Black Ops

by Chris Ryan

  It was impossible to tell if Ray Hammond was relieved or peeved to hear from him, because he was as abrupt and unemotional as ever. ‘What’s that shit in the background?’ he demanded.

  ‘MTV, Lebanon style.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I have to get into Syria,’ Danny said. ‘The north-west area, between Damascus and Homs.’

  ‘The lat/long location we just sent through to the embassy?’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘It’s pretty fucked up round there.’

  ‘I know. I’ll need gear, and some guys to make the border crossing. I’ll need to be tooled up, so I don’t want to risk getting caught at the border or checkpoints on the main supply routes. Can you get me a team out here?’

  ‘No can do,’ Hammond said.

  ‘Boss, I . . .’

  ‘Forget it, Black. We’re running on empty. We’ll get you some freelancers.’

  ‘Do you have any in-country?’

  ‘I’ll find out. Stay by your phone.’ The line went dead.

  Bethany entered the sitting room. Her hair was wet and scraped back from her face. She was still wearing her dressing gown but she no longer emanated flirtation. She sat opposite Danny and nodded at the box file. ‘What you got?’

  ‘Not much. A few photos. A location.’ He paused, then stood up, took the box file and led Bethany back into the en-

  suite bathroom, where he felt they could speak more freely. It was steamy and humid. Bethany sat on the toilet seat again, while Danny perched on the edge of the bath. ‘I have to get into Syria.’

  ‘Adnan Abadi’s olive farm?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’ll need a visa to cross the border.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be bothering with that.’

  She nodded. ‘It’s dangerous. There are parts of Syria that are more or less safe, but there are still bombing campaigns in certain areas and you don’t want to run into government forces if you’re not supposed to be there.’

  ‘I know,’ Danny said. ‘I was in Syria eight years ago.’ He frowned. That operation hadn’t ended well. He’d almost put it from his mind. ‘Adnan Abadi is our only lead. I have to speak to him.’

  ‘Then we’ll go,’ Bethany said confidently.

  ‘No,’ Danny replied. ‘Not we. I.’

  Bethany expressed no emotion. ‘You want me to head back to the UK?’ she said, her voice level. ‘Just when we were beginning to get to know each other?’

  Danny didn’t get the chance to answer. His mobile vibrated. It was Ray Hammond. ‘What have you got, boss?’ Danny asked.

  ‘You sound like you’re in a fucking swimming pool now.’

  ‘Bathroom. What have you got?’

  ‘A team of three former SF lads working for CNN in Beirut. One from 22, one SBS, one Delta. They take news crews across the border into Syria and they’ve done a couple of private jobs moving CIA operatives in-country. They’ve got all the gear and the local knowledge. They’re your best bet.’

  ‘Put me in contact?’

  ‘Already done,’ Hammond said. ‘They’re expecting you at 06.45 tomorrow. RV outside the Grand Mosque. MI6 is going to wire them a payment on account. Tell them whatever you need.’

  ‘Roger that. Do you have names for me?’

  ‘Joe Ludlow, left A Squadron about the time you joined. Mike Rollett is the SBS lad. Bradley Guerrero from Delta.’

  ‘Copy. What do they know about me?’

  ‘Your name, and that you need an escort. I have some further intel on Adnan Abadi.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘A few months ago, the Syrians bombed the last IS stronghold in the south, and they took out a contingent of the militants. But not all of them. We don’t have anything concrete, but we have access to a few CIA reports that suggest some of the militants who survived sought sanctuary with Abadi. You can expect his place to be heavily guarded.’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said grimly. He hadn’t really expected less, but it was useful to have his suspicions confirmed.

  There was a pause. ‘How’s it going out there, Black?’ There was something probing in his voice. Hammond was clearly trying to pump him for information.

  ‘Good,’ Danny said, evading his real meaning. ‘Grand Mosque, 06.45. Joe Ludlow, Mike Rollett, Bradley Guerrero. I’ve got to go, boss.’ He hung up.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m meeting with some guys who can help get me into Syria.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘For now, nothing.’

  ‘Do I go back to London?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘No. I can’t promise to keep you safe there. I’ve got a hunch that when I find Abadi, Ibrahim won’t be far away. The closer we are to him, the higher the chance he’ll find out what we’re doing. I want to be able to get back to you quickly. Also, if we send you back to the UK, it’s easier for people to find out where you are, and I won’t be there to protect you. You need to stay in Beirut.’

  Bethany chewed the nail on her right thumb, deep in thought. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll stay here in the embassy.’

  ‘No,’ Danny told her. ‘That won’t do.’ He patted the box file on his lap.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Bethany said.

  ‘Baker just walked in here. He might have been more interested in the contents of your underwear drawer than anything else’ – Bethany made an ‘ew’ face – ‘but it means we don’t know how many people have access to this room, or even how many people know you’re here. It’s not secure.’

  ‘Danny, this is the British embassy.’

  Danny gave her an amused look. ‘Do you know and trust everybody who works here? Do you know and trust every British citizen that rocks up here on a daily basis? Ibrahim Khan’s a British citizen for a start.’

  ‘But surely he wouldn’t make an attempt on my life with so many people around?’ Bethany said.

  ‘Tell that to Al-Farouk and his driver,’ Danny said.

  Bethany had no answer to that.

  ‘My job is to keep you safe,’ Danny said. ‘If I can’t be with you night and day, I need to make sure you’re somewhere nobody else can find you. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to RV with the team that’ll take me across the border. We’ll make arrangements. I want you to know what they are, because if things turn to shit and I don’t make it back out, you have the intel to pick up the trail. When that’s done, we’ll book you into a hotel.’

  ‘There’s a decent place not far from here I sometimes use.’

  ‘Forget it. All the decent places will require a passport or some sort of ID. We don’t want to give that. We’ll need a back-street doss house where they won’t ask any questions. Only two people in the world are going to know where you are: you and me. While you’re there, you keep your room locked from the inside and you don’t leave. Not for any purpose.’

  ‘It seems a bit over the top,’ Bethany said.

  ‘If I’m not there with you, we’re still running a massive risk.’

  Bethany stared at him. ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’ she said.

  ‘Four days,’ he said. ‘Maybe three. Less if I can. It’s not a place you want to stay for long.’

  She nodded silently. Danny stood up. ‘I’m going to get some sleep,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a long few days.’ He headed towards the bathroom door.

  ‘Danny,’ Bethany said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thank you. I mean it.’

  Danny nodded curtly and left the en-suite and the bedroom. Back in the main room he killed the music channel and unfolded his blanket. He checked his weapon, placed it under the sofa that was to be his bed for the night, and switched off the lights. He stood in the darkness, listening. He could hear Bethany moving around in her bedroom. A pale frame of light surrounded the door. Along the bottom edge, Danny could just make out the shadow of Bethany’s feet. He knew she was standing just on the other side. Was she thinking of joining hi
m? Maybe he should knock softly. Maybe he should rejoin Bethany in the bedroom. This time tomorrow, he’d be preparing for an insertion into a war zone. A night in Bethany’s bed was a far more attractive prospect than a night on the couch.

  Look but don’t touch, Danny. Bethany had made herself quite clear. And anyway, the shadows of her feet were no longer visible. The light disappeared. She’d switched it off.

  Danny returned to the couch and pulled the blanket over his clothes. Soon he was asleep.

  11

  Danny slept badly and woke long before dawn, his muscles aching and his mind whirring. It was just gone five when he finally threw off his blanket and pulled on some clean clothes from his suitcase. He could hear Bethany moving around in the bedroom. ‘You up in there?’ he called.

  She entered the room, fully dressed now. ‘Comfortable night?’ she said.

  ‘Not really. I could use a coffee.’

  ‘Me too.’ She looked around the room. ‘Are we coming back here?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘Get all your stuff,’ he said.

  Bethany packed a rucksack with her purse, passport, make-up, hairbrush, and a few items of clean clothing. Danny grabbed his passport, money and weapon. He took the intelligence sheets from the box file, carefully folded them and stowed them in a pocket. That was all he needed, for now. They left their suitcases where they were.

  The embassy compound was deserted, apart from the two armed guards at the side entrance, who let them out with enquiring glances but no awkward questions. The early morning call to prayer rang out over the rooftops of Beirut and there were a few cars on the main thoroughfares. At Danny’s request, Bethany led them through some tiny, maze-like side streets before bringing them out on to a square where the Grand Mosque was situated. It was a large, sand-coloured building with impressive arches, tall minarets and blue domes. Sections of the mosque were cordoned off by metal railings, and there were already police officers patrolling the area. Morning worshippers hurried up the steps into the mosque. On the opposite side of the square, a small cafe was open. It was warm and inviting, and felt a million miles from the rough slum where’d they’d ditched the X5 the previous night. The cafe was surprisingly busy and bustling, given how early it was. Danny and Bethany took a table on the pavement outside – the only free one of eight or nine. Bethany ordered them small cups of thick, black coffee and a plate of sweet cakes. They ate ravenously. Danny checked the time: 06.30 hrs. He looked towards the mosque.

  ‘How will you recognise them?’ Bethany said.

  ‘I just will,’ Danny told her.

  And he did.

  The three SF guys didn’t appear at the same place and time, but Danny hadn’t expected them to. They would be as cautious of him as he was of them, to start with at least. From his vantage point outside the cafe, he clocked the first guy as he entered the square from the north-east. He was tall, with short dark hair and a moustache that extended down the sides of his mouth. He was dressed in jeans and a North Face jacket, zipped up. Everything about his gait told Danny that he was carrying. He stood at the foot of the mosque’s steps, arms folded, scanning the area. So far, Danny didn’t think he’d noticed him. He tried to work out which of the three guys this was, and immediately settled on Bradley Guerrero, the Yank from Delta. It was the moustache. Something about it said Alabama, rather than Hereford or Poole.

  The second guy walked straight past Danny and Bethany without seeming to notice them. It was the bulge at the bottom of his trousers that gave him away: he clearly had a snubnose holstered there. He was older than Danny expected, early fifties maybe, but he had a face that looked like it had been chiselled from granite, and a sturdy, rugby-player’s physique to match. This was Joe Ludlow, he decided, the former SAS man. Hammond had said he’d left the Regiment around the time Danny started, and he looked about the right age. He took up position ten metres along from the cafe. Danny saw him catch the other guy’s eye: confirmation, if he needed it, that these two men were operating together.

  Time check: 06.37. Danny hadn’t clocked his third guy yet. As Bethany ordered more coffee, he scanned the area. He saw him a minute later, climbing out of a taxi fifty metres to Danny’s three o’clock. Similar in build to the first guy, with a nose that had obviously once been broken and dark glasses, he paid the cab driver and walked straight past Danny and Bethany as he approached the second guy. They spoke briefly.

  ‘Stay here,’ Danny said. ‘I’m going to make contact.’

  He stood up and walked up to the two guys. They gave him a distinctly unfriendly look. ‘Ludlow?’ Danny said. ‘Rollett?’

  It was plain they didn’t like the fact that Danny had recognised them so easily. He didn’t blame them. Escorting news crews across the Lebanon–Syria border wasn’t child’s play. But equally, it wasn’t serious Regiment work. It would be easy to become a bit soft. Three guys, on form and on ops, would never have allowed themselves to be so obvious.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘You know who I am,’ Danny said. He looked over the road at the first guy. ‘Is he joining us?’

  ‘He’ll watch.’

  Danny held out his hand. ‘Danny Black,’ he said. The other two seemed to relax a bit. They shook his hand and introduced themselves. Danny had got their names bang on. ‘Let’s walk,’ Ludlow said.

  Danny glanced over at the cafe. Bethany was still sitting there, her face alert.

  ‘Nice,’ Rollett said. He put his dark glasses up on his forehead and stroked his misshapen nose. ‘Wouldn’t mind a crack at her myself.’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate. You armed?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then do me a favour, take my seat next to her. Anyone tries to approach her, scare them off.’

  ‘You the jealous type?’

  ‘Just do it, mate. Me and Ludlow are going to stay in sight. If anything goes noisy, we’ll be there.’

  ‘You expecting things to go noisy?’

  ‘We’re not here for the sightseeing.’

  Rollett nodded and headed towards the cafe. Danny and Ludlow started to stroll around the square. ‘I had Hammond on the blower last night,’ Ludlow said. ‘Told me the square root of fuck all. What’s going on?’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Danny saw he had a black tattoo extending down his arm on to the back of his hand. It looked like the head of a wolf.

  ‘I need to get into Syria. There’s an olive farmer I want to have a heart-to-heart with.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Thinking of going into the olive oil business?’

  Ludlow’s questioning was aggressive. Danny felt he’d got off on the wrong foot. He shouldn’t have made them feel like their SOPs were rusty. But nor did he want to give them too much information. ‘He’s got some intel I need. Have you operated in the area between Damascus and Homs lately?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What’s the situation there?’

  ‘Volatile. Government forces have retaken most of western Syria and they know there are still pockets of resistance, various rebel groups lying low, Islamist sympathisers with links to IS, Al-Qaeda and various other splinter organisations. They keep a pretty firm grip on the situation.’

  ‘Can you get me into Syria?’ Danny said.

  ‘You can get yourself into Syria, pal. Easiest thing in the world. Your granny could do it. Go to the embassy, get yourself a visa, the Masna border crossing’s just a couple of hours from here. Twenty minutes wait this side, twenty minutes the other side, you’re all good. There are a few checkpoints on the way, but as long as you’re clean . . .’

  ‘Is that what you tell your news crews when they want to get in under the radar?’ Ludlow didn’t answer. ‘It takes days for the Syrians to agree a visa, and I don’t want my face on their paperwork. Also, I’m not going to be clean. I don’t want the border or checkpoint guards paying close attention to the gear I hope you’re going to supply me with.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘The full English
. I want to be prepared for whatever we might come across. Can you sort that for me?’

  ‘It’s possible. Won’t be cheap.’

  ‘MI6 is footing the bill. They’ve wired you money already. You don’t have to worry about that. You just have to worry about getting me in and back out again.’

  ‘Why us? Hereford could mount an airborne insertion in their sleep.’

  ‘Do you want the job or not?’ Danny said.

  Ludlow sniffed, then wiped his nose again. For some reason, Danny found his eyes drawn once more to the tattoo. There was nothing decorative about it. It looked to Danny like a mark of pure aggression. Ludlow looked around the square. ‘You’d better come with us,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a place where it’s easier to talk.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Ten minutes. Go get the chick and follow us.’

  Bethany was plainly unimpressed by whatever conversational gambits Rollett had attempted. She sat cross-legged, facing away from him. Rollett had a schoolboy grin on his face, and was stroking his broken nose in the same way as before. When Danny told them they were leaving, she did nothing to hide her relief. She even managed to appear rather prim as she stood up and left a note on the table to pay for their breakfast. ‘Ignore Rollett, darling,’ Ludlow said. ‘He’s got a potty mouth. You go ahead, Mike. I’ll show them the way.’

  Rollett was still grinning as he left. ‘Don’t leave me alone with that man again,’ Bethany said. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Rollett told her.

  The streets were getting busier. They had to weave in and out of rushing pedestrians as Rollett led them in a direction that Danny estimated to be approximately south-east, into an area that was by no means as low-rent as the place they’d been last night to dump the car, but was still decidedly downmarket. They stopped at a tower block. The fascia of the block itself had a chunk of concrete missing between the second and third floors, and bullet holes from automatic fire. Rollett led them up a bare, echoing staircase to the sixth floor and into a flat where Rollett and Bradley Guerrero, the Delta guy, were waiting for them, sprawled out on a couple of sofas, legs apart, bottles of water in their fists. This was obviously an apartment where men lived. It wasn’t untidy – these were military personnel after all – but it was completely functional. The sofas didn’t match, the walls were bare and the TV had pride of place. Against one wall was a stack of scuffed flight cases. They bore stickers that read ‘Press’, ‘CNN’ and, in a couple of instances, ‘BBC’. They were clearly intended to look like camera gear, but Danny suspected that in reality they served a different purpose.