Sleeper 13

by Rob Sinclair

  Streicher twitched at the name. Obbadi wondered whether the Nazi Holocaust was a source of pride for men like these, or of embarrassment and shame.

  The world over people knew of the notoriety of Zyklon B, the brand name of the cyanide pellets used to kill millions of Jews in the concentration camps in Poland during World War II. What few realised was that the substance had originally been developed as a pesticide, and hydrogen cyanide was still produced for industrial use all over the world in various forms, under various different brand names. Finding it packaged in pellet form was difficult, and finding a supply that wouldn’t get radars bleeping was even harder. Hence the lofty price tag. But two million dollars was well worth it, as far as Obbadi was concerned.

  Obbadi heard the doors of the van open outside, then moments later they were slammed shut again.

  This was it.

  He saw Streicher’s eyes twitch. Did he know? It really didn’t matter now.

  There was a double-tap of suppressed gunfire outside as Sab’ah took out the two sentries. Streicher was surprisingly quick to realise something wasn’t right. But not quick enough.

  Obbadi lifted his arm and raced for the nearest of the guards. The hidden blade shot out from under his sleeve and Obbadi stepped behind the man for cover and drove the knife into the man’s neck. The other two men began firing their weapons but they had no clear shot of Obbadi, and he reached forward and grabbed hold of the rifle the man was still clutching and with four quick pulls he fired off enough shots to put the other two men on the ground. Down, but not out. He needed them alive.

  He drew the knife from the man’s neck and pulled the rifle off his shoulder and let him slump to the ground. Obbadi twisted the rifle to Streicher, who’d had just enough time to grab his concealed weapon and aim it at Obbadi’s head. But it was a stalemate and neither man fired.

  ‘You forgot about the man behind you, though,’ Obbadi said, looking beyond Streicher to the head of the stairs where Sab’ah was standing with the G36.

  Streicher whipped his head round and Obbadi lunged forward and swiped the butt of the assault rifle across the back of the big man’s head. He keeled over.

  Ten minutes later, Streicher and his two still alive accomplices were roped together in the back of Sab’ah’s van.

  ‘You have no idea what you’ve done,’ Streicher said, still defiant. He spat out a mouthful of blood. ‘You, your whole family. I’ll find them, I’ll skin you all alive.’

  Obbadi, who was standing by the open back doors of the van, busy pulling on large industrial rubber gloves, stopped and pondered that for a second.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Obbadi said. ‘Is it just bravado when you say things like that, or do you really think you’re capable of such an act?’

  Streicher fumed, but said nothing.

  ‘I ask because it’s an easy thing to say.’ Obbadi reached for the hunting knife that he’d pilfered from one of Streicher’s men and held the blade out towards Streicher. ‘But actually cutting into someone, then taking the skin and peeling it from their body as they writhe and scream . . . that’s not such an easy thing to do. What do you think, Sab’ah?’

  ‘No, not for me, brother,’ Sab’ah said, head down.

  Obbadi shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘See? And he knows what it’s like. He’s seen me do it.’

  Streicher was now looking less confident than he had done moments before. Obbadi smiled.

  ‘Brother, it’s time. We really do need to do the test before we can conclude this deal.’

  ‘Right away.’

  Both Sab’ah and Obbadi grabbed the heavy-duty gas masks and pulled them over their heads. Streicher’s face still had a certain amount of resolve remaining but the intermittent flickers of fear were becoming more frequent and lasting longer.

  ‘Okay, we’re ready,’ Sab’ah said, plonking down one of the canisters from the warehouse onto the floor of the van, right by Streicher’s feet.

  Obbadi and Sab’ah climbed into the back of the van and pulled shut the doors. Obbadi took the knife and held it up in the air, the blade pointing down to the floor.

  ‘I’ve long wanted to see exactly how this works,’ he said, grinning in anticipation as he locked eyes with Streicher. ‘I hope I won’t be disappointed.’

  He plunged the knife down into the lid of the metal drum and then sawed around the rim to remove a crude circle of metal. Behind the plastic that covered his face his eyes opened wide as he stared down at the off-white pellets inside that looked completely innocuous. He wondered what would happen next. Would they fizz or froth or let off smoke as they reacted with the air and spat out their poison? Or would they just sit there looking inert despite their deadly nature?

  After thirty seconds Obbadi, his eyes flicking from the pellets over to the three shackled men, realised it was the latter. There was no indication whatsoever that those little white pellets were filling the van with hydrogen cyanide gas, yet he could tell from the faces of the three men that the poison was already taking control.

  Obbadi watched with rabid interest. As the gas reached the men’s lungs they choked and gagged, the panic in their eyes growing by the second. The men moaned, then screamed as the cyanide rapidly worked through their bodies, blocking oxygen from muscles and organs. Soon they were convulsing. Frothy white and red spittle dripped from Streicher’s mouth. A line of blood dribbled out from the ear of one of his men. The other, the more alert of the three, was screaming louder and louder. With his body shaking and spasming he slammed his head against the side of the van like a crazed beast, the vehicle shaking on its suspension. Obbadi winced with each strike and after several self-inflicted blows the blotch of red on the side of the van grew. Obbadi let out an amused laugh and looked away from the maniac over to Sab’ah. His face was hard and emotionless. He gave a slight nod to Obbadi.

  ‘I think it works,’ Obbadi said.

  Sab’ah said nothing. Obbadi looked back at the men. Streicher’s head was bowed, but his body still twitched violently. The lack of oxygen to his brain had rendered him unconscious but his muscles were cramping severely making his whole body shake. Could he still feel the pain? Obbadi hoped so.

  It was several minutes more before the three men were still. By that point their skin was an unnatural pink colour and was covered in bright red and in some places greenish spots.

  Obbadi moved over and lifted up Streicher’s head. Blood dripped from both of his eyes. There was no doubt he was dead. Obbadi let go and the head flopped down.

  ‘It’s done,’ he said, his face deadpan as he turned to Sab’ah.

  Obbadi reached out and opened the van doors and stepped outside. He removed the mask and took in a lungful of fresh air. Sab’ah joined him.

  ‘You’re satisfied?’ Sab’ah asked.

  ‘More than satisfied,’ Obbadi said. He looked over to the black Mercedes van. ‘I’ll take the rest of the barrels now.’

  Sab’ah looked unsure about that. ‘How will you get out of the country?’

  Obbadi scowled at his brother. ‘You let me worry about that. Put all the bodies in your van. All of the equipment too. Then burn it. Make sure there’s nothing left.’

  ‘I’ll do it right away.’

  Obbadi reached over and put his hand on Sab’ah’s shoulder, then pulled his brother over and hugged him tightly.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Obbadi said.

  ‘I only wish you could have stayed longer.’

  ‘Next time, I promise.’

  Obbadi let go and took a half-step away.

  ‘Ma’a salama,’ Sab’ah said.

  Obbadi turned and smiled. ‘And may peace be upon you too, my brother.’

  EIGHT

  Aydin glanced up at the buildings as they walked along the streets of Kandahar. It was colder than he’d expected. He had thought the country was just a huge sandy desert and would be baking hot, but despite the blue sky above he was shivering in his jeans and woollen jumper.

  They’d o
nly arrived in the city two hours ago. Already Aydin hated it. Everything was just so . . . unfamiliar. So different to home. Not just in appearance, but in the way it felt, the mottled textures of the stone buildings, the cracked pavement. A heavy, musky smell permeated everything – what was that? Aydin had no idea, but it was so very different to London.

  They’d checked in to a hotel that wasn’t like any other hotel Aydin had ever seen before. It was just grim. Though he didn’t think they’d be staying there long.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you?’ his father asked, in his native Turkish. At nine years old it was a language Aydin understood perfectly, at least in his father’s accent, yet he didn’t feel comfortable speaking it himself. He didn’t like it. Perhaps there was a part of him that wanted to rebel against his heritage, though there was no clear reason he could pinpoint as to why. The only answer was because the language was one more thing that marked him out as being different back home. His friends teased him about his dark skin, his eyes, his face, the way he talked. They teased him for being Turkish, they called him a chicken and made stupid clucking noises.

  All he’d ever wanted was to be normal, like everyone else.

  ‘Did you hear me? I asked if you remember what I told you?’

  ‘Which part?’ Aydin asked him in English.

  His father glared at him though didn’t comment on his choice of tongue.

  ‘You’re special, Aydin. So, so special. In this place they’ll teach you everything you’ll ever need to know. Make me proud, son.’

  ‘But you’re staying with me here, aren’t you?’ Aydin asked, the nervousness in his voice clear.

  ‘It’s not here, in Kandahar, that you’re staying. But this is where I have to leave you. There’ll be others like you where you’re going. Other boys. Think of it like a school.’

  ‘But I like my school in London,’ Aydin said, which wasn’t exactly true, but it was much more familiar than this place at least. ‘And I have my friends. Mumya, Nilay. I don’t understand––’

  His father reached down and put a finger to his lips.

  ‘You’ll understand in time. I promise. You trust me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aydin said, though he wasn’t sure he fully understood the concept of trust. This was his father, and Aydin believed anything the man told him. Was that trust?

  They reached the end of the street and turned left onto another gloomy yellow, dusty street. Up ahead was a Jeep, parked up on the kerb, its white paintwork spattered with yellow and orange dust and muck.

  Aydin’s father tried to let go of his hand but the boy squeezed it tightly – he was scared. His father wrenched his hand away then moved forward to the Jeep.

  ‘Wait there,’ he said and Aydin stopped.

  A cold wind blew across the street and the hairs on the back of Aydin’s neck pricked up in defence as his shivering worsened. His whole body was shaking. Two men stepped from the Jeep. One, the driver, stayed by the car. The other began a conversation with Aydin’s father. The man was tall, he wore a skullcap on his head and his pockmarked face was largely covered with a thick black beard. Aydin didn’t think the man was frowning as such, but the look on his face was hard and mean, the skin between his eyes pinched and lined. He gazed over to Aydin and his eyes twitched. No hint of a smile.

  After a few moments Aydin’s father turned round and looked at his son. There was a strange glaze in his eyes. He seemed . . . weak. That wasn’t how Aydin had ever seen his father before. The man was Aydin’s rock, his superhero. He waved Aydin forward and the boy cautiously moved towards them. His father put his hand around his son’s shoulder and for a moment Aydin felt the strength and security that his father’s presence always gave him.

  Until he looked up into the other man’s eyes.

  ‘Aydin, this man will take you from here. His name is Aziz. But you should call him the Teacher.’

  ‘Come on, Aydin,’ the Teacher said. ‘It’s time for you to come and meet the other boys.’

  He held his hand out. Aydin didn’t want to take it. He was a strong boy, his father had always told him that. But his eyes were filling with tears. He tried to fight them off, hoping they’d sink back inside, but they didn’t.

  ‘Please, Baba, please come with me.’

  ‘I can’t. Not now. The Teacher will look after you. I promise.’

  ‘Come, Aydin,’ the big man said, grabbing his hand.

  ‘No, please! I don’t want to go!’

  Aydin’s father opened his mouth but didn’t say a word. The Teacher opened the back door of the Jeep, put his hands under Aydin’s armpits and lifted him up onto the seat. He shoved him along then jumped in the back with him. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of sweat and tobacco.

  ‘Baba!’ Aydin shouted again.

  He was sure he could see his father crying, and although he was doing a better job of fighting it than his son was, Aydin thought it was his father’s unease that was making him so much more terrified.

  Why was he just standing there? Why wasn’t he helping him?

  ‘Make me proud, son,’ his father said again, before the Teacher wound up the window and the driver pulled the Jeep out onto the road.

  Aydin turned his head to watch the figure of his father disappear into the distance behind.

  ‘It’s time to stop crying,’ the Teacher said, his tone level, though Aydin still sensed menace behind his every word. ‘Your father wants you to be strong. You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Aydin said.

  ‘Good. Now put this on.’ He handed Aydin a brown cloth sack.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On your head.’

  ‘But––’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Aydin hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, other than he was frozen with both confusion and terror.

  ‘Let me make this clear for you, Aydin,’ the Teacher said, his eyes narrowing and his teeth gnashing together like an angry dog. ‘There’s only one rule for you from now on.’ He grabbed the sack and pulled it over Aydin’s head, the force causing his neck to twist painfully. ‘You do as I tell you. Understand?’

  Aydin said nothing, and seconds later the Teacher slapped or thumped him across the face, causing his head to smack against the window.

  ‘I said do you understand!’

  ‘Yes,’ Aydin said, his voice pathetic.

  ‘Good. Now be quiet. We’ve a long journey ahead.’

  NINE

  Sevenoaks, England

  With thoughts of his father and that first encounter with Aziz al-Addad playing over and over in his mind, Aydin drove on for several miles before he figured out where he was. He was no expert on UK geography, but he knew given how long they’d been in the lorry before it stopped that he was still some way south of London. When he saw the sign for the M25, he knew he was heading in the right direction. He still had quite a trek to his next destination, but the longer he stayed in the van, the bigger the risk he was taking. Before he reached the motorway, on the outskirts of the leafy town of Sevenoaks, he pulled the van to the side of the road, stepped from it and walked away.

  He didn’t know how many illegal immigrants were in the back of the van, or what they’d do next. Perhaps they’d be thankful for Aydin getting them away from the exploitative mobsters. Or maybe he’d inadvertently split those poor people from their friends and family. Either way they weren’t his problem any more, and he felt little guilt for leaving them there. The way he saw it, Sevenoaks was a hell of a lot better than a Syrian war zone.

  After a short walk Aydin found himself in the town’s main shopping area with narrow streets crammed with handsome red brick and Tudor-style buildings with lashings of white render and black wood. There was much about Western civilisation that confused, and made him angry, but walking through the peaceful town, seeing people relaxed and going about their daily business quietly, was almost surreal to him. It left him feeling bemused and oddly embarrassed.

/>   Pushing the conflicting thoughts in his mind aside, he exchanged five hundred euros for pounds in a post office, then without stopping for rest he set about figuring out his travel route.

  It turned out the town had good travel connections, and its station was a direct link to central London. By midday he’d travelled right through the capital city on a combination of train and Tube and he was walking through the dilapidated streets of Tottenham, past boarded-up shops and crumbling townhouses. Quite a contrast to Sevenoaks, though oddly it was more familiar and more suited to his mood.

  He thought he’d remember the area, the streets at least, but nothing felt or looked or smelled the same as how he remembered it. Had the world moved on that much in the sixteen years since he’d left this place, or had his memories simply morphed and faded?

  The streets he walked down, although typically English, typically London, reminded him somehow of the place he’d left behind in France. In Tottenham the area was both poor and culturally diverse, clearly evidenced by the vast array of shops and different cuisines of cafes and restaurants – both open and closed down – and also the appearance of the pedestrians milling about the place. Even though many people on the streets looked at him suspiciously, he knew that was the way these people looked at the world. There was such a variety of colours of skin and shapes of faces, of language and clothing, that in London Aydin knew he was just another face, nothing unusual or distinctive about him at all.

  Yet he still sensed watchful eyes on him. He had to be prepared for the worst.

  First things first, though. He’d not eaten in hours, so he took the chance to stop at a cafe run by a family of Turks. The inside of the place had a sweet cumin-tinged scent. It was a pleasant and familiar smell, yet it grated with Aydin because it somehow reminded him of his father. Before eating he used the toilet and did his best to clean the grime off his face and the blood from his hands and clothes. He had enough cash to buy new clothes but he wouldn’t do that yet, not until absolutely necessary. He didn’t know how long he’d be running and needed to conserve resources as long as he could.