Primal terrors. Crude, but unquestionably effective. Men were so vulnerable, deep down.
Hasan Jafari soon began to talk.
Chapter 39
Once the floodgates opened, they couldn’t shut him up. All the while, Fred was hanging onto Milou’s leash, and probably hoping that Ben would give him the signal to let go.
More often than not, a man will tell the truth when he’s within moments of gory emasculation; and so when the prisoner desperately and repeatedly insisted that he had no idea where Nazim al-Kassar was, and that he, Hasan Jafari, was just a minion, a lowly footsoldier, and not privy to such top-level intelligence, Ben and Roth reluctantly had to accept that he was being sincere.
But that didn’t mean Hasan Jafari had nothing to offer his tormentors by way of information.
‘The woman,’ he gasped, breathless with terror as the dog went on eyeing him with bared fangs. ‘I know where she is. Please – please, don’t let it bite my balls off!’
‘Julien Segal’s wife? She’s alive?’
‘I don’t know her name. But yeah, yeah, she’s alive, I swear. They’re holding her because they don’t trust him. It’s all part of the big plan.’
Ben and Roth exchanged glances. ‘What big plan?’
‘I don’t know! I’m telling the truth!’
‘He knows,’ Roth said. ‘Let the dog go. Just one bite. A small nibble. Like a sampler.’
‘No! Arrgh! Don’t do that, please! I just know where they’re holding her. Inside one of the old ghost Métro stations, Saint-Martin. They use the disused tunnels as a base!’
The underground ghost stations were part of Parisian urban legend. Ben knew about Saint-Martin, though he’d never been inside.
‘It was taken out of service eighty years ago, at the start of the war,’ he explained for Roth’s benefit. ‘The Salvation Army use it as a homeless shelter. It’s even got a street entrance on Boulevard Saint-Martin that the public can just walk into. I can’t believe anyone would think of making it their hideout, let alone to store a hostage in.’
Jafari shook his head. ‘There’s another way in. It takes you to parts of the system where nobody ever goes. They’ve been closed up so long, hardly anyone knows they even exist.’
‘You’ve been down there?’
‘Once. A couple of times.’
‘You know where they’re keeping her? Have you seen her?’
Jafari nodded reluctantly. ‘I was with them when they took her there.’
‘Piece of shit,’ Roth muttered, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Listen to me, Hasan,’ Ben said. ‘There’s only one way you get out of this. That’s by taking us to the ghost Métro station. Tonight. Now. You do that, I promise we won’t hurt you.’
Jafari stared at him, as though he was thinking hard and working out his options. ‘I’ll get you inside,’ he agreed after a beat. ‘Whatever you say.’
Roth was looking deeply unhappy. Ben took him aside and asked quietly, switching back from Arabic to English, ‘Do we have a problem?’
‘Damn right we have a problem. This asshole is more than happy to show us the way. Because he’s setting us up to walk into a trap. How many of your hardcore jihadis do you suppose are guarding her down there, packing Kalashnikovs and Uzis, or sitting waiting for us with their thumb on a goddamn detonator switch? Five? Ten? And two guys are gonna go waltzing in there alone, deep into enemy territory with no backup and nothing more than a couple of pistols? Forget it.’
‘I agree, it’s an uncertain proposition. But it’s the only way we can get to Segal’s wife.’
‘So what? I mean, I feel for the lady, but you can’t always save them all. Why take the risk?’
‘Because she’s the best chance we have of bringing Segal in,’ Ben said. ‘Once she’s free, Nazim has a lot less hold over him. He might be willing to jump ship.’
‘Hm. Long shot.’
‘And because I’m not leaving an innocent woman down there with a bunch of trigger-happy maniacs,’ Ben said. ‘That’s just how it has to be.’
‘What are you, the white knight?’
‘If you’re not up for it, fine. You stay behind and I’ll go alone. It won’t be my first time.’
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t come along. I just don’t like this jaws of death shit. Been through enough fucked-up situations to know best how to avoid them.’
‘Whatever you decide,’ Ben said, ‘make your mind up fast. The clock’s ticking. The GIGN raid is bound to have made Nazim jumpy and they’re liable to move her to a new location, or maybe even kill her.’
Fred had been listening to their whispered conversation, and now came over to them. He said to Ben in French, ‘You people speak more languages than the fucking United Nations, but I understand enough to gather that you have a need for armament. Correct?’
‘Whatever gives us the edge,’ Ben said.
‘I think I can help in that department. Because I don’t only deal in rusty sawn-offs to sell to third-rate stick-up artists. I have some other merchandise that could interest you.’
Fred put the dog away, much to the relief of the chained-up prisoner, then led Ben and Roth to his caravan where he reached under the bunk and dragged out a large metal case. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said as he undid the four combination padlocks holding the lid shut.
Inside the case, wrapped in oiled cloths, lay a pair of gleaming black automatic weapons. Ben could have recognised them blindfold. They were MP5SDs, manufactured in Germany by Heckler & Koch and purposely developed for Special Forces. The ‘MP’ designation stood for Machinenpistole and the ‘SD’ for Schalldampfer, which was German for ‘sound suppressor’ and referred to the integral silencer tube that shrouded the machine pistol’s short but highly accurate five-inch barrel. It was one of the best weapons ever devised for the kind of warfare in which Ben and Roth had once specialised. The Rolls Royce of submachine guns, reliable, efficient and exactly as deadly as it needed to be.
Roth whistled at the sight of the guns, and couldn’t suppress the schoolboy grin that spread all over his face. ‘Holy shit, I haven’t handled one of those babies since Delta.’
Fred laid the guns on the bunk and hauled more greasy rags out of the trunk to reveal a nest of loaded magazines, long and curved and each containing thirty rounds of nine-millimetre ammunition, sitting on top of stacked cartridge boxes. ‘Over five hundred rounds in total,’ he said. ‘It’s my personal stash. But you’re welcome to make use of it, for a fee of course.’
‘This should even the odds a little,’ Ben said. He turned to Roth. ‘So are we happier now?’
Roth’s grin had stretched from ear to ear. ‘We’re happier, all right. It’s gonna be like the old days, except this time there are no bureaucrats to mess things up. No dumbass rules of engagement to get in our way. Just you, me and the bad guys. They won’t know what hit ’em.’
Ben lifted one of the weapons off the bunk. It was the full-on military version with a four-way fire selector switch: safe, single shot, three-shot burst, fully automatic. One of the most illegal items for any civilian, in any country, to possess. It was like new, barely used, oiled and shiny. The bolt mechanism felt as slick as glass. ‘Are you expecting a war to break out, Fred?’
‘I get the feeling there’s going to be one tonight,’ Fred replied.
Things moved fast after that. Ben and Roth unchained Hasan Jafari and marched him outside to the car. This time he was allowed to ride up front with Ben, while Roth sat behind him with a pistol to his head. The two submachine guns were strapped up inside Ben’s green bag on the back seat, together with all the loaded magazines and enough extra ammunition to lay waste to a regiment.
As they headed back across the city, Jafari told them that the way inside the abandoned ghost station of Saint-Martin was via its neighbouring working station, République. That destination took them right into the heart of Paris, north of the river.
It was after 2.30 a.m. by the tim
e they parked up the Alpina in a nearby street and walked the rest of the way, with Jafari two steps ahead and Roth still discreetly pointing the pistol at him through the pocket of his jacket. Ben’s heavy bag gave a metallic jinking sound at every step. Any gendarme who picked this moment to stop them would get quite a surprise.
The République station was almost empty at this time of night. Ben, Roth and their prisoner entered the breezy tunnel from the street like regular travellers, bought tickets at the automated kiosk and made their way down through the bright white-tiled corridors, heading for the Lines 8 and 9 platforms. The decommissioned station of Saint-Martin lay hidden between here and Strasbourg-Saint-Denis on the westbound line.
Roth was over his earlier reluctance and seemed cheerful, almost jaunty. Jafari was edgy and mostly silent as he walked two steps ahead of them, like any prisoner being forced to lead the enemy back to his own secret camp. Ben was watching him closely in case he tried to bolt or trick them, and a couple of times caught him secretly smirking to himself. Roth was right. Jafari was looking forward to steering his captors straight into a nice little trap.
A descending flight of steps came out at the left-hand end of the platform, near the mouth of the westbound tunnel. There were a few people scattered along the near-empty platform, waiting for the next train with the wee-small-hours look of tired urbanites who weren’t much interested in the activities of their fellow subway travellers. Jafari glanced across at them to make sure nobody was watching, then turned to Ben and Roth. ‘This way,’ he hissed, pointing past the warning signs into the mouth of the tunnel. ‘Hurry. Another train will be along soon.’
Following his lead, they quickly slipped off the end of the platform and jumped down onto a narrow walkway, about eighteen inches wide, that ran along the narrow space between the left tunnel wall and the tracks. Jafari set off at a jog, with Ben and Roth close behind. In stark contrast to the gleaming white brightness of the station the tunnel was dark and murky, lit every few yards by a wall light. The arched ceiling was streaked and crumbly. The curved walls were ancient brick, caked in the soot and dirt of over a hundred years and covered in new and old graffiti from where generations of street artists had sneaked into the tunnel to leave their signature. Snakes of wiring ran here and there, daisy-chained together by prehistoric electrical connection boxes. The ground between the tracks was gravel, dark with soot. They moved fast, in case a train came.
There was no turning back now, as Ben and Roth ventured into the unknown after their guide. Three men were going in. But not all of them would be coming out again.
Chapter 40
After a few dozen yards the walkway widened out into an arched opening in the side wall to their left, connecting with a parallel tunnel and more tracks. They paused there to open the bag and take out the MP5s. Jafari hovered uncertainly nearby while Ben and Roth spent a moment loading and checking. Ben flipped his fire selector to three-shot bursts. That would give him ten trigger squeezes before his thirty-round magazine was depleted. He slipped four extra loaded mags into his pockets. Enough firepower for most situations, barring the need for artillery and air support.
Roth said, ‘I’m good.’
Ben slung his bag, much lighter now, over his shoulder and told Jafari, ‘Lead on. We’re right behind you.’
They kept moving at the same trotting pace. The mouth of the tunnel was a long way behind them now, just a white semicircle that vanished out of sight as they followed the curve of the parallel tracks. Moments after, Ben sensed the tunnel beginning to vibrate, a subtle tremor at first, then quickly building in intensity as the tracks started to thrum and the rumble of the approaching train grew louder. It paused to pick up the passengers from the platform, then accelerated into the tunnel. The rumble became a loud, breathy roar. First Jafari, then Roth, then Ben, made it to the next archway, and they hid behind the crumbly stonework as the train streaked by with a slap of wind and a deafening screech, its windows a blur.
Then the train was gone again, wending its way into darkness beneath the city. The three of them emerged from their hiding place and pressed on. Jafari motioned them towards the parallel tunnel to the left. By the glow of the wall lights it appeared older and dirtier and less used. He explained that this was part of the disused network. ‘But be careful as we cross the tracks. The live rail is still connected to the grid and it’ll fry you like an egg.’
‘Thanks for the thought, Hasan,’ Ben said.
Jafari shrugged. ‘If I let one of you step on a live rail, I figure the other will shoot me in the legs, then take me back to that stinking fucked-up shithole place and turn the dog on me again. So I do it only for myself.’
‘You’re a man of remarkable perception. Now keep moving.’
They crossed the disused line to the walkway on the far side and walked on along the abandoned tunnel, which gently curved away until the other disappeared out of sight behind them. The glow of the wall lights was dulled by grime. It felt like a thousand miles below the earth, deep in the bowels of the labyrinth from which it was easy to imagine there could be no escape.
Roth whispered, ‘How much further?’
Jafari replied over his shoulder, ‘We’re getting closer.’
After a hundred more yards, they came to a heavily graffiti-scrawled iron door on the left, fitted with a panic bar handle that had been recently used, hand marks visible against the dirt. Jafari said, ‘Through here.’
Jafari pushed the door open and stepped through. Roth went next, Ben last. They had emerged into the abandoned station of Saint-Martin.
The silence and emptiness of the place were total and eerie. Almost every square foot of its smooth, curved wall tiling was covered in the work of the street artists who’d been venturing down here for decades to use it as a giant canvas. Some of the graffiti must have been thirty years old, undisturbed all this time. Older by far were the ancient advertising billboards from the 1930s and 40s, featuring slogans for products that had ceased to exist long before Ben was born, half-hidden beneath layers of dirt and cobwebs. It was like stepping back into the past. A deserted, dusty old museum. Or a tomb, haunted by the spirits of this strange subterranean world that the city dwellers above had mostly forgotten even existed. Ben wasn’t superstitious but felt a shivery tingle up and down his spine.
‘Oh man,’ Roth said, impressed. ‘You could shoot the most awesome zombie movie down here.’
‘We’re not here for zombies,’ Ben said. He nudged Jafari with his gun. ‘Hurry.’
‘We need to go along the tunnel,’ Jafari said. ‘There are two stations, joined together. The woman is being held in a room near the second station.’
‘Deeper into the deathtrap we go,’ Roth muttered. He had his weapon at the ready, finger hovering close to the trigger. Jafari led them along the deserted platform and into the mouth of the next tunnel section. Dirt and debris littered the tracks. The smell of rats and mould was strong.
The second station was more extensive than the first, with broad stairways leading to different levels and corridors branching off here and there. Fewer urban explorers had ever ventured this far, judging by the lack of street art on the walls. They passed down some steps, heading deeper below ground. Then Jafari pushed through a personnel-only doorway marked ENTRÉE INTERDITE SANS AUTORISATION and led them down a tight, winding service passageway with big duct pipes overhead and more doors left and right.
Ben’s tension was rising with every yard they progressed. He had a relaxed grip on his weapon, but every nerve of his being was alert and primed for instant action, and he sensed the same edginess coming from Roth. They were right in the heart of the labyrinthine complex that the terrorists had made their underground burrow. Anything could happen, at any moment.
Then it did.
Ben heard it first, and swung his MP5 towards the sound a fraction of a second before Roth did the same. Voices and footsteps, approaching from behind a closed steel door to their right. They were suddenly no longer
alone down here.
The wall light above had a bad connection and was flickering like a strobe, creating a stop-motion effect. Ben grabbed Jafari’s arm and stepped quickly to the hinge side of the doorway. Roth retreated into the shadows on the other side.
Now the footsteps and voices came closer, until they were just beyond the door. Ben nodded to Roth. He raised a finger to his lips, telling Jafari to stay quiet. Then he waited for the door to swing open.
The two men who pushed through it were having a conversation in Arabic. Which, as was immediately apparent, was their native language. The two other features they had in common were their straggly black beards and the short, stubby Kalashnikovs casually slung over their shoulders. One man was short and fat, the other tall and thin. They stepped out into the passage, their movements jerky under the flickering light. The fat one laughed at the joke the thin one had just made. Then the laugh suddenly died on his lips and their smiles fell as Ben stepped out from behind the open door and Roth emerged like a jungle predator from the shadows, with the stone-killer blank eyes of a Delta Force ninja assassin.
Jafari broke away from Ben and yelled in Arabic, pointing at his captors, ‘They kidnapped me! Kill them!’
His colleagues would have been happy to oblige him, but the element of surprise was on Ben and Roth’s side. The two terrorists barely touched their weapons before the brief muted chatter of the MP5s filled the passage. Ben’s triple-stitch burst punched a tight vertical group of holes in the fat guy’s heart. The first of Roth’s rapid two single shots ripped into the thin guy’s chest and the second to the head, before he even started to fall. The perfect double-tap, expertly executed. The two men slumped silently to the floor and lay still under the stop-frame flicker of the light.
‘Nothing like slick teamwork,’ Roth said.
House of War Page 21
