black eyes and cuts. The other orange-suited man sitting next to him looked delirious, possibly unconscious. He had his head leaning on the shoulder of the upright man. Ned couldn’t tell the state of his face because it was almost completely turned away from the camera.
The man spoke so quietly that CNN provided subtitles. He’d missed a couple of lines, but what he saw and read shocked him.
“Our keepers from the Islamic State have treated us fairly. As you can see, Corporal Groves to my right is not well.” The subtitles froze for a second as the man coughed. His face grimaced as pain, somewhere in his body, accompanied the action. He continued to speak, the subtitles filling the audio gaps. “The Islamic State is demanding that all countries, particularly the United States and Russia, cease bombing Syria immediately. They are giving the international community five days to stop this bloodshed, otherwise myself and Corporal Groves will be summarily executed.” He paused again, the subtitles hovering. “I have been asked to apologise to the people of Yemen for our illegal invasion of their country. An invasion that led to the death of Trooper Sandy Jarman. And the legal internment by ISIL of Corporal Groves and myself.” He coughed again, closing his eyes to shield the pain from the viewers of the world. He then looked directly at the camera and almost imperceptibly mouthed a sentence that did not come with accompanying subtitles.
The screen flashed back to the CNN reporter.
“It seems that Captain Tony James added to the script he had been given by so-called ISIL. We believe his unscripted words were, ‘I’m not sure that Ted will last much longer.’ It is not clear why the released video, which was delivered to Al Jazeera just four hours ago, was allowed to keep the additional unspoken words. Unless the terrorists missed this brave call by the captured British officer.”
Ned shivered demonstrably. He remembered the last time he’d watched a video like this. He couldn’t for the life of him recall the date, but it was of the two airmen shot down by the Iraqis during one of the two Gulf wars. Both of the men looked like they’d spent ten rounds in the ring with Tyson Fury. At the time there was commentary that the airmen’s injuries might have come from being ejected from the seats of their Tornado aircraft. Nobody ever believed that, though, did they?
Ned knew he was a coward to the core; he’d run away from a number of playground fights, rather than face the bullies who had confronted him. So he didn’t scoff at the exploits of the British Army. As he looked at the ticker tape running across the bottom of the screen, he qualified his admiration to that of the UK’s Special Reconnaissance Regiment—today he had the greatest admiration for them. In his more wistful moments he often imagined himself operating out of a sand-coloured, stripped-down Land Rover in the deepest desert somewhere. He’d look great wearing a blue-checked tea towel around his head and carrying more weapons and ammunition than Arnold Schwarzenegger could muster.
I’d have to get some Ray-Bans first, though.
The thought of being so close to danger made him shiver again. To find comfort, he reached for another Jelly Baby—oh, good, a green one! He then reminded himself he needed to check on the security breach.
Chapter 6
Aire, Abondance Village, French Alps
It was after dark. That is, it was way past sunset, but the media village emitted enough light to be seen from space. Sam had eaten a salad, washed up her few dishes, and was now relaxing on Bertie’s bench seat with her SIS secure tablet open in front of her. Running low on battery, she was powering it from the VW’s lighter socket. Energy efficiency was key when day-to-day living relied on a couple of vehicle batteries.
The inside of Bertie was small: the front passenger seat turned around, and with the rear bench seat, a small table, and a kitchen running along one side of the van, she had the smallest studio apartment in Christendom. But it worked for her. There was something womb-like about the compactness of these campervans that helped her to manage—what should she call them? Sensitivities.
She had watched the Daesh video seven or eight times, pausing it every few seconds to see if she could spot something that might give a hint as to where the two members of the SRR were being held.
The captain and the corporal gave no clues at all. The orange clothes were ordinary, their shoes and socks were unremarkable, and the beatings they had obviously endured were horrific. But there was nothing to tell where the video might have been shot. She did notice, and had already relayed the information to Jane, that she thought Captain James probably had a leg or hip injury. Although he was sitting, she could tell that the top of his right leg was slightly wider than the left and, on closer inspection, seemed to be wrapped or bandaged from the knee upward. Having read the briefing notes from Trooper Bliss, this tied in with his boss radioing that he thought he had been shot in the leg. The trooper couldn’t attest to any other injuries. Sam’s view was that, other than the facial beating—and that would tie in with him flinching when he coughed—he didn’t appear to have any other injuries. Although, to be fair, having a bullet rip through your leg was bad enough. As she knew. In this case “Empathy” was her middle name.
Corporal Groves was another matter. Bliss had told them that Groves was the first to be hit and was out of view throughout the attack, “over a ridge.” He hadn’t even known if Ted Groves was alive.
Sam spent an age looking for Groves’s likely injuries so that, should a Special Forces team effect a rescue, the accompanying doctor would know what he might be dealing with.
It wasn’t easy. The man was clearly not well, and the captain had made the point at the end of the clip that Groves didn’t have very long left. Sam had spotted bandaging under his shirt in his stomach region and, possibl
y, up around his shoulder; both arms were free—there seemed to be no injuries there. His legs looked like they were untouched, so it was probably an abdominal or chest wound. Add to this that the corporal was still alive, then the wounds were not fatal in themselves. Assuming he had been positioned in the chair for a bit before filming, there was no obvious leaking of blood. But he was clearly not well. Possibly patched up and now had an infection.
Sam had made notes and sketched a torso on her tablet, detailing where she thought the bandages might be. It would be up to the doctors to make decisions from that information.
Sam was now studying the terrorist who stood behind the two soldiers. She was particularly interested in his weapon. He was dressed in black: black trousers—likely to be black denim; a black cotton shirt, stained with sweat under both arms; and a black keffiyeh covering all of his face other than his eyes. She zoomed in on his eyes; nothing distinguishable came through. They could be the same eyes as those of Sahef’s henchman from the previous photographs, but she couldn’t say for certain. The man wore black gloves, so she wasn’t able to study his fingers and nails.
The rifle was interesting. It was the latest version of the Kalashnikov AK-47—bizarrely named the AK-12. It was only recently brought into in service with the Russian Army—she thought December 2013—but available on the black market for a price. This weapon had a scratch on the barrel. The scratch was in exactly the same place as that on the weapon carried by the henchman at the Daesh safe house in downtown Sana’a—the Arab who had opened the double wooden gates. She was initially put off by the fact that this rifle didn’t have the Vortex Strikefire II optical sight fitted, which was evident in both of the previous images. Otherwise it would have been a perfect match. As the sight was an obvious marker, maybe the man had been told to remove it for this video? To disguise the man, that would be a sensible thing to do. Daesh might be militant murderers, but they weren’t stupid.
Fuelling the Fire Page 9
