by Chris Ryan
Not really, Clara thought. That silent answer clearly showed in her face. Kyle spat on the pavement, just short of her feet. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I don’t give a shit either way.’
Kyle turned to walk away.
And that was when Clara saw him again. He was on her side of the road this time, standing in the shelter of a bus stop about 20 metres beyond where Kyle had his back to her. She just caught a glimpse of him through the oncoming pedestrians. Hood down. Face obscured.
‘Wait,’ she called out. Kyle carried on walking, so she ran after him and grabbed his arm. Her mind was a riot of suspicion and panic. She knew she couldn’t go home now, and yet she didn’t trust Kyle. ‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Where’s Danny? Why don’t we call him?’
He gave her a dark look. ‘He’s out of the country.’
She felt a shiver, because she knew what ‘out of the country’ meant to Danny.
A strange expression crossed Kyle’s face. Like he couldn’t decide to say what he was about to say. She looked over his shoulder. The hooded figure was still there, no longer facing them but standing with his head down. ‘He spouted some bullshit about, I don’t know, forgetting things he shouldn’t remember, some crap like that. Fucker was talking bollocks if you ask me.’
But Clara had caught her breath. She grabbed Kyle by the arm again. ‘Is he safe?’
For the briefest moment, the look of arrogance fell from Kyle’s face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he is.’
‘We have to warn someone.’
The old Kyle immediately returned. ‘Do what you want,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think he’d thank you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, my brother was always a fucking Walt, so if you want my advice, take everything he says with a pinch of salt. But he reckons someone thinks he’s dead, and we can’t say we’ve heard from him.’
She stared at him in horror. And then, from nowhere, a single word came into her mind. Buckingham.
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She looked over his shoulder again. The hooded man was still there. She grabbed Kyle’s arm and started dragging him in the opposite direction. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Changed your mind, have you?’
‘Somewhere safe. Not my place. Not yours. Somewhere we can hide, until Danny gets in touch.’
‘I can find a place,’ Kyle said. ‘But there’s somewhere we need to go first.’ He sounded shifty. Untrustworthy.
‘Where?’ Clara demanded.
‘Hereford,’ said Kyle.
‘Hereford? Why?’
Kyle stopped walking. He had a greedy, avaricious look on his face. She recognised that look from when she’d given him the money a few days previously. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he said, a nasty twist in his voice.
She looked at him. Then she looked back along the pavement. She couldn’t see the hooded figure anywhere. She wanted to keep it that way.
She nodded her reluctant agreement. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Hereford.’
They hurried on through the rain.
Twenty-one
It was a turbulent flight. Hot desert air hit the moist ocean atmosphere at the western coast of Saudi Arabia, causing treacherous pockets where the tiny Cessna 172 would drop 50 feet without warning. Danny had flung himself from enough planes not to be a nervous flyer, but he was aware that they were hardly in the hands of an SF flight crew. All he could do was hope this dodgy geezer who called himself Brian knew what he was doing.
Danny wasn’t properly strapped in. Instead, he was crouched down beside Spud, holding his mate firmly to minimise the effect of the turbulence. Every time the aircraft bumped, the semi-conscious Spud made a retching sound. He was clearly in excruciating pain, and the movement wasn’t helping things. Now and then his eyes opened, and he’d mutter something Danny couldn’t understand. His speech was slurred and getting slower. Not a good sign.
He turned and tapped Brian on the shoulder. The pilot looked back at him. ‘Call through to Massawa,’ he instructed. ‘I need a medical team on the ground as soon as we land. Can you do that?’
‘How much money will you pay?’
‘A thousand dollars. More if my friend lives. I’ll come back and pay them.’
A pause.
‘I thought you didn’t have a thousand dollars.’
Danny didn’t hesitate. He just pulled the Sig and pressed it to the back of Brian’s head. ‘Just make the call.’
Brian did as he was told, jabbering away over the radio in Arabic as Danny kept the gun on him. Lights along the edge of the land distinguished the coastline from the sea. Once they were over water, he made out the lights of several ships. The southern stretches of the Red Sea. He wondered if any of the ships were Royal Navy. An uncomfortable thought crossed his mind: that if they were, they could be the enemy now.
The eastern coast of Eritrea passed below them, less clearly lit than that of Saudi. And after that, vast stretches of blackness as they passed over the desert lands of that country. There were no bursts of sound from Brian’s radio. The airspace of East Africa was not policed and regulated. Fly an anonymous plane over the UK and a Tornado squadron would be on your tail in minutes. But it was easy to fly in and out of these countries, on whatever business, without anybody noticing.
As they flew, Danny replayed Abu Ra’id’s video in his head. The cleric’s words sickened him, but not so much as the thought that a member of the security services was in some way involved in the London bombings. The faces of their four handlers swam in front of his eyes again. Who was the guilty one? How would they ever find out?
They had been airborne for 90 minutes when Spud said something Danny understood.
‘It’s . . . it’s the Yanks.’
Danny looked over at Brian. He was wearing ear-protecting cans in the cockpit, so they could talk securely.
Danny thought about what Spud had said. It was possible, sure. Likely even. It was common knowledge that the CIA would do almost anything to protect their interests. But Danny couldn’t shake the memory of Buckingham in the car after their first meeting at Hammerstone, sticking the knife further into each of his colleagues with every sentence. Laying a false trail with every word.
He said nothing of this. He realised he needed the e-mail address and password Abu Ra’id used to contact his handler. He recalled the cleric’s words on the tape. Only my contact and I have the address and the password, but you will find them in the name of God. You know where to look.
Riddles. Impossible to solve. Danny had to get his hands on Abu Ra’id’s missus – the White Witch, or whatever the fuck they called her. Not easy, given that he was currently in a tiny Cessna between two continents, nursing a wounded man who could be hours away from death.
No, Danny thought. Not easy.
But not impossible. He just had to get back into the country first.
Danny looked out of the window to see a tiny sprawl of lights perhaps 20 miles in the distance.
‘Massawa!’ Brian called from the cockpit. ‘We land in ten minutes.’
The plane banked sharply. ‘Go easy!’ Danny shouted. But as he did, Spud made a harsh choking sound. His face, already pale, turned several shades whiter. He started gasping for breath again, just as he had done moments after he’d been shot.
Something had happened. Danny stared at his friend for a moment. What was wrong?
Internal bleeding, he decided. The round inside him must have moved. The lung cavity was filling with blood. Spud was going to suffocate if Danny didn’t do something. They couldn’t wait ten minutes. Spud just didn’t have it in him. Danny needed to bleed him.
He quickly grabbed his med pack and pulled out the second cannula. He ripped the tear in Spud’s clothes open wider. The skin round the first cannula had deteriorated. Danny could see networks of blue and red capillaries spreading out from the hole. Spud’s gasping became worse. His body started shaking violently. Danny couldn’t
put it off any more.
He pressed the sharp end of the wide-bore cannula deep into the rib cage, an inch or two to the left of the first. Spud didn’t even seem to notice what he’d done. Holding the plastic tubing firm, he removed the metal needle. As soon as it came out, a jet of blood spurted from the cannula. Ordinarily a bad sign, but not in this instance. The effect was immediate as the blood-letting reduced the pressure on the bad lung. Spud drew a long intake of breath. His eyes flickered open for a moment. His lips started moving. Danny realised he was trying to speak. He sealed the new cannula with the adjustable valve at the open end to stop the blood flow, then he shuffled up to Spud’s head so he could hear him better.
Spud’s words were slower and more indistinct than ever. ‘Find . . . the fucker . . . who did this to me . . .’ he breathed.
Danny felt his jaw setting. He nodded, even though Spud had closed his eyes again and couldn’t see him do it. Then he turned to look over his shoulder at Brian.
‘Get us on the ground!’ he roared.
Brian gave him a slow, confused look.
‘NOW!’ Danny shouted, and he waved the gun in Brian’s direction again.
Instantly, the Cessna’s engines changed pitch and they started losing height more quickly. Danny felt Spud’s pulse. It was horribly weak. But he was at least breathing as the Cessna continued to lose height. ‘Stay with me!’ he shouted at Spud, but his mate was clearly past hearing. So instead he shouted at the pilot again: ‘Get us on the fucking ground!’
Five minutes later, the wheels touched down. Danny knew they were hitting the runway too fast, but Brian was a decent pilot and although the landing was bumpy he kept control of the aircraft as it rapidly lost speed. Spud was entirely unconscious as they taxied off the runway. From a corner of his eye, Danny saw a passenger aircraft coming in to land behind them – a sharp reminder that from now on, staying off the grid would be a lot harder. The aircraft came to a halt a good 150 metres from the main terminal building. It was a low, concrete building, not much bigger than the squadron hangar back at Hereford. Unlike Hereford, it was surrounded by squat palm trees, their leaves motionless in the still night air.
‘Where’s the medic?’ Danny shouted. ‘Where’s the fucking medic?’
He didn’t have to wait for an answer. At that moment, he saw something that, for the first time in days, gave him a surge of hope. A van was speeding across the tarmac towards them. On one side it had the familiar markings of the Red Cross.
Danny didn’t hesitate. He jumped down from the Cessna as the van pulled up alongside them. Two guys jumped out, one black, one white. The white guy looked Danny up and down, clearly surprised by the state of his blood-stained clothes.
‘Where’s the patient?’ he asked.
‘In the plane. He has a bullet wound. A .762. I think it’s entered his left lung. I’ve inserted one cannula to stop the lung collapsing, a second to bleed it when the cavity filled with blood. He’s in a bad way.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Bandits in Ethiopia,’ Danny lied easily. The medic didn’t question him.
‘Does he have any ID?’
Danny shook his head. He didn’t want to give them Spud’s name or passport. The last thing he could do to prolong his mate’s life was preserve his anonymity. ‘Can you get him out of the airport?’ He pressed a thousand dollars into the medic’s hands, and the medic nodded. Then he and his colleague opened up the back of the van and pulled out a stretcher bed. Two minutes later, Danny had helped them manoeuvre the unconscious Spud out of the plane and on to the bed. The medics were already fitting a saline drip to his arm and an oxygen mask to his face. They hurriedly loaded the stretcher bed into the back of the van. The black guy climbed in with Spud. The last Danny saw of his mate, it was impossible to tell at a glance whether he was living or dead.
‘Coming?’ the white medic asked Danny.
Danny stared at the van. Then at the medic.
‘Look after him,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back for him, when I can.’
The medic didn’t question Danny’s decision. There clearly wasn’t time. He hurried to the ambulance, jumped behind the wheel and screeched off.
Danny took several deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves. Had he made the right call? Would Spud stand a chance with these Red Cross doctors? Was it possible that word of this anonymous injured man arriving on an Eritrean airfield would make it back to the security services? Danny didn’t know the answer to any of these questions. All he knew was that the decision was made, and that now he had to concentrate on getting back to the UK, and doing exactly what Spud had asked him to do: finding the fuckers that had put them in this situation.
He turned to Brian. ‘What now?’ Danny demanded, the tension clearly audible in his voice.
‘Now,’ said Brian, ‘we wait.’
They didn’t have to wait long. Within a couple of minutes, a lone airport official appeared, walking across the tarmac to the plane. Black skin, shaved head, sunken yellow eyes. Hi-vis jacket and handgun at his belt. Brian walked up to meet him, and they stood talking by the wing for perhaps 30 seconds. Some money changed hands and the official smiled. Brian approached Danny. ‘You owe me a hundred dollars,’ he said.
‘I already paid you,’ Danny said.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll take my money back from him, and he’ll take you through passport control, not round the back way.’
Danny frowned. Fucker had him over a barrel. He handed Brian another $100. That put Danny’s funds down to two grand. Brian grunted gracelessly, then gestured at the airport official to join them.
The official looked Danny up and down. No doubt he appeared strange, with his grubby, blood-stained dishdash hiding his camouflage gear and boots. But he didn’t say anything. He just made a little clicking sound in the corner of his mouth, and indicated that Danny should follow him. Danny turned to Brian. A nod from each of them was the only farewell that was required. Moments later, he was trudging across the tarmac with his new companion. When Danny looked over his shoulder, the Cessna was already on the move. Danny’s senses had slipped back into top gear. He scanned the area around them, checking that they weren’t being unduly watched. And as they neared the terminal building, he instinctively looked upwards, searching for CCTV or any other type of surveillance. Nothing. For now.
The official led him round the side of the terminal, through a locked metal door to which he had a key. Danny found himself in a narrow corridor with scuffed walls and strip lighting. Their footsteps echoed as they paced down it towards a second locked door. The official opened it, then stepped back. Danny peered through: the concourse of Massawa International Airport. Far from busy at this time of night. A few bored-looking officials milling around. Check-in desks on the far side: closed. Ticketing booths for Eritrean Airlines and Nasair: closed. A couple of white backpackers sleeping on rows of plastic seats. And perhaps 50 Eritrean nationals, waiting for passengers on the plane Danny had seen landing to come through security. There were a few shops along the edges of the concourse – souvenirs, Bureau de Change, even a clothes shop – but their facades were covered with metal shutters. And there was a grotty cafe, but all the chairs were stowed on top of the tables.
‘Go! You go!’ the airport official said. He tried to push Danny forwards. Danny shook him off impatiently, but then stepped from the corridor on to the concourse. The door shut quickly behind them. He was on his own.
Danny looked up at the departures board. There were no flights leaving until 06.00 – Eritrean to Khartoum, Nasair to Dubai. At 10.15hrs, however, an Eritrean Airlines flight was listed to Frankfurt. Flight time, 5 hours 54 minutes. It meant he could be in Europe around 14.00 local time.
Would Spud still be alive by then? Danny didn’t know. A silent rage boiled up inside him. He felt he wanted to do something. To hurt someone.
But he couldn’t. All he could do was wait.
The early morning hours passed in a blur of tiredness. Danny
realised he hadn’t slept since he and Spud had been lying in the OP above the training camp, more than 24 hours ago. Eritrean airport officials and travellers blurred in and out of focus. As waves of fatigue crashed over him, he felt himself nodding. Every now and then he’d wake with a start and look round for Spud. But with a guilty, angry pang he remembered Spud wasn’t there. God only knew what was happening to him.
He woke suddenly for a final time at 06.55hrs, when he looked blearily over towards the ticket desks. Both the Eritrean Airlines and the Nasair desk had a uniformed woman attending them.
The ticket to Frankfurt cost 499 Eritrean nafka. It was sold with only the most cursory glance at Danny’s dirty clothes and his passport, though the guy at the Bureau de Change who converted his dollars scrutinised the passport a bit more closely. No computers though, Danny noted with satisfaction. So far, he reckoned he was still under the radar.
In the cafe he bought a cup of thick, powdery coffee and cellophane-wrapped biscuits hard enough to break your teeth on. When the clothes shop opened at 08.00 he bought cheap linen trousers, sandals and a loose-fitting T-shirt. In the other shop he found razors and shaving foam, which he took along with his new clothes to the rancid toilets at one end of the concourse. He changed in a cubicle with shit stains round the toilet rims, dumping his old clothes behind the cistern. Back in front of the sinks he shaved his face and, in a last-minute decision, his head. He drew strange looks from the Eritrean men who came in for a slash as he flicked clumps of hair into the sink. Better, though, to get strange looks here than in Frankfurt.
Back on the concourse, his gate was being called. He presented his ticket and passport to the flight attendent. She checked them, and made a handwritten note of the passport number. But then, with a smile, she ushered him through.
Danny boarded the brightly coloured Airbus as the morning sun was rising in the African sky. The aircraft was only half full, so he had a row of seats to himself. And by 10.20hrs he was airborne again, high above the parched landscape of East Africa and heading north. He didn’t look back out of the window. He didn’t have the heart. He felt a deep guilt at leaving Spud behind, even though he knew he’d done his best for him.