Jericho said, ‘We extracted Belcher from Syria. Boring story, but it worked; we briefed him and shipped him on – have to say this, Corrie, you did a class job on him, spun him round sideways and faster than a top out of a Christmas cracker – he’s here. I needed a contact point for him and there’s a woman excavating an ancient site at Marib, and she’s joined the payroll. Not that I’m actually giving her dosh, but I’ve persuaded her that it’s the “decent thing” for a girl to do if she’s to justify all that education, saving passengers in mid-flight over the Atlantic. That is the chain of information you will tap into.’
‘More questions than answers – when do you get to beef it up?’
Quiet fell, and the two on the ground moved slowly and effortlessly and began to pack their kit again, and each piece seemed to have a predestined billet: the rifle, the sight, the magazines and ammunition, the cleaning stuff, and the rifles and pistols and canisters. Neither looked at Corrie, neither acknowledged he was there. Corrie wondered how many, in the city and inside the expatriate clubs, were convinced by the disguise that Jericho adopted – probably most of them. A harmless idiot, playing with lives.
‘Steady, lad, steady. No call for impatience. All in good time. Around Marib town is a string of villages. All, in their way, are fortresses. There are buildings of stone or mud bricks, alleyways and sheds for storage, outbuildings for animals. Some have electricity and some do not. They could be home for between five hundred or a thousand civilian souls. Dispersed among them are AQAP fighters, horny and horrible, but good to these people because that’s the way they get fed. Floating around, we don’t know where, are a couple of other characters. The Emir is the chief military figure for this area, a veteran of Afghanistan and a survivor of the Tora Bora retreat. A formidable figure. There is also a young man of whom we know very little since he was released by the Saudis. We call him the Ghost. We have him down as the natural successor to Ibrahim Asiri because we believe him to be a thinker, seriously creative. The aim is to create an explosive device that can be hidden inside a human body, no metal parts and no X-ray signature. A suicide merchant buys an airline ticket, having had the necessary operation. Probably the difficulty will be with detonation. We assume they are nearly ready, assume also that they will require detail on security procedures, assume they will need to brief, assume there will be a coming-together of principal personalities in any one of these villages; or, if we are unlucky, the circus will move on down the road where I don’t have a young woman searching for artefacts. How are we doing?’
‘Doing fine, far as it goes – my role is as yet unexplained.’
Rat and Slime were at the vehicle, waiting by the driver. A waft of nicotine carried in the air.
‘There is no government presence in these communities and no American specials; everyone is wary of “boots on the ground”. Hence using you, nominally a civilian, and them. The plan, if it works, is for Belcher to name a village where the circus will gather, a date and a time, the vehicles in which the Emir and the Ghost will travel. Belcher takes that information to the woman in her camp – she has good cover and is tolerated and under the radar – and she passes it to you. Option One— I’m loath to access it, it’s a fallback because I’d get no thanks – we tell our allies and they send up a drone flight and blast those vehicles with Hellfires, and probably manage a wheelbarrow of collateral to go with it. We want our own operation – that is me, that is George, that is God Almighty on the top floor – and will strive to get it. So, I have Option Two: it appeals – we ignore allies. We put your good friend – I jest – Rat, with Slime alongside him, in a position where he has a good and clear view of a road down which a vehicle will travel, and he does the business. One shot or two, and who the fuck knows where it’s come from? How does that suit you?’
‘And back-up, and getting clear?’ An obvious question, and Corrie thought he knew that the answer would be vague – no lies told, but no promises given.
‘A rendezvous point, where we can lift you out.’
‘And how far to walk?’
‘Is your injury troubling you, the leg? No, silly of me, they would not have let you come if it was too bad. I think we might be a bit ahead of ourselves, Corrie. Suffice to say that it’s all being taken care of. Though the opposition, I repeat, are not stupid; they avoid using electronic communications, and move when there is adverse weather, low cloud cover, and the drones are blind. Rat is the best.’
‘Seems to me like his best days are long gone.’
‘Top of the list of what was available – God, you can be a grumpy little shite.’
‘And the woman, do we bring her out? Does she join the heap on Collateral Hill?’
‘Play it by ear. You have not seen her, reserve an opinion, and—’
‘Because this is no journey for passengers, and I’m carrying two of them already. But you’re not listening, are you?’
Corrie turned his back, started to walk back to the wheels. He assumed they would fly that night – there’d be little enough time to sleep – and then hike to be in position by first light. And the plan seemed daft, and had a wildness about it, but it might just work. It would work if the links were strong enough.
‘Did you manipulate the woman? Did you dangle her, like you did me?’
‘Ride the wave, Corrie, she’ll be all right. Look after yourself, and bring me back a nice souvenir – a kilo of what camels do early in the morning. Don’t tell me you’d prefer to be in the Palace of Dreams, ticking boxes, reading reports. You’ve been long enough here, reading, writing, scratching your arse, keeping your head down. Time to move on. Do it, you’re the man.’
Chapter 5
They flew low, fast, at the bird’s maximum speed.
Corrie had the rear seats. Around him and squashing him tight were the rucksacks and the bag with the rifle and its optics, but the assault weapons were loose and available, as were the pistols, the ammunition, and the grenades. And the communications gear, the medical stuff, the food and the water. He did not know how they would carry it: how they would shift it without being exposed up there on a skyline, stumbling forward under the weight of it. But he would lead: that was not up for discussion. In front of him were the two men, Rat and Slime. The younger never spoke to him. If Rat did, it was out of necessity: could he move the rucksack or was it too heavy? How much else could he manage? Had he medical experience in a field casualty situation, or training? Did he have firearms knowledge? What were the rules of engagement? He’d answered curtly: ‘rules of engagement?’ He’d asked Jericho that question and been rewarded with a little lifting of the straggled eyebrows, so he told Rat there were none.
They had finished on the range, eaten the cheese and bread and hummus that the driver had produced, then had gone to the military side of the airport. Dusk had come down fast. No chat there from the Brit who would fly them, nor from two others who had machine-guns mounted, loaded, at the cab doors. Corrie didn’t have internal communication with the pilot, Rat did. He had the impression that Rat was comfortable with the set-up.
Corrie was not. He felt an intruder. It had been dark, the hour before the first glimpse of sunrise, when he had left the hotel on the Turkish side with the aid team. There had been a minibus for them and two lorries that were heavy on their axles with relief supplies. There had been the smell of bodies and fags and murmurs of tense laughter, but he had not been a part of it: he had wondered how many of the genuine guys, girls, from the agencies regarded him with suspicion. They had gone over the border, waved through by the Turkish military, and were met further down by armed men who were, supposedly, from a group that didn’t feel a need to decapitate any outsider they could lay hands on. Jericho and the people in London should have factored in the presence of a criminal crowd making a living out of the chaos, trading live bodies – not sheep, not goats, not skinny cattle, but men venturing on to their territory and for whom the radicals would pay big. The aid convoy had gone five miles, and it was barel
y light, and they’d reached a warehouse of sorts, and one of the lorries had shunted into it, and most of the aid team had decamped without explanation. The second lorry was going further on, with Corrie and an Italian, an Austrian and a Canadian. All straightforward. Would have been calls made, a message gone ahead of them, a tractor and trailer in place across the road, a pick-up coming from behind and going past the lorry and then ramming the minibus at the back, and the stop, and that fucking sinking feeling.
The Italian had been nearest the door and would not move, and Corrie had been behind him. No way out. They always said in the anti-hijack lectures that the best time to do a runner was in the confusion of the lift. But that had not been possible, and he would never know anyway whether he’d have taken a chance or chosen to talk his way out of it. They were whacked on the heads, trussed up, and the locals had flaked away. One of them would have done the dirty, was likely on a five per cent of the eventual takings, and all the smiles and the passing round of the fags would have been to lull them into a false sense of security. What hurt was that he, and they, were subject to a venal act of deceit. They’d been in the back of a van, tied so that their wrists and ankles were damn near numbed, and gagged, bundled close under a foul-smelling rug. That had been dawn and early morning; by the evening, they were inside a building, blindfolded, gagged and bound, but the cloth over the Canadian’s eyes had slipped, which was how they had known it was past dusk. There had been another beating before the building went quieter. It had been the start of the making of the legend of Corrie Rankin, first steps and small ones. He had never asked for that accolade, to be named in a privileged circle as a ‘legend’, never wanted it. Everything came at a price: the man who had made the reputation for himself had the big reward dumped on his lap. Now he was in the bird and the rotors hammered and they were across the Yemen border. There had been lights in the south where the coast was, and then an empty patch of infinite blackness, the desert to the north, before the skies revealed the moon and stars.
On the floor of the cabin, against the boots of Rat and Slime, and between the swivel seats of the gunners, was a young man, Jamil. Corrie had been told he’d be their guide inside Marib Governorate, on the ground. His English was fair, and Slime seemed to regard the guy as his province. Another passenger? Might have been. Another one capable of taking the cash and dealing dirty? Possibly, could be. That was the lesson Corrie had learned: trust was in short supply. Operation Crannog would now be on select and encrypted communications. Rat had asked him why they were called Crannog, and Corrie had answered that it was called Crannog because that was the name he wanted, which had killed the topic. Jericho had asked the same question.
‘Why did you choose Crannog?’
‘It seemed appropriate.’
‘Don’t mess with me. What does it mean to you?’
‘Did you ever know Clive Martin? Ever know Bobby Carter?’
‘Won’t confirm or deny. Spit it.’
Corrie told him, ‘Bobby Carter pushed me into the arms of Clive Martin. Clive Martin did talent spotting and tutoring. I went with a party he organised, camping in the Hebrides, and there was a crannog in a freshwater loch. Truth is that I fantasised about that heap of rocks set in the water, big enough for two or three families and their best breeding animals. A place of safety. A fortress. A refuge, secure. Men on it would reckon themselves beyond reach, and their women and their children. It’ll be like that in the Marib area, where we’re going. The people we target will consider themselves all of those: safe, secure, beyond reach . . . I like the idea of making their Crannog worthless. It’s sort of a motivation.’
‘Quite a speech from you. Rather like it.’
‘What else do you “rather like”?’
‘I rather like, Corrie, that we have not had a tedious talk about risk assessment and backup, and what rules are onboard or not. Because you trust me, and I appreciate it, and – putting it generously and don’t for fuck’s sake ever think of quoting me – I will break the bank to do what is necessary for you, and would risk the good name of the Service to that end. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with that girl.’
Which would have been Jericho’s way of putting the lid down hard on talk that might veer towards the emotional. Maggie had been there, all through that first evening after the capture, and with each blow and kick. She had seen him through the questioning when they’d looked to establish whether they had someone more important than the ID suggested. It was as if he had clung to her, his cheek against hers, his tears on her skin.
Twice, the pilot had lurched the helicopter sharply into a climb and the navigation lights had shown the dim shapes of a cliff and a summit just cleared. No one waited for him, watched over him any more. He doubted even Jericho, smooth-tongued, had lost sleep over him then, nor would do now. The rattling of the machine compacted in his ears, and then noise flooded them as the gunners swung the barrels, cocked the beasts. Had there ever been a chance to turn around, walk away? Never had been – nobody, in his experience, had ever had that chance, certainly nobody Jericho had a fist on. Now he saw lights, weak and scattered, through the cockpit glass, and the helicopter swung to the north. They must be near their chosen landing place, but no one bothered to tell him.
So many people knew him.
Jericho’s memory was elephantine. He could recall the name of anyone he’d been introduced to, if he had formed the fast impression that they might, in the future, be of any interest. He was asked if he would join a Bridge table. He would have said that card players had tidy minds, were organised, and also had a little of the occasional bloody-minded independence that was useful in the worlds of commerce and of confidential informants. The ingratiating smile, the glass in front of him still full, his glance at the table where three sat and one was bowing out, and his apology: he would have ‘loved’ to, but sadly was expecting a call and would not be available for fifteen minutes. They were most welcome to look for somebody else.
It was hardly a call from his aunt, who lived in the one-bedroom flat in Paddington where a more youthful photograph of him was framed and up on a bedside table. He had glanced enough times at his watch, and had a decent estimate in his mind of where the helicopter would be now, how far it had yet to fly. He had sent enough men, and women, to an out-of-sight chopper pad, had seen them loaded on board, had heard the rotors gain power, had watched them head off into the dusk or the dawn or into black night. Usually managed a wave, and would extract his giant handkerchief from where it flopped in a breast pocket, and would wave it in a kind of salute, but he had never done it himself. He had never ridden in a bird battered by high crosswinds, or hung on to a seat as the pilot had flown them – guided by instruments – at twenty, thirty, feet above the ground, weaving a passage through gullies and steep-sided valleys. Had never been to war, the front line. He had gone back to the office above the travel agency, had showered and washed off the dust and filth of the firing range, and of the airfield where the rotors had caked him, had anointed himself with lotion, and adjusted his stomach padding. He wore a clean shirt, a blue linen jacket, and had gone to the club he patronised. He had seemed to drink in his normal fashion.
‘Going to have another one, Jerry? Fit one into Jericho’s glass can you, steward? Jericho, you’ll have another – same poison?’
He always did, and the same glass always went up to the bar. The staff there were briefed. It was rumoured that there was a special bottle, labelled as Bombay Sapphire, that they reached for; that the gin dispensed from it was stronger than the normal. Except that it was water in that particular gin bottle, and he would remain more sober than any judge he’d ever known. He was reputed to handle alcohol with extraordinary ease, adding to the mystique he created – ‘a right old character’, ‘a bit of a laugh but harmless’, ‘such an empty life and he just laps up conversation, rather sad’. He could not have said how long the sinecure posting in the southeastern corner of the Arabian peninsula would last. There would be a bloody
bean-counter back at VBX who, one day, would query the expense charges he filed, and the DG might have gone by then, and dear George, and there would be new people up on the top floor, squeamish folk, hardly worth thinking about.
He was near to the table where Henry had sat with that nurse, a jolly girl and moderately useful, her value proven with that introduction. Nice kid, Henry, but liable to wobble. Corrie Rankin would need to be firm with her. Jericho listened to the man and grinned inanely. Didn’t know him, a bit of a piss-artist, as all of them were who talked too much late at night. If he didn’t know the name of his new best friend, he always called the man ‘Jack’. A talent was to manufacture a slight slur.
‘Is that right, Jack? How very interesting.’
‘It’s God’s truth, Jerry – may I call you that? – I had an appointment in the diary with the manager of that branch, and thought we’d be talking good investments, but I’m kept kicking my heels for forty minutes, because the bloody man had bounced this Iranian ahead of me. Last time I’m at their bank – they’ll be losing a good customer. An Iranian and the manager – all apologies and grovel – thinks it explains everything by telling me this chappie is with the IRGC. Know what that is, Jerry? Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, their sort of Special Forces, and the most holy of the bloody holy, except that he’s carting out suitcases of loot, hard currency, and investing it across here. A full-scale general, and—’
‘A proper scandal, Jack. I so sympathise. Was that General Havez Jannei? Fat little runt, met him over here at tennis or something.’
‘No, not him. The manager said he was Mahbod Akdarzi, a skinny cove—’
Jericho’s phone bleeped. He murmured about the ‘little woman’ wanting to know when he’d be home, and shrugged. He felt a tightness in his throat, a quiver of cold at his neck, could recall how it had been that evening as the news had dribbled back across the frontier that there had been a ‘shit strike’ inside Syria and his man had been in a bad place at a bad time. He’d been expecting a reassuring few words to confirm ‘all well’. It had been like a kick in the bloody privates. He took the phone from his pocket, flicked some keys. Saw the message.
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