by Chris Ryan
Five minutes passed.
Suddenly, Danny became aware of a commotion around the exit to the square at his nine o’clock. A small group of men entered – Danny counted five of them. The locals in the square parted to give them passage, and even the kids on the pick-up seemed to sit a little straighter. There was a lull in the general conversation as the newcomers strutted further into the square. They wore mismatched clothes. Three of them wore camouflage gear – either a jacket, or trousers, or both. The other two were more traditionally dressed but wore heavy bandoliers of rounds like necklaces. Each of them had the ubiquitous AK-47 strapped to their bodies, and they had an arrogant swagger. To Danny they looked like jokers. But jokers with assault rifles could do a lot of damage, as the locals clearly knew well. Hamza shifted nervously in his seat. Only the older tea drinkers appeared unmoved by the arrival of these overbearing youngsters, and stared at them impassively while sipping at their bowls of tea.
One of the newcomers was clearly the leader. He wore full camouflage and instead of a shemagh had a kind of low fez, white with purple Arabic lettering. Danny could tell he was looking for trouble. He was jutting out his chin and trying to catch the eye of anyone he could. If his gaze descended on any of the locals, they would step backwards from him, bowing slightly. The young man took up a position in the centre of the square, looking around for someone to pick on.
His eyes fell on Danny.
There were about eight metres between them. Five or six locals blocked the way, but they were clearly tuned in to the situation and melted away as it became clear that the swaggering militant had chosen his target. They locked eyes. The militant had a wispy beard like Hamza’s, and a hooked nose. He was chewing something, probably khat. Not a good sign.
A crackling in Danny’s ear. Spud. ‘I’ve got line of sight, mucker. I can take him if you say the word.’
Danny looked beyond the young man. Sure enough, Spud had stepped a few paces from the donkey and had manoeuvred himself further along his stretch of wall. He had one hand in his dishdash, ready to pull a weapon. He could put this fucker down, no question, but a single round wouldn’t just kill the tough – it would kill their chances of hooking up with Ahmed as they fought their way out of the area.
The square was practically silent now, apart from the noise of Arabic music coming from where the khat chew was taking place. The young man took a step towards Danny. He called something out in Arabic. Danny couldn’t understand him, so he didn’t reply. Instead he raised both palms in a gesture of conciliation, knowing full well that Spud had his back.
This seemed to amuse the young man, who didn’t understand that Danny was calculating which of his buddies to kill first as and when the situation turned noisy. His lip curled into an unpleasant grin, and he moved his hands so that they were gently resting on the rifle that hung round his neck.
‘Just say the word, mucker,’ Spud breathed.
Five seconds passed.
An unfamiliar voice echoed round the square.
It came from the direction of the pick-up. One of the kids had stood up and shouted something. Danny didn’t understand the words, but he could easily discern the aggression behind them. The militant stopped in his tracks. He turned round swiftly and barked an instruction, before striding back towards his cronies. Danny felt himself relaxing. The guy seemed to have forgotten all about him. The buzz of conversation resumed slightly, though there was still a nervous edge to it.
More commotion by the pick-up. Three of the newcomers had climbed up on to the vehicle. They were dragging one of the kids – Danny assumed this was the one who had shouted out – down on to the ground.
Scuffling. Shouting. The militants had surrounded the kid and now they were bundling him away from the square, down the street to Danny’s nine o’clock. Danny looked over at Spud. Now that the threat had passed, he was edging back towards his original position. And not a moment too soon, because Hamza had just stood up. Three men had emerged from the room where the khat chew had been taking place. Traditional Yemeni dress. Greying beards – they were older than Hamza, but not as old as the craggy-faced men drinking tea. In their fifties, perhaps, though it was hard to tell from a distance. What was easy to tell was that they were swaying slightly.
Hamza instantly stood up and approached the middle of the three men. He grabbed his hand and started pumping it vigorously. Even as he did this, he looked over at Danny, unsubtly indicating that he’d marked his man: this, clearly, was Ahmed. He had a strange, sharp face. His beard was shorter than the others, and trimmed in a square, angular fashion. Bright blue eyes that contrasted with his dark skin. But his face looked as weathered as the rocky mountainside on which this town was built. Ahmed looked rather startled as Hamza shook his hand. Danny could tell that he barely knew who Hamza was, and he pushed him away with a sharp word. He and his two mates turned to the right, and headed towards the street that led off from the far corner of the square.
Immediately Danny started cutting across the crowd. Five seconds later he was alongside Hamza. ‘Take your donkey and get back to your house,’ he said. ‘No detours. If you’re not there when we get back, you can forget about your money.’
The agitated Hamza nodded, then scurried away. Spud was already on Ahmed’s case, trailing him by five metres. Danny drew up alongside him with several large strides. This narrow street was much less busy than the square had been. Ahmed and his companions walked three abreast. Five metres up ahead, two women in full burka dress stepped aside to let them pass. Another fifteen metres beyond that was a small spice stall laid out on the ground.
Ahmed and his two mates stopped by the stall. They chatted for twenty seconds, then the two friends started talking to the stallholder while Ahmed continued, alone, up the street.
Danny and Spud picked up their pace. Danny’s every sense was on high alert. They had no props now to help them blend in – no donkeys or cigarettes. They had to get to Ahmed and persuade him to come quietly to Hamza’s place before somebody noticed them.
They passed the spice stall five seconds later. Danny thought he caught a whiff of perfume coming from Ahmed’s mates. He kept his eye on the target, ten metres away now. Nobody between them.
Five metres. He and Spud moved purposefully. They turned to each other. Looked ahead. A couple of kids etching a picture on the ground with stones, twenty metres away. Behind, nothing, though Danny could hear the roar of a motorbike engine from the square they’d just left.
He turned to Spud. They nodded at each other, then they pulled their Sigs.
In less than a second, Ahmed had Danny’s handgun pressing into the side of his belly. Danny got a noseful of stinking perfume that made him want to puke. He took a firm hold of Ahmed’s elbow as a look of outrage crossed their target’s face.
‘Taala ma’ana,’ Danny breathed.
You’re coming with us.
A sudden flow of Arabic escaped Ahmed’s lips. He was clearly furious about this imposition. But whatever he was saying, he was cut short when Spud held up his Sig.
‘Taala ma’ana,’ Danny repeated, jabbing the gun sharply.
Ahmed looked like he was going to spit. He held his head up high, and for a tense moment Danny thought he might be about to shout out for help. But although he kept a condescending look on his face, he fell silent. Danny nodded at Spud. His mate stowed his weapon and locked arms with Ahmed. Danny kept his Sig out, but hidden under the sleeve of his robes.
They walked. Ahmed continued to talk, but he had enough sense not to try anything stupid. They took a left turn, which Danny calculated would take them west, back towards Hamza’s place. Ahmed didn’t shut up, but that was okay. As long as he was speaking, he wasn’t running. And even when they passed other people in these largely deserted side streets, he didn’t cry out. It was clear that the threat of Danny’s Sig was doing the trick. Either that, or the fucker’s head was still muddled from the khat chew.
Time check: 18.30. They turned a corner to
see Hamza’s house 20 metres ahead. The donkey was tethered outside. Hamza was next to it, fitting a nose bag of food to its head. They watched him for a full minute before he noticed the SAS men and their captive. When he did, he looked shocked, as though they’d appeared from nowhere. He gave an anxious nod, then disappeared inside.
Spud forced Ahmed toward the house. Danny followed.
Seventeen
Danny reckoned this was going to be a four-finger job. Maybe five. If Ahmed had been sober, he’d perhaps have got away with a crack on the head and a few sharp words. But he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t.
Both Yemeni men were face-down on the floor of Hamza’s room. Spud had his heel on the back of Hamza’s neck, Danny on the back of Ahmed’s. Each man had his Sig drawn, and aimed at the back of his target’s head.
It was clear that Ahmed spoke no English. It was also clear that the khat had dulled his sense of fear. He was jabbering away in Arabic, his tone offended. Argumentative. He stank of a pungent perfume that made Danny want to puke.
Danny didn’t bother with threats. Not yet. It was much more important, first off, that Ahmed knew he was serious. He bent down and, with one rough tug, pulled his prisoner over on to his back. He laid his Sig on the floor and covered Ahmed’s still-wittering mouth with one hand. With the other he grabbed the little finger on his prisoner’s left hand. He noticed that the fingernails looked manicured, a strange contrast to Ahmed’s craggy, weather-beaten face. Ahmed was an ugly old fucker, but clearly vain. Danny also sensed that that there was no strength in the man’s arm. He might be a respected elder, but he was physically weak.
Danny didn’t hesitate any longer. With a sudden yank and a crack, he rammed the little finger 180 degrees backwards. Ahmed’s eyes widened in sudden shock. A second later, the pain kicked in and he tried to scream. But with Danny’s hand over his mouth and his neatly cropped beard, all that came was a muffled wail.
‘No!’ Hamza cried out. ‘You must not hurt him!’
Danny ignored that. ‘Tell him I break another finger for every lie he tells me. After that I start on his teeth.’
‘Or what’s left of them,’ Spud butted in.
Hamza anxiously clutched a handful of his own hair. Ahmed nodded in a terrified fashion.
‘I need the exact location of the training camp where the British cleric is hiding.’
Hamza asked the question, his tongue tripping over his words. Danny slowly moved his hand away from Ahmed’s mouth. There was a hoarse, throaty sound, then Ahmed spat in his face. Danny slammed his mouth over Ahmed’s mouth again, then yanked back his manicured ring finger, before slamming his fist down on both broken bones just to be sure he got his message across. Hamza turned away so he didn’t have to witness this sudden violence.
‘Why don’t we just do his knee-cap?’ Spud suggested.
Danny shook his head. ‘Don’t want the fucker to bleed out on us.’ In truth, Danny knew that a serious gun wound like that in a backwater like this could be a death sentence. Not acceptable when they needed to get their information out of the old boy. He surveyed Ahmed’s hand. The two broken fingers were pointing out at different angles. He grabbed the middle finger and bent it back so that it was almost at breaking point. Then he addressed Hamza once more. ‘Ask him again,’ he said.
This time, when Danny removed his hand, Ahmed was more compliant. He spoke quickly, his voice high-pitched through the pain. Hamza waited for him to finish talking before he translated. ‘He says . . . he says he doesn’t really know, only that it’s in the lowlands somewhere.’
Crack. Danny yanked the third finger back, only just managing to get his hands over Ahmed’s lips a fraction of a second before the scream came. This time Ahmed’s muffled squealing lasted a full thirty seconds before dying away.
‘Where is it?’ Danny demanded implacably.
Hamza looked like he was going to cry as he popped the question. Danny removed his hand. This time Ahmed’s gasping Arabic monologue was more extensive. ‘You follow the road down the mountain,’ Hamza translated. ‘Where the road forks, you go left. There is a track that heads north by a grove of acacia trees. Follow that track into the valley. That is where you will find them.’
Danny and Spud looked at each other. A look that said: do we believe him?
Danny did. You learned an instinct for these things after you’d done it a few times. And it was very hard to lie to a man who had been trained to lie to anyone, no matter what they threw at him.
He stepped away from Ahmed, but Spud kept his foot on Hamza’s neck. He cocked his weapon. ‘Let’s finish them off,’ he said.
‘Not him,’ Danny said.
Spud gave him a look that said: what the fuck?
But they had their orders. Hammond had said it explicitly: Hamza was the CIA’s man and he needed to stay intact.
The same didn’t hold true for Ahmed. The chances of him keeping quiet about the two British men asking for directions were zero. Which left them with only one option.
Ahmed had his eyes closed as he writhed on the ground clutching his broken fingers. So he didn’t see Danny standing above him, pulling his suppressed weapon and aiming it at the old man’s head.
A single head shot. The round thudded into Ahmed’s head. The body jolted and fell still. Blood oozed from the wound.
Spud took his foot off Hamza’s neck. The tout scrambled to his knees. ‘You said he’d be okay,’ he started to say, but then bent over and started retching by his bed.
Spud strode up to Danny. ‘We should nail him too,’ he breathed. His eyes flashed angrily. ‘He doesn’t fucking like what you’ve just done.’
Danny hesitated. Maybe Spud was right. But they’d had a direct instruction: the tout stays intact.
‘We’ve got our orders,’ Danny said. ‘We keep him alive.’
‘It’s the wrong call. I don’t trust him.’
‘Trust me, he’s going to have his hands full,’ Danny said. He fished the wad of American dollars from his ops vest. He peeled off five hundred bucks – a fortune in a backwater like this, he reckoned – and dropped the notes on the floor in front of Hamza. Important to pay him, because an aggrieved tout would be much more likely to screw them over. Then he bent down to where their Yemeni contact was still prostrate on the ground. ‘Get rid of the body tonight,’ he said. ‘And make a good job of it. If anyone finds him here, they’ll think you killed him. And a word of advice, pal. Don’t do anything that makes us want to come back.’
Hamza looked at him with utter terror and hatred. Danny felt another twinge of uncertainty. But he’d made his decision. He nodded at Spud and then, to the sound of Hanza’s continued retching and occasional sobbing, they stowed their weapons, wrapped their shemaghs back round their heads, stepped over the fresh corpse and slipped out of the tiny residence and back into the dark streets of Ha’dah.
Time check: 19.32. Danny could sense Spud’s anger at the call he’d made, but they were professional enough not to let it get in the way of what they had to do now: get out of Ha’dah, unobserved and quickly. The sun was setting, but the streets were still busy. Danny felt incredibly self-conscious of his heavy boots under his robes, but they both kept moving. As Danny and Spud headed south towards the road they had followed into the village, it became obvious that this was the hour when the toughs of Ha’dah walked out. It seemed that on every corner there was a group of swaggering militants, barely distinguishable from the kids who had made their presence felt in the square less than two hours ago. They hurried on in the shadow of the vast, fortress-like, mud-brick buildings. The call to evening prayer echoed over the rooftops. The shemaghs over their faces barely smothered the twin stenches of sewage and dried fish that hung in the air. Danny controlled his pace carefully – not so fast that he looked suspicious, nor so slow that he risked being picked out by one of these armed, trigger-happy kids.
They reached the main road that headed back down the mountain in about twenty minutes. They saw a single vehicle go p
ast – a beaten-up old pick-up much like the one that they’d seen in the square earlier. Curious eyes looked out of the windows at them as they trekked along the cliff-face side of the road. Danny estimated that they could make their vehicle in about half an hour if they weren’t held up. He checked over to his right. From here, he could see the outline of the stone staircase where they had crept past the guard the previous night. At that exact spot, he could just make out the outlines of two animals – he couldn’t tell if they were dogs or hyenas – sniffing the air. No humans tonight. At least none that they could see.
Spud looked anxiously over his shoulder, then cast Danny a dark look. There was unspoken tension between them. ‘We should have nailed him.’
Danny didn’t reply. He’d just heard, from somewhere up behind them, the sudden buzzing of motorbikes. The two men shared a glance. Then they upped their pace. Danny couldn’t shake the feeling he might have just screwed up. Badly.
Twenty metres further along the road they found another crevice in the cliff, smaller than the one into which they’d driven the Toyota, but big enough for the two of them. At Spud’s insistence they ducked inside. Forty-five seconds later, the buzzing of the motorbikes became suddenly louder. A convoy shot past the opening of the crevice. Danny counted five of them. It was impossible as they whizzed past to discern their features accurately, but they all wore rifles across their backs.