The Hijack

by Duncan Falconer

  Looking down on the dying man as the blood poured from a severed artery he saw a pen and notepad poking from his breast pocket and an idea immediately came to him as to how he might be able to contact the West. He tore a page from the pad, scribbled his name on it, wet his thumb in the man’s blood and pressed it on to the paper. As his men came back up the stairs, Abed stuffed the note into engineer’s wallet, pushed him under the lower rail and watched him fall to the bottom of the ship.

  Abed was surprised how quickly the British had found him and was impressed by the subtlety of the contact. His handler was Lebanese, or so he said, and treated him like a son, giving him friendly advice and always begging him to take care of himself. Abed did not expect them to use him for any kind of assignment as soon as this, and so it came as a surprise when, the day before, he was told to come to Ramallah to meet with a British agent. It was not an inconvenience since he was already on his way to Palestine on personal matters with special permission from his sheiks. Not an inconvenience yet, but then he did not know what the British wanted him to do. He knew he was going to have to pay a price for his freedom and that would not come cheaply, or even soon. Perhaps never, he was realistic about that. But it was something he would look forward to anyway. At least he had a guarantee they would not exact retribution on him for the tanker, if the British were to be trusted, that is. They had not yet asked him to identify the others on that mission but they soon would. But saving his skin by sacrificing his associates did not sit well with him and he was not sure how he would handle that yet. He knew that at least one of them was already dead. Ibrahim. A few days after the tanker he left to join the fight in Iraq and was killed by the Peshmerga, the Kurdistan border guards, while crossing over from Iran to join the battle in Fallujah. Abed expected that he would be ordered into Iraq eventually. It was the nexus of the fight against the West. The world was the battlefield, but Iraq was the central battleground. If it fell to democracy, a wedge would have been driven right through the heart of the Middle East and Islam.Abed did not know what he would do when that order came. He was playing it day by day. Perhaps that was the place he could earn his freedom working for the British. But that could be weeks or months away and too far in the future for an Ansar Islam, a supporter of the Jihad.Tomorrow was far enough into the future for him to look.

  Abed did not know how much control the British had over the Israelis. He told the British he would not work on behalf of Israel, but if the Israelis discovered who he was, what would happen to him then? The British might barter for his life as long as they had a use for him. It was a difficult and complex game and one that Abed knew he was not equipped to play, but he would do his best to learn quickly and find a value for himself that the British would appreciate. Hoping to be free one day was possibly naïve but if he could just stay alive, it might become a reality. He would eventually be too old or spent to be of any value and perhaps they might allow him to slip away into the mist. The odds were stacked against him but that was the way of his life for now. He was a double agent and that probably meant it halved his chances of survival. He was playing the most dangerous game there was, working between the East and the West.

  The door opened and closed behind him and he turned to look at the white man standing in the room.

  ‘Salam alaykom,’ Stratton said.

  Abed could not see him clearly in the shadows but he appeared to be somewhat scruffy: unshaven, tousled hair, his brown, leather jacket older and more worn than Abed’s.

  ‘Alaykom salam,’ Abed replied.

  ‘Ana issmi Stratton. Wa issm hadritak?’ Stratton said in halting Arabic.

  ‘My name is Abed,’ he replied. ‘Would you prefer to speak in English?’

  Abed had learned English in school and although he had forgotten much of it by the time he left Gaza, his masters had encouraged him to take it up once again. English was the most common language of the enemy and if the fight was to be taken to his lands, the warriors had to be able to speak it. Several of those Abed worked with had been educated in England or America and for months he had spoken nothing else. This was the first time he had spoken it to an Englishman.

  ‘Sure. My Arabic’s a bit rusty anyhow,’ Stratton said.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ Abed asked, getting to the point.

  Stratton did not have an answer to that question just yet. All they had told him about this man was that he had played a part in this operation. The only part Stratton could think of was the beginning.

  ‘Does the Orion Star mean anything to you?’ Stratton asked.

  Abed heard the words as from a prosecutor, and for a moment he considered the possibility the British had set him up and that this man had come to execute him. Abed had accepted the probability of one day paying for his crime and was strangely prepared for it.

  ‘I led the mission,’ Abed said firmly but without any hint of pride.

  Stratton walked across the room and joined Abed at the window as he pondered this information, searching for a use for Abed. One thing immediately struck him. Abed might have seen the engineer; Zhilev was virtually his twin. It was always difficult to identify a person from a photograph unless that person had some highly distinguishing features. Zhilev and his brother were large, powerful men, but someone who had seen them in the flesh, the way they moved, their features from angles other than that in the photograph, would have an advantage when it came to recognition. He was clutching at straws, but he could see no other use for Abed at the moment.

  Stratton reached into his pocket and took out the photograph of Zhilev. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  Abed took the picture, studied it, then handed it back to Stratton.

  ‘He looks like the engineer on the tanker. Is that who it is?’

  Stratton stared into Abed’s eyes, looking for something, and he was sure he had found it when Abed could not hold his gaze. A picture flashed into his head of the engineer, draped over the pipes, his neck cut to the bone and almost beheaded. A feeling of disgust grew in him but he could not bring himself to feel hate, which he should have done. It was more than just the guilt in Abed’s eyes that mellowed Stratton. Even though they had exchanged but a few words, Stratton could sense a strength in him. He stood confidently, but not defiantly, and he spoke softly without guarding his words, as if he had nothing to hide. It was an honesty that came only with youth.The Arab did not appear to be a cold-blooded, fanatical killer. But then again, Stratton asked himself, what did he know about these people? He fancied himself a good judge of character in the business of soldiering and terrorism. He had had enough experience. But he had also made mistakes in the past.

  It suddenly dawned on Stratton Abed’s true value, and why Sumners’ boss had brought him so hurriedly on to the assignment.Abed had killed Zhilev’s brother and was the reason why the Russian was walking around with a nuclear bomb looking to blow it up somewhere in the Middle East. If the opportunity arose, Zhilev might take the Arab in exchange for the bomb. Abed was a tool, and in the right circumstances, a very useful one.

  ‘This man is the engineer’s brother,’ Stratton said. ‘I need your help in finding him.’

  Abed looked at Stratton, suddenly curious about him on a different level. He looked tired, but not for lack of sleep. It was the fatigue of someone old who had seen enough of life, but this man was young.The eyes were a window to a man’s soul, and Stratton’s were strong and unwavering, those of a man who led rather than followed; but there was something else in them that he had seen in only a few men before. He was inviting and approachable, but there was an undeniable warning not to cross his line. Everything about him, his strength, his spirit, the way he stood, threatened to ruin anyone who tried.

  ‘Why?’ Abed asked.

  ‘Because of what you did to his brother he has become very dangerous.’

  ‘How is he dangerous?’

  ‘I believe he wants to start a holy war between Islam and the West.’

  ‘He’s too late,�
�� Abed said, without intending to sound flippant.

  ‘This isn’t a war. It might be the beginning of one, but it’s not war. Not yet. This man can start one.’

  Abed believed what the Englishman was saying and wanted to ask how one man could achieve such a powerful thing, but he knew he would not find out now, not here at least. He had no choice, no matter what this man wanted of him. He was here to barter for his freedom, and that meant servitude. They held his life in their hands and he had to do their bidding whether he liked it or not, trusted them or not, whatever the task.

  ‘Can I see the picture again?’ Abed asked.

  Stratton handed it to him and Abed studied it more closely.

  ‘His name is Zhilev,’ Stratton said. ‘He’s a little broader than his brother and far more dangerous.’

  ‘More dangerous?’ Abed said. ‘I hope you have a gun when you meet him.’

  No, but I have you, Stratton thought to himself.

  Finding this man was obviously of great importance to the English and if Abed could help them, he would be helping himself. ‘Where do we start to look?’

  ‘We have to get to Jerusalem first.’

  Abed ignored the fears he had of staying in this country where he was exposed to his greatest and most dangerous enemy, and concentrated on the positive aspects of succeeding in this mission.

  ‘Where do you live?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Lebanon.’

  ‘How did you get into Palestine?’

  ‘I have false papers.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known about this meeting more than twenty-four hours ago. What are you doing here?’

  ‘My mother has been ill. She died yesterday,’ Abed said, unable to conceal his sadness. ‘I could not risk trying to get into Gaza but friends are bringing out some things from our house and I came to take them home with me.’

  Stratton did not care about Abed’s loss and paused to consider his next move. ‘Let’s go,’ he finally said, and headed for the door. Abed followed.

  Five minutes later they were back at the car where Morgan was waiting for them. Stratton climbed in and did not introduce Abed who got into the back.

  ‘We need to get back into Jerusalem but not through the checkpoint,’ he said to Morgan.

  Morgan glanced over his shoulder at the Arab just long enough to be able to recognise him if he saw him again.

  ‘There’s only one way I know of,’ Morgan said. ‘Through the old quarry. It comes out right behind the Kalandia checkpoint - the Jerusalem side of it.’

  ‘Problems?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘I’ve never done it but I know people who have. A couple of Brit peace nuts who are banned from Ramallah by the IDF got in a few nights ago. The soldiers don’t watch it because it passes right under a settlement. Those fucking settlers are more dangerous than the soldiers. They shoot first and don’t even bother to ask questions later.’

  ‘Anyone done it in daylight?’

  ‘A year ago four Frog journalists tried it. All of ’em were shot and they only lived because the IDF came along to check on the settlers’ handiwork and found ’em.’

  This was not sounding encouraging. ‘Any other options?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘None that I know of. I could find out.’

  ‘We don’t have time. Let’s take a look.’

  Morgan started the engine, turned the car in the road to avoid the busy marketplace and cut down a rugged, trash-strewn side street, scattering several skinny dogs fighting over a chicken carcass.

  Five minutes later they arrived on the edge of the northern part of the town. Morgan killed the engine and they remained in the car.

  ‘That gap in the wall,’ Morgan said, indicating the other side of the road with a jut of his chin. ‘Go through it and just follow the track and after a couple hundred yards you’ll find yourself overlooking the quarry. Head down into it soon as you can and follow the lowest line through.You can’t miss the settlement. It’ll be right above you surrounded by a big fuckoff wall and razor wire. That’s your main problem. Once that place is out of sight you’re laughin’.’

  Stratton looked at the gap in the wall, then over his shoulder at Abed who stared coldly at him.

  Stratton opened the door and paused to look back at Morgan, studying his nose and ears. ‘Nice job,’ he said.

  ‘I saved ’em for you,’ Morgan said, indicating a chewing-gum wrapper on the dash with a pile of curly black hairs in it.

  ‘You’re a pig, Morgan.’

  Morgan grinned.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Stratton said to Abed and climbed out of the car. Abed made his way across the road to the gap in the wall to take a look.

  Stratton paused before closing the door and crouched to face Morgan, something on his mind. ‘You said you had a place to go in Gaza.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why don’t you go down there. Today . . . like, now.’

  Morgan looked deeply into Stratton’s eyes and saw something he had never seen there before. Fear was probably over the top but if not fear, it was the look of someone who had grave doubts about their business, and Stratton’s business was not just the job, but also staying alive to do it. Concern for his friend rose in Morgan but he knew better than to ask why Stratton was worried.

  ‘All right, mate,’ Morgan said.

  Stratton nodded and was about to stand up when Morgan put his hand out.

  ‘Stratton.’

  Stratton looked down at the big, black hand and took hold of it. Morgan leaned over and placed his other hand on top of Stratton’s, who did likewise. They held on to each other for a moment, no words spoken but everything being said.

  ‘You take care, mate,’ Morgan eventually said.

  ‘You too. And remember, nothing in this business is what it seems and there’s always more than what they tell you. Don’t trust any of ’em, Morgan . . . Better still, get a fucking real job.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘I’ll see you back in Poole, mate,’ Morgan said. Stratton released him, closed the door and crossed the road to join Abed. Seconds later they were gone. Morgan stared at the gap in the wall for a moment, unable to guess why Stratton had told him to leave the West Bank. He would not allow his imagination to run wild but one thing was certain: when Stratton looked you in the eye and told you to get out of town, you had better do it. He started the car and headed away.

  Stratton and Abed reached the top of the old stone quarry and crouched by several jagged boulders to view the area. The route through looked obvious; with a sheer wall of rock on one side and a steep craggy climb on the other it had to be along the bottom. The settlement was out of view from their position but no doubt they would see it from where the track disappeared around the side of the quarry.

  Stratton glanced at Abed who was concentrating on the area ahead and wondered what he would be like if they ran into a problem. He looked athletic and alert, and anyone who could climb a supertanker at night in rough seas and murder the entire crew was undoubtedly capable. However Abed was the leader and Stratton’s concern was whether the man would take commands from him. He had to rate Abed’s value on this op as high, if for no other reason than he was all he had, after Gabriel. If there was contact of any kind in the quarry they would have to go either forwards or backwards. Backwards meant having to find another way out, which would also burn up time and possibly increase the risk since the authorities would know that someone was trying to avoid the checkpoints out of Ramallah. Going forward meant moving quickly into unknown territory, and that was always a high risk and inadvisable. This was one of those situations where there was no point in hanging around since no further information would be forthcoming.

  ‘I’ll lead off. Give me some space, okay?’ Stratton said.

  Abed nodded and Stratton moved around the boulder and headed down a steep, loose track. Abed gave him a good distance before he followed.

  Stratton kept his eyes ahead, his ears telling him Abed was behin
d.

  They reached the bottom and carried on along the track that tightly hugged the quarry wall. Within minutes, they reached the furthest point they had been able to see from their start point and Stratton squatted to take a look at the ground ahead. The route looked obvious enough, keeping to the lowest point of the valley. The tough part was, as Morgan had said, the settlement on the top of the hill. It lined the ridge like a fortress, its battlements made of sheer plates of concrete fifteen feet high and knitted together to form an impregnable defence against a human assault, the tops of the ramparts fringed with razor wire just in case anyone was crazy enough to get that far and put up a ladder.

  Abed joined him and looked at the route for himself.

  ‘You up for it?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘If you are,’ Abed said, matter-of-factly.

  Stratton concentrated on the route again, taking stock of his senses that were working hard but not reporting back anything in the way of danger. He got up and walked forward. Abed let him get a dozen yards ahead before following.

  Stratton repeatedly switched his gaze between the path ahead and the settlement above. There was no sign of life in any direction. As always, he automatically scanned for immediate cover he could drop behind in the event of a contact. The bad news was that as they moved around a gentle bend protection from above slimmed and the route was highly exposed. If they were going to be hit from the settlement this was the ideal place.

  He increased speed across the open stretch, his eyes on a crop of boulders ten yards ahead. Suddenly something whistled through his jacket sleeve and struck the ground a few feet away with tremendous force, kicking up stones. It was accompanied by the loud report of a gun firing from above that echoed around the quarry. Stratton lunged forward and dived for the boulders, immediately looking back to see Abed sprinting across the open space towards the foot of the hill to dive and roll behind a collection of small rocks.