He bowed his head. He showed respect and gratitude. He called back that they would remain in his prayers. He had the blessing of God given him. Cammy turned and took the water and the bag and walked back to Ulrike and Pieter. He knew they could have killed him, but could not have guaranteed dropping his brothers. He had locked eyes with the most hunted man in the region, the man who was at the apex of the High Value Target list now that Osama Bin Laden was dead, his corpse dropped from a helicopter into the sea. He had his back to them and kept moving, and gestured to Ulrike and Pieter that they should get the hell out and fast. Saw them hitch up their rucksacks and make his ready for him to shrug into. Did not look back, and did not hurry.
When he had almost reached his brothers, Cammy called out, “Don’t look, show no interest. We have to move.”
They went. Did not look at the food and did not drink from the plastic container. Might have gone half a mile. Were tramping on ground that had scant vegetation, no cover, was hard on their feet. Somewhere ahead they would find a place where they could lie up, rest, drink and eat, and then sleep through the heat of the day.
A pick-up came after them . . . To give them a ride, another gesture of hospitality? A moment of extreme danger? Had been too busy telling them to push ahead and make distance, had not shared with them – yet – that he had looked for a moment into the eyes of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, had not quipped with them that if they could but find a working phone box and have directory enquiries do the link through to US Central Command in Qatar, and give coordinates and pull in half a squadron of fighter jets and about every drone in the airspace then they could carry off – shared between them – $5 million. Sufficient for a neat little life on an Aegean island or off Australia’s Queensland coast, might even throw in the whole island and . . . the pick-up came after them.
They went across the wilderness of dirt and the pick-up followed them and then accelerated and came alongside. The clatter of the machine-gun mounted on a pole behind the driver’s cab was deafening. Cammy threw himself down. Saw most of his life and Ulrike was across him, and Pieter seemed to stumble and then fell backwards. More bullets were fired and, between those fleeting seconds when his eyes were tight shut, Cammy saw that Pieter’s body was lifted, the proverbial rag doll, and dirt was spat around him. He lay motionless, stifled his own breathing. No sound and no movement from Ulrike. Had that funny fraction of time when he did not know, whether he lived or was dead. One of the guys came down from the pick-up, a pistol in his hand, and walked around them and would have used it if a sign of life had been offered. The plastic bag with the food was picked up, and the water container, and were taken back to the pick-up. It drove away.
Easy to understand. Simpler to have given them rubbish to eat and a minimum of water and let them go in innocence. Easier to kill them all together than when he had approached their hide and the other two had stayed back. He had supposed it a basic attitude of suspicion that would be harboured by any boss-man with $5 million resting on his life or his freedom. He had heaved her off, and she had sworn, rich and German. They were both untouched and Pieter was a colander from the machine-gun bullets.
They had not buried him, had only kicked some dirt on to his face and tried to hide his mouth and the shape of his nose. His saying had been “Never look back. Never chase the past”. From the north-eastern Transvaal. Had a wife there and two small kids in a town called Warmbaths and had told them he was going for a drink in the hotel on the main street, and instead had taken a train to Jo’burg, then a flight out. He might have made an effort to get his hand into Ulrike’s clothes, but not a big effort. He had been a good fighter and an expert sniper, and was used, he said, to dropping a gazelle or an impala at 800 yards. When Cammy had needed advice or wanted to shift the load of responsibility it was to Pieter that he’d turn. They made a poor job of covering him and then hoisted up their rucksacks and left his. Did not even take his wallet. Left the wallet and the photo of the blonde wife and the scrawny kids. Cammy’s fault that Pieter had died because Cammy had locked eyes on the caliphate leader. They had hurried away. Last thing that Cammy had said to the failed grave was, “Yes, Pieter, you have my promise. Don’t know how, when, or where, but my promise is my word.”
He had given her time, had believed she would soften, just a few minutes before she would feel him close to her, then her hand would rest on his shoulder and her fingers would work inside his shirt, and she would touch the scars that had been stitched from the shrapnel and might even find the hole where the Iranian bullet had entered, had burst through tissue and exited, and the dirt had been minimal and the pain excruciating as Ulrike had probed for detritus and . . . She would soften. Her hands were at her sides. He thought she would take him in her arms and their tears would run together.
“I came to see you.”
“Better you hadn’t.”
“I need food, Mum.”
“Then go somewhere you can buy it.”
“I have no money, Mum.”
“Sit on the street and beg for it.”
A sort of wonderment. “No blessing, no food, no money, is that what you have to say to me?”
“You smell.”
“I was in the sea. A boat in the sea and I fell off and . . .”
“You smell of perfume, of scent. Were you screwing someone before you came to see me?”
“I need food and money.”
“With that Victoria girl? Married, I heard. Put you behind her?”
“You have to feed me. At least give me money.”
“Go and rob someone. Mug them, threaten them, isn’t that what you do?”
He pushed himself up, stood his full height. He remembered how it had been, when he had wanted something. They would have gone into a village and the original defenders would have quit, run at the sight of the pick-ups approaching, flying the black flag, and dust clouds spitting from their tyres. Just the civilians left, and if he, or any of his brothers, had gone into even the most wretched home, mud bricks or concrete or corrugated iron, and had demanded food then it would have been brought for them. A family would have gone without in order that the men with guns were fed.
“Something to eat and some money, then I’m gone.”
“They’re watching from the Hunters’ place. They’re waiting for you. Put on the lights in the house and you tell them you’re here.”
“You have bread? Fruit and cheese? I have to eat.”
“I cooked your dinner that night, the night you were on a plane. I cooked it and waited for you. Then put it in the oven, then left it in the microwave, and you did not come, and your food went into the bin. You’ll get no food here . . . Did the girl not feed you?”
“Thought you would.”
“Thought wrong. You know where the knives are, there’s some fruit, and some cheese in the fridge and a loaf. You know how to use a knife, I think. Did you cut throats with a knife? Did you have a knife in your belt, keep it handy so you could slit a throat when the opportunity came up? Cut many, did you? Get the taste for it, slitting and cutting?”
He said, weakly, “I didn’t do that sort of thing. I was a fighter, was ahead, it was other people who . . .”
“Pass the parcel, don’t take blame. So you were ahead of the throat cutters and that makes your war good? No, you just facilitated, were an accessory . . . Did you fight against our people, British people? Kill any of them when you were ‘ahead’?”
“It wasn’t one-sided.”
“That’s super, Cameron. Very good. What, you on the side of the good people?”
“Russians, Syrians, Iranians, the Shi’a fighters from Lebanon. What do you think they were like?”
“I don’t have to listen to that. I don’t want to hear your pathetic justification, your propaganda talk. I just want you to go. And don’t take any of my kitchen knives with you.”
“I need some money.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t . . . I must have some money. You
won’t see me again, and that is my word.”
“Important is it, your word? Do I swallow that . . . and keep your justification for others to hear? Don’t want it . . . If I refuse you money will you come after me with your fists or with one of my knives? Just a monster, aren’t you?”
“Money, then I’m gone.”
“You don’t understand, do you? Come on, I’ll show you and then you’ll have learned something. Why you are not welcome.”
“The picture of me, where’s that? My picture.”
“Gone, had no use for it.”
She stood, reached out and took his hand. Held his hand as if he were a stray child and needed taking back to a parent, not her.
Sadie took him out of the darkened sitting-room, led him into the hall, crossed it. Made him go in front of her and gave him a shove to get him started up the stairs.
She could only guess what could be seen from the Hunters’ home: something or nothing. She remembered the brief exchange with the man who had spoken to her on the way home and the agreement, of sorts, she had accepted. Would she back track? She would not. Determined. Stood him in front of the door to what had been his room . . . Cameron had been awarded his own room, and her daughter had a room of her own, and most times when he was at home, and was not in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons, her elder son slept on the settee downstairs. She stood him in front of the door. It would take him a few moments to become accustomed to the light in there, the lack of it. He was inside and she closed the door behind him. It was a matter of consequences, and he would learn what he had done to her: and many others would have learned what they had inflicted on their parents, their families . . . She went into her own room.
If she had been burgled then any self-respecting thief would have easily found her tin box. The bed had a drawer under the mattress. In the drawer were extra blankets for the winter, the lightweight duvets for the summer, and at the back of the drawer was the old tin box. It was there for “a rainy day”, for more than a shower of rain but for a time when the heavens opened. Sadie had a bank account from which her basic bills were paid, but the box held the cash – £50 and £20 notes – for any catastrophe that confronted her. If the fridge packed up, or the boiler needed replacing, if the cooker failed or the washing machine, that was where the replacement would come from. She had not had a holiday, been away with a little packed bag and been a single occupant in a seaside guest-house, since he had gone. How much for him?
How much? After what he had served up for her was £200 right? Rejected. Was £100 suitable? Too much. Would £50 be acceptable, not missed? She thought so. Extracted one note from the folded wad . . . in excess of £1,000 was left in the tin. He would have to make do with what she gave him. She replaced the box in the drawer, and pushed it shut under the mattress. It was an old bed and an old mattress and where he had been conceived: a one-night stand, a cheerful and convivial man whom she had met at the bus-stop, a commercial traveller. A diversion to a pub, and a couple of drinks, and then a taxi home, and of course he was coming in . . . and long gone when the bump had started to grow. She had loved the boy, doted on him, had been awash with pride when he had sung as a lead chorister in the cathedral choir, with a scholarship to support him – all gone.
She went back on to the landing.
The door of his old bedroom remained closed.
She had forgotten what her elder son would have told her, and had thought the man in the road who had emerged from the shadows respectful and polite. He had not lectured her about “duty” and her obligations to “society”, had given no guarantees nor had she asked for any. Had only made one request . . . she would honour it. She thought she might have had a serious but pointless conversation with her other son were he not tossing on his mattress in his cell, would have discussed the matter of a family’s loyalty to a felon and whether obligation ever ended . . . How far down the road did a son have to go before he was turned in by his own mum. She went downstairs and sat again in her chair, lost in the darkness.
“Jonas’ phone beeped. He had to shift the dog’s head to hold it against his ear.
“Yes?”
“Jonas. Just wanted to clarify our earlier conversation.” The AssDepDG called him on a secure but tinny line.
“Seemed clear to me, thank you.”
“I feel a sense of guilt, you stuck down there, without the resources. Still in the back of that car?”
“Very comfortable, but I’m grateful for your concern.”
“Just wanted to confirm, Jonas, that we will have the bodies in place by seven-thirty this morning. I have a chief constable’s guarantee. There will be a cordon in place, and the guns on hand. I have to say that we have allowed you too much slack, Jonas. That’s down to me and should not have happened. Anyway, by that time I will have a full surveillance team on the ground. Around the Jilkes’ house. I had to shake the tree but finally I have the numbers to put on the board. What we should have had as soon as the Deal news came through. Agnes Burns will be heading them up, first-class operator, as you know. Once they are there, Jonas, then you are free to get on back to London. We really appreciate what you have put in for us, and the weight you have taken on your shoulders – good man. I suppose it’s because of that other business, what you achieved, that we take your skills for granted and also your endurance factor. We should not have. Anyway, you will, please, hold the fort for a few more hours and then we can stand you down . . . No sign of him yet, is there?”
“No, nothing – drawing a blank.”
“Are you happy, Jonas, with where we are?”
“Happy? Yes, sounds a good plan.”
“May I say this, Jonas? There have been times, to be very frank, when you might not have been the easiest colleague to work with. That is not meant to be offensive, but you can be sharp, have a reputation for abrasiveness . . . You have been, on this transfer of tactics, commendably cooperative. If I did not know you better, Jonas, I would say suspiciously cooperative. It’s a sensible attitude and does you credit. Won’t be long now till Agnes has her team in place. Will probably take over that house from your probationers, then you can get some well-deserved sleep. Thank you, Jonas.”
The dog wriggled. In the front they grinned, would have heard every word exchanged.
He cleared his throat. Jonas said that he might have killed for a strong coffee, or a bar of chocolate, or a bacon sandwich of the sort that Vera made for him, and he explained. Told them, as if it were a bedtime story, of a young man who had gone away from his home, shed comfort in the hope of finding adventure. Not an evil young man but not one who gave credit to his family; just another who looked around him and saw no satisfaction and moved on. Adventure had clutched at him, and with it had come a group of comrades, an alliance of brothers, and a sense of invincibility. He spoke quietly and they listened to him with respect. But it was not a fairy story, and no uplifting ending awaited the young man. The adventure had gone sour, the colleagues – one by one – had been cut down. He was alone and the driving force in his mind was one of hatred against those responsible for fracturing the dream.
Told the two police in the front of their car that when the residents of the estate on the hill woke up, went to shower, shit and shave, that the cordon would be in place, and the guns. Jonas offered them two alternatives to the end-game. The young man, inside or outside of it, would identify the cordon, would evade it and disappear . . . Or would do the modern equivalent of falling on a sword and would seem to offer a challenge to the firearms and would be shot dead, would be the martyr, his name lit up in lights. Said that either outcome would be “unsatisfactory”.
“So, what are we, Mr Merrick?” she asked.
“Just a back-stop. A bit of ‘just in case’.”
“When might we shoot, Mr Merrick?” he asked.
“If I am wrong, then you shoot. A bad outcome.”
She dug her fingers into a tight pocket of her vest, brought out a short length of peppermints. Enough for one eac
h.
The vehicle driven by Farouk – better known, only to himself, as Wolfboy – reacted poorly to sharp bends or steep inclines.
The steering was heavy and the engine struggled. To be expected. The inside of the van was filled with the sheets of plate metal and it was Farouk’s responsibility to screw them into place when he reached his destination, where the van – newly protected – would crash through wire fencing. Once the van had broken past the initial defences and outstripped the first layer of security . . . what then? The man who was coming, who would shortly be on his way to meet Wolfboy, would have to run, and on his shoulder would be the weapon. A smile played broadly on Farouk’s face. The road ahead was empty. The vehicle whined and strained but kept up its speed.
Wolfboy felt a sense of joy. He had been chosen. Had been nervous, but no longer. Stayed cautious. It would be a mark of the trust placed in him that it was he who had been chosen to meet the martyr, shahid, and he had been told that this heroic man had been a great fighter for the cause, in defence of Allah’s will, in the time of the caliphate. He was honoured that he had been selected . . . and did not realise that those whom he had met – hurried conversations in moorland picnic areas, or among the trees of his city’s parks – had furnished him with no information as to their own identities. He did not understand that he was a “cut off” in the conspiracy, and imagined that men would come to greet him when he was back in his room or in the café and would praise him to his face. It had happened fast, had been put together in a race against shrinking time.
The weapon would arrive first, then the man would come . . . and Wolfboy would be back on his own territory, at work in the café, but would keep close to a radio. He thought it the high moment of his life and was flattered to be so valued.
The Crocodile Hunter Page 32