State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

‘It’s all fine, Bailey.’ Gerald straightened his collar. ‘We don’t need to talk about it. Our flight’s at six o’clock in the morning. Let’s just get something to eat and have an early night.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I had in mind,’ Bailey said. ‘I know a place.’

  ‘Welcome to my favourite watering hole,’ Bailey said when they arrived at an old brick building with a sign out front: ‘The Dove: The home of London’s best bangers and mash.’

  He led them down the side of the pub, away from the river, and through the back door.

  ‘Chester.’ Bailey nodded at the guy with flushed cheeks behind the bar and sat down on one of the three wooden stools that filled the tiny room.

  ‘John Bailey.’ Chester looked surprised as he reached across the beer taps, shaking Bailey’s hand. ‘Been a while. How the bloody hell are you?’

  ‘Good, mate.’ Bailey slapped Gerald on the chest with the back of his hand. ‘This is Gerald Summers. The most powerful newspaper editor in Australia.’

  Chester laughed and extended his hand to Gerald, who was shaking his head, embarrassed and slightly irritated.

  ‘So, lads. What’re we having, then?’

  ‘Lemonade for me. Gerald?’

  ‘Make that two.’

  Chester chortled through his nose and dropped two tumblers on the bar.

  ‘I was serious about the lemonade, mate,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Off the drink, then?’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, Chester.’ Bailey said. ‘Meet the new me.’

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Gerald said, trying to steer the subject away from Bailey’s old habit.

  ‘Smallest bar in the world, right, Chester?’

  Seeing the bartender had lifted Bailey’s mood.

  ‘You got it, Bailey.’ Chester was beaming. ‘Or, so says the Guinness Book of Records.’

  ‘Hemingway drank here too.’

  ‘Really?’ Gerald couldn’t tell if they were joking.

  ‘As sure as the sun also rises,’ Chester said.

  ‘Clever.’ Bailey took a sip of his lemonade. ‘This tastes like shit, thanks Ernest. Back in a minute. Boys’ room.’

  Chester’s eyes followed Bailey until he disappeared around the corner.

  ‘He really off the drink, then?’ Chester said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Probably not a bad idea. The last time Bailey was here, I found him asleep on the floor of the gents when I was cleaning up. Wasn’t pretty.’

  ‘I’ve been around the block with Bailey a few times,’ Gerald said. ‘He wasn’t lying. He’s off it.’

  Two minutes later, Bailey sat back on his stool. ‘Stop talking about me. And Chester? Get us a menu, would you? You know what I’m having, but Gerald might want something fancy.’

  Chester slid a menu across the bar for Gerald.

  ‘Give it a break, Bailey,’ Gerald said.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Drinking and giving you a hard time have been my two favourite pastimes. You can’t expect me to give both of them away.’ Bailey winked at Chester. ‘Why don’t you pour yourself one of those expensive whiskies you’ve got hidden under the bar. One of us needs to enjoy a drink tonight. Gerald, give Chester your card.’

  ‘You’re a pain in the arse sometimes, you know that?’

  ‘So they say.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Spending too much time at a place like The Dove was dangerous. It reminded Bailey of the bad old days when he would drink his way through the day, from the moment he got up in the morning until he was so wasted that he could almost forget all the shocking things he’d seen. Now he had two more for the pile. The kid with the knife and that poor woman in the blue dress who had died in a pool of her own blood.

  Bailey knew that Gerald would want to stay close to him tonight. They’d been through three wars in three decades of friendship. Iraq, Afghanistan and then Iraq again. Gerald had been on assignment with Bailey in Fallujah when he was kidnapped by Mustafa al-Baghdadi’s Islamic fundamentalists back in 2004.

  The only other battle they’d experienced together was the one they never talked about. Gerald was the person who’d found Bailey, passed out, drunk and defeated, in London. When Bailey was at rock bottom. When being alive didn’t matter so much anymore.

  But right now Bailey needed to get out of The Dove. Get some fresh air. A walk to process the day. Alone. Gerald would forgive him for skipping out. He always did.

  ‘Hey Chester,’ Bailey said to the bartender when Gerald went to the toilet. ‘Tell Gerald I’ll meet him in the hotel lobby at three-thirty in the morning.’

  Chester raised an eyebrow. ‘Three-thirty?’

  ‘On the six am back to Sydney, mate. I didn’t book it.’

  ‘All right, then,’ Chester said. ‘And Bailey?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it’s good to see you back on your feet.’

  ‘Never stopped walking, old boy.’ Bailey slipped off his stool. ‘Thanks for the bangers.’

  After crossing to the other side of the Thames via Hammersmith Bridge, Bailey hit an old dirt track that he knew ran along the river for miles. Apart from the odd evening jogger, he would have the path all to himself. He could think, collect himself, remember how far the rehabilitation of John Bailey had come and all the things he stood to lose if he gave up.

  Top of that list were his 28-year-old daughter, Miranda, and Bailey’s girlfriend, the police detective, Sharon Dexter. The two women that he’d once left behind so that he could chase the adrenalin of war. Bailey and Miranda were in a good place and although things had been a little rocky with Dexter in the past, he wasn’t about to risk going off the rails because of what he’d seen at St James’s Square. Rock bottom was a lonely place and he wasn’t going back there. Not again.

  There wasn’t much of a moon and the path was growing darker with every step. Despite the afternoon drizzle, the canopy of trees that lined the path had kept the track relatively dry, and the dirt was crunching, loudly, against the soles of Bailey’s boots.

  On the other side of the river, huddles of people were chatting under clouds of cigarette smoke outside the pubs, the hum of their conversations floating across the water. The only other sounds were the occasional splashes from fish, or birds, in the water, and small animals – rats or squirrels, most likely – rustling in the leaves.

  Bailey had been walking for almost half an hour when he noticed someone on the track behind him. By the sound of their feet, he guessed they were at least thirty metres back. They didn’t appear to be getting any closer. He didn’t bother turning around. It was probably just someone out enjoying a walk. Barnes Bridge, where he’d planned to cross the river and circle back to Chiswick, was just up ahead.

  He climbed the steps onto the bridge and was midway across when he noticed the footsteps following him. Now he wanted to know who was back there. Get a glimpse of their face. Reassure his already rattled mind. He stopped, leaning on the rail, pretending to take in the view up the river.

  The shadow at the other end of the bridge paused, before starting again towards him. Bailey could see that it was a man, dressed in an overcoat, wearing a hat that looked like a fedora, carrying a cane. By his steady stride, the cane looked like it was for another purpose.

  Bailey felt his heart start racing, a tingle in his spine.

  He called out, trying to ease the tension, when the man was within earshot. ‘Nice night for a walk.’

  ‘Indeed. Good evening.’

  The man tapped the brim of his hat and paused, briefly, before continuing along the bridge.

  Bailey watched the man disappear into the trees. He stared at the water for another minute so that his heart could return to its standard beat, before resuming his walk. The paranoia had left him feeling stupid.

  He made it to the other side of the bridge, stepping carefully down the large rocks that had been positioned as stairs
, and headed north-east along the riverbank. In about ten minutes, he’d make a left turn into the underpass at Hogarth Roundabout towards Chiswick High Road, where he’d get a train back to his hotel in Paddington. He could already smell the hops burning at the old Fuller’s brewery on the edge of the A4.

  The pathway was more difficult to navigate on this side of the river. More like a dirt track beaten into the riverbank by the random flow of footprints. He was taking it slow, careful not to trip on the uneven ground in the darkness.

  A stick cracked on the path behind him.

  Bailey stopped, turning around. Another shadow was heading his way. He could tell it was a man by the way that he moved. Athletic, strong build, jogging skilfully along the track.

  Bailey’s heart sped up, his skittishness returning, wondering whether it was just another local enjoying an evening jaunt, like the guy in the fedora.

  Something didn’t feel right.

  There was no way that Bailey could traverse the track as quickly as the bloke behind him, so he stepped to the side to let him pass.

  Only, he didn’t pass.

  ‘Are you John Bailey?’

  The words almost caused Bailey to fall over.

  ‘Are you John Bailey?’ He repeated the question, more forcefully, stepping closer.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I have a message for you.’

  Bailey couldn’t see the guy’s face clearly in the darkness, but he could tell that he was young. Early twenties, at most, wearing a tracksuit and trainers, dressed for a run.

  ‘Have you been following me?’ Bailey said, trying to sound composed. ‘Who are you?’

  The man was fumbling around in the front pocket of his hoodie. Bailey stepped back, his heart racing so fast he could feel the pounding in his ears.

  The guy pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Bailey.

  ‘Mustafa wants to speak to you.’

  The name caused Bailey to shudder. ‘What?’

  ‘Mustafa al-Baghdadi would like to speak to you.’

  Mustafa al-Baghdadi.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  The man looked down at his watch. ‘He’ll be on that number for exactly forty-nine hours. Then he’ll be gone.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  He ignored Bailey’s question and turned around, jogging back towards Barnes Bridge.

  ‘Hey!’ Bailey called after him. ‘What does he want?’

  The guy was already gone. Blended into the darkness. The track went quiet and all Bailey could hear was the rapid sound of his own breathing.

  It was 7.35 pm. He had forty-nine hours to make the call. Or not.

  Any normal person would struggle to come up with one good reason why they’d want to speak to a violent terrorist. The journalist in John Bailey had plenty.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mosul, 2005

  ‘Get up!’

  Bailey could feel a foot digging into his ribs.

  ‘Dog! Get up!’

  Lying on the cold stone floor, Bailey had finally managed to get some sleep. He had no idea how long he’d been out, or whether it was night or day.

  Slap!

  He was awake now, thanks to the sweaty palm of his captor.

  Slap!

  The man hit him again with his open hand. Harder. At least he was done using his fists. Yesterday’s beating was one of the worst. Bailey had no idea what had prompted the violent assault. Not that these guys ever needed a reason.

  His hands were tied behind his back, his shoulders were aching, and his lips were lacerated like a well-used breadboard. The swelling pressuring his rib cage was making it difficult to breathe. It was impossible to move without sharp pain.

  ‘Get up!’

  Disorientated by the days and nights of beatings, he opened his eyes. All he could see was black. A blindfold was tightly wrapped around his head. He rolled his body towards the voice, trying to sit up. Trying to avoid another beating by men who seemed to enjoy it.

  ‘Give me a –’

  ‘Up!’

  A rough hand grabbed him under his armpit, fingers digging into his damaged ribs, pulling him to his feet.

  Bailey coughed, trying to clear the dust from his throat. ‘Where are we going?’

  He knew enough Arabic to ask basic questions and follow orders.

  Bailey had been moved so many times during the past few months that he had no idea where he was anymore, and he’d given up trying to learn. The sounds of Iraq were always the same. Sporadic gunfire. Explosions. Car horns. And the voices of the men who had kidnapped him.

  ‘Min huna!’

  This way.

  The man was leading Bailey across the room, dragging him by the shoulder. He counted ten paces before a door creaked open. The man was behind him now, pushing him forward. Bailey tripped, his knee bashing into a hard stone edge. Stairs.

  ‘Go!’

  Struggling back to his feet, Bailey started climbing. Slowly. Even with the blindfold restricting his vision, he could tell that the staircase was narrow. Step by step, spiralling upwards, his shoulders brushing the walls. The man prodded him in the back, keeping him moving. Bailey counted his steps. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. After the forty-first step he felt a warm rush of air. Outside.

  Engines. Traffic. Birds. A helicopter’s rotor blades spinning in the distance.

  ‘Hello, my friend.’

  That voice. Posh. Educated. English. The sound of a killer.

  The guy who had brought Bailey upstairs untied the restraints on his hands and they flopped by his side, easing the pain in his shoulders. The blindfold was yanked down the back of his head until it came loose, falling around his neck. A wash of white light sent a piercing pain into the back of his eyes, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, rapidly, trying to focus.

  Mustafa’s head came first. The smiling face of the madman who had orchestrated his kidnapping in Fallujah. The same intense eyes, black robe and beard that Bailey remembered from the first time they’d met.

  He looked past Mustafa at the rooftops of the city. It was a place that Bailey knew well.

  Mosul.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  Bailey ignored him. He hadn’t been outside for weeks, and he was revelling in the fresh air, away from the stink of Mustafa’s goons. From where they were standing in Mosul’s right bank, the view was mesmerising. Date palms along the mighty Tigris. A barge packed with produce for the market, drifting slowly on the water. Blocks of white and yellow apartments. Clotheslines pegged with symbols of ordinary life. Fields of sun-kissed grass. And the Grand Mosque, its beautiful golden domes glistening in the sun.

  There was a long line of cars on the bridge below, where American humvees were blocking the traffic. Bailey could see marines manning some kind of security checkpoint, stopping and searching vehicles before waving them through.

  Up here! Here!

  Bailey felt like screaming at the soldiers to come rescue him.

  They were too far away.

  ‘The Americans will give up soon.’ Mustafa had followed Bailey’s eyes to the bridge. ‘As soon as they realise they can’t win. When American mothers grow tired of losing their sons.’

  ‘What do you know about American mothers?’

  ‘A mother’s love is the same, wherever you are, John Bailey.’

  Mustafa had an annoying habit of addressing Bailey by his full name.

  ‘What the fuck do you want from me?’

  ‘Such anger –’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking angry. What’d you expect? How long’s this going to go on?’

  After all the beatings, after being forced to watch one of Mustafa’s men cut the throat of an American marine, Bailey had been spiralling into a depressive state. He wasn’t a journalist anymore. He was someone’s prisoner. A prisoner to his own thoughts. Part of him wanted it all to be over. For his life to end. To make it all stop.

  But there was still that little voice inside
his head, telling him to hang on. The voice of his daughter, almost a woman now. He barely knew her. He needed to stay alive. He needed to make up for lost time because every child needed a father. Even a hopeless one like Bailey.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Can’t say I feel the same. Answer my fucking question.’

  ‘There’s so much anger in you, John Bailey. Why?’

  ‘Why don’t you go ask the bloke who ripped out my fingernails?’

  Mustafa ignored the question and looked down at his watch.

  ‘Come. There’s something that I want you to see.’ He put his hand around the back of Bailey’s neck and walked him to the edge of the rooftop, pointing at the US army checkpoint on the bridge. ‘Ask yourself, why are the Americans still here?’

  Bailey was confused. ‘I’m an Australian journalist, as I keep telling you. I’m not part of this war.’

  ‘Nation building, they say.’ Mustafa clearly wasn’t interested in anything that Bailey had to say. ‘We don’t need their nation. Bush, Blair, even your John Howard. They’re all crusaders for a decadent way of life that we don’t want.’

  ‘What does that have to do with me?’

  Mustafa looked at the clock on his wrist again, tightening his grip on the back of Bailey’s neck. ‘Watch.’

  Down on the bridge a marine was pointing his rifle at the window of a car, yelling at the driver, his voice carried by the wind. Moments later, the car was surrounded by more Americans with assault rifles.

  A light flashed on the bridge.

  Boom!

  Bailey could feel the explosion vibrate through his feet.

  The car was reduced to a burning shell, flames leaping into a cloud of black and grey. As the smoke cleared, Bailey started counting bodies. Seven. Eight. Maybe more. The bodies of marines lying on the blackened road around the car. The dark silhouette of the suicide bomber sitting upright in the front seat, eerily peaceful. Mission complete.

  ‘A warrior, now seated with God.’

  ‘You did that?’

  ‘This is only the beginning.’ Mustafa still had hold of Bailey’s neck, whispering in his ear. ‘I have an army of men and women ready to give their lives.’