House of War

by Scott Mariani

  They watched as the doors burst open and men in black jumped out, swiftly entered the gate and took their positions around the front door. The GIGN had come heavily equipped in full tactical gear, body armour and tactical helmets with goggles and respirators, automatic weaponry fitted with launchers for stun grenades. In appearance they were virtually indistinguishable from an SAS, Delta or Navy SEAL assault team, and they moved with the same highly trained fluidity. The point guy was armed with a breaching shotgun, ready to take out the door with frangible buckshot if his colleague with the battering ram didn’t breach it fast enough.

  They were through in a heartbeat. Effortless. Smooth. Unstoppable. The black-clad figures swarmed inside the hallway. There were loud muffled thumps from the house’s interior and brief flashes lit up the windows as the raiders let off their nonlethal munitions, designed to incapacitate the target with disorientating noise and blinding light.

  As quickly as the assault had kicked off, everything went suddenly quiet. It looked as if it was over.

  And then, even more suddenly, it was only just beginning.

  A violent explosion fifty times louder than the pop-pop of the stun grenades rocked the house and blew out the windows and front doorway in a massive mushrooming eruption of flame. One GIGN team member standing by the entrance was knocked off his feet by the force of the shockwave. His colleague who’d been a step closer to the doorway was engulfed in the fireball. The blast illuminated the street like daylight. Then most of the street-facing section of the roof of the house crashed inwards, the wall collapsed into rubble, and the explosion became a roiling inferno.

  Roth yelled, ‘Holy shit!’

  Ben hadn’t seen it coming either. And nor had the assault team. Half of them were still inside the blazing building. At least one had been buried by the collapsing wall. Several more were on the ground and not moving – stunned, dead, Ben had no idea. The ones still on their feet were in total disarray, stunned and panicked. No amount of training can prepare anyone for walking into a high-explosive-incendiary bomb ambush. Either the terrorists had known the raid was coming, or they kept some kind of home-made device on standby at all times just in case.

  The pharmacy next to the house was seriously damaged and burning. Car alarms were shrieking, and barely a single vehicle parked within thirty metres of the house had any glass left in its windows. Terrified neighbours were emerging from their homes or peeking out through their curtains at the incredible carnage taking place right there in their sleepy little suburban street. The howl of police sirens was nearby and approaching fast as the backup units who’d been waiting in the wings now raced to the scene.

  Ben’s instinct was to leap out of the car and run to lend assistance to the stricken assault team. His hand was on the door handle and he was poised to fling it open when he spotted movement from the rear section of the house that hadn’t been destroyed in the explosion. The solitary figure of a man scrambling from what looked like a small bathroom window, dropping to the ground and making a rapid escape across the garden. The intensity of the blazing fire was casting long, black, dancing shadows across the rear of the house and neighbouring properties. The running figure vanished into the darkness, then reappeared as he scaled a wooden fence into a next-door garden.

  Moments later, Ben saw him dash along the side wall of another house and vault the front garden wall into the street and hit the pavement running. He was maybe eighty yards away but Ben caught a clear glimpse of him under the glow of a sodium lamp. Tall and leggy, dressed in a hoodie top with a sports logo, faded blue jeans and white training shoes. He threw a wild look back at the blazing house and the chaos happening outside, and kept running. Sprinting hard around the corner.

  Roth had spotted him too. ‘Sonofabitch! He’s getting away!’

  Ben said, ‘No chance. He’s ours. Hold on tight.’

  The Alpina roared into action as Ben stamped hard on the gas, twisted the wheel and propelled them out of their parking space, slewing around in a doughnut to point in the direction of the escaping fugitive and then accelerating hard to catch up with him. Roth was already out with his pistol. The street behind them was suddenly lit up in a swirl of flashing red and blue and ululating sirens reverberated off the buildings as the police rushed in.

  Ben screeched the car around the corner where the runner had gone, and the flashing lights and leaping flames were lost from view. So was their target. Side streets extended in all directions and he could have hot-footed it down any of them. ‘Dammit, where’d he go?’ Roth exclaimed.

  Ben said nothing. They shot across the mouth of a narrow lane off to the left, and were almost past it before he caught a fleeting glimpse of the figure sprinting away from them down the pavement, trying to stay in the shadows of the buildings. ‘There!’ Ben braked to a screeching halt, slammed into reverse and backed up a few metres. Forward drive, foot to the floor. The tyres bit hard and the Alpina rocketed through the bend and down the narrow lane after him.

  Now the chase was almost over, and the running man knew he had zero chance of escape. He threw a startled look back over his shoulder, blinking in the glare of the oncoming headlights. Ben saw his face clearly for the first time. It was Hasan Jafari, the Sudanese guy in Roth’s picture and the prime target of the GIGN operation.

  Jafari was twenty metres ahead when he gave up trying to outrun the speeding car and spun around with a pistol in both hands. He fired twice, missing with the first shot. The second yowled off the corner of the Alpina’s roof. The third was liable to do worse. But Ben didn’t give Jafari time to fire it. Without slowing down he mounted the kerb, smashed a litter bin out of the way and aimed the wing of the car at Jafari in a glancing impact that caught him in the side and spun him violently off his feet. He tumbled hard to the ground, still clutching his pistol.

  Ben lurched to a halt and he and Roth were instantly piling out of their doors. Jafari was struggling unsteadily to his feet, staggering as he raised the gun to shoot at the two men striding purposefully towards him. Ben got there first, trapped his wrist, sent the weapon spinning to the pavement and put him on his face with the muzzle of his own gun pressed hard into the back of Jafari’s neck.

  ‘Nice takedown,’ Roth said.

  ‘I’ll show you how it’s done sometime,’ Ben replied.

  Roth looked down at Jafari with a shark smile. ‘This is your lucky day, motherfucker.’

  Three blocks away the mayhem from the aftermath of the explosion sounded like a ground assault. The burning house and red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles were lighting up the sky over the rooftops and the night air was acrid with smoke. Ben thought about the GIGN men who wouldn’t be going home tonight, thanks to Jafari and his friends’ little home cooking exploits. In another few minutes the police would have the whole area cordoned off. They needed to get out of here fast.

  Roth turned to Ben and said, ‘Crunch time, amigo. We either hand pretty boy over to GIGN and the cops, who’ll tear him limb from limb, or we snatch’m for ourselves and dive into a pile of shit a mile deep.’

  ‘I’m already in it,’ Ben said. ‘Might as well get in all the way. The authorities can have him after we’re done with him.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Roth replied, grinning fiercely. He seemed to be loving every moment of this.

  ‘If you want to make yourself useful, pop the boot lid for me.’

  ‘The what? Oh, you mean the trunk.’

  ‘And get the roll of Gorilla tape from my bag.’

  ‘Boy oh boy. This is just like the old days,’ Roth said. Ben made his pistol safe and put it away, then pinning Jafari to the ground with his knee he tore off a length of the strong black tape and wrapped it three times around the prisoner’s head to gag and blindfold him. Then he used two more lengths to bind his wrists and ankles before hauling him upright by the scruff of the neck and dragging him around towards the back of the car. The two of them dumped Jafari unceremoniously into the boot and slammed the lid down on him
.

  ‘Where to?’ Roth asked as they got back in the car.

  Ben had no desire to bring a kidnapped terrorist back to his own apartment, safehouse or no safehouse. What he had in mind was going to require a different kind of venue.

  ‘It’s time for you to meet a friend of mine,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Chapter 38

  It was after one a.m. by the time they rolled up to the tall wire mesh gates of Fred’s junkyard. The headlights shone on the rusted corrugated metal sheds and workshops inside the compound. Roth peered up at the curly razor wire that topped the twelve-foot fence. ‘Wow. How quaint. Our very own Guantanamo Bay.’

  ‘Fred values his privacy,’ Ben said.

  ‘I can resonate with that.’

  ‘Plus, not all the business he does on the premises is strictly legit. Let me do the talking, okay? He doesn’t speak a lot of English, anyway.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be a problem, bro. I’m fluent in seven languages.’

  ‘I keep forgetting what a genius I have for a partner.’

  Alerted by their presence, the junkyard dog bounded out of the moss-covered hulk of a derelict Citroën that was his kennel, and came streaking across the yard to hurl himself against the gate, barking furiously, wild eyes and gleaming fangs flashing in the headlights. Moments later dazzling floods lit up the compound and the steel shutter door of the largest corrugated building rolled up with a clatter. The burly shape of Fred appeared, clad in the same greasy blue boiler suit that he apparently slept as well as worked in, and clutching the sawn-off shotgun that he’d tried to sell Ben on his last visit. Fred lumbered across the yard, squinting suspiciously at the unexpected visitors.

  Ben stepped from the car. He called out in French, ‘Tire pas. C’est moi.’ Don’t shoot. It’s me.

  ‘I can see that,’ Fred said gruffly. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘That’s my cousin Bob,’ Ben said.

  ‘Right, sure.’ Fred waved the shotgun in the direction of the car, noticing the fresh dents and scrapes from that evening’s escapades. ‘Come to trade the Beemer in? Looks like it’s seen better days.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘And part with a classic? Sorry to disappoint you, Fred. We need to use your place.’

  ‘For what?’ Fred didn’t seem too delighted at being dragged out of bed at this uncivilised hour, but when Ben explained their purpose in coming here and what was in it for him if he agreed to help them, his sour expression melted into an amused sort of leer. ‘I always knew you were into some kind of heavy shit. Never asked any questions.’

  ‘Wise policy,’ Ben said.

  The deal was struck. Fred unlocked the thick chain that held the gates, and rasped a command to the dog that sent it back to its kennel. When the Alpina was through the gates he closed them and locked them in, then waved Ben over to the large shed.

  The building housed Fred’s main workshop as well as the grimy old touring caravan in which he dwelled like a troll in a cave. Ben parked up among the piled crates and assorted rusty bits of junk as Fred rolled the shutter down behind them.

  Roth stepped out of the car and stood wearing his Delta face, arms folded. ‘Cousin Bob, hm?’ Fred said wryly, eyeing him. Ben skipped the formal introductions. Instead he showed Fred the pistol he’d taken from Jafari, which was Fred’s payment for letting them use his place. Fred gave the weapon the once-over and seemed satisfied. ‘Not bad. I know a guy who’s been looking for one of these.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask what he wants it for.’

  ‘Discretion is the better part of valour,’ Fred said.

  Muffled stirrings were coming from the Alpina’s boot. Ben opened the lid to reveal the gagged, blindfolded prisoner uncomfortably folded up inside. Fred didn’t miss a beat. Apparently, people came here all the time with captive terrorists to interrogate.

  ‘Bring him in here,’ Fred said, motioning through a doorway. They hauled the struggling Jafari from the boot of the car and dragged him by the arms as Fred led the way into an adjoining shed.

  ‘This is where we hack ’em up and dispose of the bits,’ Fred said loudly, which Ben supposed was for the prisoner’s benefit. The shed walls were sheet steel and the floor was compacted earth. They shoved him over to a wheel-less truck chassis that had been slowly returning to iron ore for a very long time, and tethered him to it using lengths of rusty chain, of which copious quantities lay about. Fred directed a bright work lamp to shine into his face. Ben tore away the tape, removing most of his eyebrows in the process. Jafari yelped and blinked in the dazzling light.

  ‘He’s not going anywhere,’ Fred said, eyeing him like a hungry grizzly bear eyes a fat, juicy Montana elk hunter.

  ‘W-who are you fucking people?’ Jafari stammered in French.

  Ben replied to him in Arabic, so that Fred wouldn’t be privy to their conversation. ‘Doesn’t matter who we are. All that matters is what we’re going to do to you if you don’t start talking to us. You hurt a lot of people tonight, so don’t be expecting too much mercy.’

  Roth had found a large ball peen hammer to play with and was slapping it against the palm of his hand. His Arabic was even more fluent and less accented than Ben’s. ‘Now, you murdering little scumbag. I’m gonna start with your fingers, then your toes. Then I’m gonna beat your brains out. Squishing terrorists is my specialty.’

  Hearing the two white foreigners speaking his country’s official language made Jafari flinch, because he knew full well what the implications were.

  ‘This doesn’t have to be hard,’ Ben told him. ‘All you have to do is tell us where we’ll find Nazim al-Kassar. Then you can take your chances with the police, who I can promise you will be a lot nicer to you than my sadistic friend here.’

  From the look in his eyes it was instantly obvious that Jafari recognised the name very well. ‘I know who you are,’ he said defiantly. ‘Government fucking agents. British, American, who gives a shit? You want to catch Nazim, but he’s too smart for you. Nobody can catch him, inshallah! Nazim will fuck you all.’

  Roth looked at Ben. ‘Sounds like this guy has a real attitude problem.’

  Jafari spat. ‘You Yankee assholes are all the same. You think you’re so smart. Look around you, smart man. Jihad is already victorious against the dying civilisation of Europe. Soon all of its people will be Muslim or live under our rule as dhimmis, our slaves. Nothing can stop that. And then the filth of America will be next. We’ll overthrow your US government through jihad and the dominion of Sharia will cover all the world. Allahu Akbar!’

  ‘Your Caliphate is finished, moron,’ Roth said. ‘You had a good run, but this man’s army stopped it.’ He prodded a finger to his own chest. ‘It’s over. You’re done, get it? And your lunatic comrades need to rethink their plans for world domination because they’re all gonna end up just like you.’ He brandished the hammer.

  Fred was watching from the sidelines, not understanding a word but anticipating a good show. Ben had no doubt that Roth would carry out every bit of his threat if he were left to his own devices. He had no intention of letting the American start laying into an unarmed captive. Though Jafari didn’t know that.

  The only problem was that Jafari didn’t seem the least bit afraid of whatever the crazy American might be about to do to him. He looked Roth straight in the eye and screamed, ‘I’m only a servant of Allah. You can beat me, you can break my bones, you can kill me, but you can’t defeat me, because to die in the way of Allah is our highest hope!’

  And Ben believed him completely. It was the reason why none of the aggressive foreign policies of the West in fighting jihad had had, or could ever have, any serious effect. Because how could you deter an enemy who wasn’t afraid of death, one who actually embraced its prospect, who had been this deeply conditioned to believe that martyrdom in the name of their holy cause was their most glorious possible calling? Allied naval commanders had faced the same frightening truth when they’d first encountered the Ja
panese kamikaze suicide pilots in the Pacific campaign of World War Two. It was a whole new kind of warfare, and it changed the rules entirely.

  Which called for a more subtle strategy than Roth’s heavy-handed approach if they were to have any chance of success here tonight. Ben was quite certain that Hasan Jafari would have a big contented smile on his face while Roth gave him his ticket to Paradise by smashing his brains out.

  However, Jafari was still a man. And men, no matter how resolute in their beliefs, were generally subject to universal, primal, archetypal terrors that penetrated far deeper than any book-taught ideology ever could. Fundamentalist religion was a powerful force, to be sure, but it couldn’t undo millions of years of evolution stretching back to mankind’s earliest ancestors. Lizard brain theory, it was called, and it was a concept that Ben happened to subscribe to. You just needed to know how to reach that profound psychological core.

  Ben turned to Fred, and switching to French he said, ‘Fred, go and fetch Milou, would you, please?’

  Jafari frowned, caught off balance by this turn of events. ‘Who the fuck is Milou?’

  Ben replied, ‘Your worst fear, Hasan. Literally.’

  Fred was gone for a moment. When he came back he was struggling with the crazed, wild-eyed dog on the end of a leash as taut as a bowstring. Froth dripped from its jaws as it yearned to sink its snapping fangs into the flesh of a stranger, and it didn’t really care whose. The human chained to the truck chassis would do fine. Ben stepped out of its reach. Even Roth looked afraid of the thing.

  And so was Jafari, quite understandably. He backed away as far as he could, trying to cross his legs to protect his groin, which was at the perfect level for the dog’s gnashing jaws and most exposed to attack. He might have been ready to die a glorious hero’s death in the name of Allah, but nothing could quite prepare the most determined martyr for the reality of having one’s testicles clamped between the fangs of a savage beast, torn off by the roots and messily devoured in front of his eyes. Ben had been fairly sure that the prospect of such violent, bloody castration would be enough to make even the most devoted believer quickly forget all about the teachings of scripture. And he’d been right.