Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  Sam opened it up.

  The rush that accompanied teaching the spotty youth a lesson he might not forget for a while—had she been too tough on him?—was instantly washed away by a tsunami of despair. The e-mail read:

  Al Jazeera have received footage of Captain Tony James and Corporal Ted Groves’s execution. The two soldiers were ritualistically beheaded. Al J is not showing the video but is repeating the original clip with James speaking to the camera, then showing a single still of the two soldiers prior to their deaths. The accompanying Daesh diatribe is expectedly along the lines of “God is Great” and “Death to all infidels.” There doesn’t appear to be anything in the statement that affords us any clues. But we can look at that tomorrow.

  The complete video was released on Daesh’s Yemeni website, which DI is currently trying to close down. Google and similar are not allowing their search engines to find the video. We have a copy. I have decided not to upload it on the cloud until first thing tomorrow. Frankly, having seen it, I think we could all do with a night off. And looking at it now is not going to add much.

  We will meet tomorrow morning as per usual. Unless I hear otherwise, I will close Op Glasshouse down and use tomorrow’s session to review the Op and make a list of lessons learned.

  Thanks.

  Jane

  Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head back against a cushion that rested on top of the sofa bed she was sitting on. Along with a small dining table and four chairs, a TV, and an occasional table, that was her sitting room. Add a bedroom overcome by the size of the double bed Sam had squeezed in, a small kitchen, and a similar-size bathroom, and that was her flat. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

  So, it was over? A team of four highly trained SRR lads had been ambushed, shot, captured, killed, tortured, humiliated, and now executed by Daesh. The militants were obviously getting better at what they did and how they did it. But that good?

  She saw the context as this: those on the SRR team were experts at seeing without being seen; they blended in, their training was rigorous and detailed, and they could defend themselves expertly when needed. She’d met a couple of the lads in Camp Bastion a while back, and they had swapped war stories. Hers were incredibly dull by comparison.

  Trooper Bliss’s testimony from the attack indicated that everything Tony James and his team had done, they had done well. And yet, they had been beaten in the desert by an unknown force, and they paid with their lives.

  Sam knew it was true that Islamic militants were getting better equipped, but they didn’t have the weaponry, or the day-and-night sights, that the SRR had. Their training was basic. How to shoot straight. How to clean a weapon. How to detonate explosives. Sam had seen recent footage from training camps that showed them working as teams, one pair giving covering fire while a second moved to get close to their targets. But it was all basic infantry training. With basic infantry weapons. Not a match against the SRR.

  How could the imbalance of expertise be so easily flipped? Was it that Tony James’s team had just been unlucky? That they had come across a crack group of militants? Or were they beaten by somebody else?

  Manning and Bell.

  She knew she’d rehearsed the arguments before, as had the whole Glasshouse team. But, just now, she needed to toss something around to keep her brain occupied. To keep her mind off the catalogue of disasters that had plagued her recently: Uncle Pete; the death and capture of the SRR soldiers; the failed SF Op and the two casualties; David. And now the executions.

  Why was it that Disaster insisted on crashing into her life on a regular basis? What had she ever done to him?

  She needed a drink.

  Sam put her tablet to one side and, with her plate in one hand, she staggered over to the kitchen. God she was stiff. Probably the aftermath of the adrenaline surge from the spotty-youth incident.

  She felt lifeless. Devoid of anything. A bundle of dead nerves. And now, overpoweringly tired. She yawned, remembering at the last moment to put her hand in front of her mouth; “Come on, pet, we don’t all want to see your tonsils.” Mum! Where are you when I need you?

  She was too tired to cry.

  Sam placed the plate to the side of the sink—she would clean the small group of dishes before she went to bed—and reached into a cupboard for a wine glass.

  Which bottle? Sam was no expert, other than she liked what she liked. In her book, wine was like art. People paid too much money for stuff that the so-called experts said was good, when all you needed to do was use your own judgement. Or, in her case, trust Tesco to get it right. Their Finest collection was more than good enough for her ignorant palate.

  Ping. From the sitting room. She’d received another e-mail.

  If form were anything to go by, someone else was dead.

  She shook her head at her lack of respect for Captain James and Corporal Groves. Sometimes the inbred army response to a crisis was to deploy humour. Which, after the Apache gunship, was its most effective weapon. She was good at that.

  She poured herself a large glass of Argentinian Malbec and, after checking the time—it was nine thirty—she sat back down on the sofa bed, put her glass down, and reached for her work tablet.

  The new e-mail was from Wolfgang to her private Gmail address.

  Ehh, wow!

  It had a two-word title: “Help! Please?”

  Her stomach gave a little flutter, and, she hated to admit it, further south she felt something too. How many different emotions can you squeeze into such a short space of time? Her life was crazy.

  She opened up the mail.

  Hi, Sam, Wolfgang here.

  Yes, I know, you idiot.

  I need a second opinion on something I’ve been looking at. To be honest, it’s too embroiled—is that the right English word?—to go through in an e-mail, but it is concerning my mad theory about the worldwide conspiracy that we spoke about.

  Could we meet up? Please?

  I’m happy to travel. Or, if you come over here, I think we can spoil you.

  Let me know.

  Best.

  Wolfgang

  He left his number on the bottom of the e-mail.

  Bloomin’ hell!

  Bloomin’ hell! Why not? Yeah, absolutely, why not? This would be the perfect tonic to help lift an otherwise rubbish time.

  She could already picture him getting off the Eurostar at St. Pancras, wearing his brightly coloured chinos, brown brogues, checked Viyella shirt, and cashmere cardigan. Or, how about: she drives—or flies!—to the family home in the Black Forest; she had no idea where he lived. What about a huge Germanic hunting lodge with open fires, stag-head-adorned walls, and beer served in glasses the size of the Titanic? She couldn’t get giant feather duvets, mellow pine-covered walls, and accordion music out of her head. Perfect. Or, how would they say it over there? Wunderbar!

  She preferred the second option. But was she entitled to leave? She’d need to ask Jane. First thing.

  Sam thought about replying straight away. But that would smack of desperation, and, whilst she was the least qualified to judge on dating rituals, she intuitively thought that was the wrong approach. She’d either reply before she went to bed or first thing in the morning.

  How exciting! Thanks, Wolfgang.

  She meant it. Whatever your intentions, you have just brightened a very dark day. Thanks very much. So what now? TV?

  Or . . . how about looking over the break-in video of Wolfgang’s flat and, using her illegal security access, try to find out who the intruder was? Yes, she would do that.

  Chapter 11

  En Route to SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London

  Jane was mulling things over as she walked the final half mile to work. She had her own Glasshouse wash-up this morning, and the JIC was meeting again at 2:00 p.m. This would be her first-ever JIC. An all-male, very exclusive club, where the best and the brightest come together to discuss intelligence gathering concerning national-level security threats. Doubtless they wou
ld allow her a honeymoon period, to mess things up and then finally get things right. But she was twenty-five years David’s junior, so she couldn’t imagine they’d attach too much credence to any advice she would offer. Although, as the mouthpiece of SIS on the committee, they would have to listen to what the intelligence was saying.

  And she knew something they didn’t. Yesterday at lunchtime, after they had exhausted how David was and any likely prognosis, the CIA’s DD had briefed her on Op Greyshoe. This was new to her. The deputy director had said that, even since his last conversation with David a couple of days ago, things had moved on. Whilst still on extremely close hold—“You Limeys understand that Greyshoe is as tight as a drum here, and we expect the same in the UK?”—it had widened into a multiple-agency operation.

  “A senior pal of mine with the FBI and another at the IRS are looking into Miles Johnson’s business. They’re doing it very carefully so no one is spooked.”

  So the old DD was under investigation internally and for tax purposes? That’s good news, Jane thought. But, whilst he might be pulling the strings, it was Kurt Manning and Ralph Bell that she’d like to get her hands on.

  “Where do we think this is going, sir?” Look at me, asking the deputy director of the CIA supplementaries.

  “We have no idea. We’ve got the one lead, a half-mill payment to an account in Bogota three years ago on the same day the Ebola incident was closed. We reckon that was signed off on by Johnson. Nothing else. But something doesn’t seem right.” The DD paused. “You were the girl on the ground in Sierra Leone?”

  “That’s right, sir, yes. And I was Kurt Manning’s opposite number in the UK while he was at Langley. You might argue that I knew him well.”

  “What do you think’s going on?”

  Get this right, girl. Good practice for this afternoon’s JIC.

  “Kurt Manning held very strong Christian beliefs. I would argue that they influenced the way he did his business and the decisions he made.” Jane held off just for a second.

  “And?”

  “This is conjecture, and as a trained analyst I’m not used to making wild prognoses. But, my view is that the Ebola affair was an ultra-right-wing Christian-sponsored operation, designed to instil fear into Londoners and foreign tourists alike—whilst apportioning the blame on Islamic extremists, such as the so-called Islamic State.” Before the DD could say anything else, she continued, “Do you mind if I add one further hypothesis?”

  “No, go on.” Not a hint of impatience from the DD.

  “This was—is—bigger than Manning and Bell and the one failed terrorist attack. I believe it’s all part of a well-funded, well-organised Orthodox Christian–based conspiracy to undermine pluralism in the Western world. To polarise all of us. Are you a Christian? Or are you a Muslim?”

  It wasn’t a question directed at the DD, although Jane did wonder what his religious views were. And how much I might be poking at them.

  He let out a snort on the other end of the line.

  That wasn’t a good reaction.

  “If you don’t mind me patronising you just a little, that sounds like an opinion my nineteen-year-old daughter would offer. The world is more complex than that. Right versus left; good versus evil—that’s all too James Bond. No, sorry, Jane. Johnson, Manning, and Bell were trying to mop up after a Liberian jungle disease clinic had got a bit out of hand. What we’re trying to do here is establish why, now, the two ex-agents are still at large. And why Johnson signed off on that payment three years ago. Two disconnected events. No more, no less. That’s my view. There’s no international conspiracy here.”

  The DD had a relaxed tone—all motherhood and apple pie. She didn’t feel chastised, but she did feel a little patronised, as he had warned. It wasn’t a great feeling.

  She took a short breath, determined to try to influence him further.

  “I take your point, sir, but from where we’re sitting”—was it fair to paint the whole of SIS with her views?—“Manning and Bell are inextricably linked to the death of four British soldiers on the Arabian Peninsula. We have photos of them in an Islamic extremist training camp. So, they’ve either both gone Homeland on us, or they’re helping make Daesh more effective so Westerners will hate and fear them more. Pluralism will be the loser.”

  Did she just say all of that to the deputy director of the CIA? She wasn’t sure she would have had that conversation with David, let alone his oppo in the United States. But, she felt strongly about this, and the DD did seem to offer the opportunity for discussion.

  And, as she clearly remembered him, Kurt Manning was so far right on the Christian spectrum that it wouldn’t have been a surprise to find a white cape and pointy hood in his wardrobe. For his job, his hatred for Islam was on the wrong side of helpful. Add to that, he had been in the thick of the Ebola affair. Something was going on.

  There was a connection. She was sure of it.

  “That’s an interesting viewpoint, Jane, although you have no conclusive proof that Manning and Bell were instrumental in the deaths of your four unfortunate soldiers. But, you are right about views held by organisations such as the KKK. They’re still viable over here, and there are plenty of others like them. And, yes, I’m sure if they could find a way to force us all into their camp, they would. But, no extremist reaches into the centre of the CIA and makes these sorts of things happen. We would know. As I’m sure you would over there.” His tone was now conciliatory, flattering. Like he was talking to an equal.

  She let that hang for a second.

  “I don’t mean to have the last word, sir, but we don’t all need to be in the Klan’s camp. We just need to sit by and do nothing while their view of religion, possibly supported by future hard-line governments, goes to war against the other side. You have to admit that post 9/11 we were close to that. And we’re heading that way now.”

  The phone went quiet for a second. Jane had no idea if she had crossed a line or if she had moved the argument forward. But she’d rather get sacked for speaking her mind than remain employed for keeping shtum.

  “Another good point, but you’d need some very hard evidence to persuade me that you’re right, Jane. The terrorists are doing fine without support from some fascist fruitcakes over here. In the meantime, make sure you don’t let strongly held opinions affect your own decision making. It is key that we all keep an open mind, so that we don’t miss the things we don’t want to see.”

  That’s fair.

  The DD finished with, “And can I remind you that this is on the very closest of holds?”

  “Sure, sir. Yes. Just the chief and me. Good to talk to you.”

  “You too, Jane. Keep thinking outside of the box. And pop into my office next time you’re over here. Promise?”

  “That’s a promise, sir.”

  And that was that. She’d held her end up with the CIA.

  Faced with tricky situations, bullish was the only thing she knew. It had worked for her more often than not. Now it was time for the JIC. That might require more tact. She had always found that Americans opened themselves to questions and comment. Senior Brits were slightly more reserved and often more prickly.

  As she walked past the entrance to Vauxhall, where she ordinarily would have exited if she were taking the tube, Jane picked up a copy of Metro. The front page was ablaze with the deaths of the two SRR soldiers. The title “Execution: SAS fail to rescue army’s best” saying it all.

  She walked and read some more at the same time. On page four there was a short article that led with “British banker found hanged in the Big Apple.” She scanned the words and picked out London banker; likely suicide; and plush Fifth Avenue apartment. She’d forgotten the name of the poor chap even before she’d turned the page.

  SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London

  The video clip of the execution was as bad as Sam could have imagined: Two men, dressed in orange coveralls, their faces beaten almost to the point of being unrecognisable, hands tied behind t
heir backs and their heads resting, faces to the camera, on stone plinths—one each. The weapon was a scimitar of some sort, the executioner dressed all in black, with only his eyes showing. The background was scrubland with a nondescript, low hill in the distance. It could have been anywhere in the Middle East. The execution was carried out in the middle of the day, the sun at its highest; there was almost no shadow. Time of death, therefore: yesterday lunchtime.

  Sam checked the weather for the Saudi peninsula. There was no cloud cover anywhere yesterday. So that didn’t help; it could have happened in Yemen, Saudi—Iraq, even.

  She scoured the footage for something in the background, among the stones and the rocks. Something that might be identifiable, either from previous images or something she would see in the future. It appeared that Daesh had been very thorough about their choice of location. Bland. Forgettable.

  The executioner was probably six foot tall for an Arab, and broad. His black thawb was unremarkable, as was his keffiyeh. He wore black gloves and sandals, although his feet were difficult to see among the sand and rock. There was nothing there to help her.

  The scimitar was new to Sam. She’d not seen it before. The handle was dull-gold coloured with a guard, which was slightly ornate. She zoomed in and tried to picture the detail. It was difficult because the pixels were too large even after the image-sharpening software had kicked in. She looked for marks on the curving, dull-silver blade. There was nothing as helpful as a maker’s mark, but the blade was chipped in a couple of places—probably where it had smashed against stone, or sliced through bone. She made a note of where the chips were by circling the dents with an electronic pen. She’d check the three other Daesh executions that they had on the cloud—none were of British nationals—to see if the same weapon had been used before. She thought it unlikely.