by Damien Lewis
The instant Kilbride heard the noise of the GPMG he had his Browning in the aim. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he opened fire on the nearest figure. He pumped two shots into his torso, punching a hole like a bloodied flower in his stomach. Moments later the second militiaman went down in slow motion, as Kilbride swept the Browning right and kept firing. The third and fourth enemy figures dived for cover behind the sandbags, and Kilbride wasted three more bullets following them down. And then he ceased firing.
He kept his weapon in the aim and breathed deeply to calm his nerves. He waited for the two surviving militiamen to show themselves. He was seven bullets down, with six remaining and two men left to kill. It was just about doable.
Behind him there was the thump of a door opening and McKierran rolled out of the vehicle onto the ground. He came up in a crouch, levelled his M16 and fired off a 40mm grenade into the centre of the sandbagged position. Kilbride dived for cover behind the engine compartment of the Toyota as the grenade exploded, the force of the impact slamming into the vehicle and rocking it wildly on its springs. Razor-sharp shards of shrapnel tore through the enemy checkpoint, the blast throwing fragments of shredded flesh high into the air. As smoke drifted away, the battle scene fell silent. All four militiamen from the sandbagged position lay dead on the ground.
Kilbride’s Toyota was pock-marked by shrapnel and badly dented from the explosion. The windscreen was shattered into a crazy latticework that was held together only by the laminate sheeting. Luckily, the big diesel engine had sheltered Kilbride from the worst of the blast. He just hoped to hell the vehicle was still driveable. He leaned forward and smashed away the shattered windscreen with his pistol.
‘McKierran, get the fucking barrier!’ he yelled.
As McKierran strode across to free up the route ahead, Kilbride checked his wing mirror: Emile was still kneeling exactly where the militiaman had placed him.
Kilbride leaned across the vehicle and stuck his head out of the passenger window. ‘Emile!’ he yelled. ‘In the fucking vehicle! NOW!’
The shout seemed to break Emile’s trance. He jumped to his feet and stumbled towards the lead Toyota, falling into it at Kilbride’s side. Kilbride glanced across at him but Emile refused to make eye contact. He stared straight ahead, hands clasped in his lap seemingly in prayer.
‘Emile, get with it!’ Kilbride yelled. ‘Back to the land of the living. You got to get us out of here. Prepare to give me some fucking directions …’
Kilbride revved the Toyota’s engine as McKierran heaved at the concrete counterweight that lifted the barrier. Slowly it began to rise. McKierran went to step away, but as he did so there was a sharp crack of gunfire. McKierran grasped at his groin, a look of shock and disbelief on his face, and an instant later blood was spurting through his fingers, a rich red stream arcing through Kilbride’s headlights. For a second McKierran made a grab for the barrier, and then the big Scot slumped to his knees, his M16 still held upright in his hand.
Kilbride wrenched the driver’s door open, rolled out of the vehicle and ran. There was a second burst of gunfire, bullets chasing his heels, and then he dived for cover behind the pile of blasted sandbags. He crawled across to McKierran and forced the big Scotsman onto his back. He had a balled-up fist thrust deep into his groin wound to try and stem the flow of blood, but his dirty white medical tunic was spattered with streaks of red. The bullet had to have severed McKierran’s femoral artery, for nothing else could cause such heavy bleeding. He would bleed to death in less than five minutes unless Kilbride could save him.
‘I got ’em!’ a voice rang out from behind. ‘Above the ruined shopfront! Four o’clock.’
Bill Berger had the big GPMG cocked against the side of the truck as he waited for the enemy gunmen to show themselves again. There was another savage burst of gunfire, this time from a different window in the same building, and the windscreen of the Bedford shattered. Smithy felt a round slam him back into his seat and he cried out in pain as he clutched at his shoulder. Berger answered with a heavy burst from the GPMG, but the enemy gunmen were too quick. They kept changing position to avoid being hit.
Berger vaulted down from the truck and took cover behind the rear axle. ‘Anyone get a grenade through them windows?’ he yelled.
‘I’m hit!’ Smithy yelled.
Boerke lay in the cover of the wheel of the Toyota at the rear. ‘Watch this, man.’
He levelled his M16 and took aim with the grenade launcher. Rather than using a standard high-explosive grenade, Boerke had armed his weapon with an incendiary round. His finger gently squeezed the trigger, taking up the slack. There was a hollow thump as the weapon fired. The grenade spun through the air for a hundred yards, struck the window frame and detonated in a puff of white smoke. A hundred harmless-looking ‘fingers’ were flung out by the blast, each one a tiny fragment of white phosphorus. Each blazed with an incredible heat, and each would burn to the bone if it fell onto human skin.
Moments later there was an unearthly screaming from the inside the building. ‘How’s that, man?’ Boerke yelled out. ‘Let the fuckers fry.’
Before Berger could answer there was a muzzle flash from an adjacent window. The driver’s glass of the rear Toyota shattered, and Moynihan felt a searing pain as a razor-sharp shard of shrapnel tore into his right eye.
He grabbed a rag from the vehicle’s dash and stuffed it into his eye socket, to try to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Feck it!’ he yelled. ‘Will one of you feckin’ gobshites get a bead on that sniper!’
‘Okay, you thick-skulled Afrikaner scumbag, cover me!’ Berger yelled. ‘Time to smoke the bastards out.’
‘Wait for one more grenade, man,’ Boerke yelled back.
He loaded up another white-phosphorus round, levelled his weapon and fired. The instant he did so the big American scooped up his weapon and sprinted across the open space towards the ruined building. An enemy gunman broke cover and opened fire, spraying rounds at the big American’s heels. He did so for just long enough for Boerke to get a fix on him, and the Afrikaner launched a grenade almost down the man’s throat. The round exploded, showering the enemy gunman with white-hot balls of searing pain. Screaming in agony he fell from the window and landed on the pavement with a dull thump.
Berger arrived at the base of the building, his heart pounding fit to burst. The fallen enemy fighter was writhing on the ground in front of him, his skin a mass of tortured burning. The big American levelled his weapon, his finger on the trigger. But then he thought of Jock McKierran pumping his blood out into the Beirut dust, and he changed his mind. He’d let the militiaman suffer. His horrible screaming would ring in the ears of his fellow fighters, and they would either flee in abject terror or fly into a blazing rage. Either way they’d be more likely to break cover, in which case either he or Boerke could kill them.
Berger vaulted over the enemy figure and disappeared inside the building. He began his urban manhunt with the big machine gun held level at his hip, inching into the shadows.
Back at the checkpoint Kilbride ripped a sleeve off his medical tunic and thrust a balled-up wad of dirty cotton into Jock McKierran’s mouth.
He stared into the big Scotsman’s face. ‘Jock – bite on this. It’s going to hurt like fuck, but I’ve got to do it …’
Kilbride forced his left hand into McKierran’s groin wound, opening up the ragged vent that had been torn in the flesh. As he did so, he inserted his other hand and reached upwards, feeling for the severed end of the artery. For a second or so he groped around in the warm, sticky mess. Then he felt the ragged end of a rubbery tube shape, and clamped his fingers around it. He held his breath and grabbed it tighter, pulling downwards as he did so. As he tugged with all his force, the artery reacted by trying to retract still further into the pelvic cradle. The big Scotsman ground his teeth into the wad of cloth, as slowly, painfully slowly, the artery began to emerge from the bloody wound.
‘Smithy! Paddy! Bronco! Someone get over here!’
Kilbride yelled. ‘I need help! NOW!’
Boerke barely flinched. He was one hundred per cent concentrated on the far building, waiting for the chance to strike, as the big American went about his business of flushing out the enemy. Smithy heard Kilbride’s call, but the burly Sergeant was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his own wound and knew he could be of little help. No point in bleeding to death, he told himself, for then he’d be no use to anyone. In the rear vehicle Moynihan looked up through his one good eye. Feck it, he told himself. McKierran’s a feckin’ Scotsman, so worth the saving. It would’ve been different if it was that English gobshite Smithy.
Using the cover of the vehicles, Moynihan scuttled forwards to Kilbride’s position. As he caught sight of the two men he felt physically sick. Both were plastered in blood, and for a split second Moynihan wondered which of them was the worse injured. Moynihan and Kilbride set to work, one man holding the artery while the other tied a cotton tourniquet around its bloodied end. Just as they finished doing so there was a savage burst of gunfire from the direction of the ruined shopfront. From the sound of the weapon Kilbride knew that it was Berger’s machine gun. There was an answering burst from an AK47, and then another, longer burst from the big GPMG that sustained itself for several seconds.
Bill Berger was on the ground floor of the enemy building, pumping rounds up through the wooden ceiling where the surviving enemy gunmen were hiding. As he ceased firing a bloodied corpse tumbled down the nearby stairwell. It hit the ground with a barely audible sigh, as the lungs of the dead man emptied of their last breath.
Berger sank back into the shadows and loaded a new ammo belt. As he did so he kept his eyes on the stairwell, just in case anyone was still alive up there and capable of fighting. With a new belt of rounds in the weapon he stepped around the enemy corpse and began to climb the stairs. Five minutes later he knew that the building was clear. There were two dead bodies inside, and one dying man outside on the pavement.
Berger grabbed his walkie-talkie. ‘Building clear. Let’s get outta here.’
As he exited the doorway he heard a horrible gurgling noise to his left. He turned and levelled his weapon at the enemy figure on the pavement. Somehow, the burning man was still breathing, but his face was one of total agony and the eyes were begging for death. Berger fired a short burst into him, giving the man the peace of the grave.
At the front of the convoy Kilbride and Moynihan were struggling to load Jock McKierran into the Toyota. As they did so, Kilbride forced himself to think. With half his eyeball hanging out of its socket Moynihan was useless for driving, so the two of them could tend to McKierran on the road out of there. Berger would have to take the rear vehicle, as Smithy too was out of action, and Boerke could take the truck. Which meant that he would need Emile to drive the lead Toyota and find them a route out of there.
Kilbride searched around for their Lebanese fixer, but he was nowhere to be seen. He hurried along the convoy, and as he did so he heard a faint sobbing coming from beneath the truck. He bent down and caught sight of Emile, curled into a foetal position and with his head cradled in his hands.
Kilbride reached in, grabbed Emile by the collar and dragged him to his feet. With barely a moment’s hesitation he punched him once, hard, in the face. Emile flinched and stumbled backwards, recovered, and put his hand to his mouth: it came away covered in blood. He stared at it for a second, uncomprehendingly, and then a wave of anger swept over him. He lashed out, but Kilbride sidestepped the blow and grabbed Emile by his arms.
‘Get a fucking grip!’ he yelled. ‘You hear me, Emile? No more hiding under the fucking truck and sobbing for your mother. We’ve got three injured, McKierran’s fucking dying and I need you to drive. So get in that fucking vehicle and fucking drive! DRIVE!’
‘Where to …?’ Emile asked, falteringly. ‘Which route …?’
‘Just get us back to the safe house, Emile. We’re through the fucking checkpoint so there’s got to be a way. Just drive!’
An hour later the battered convoy rolled up at the metal gates of the safe house. Emile had been forced to take the long way around Beirut. And despite their best efforts to help him, McKierran had lost one hell of a lot of blood en route. As the vehicles pulled into the safety of the compound, Kilbride knew that it was touch and go as to whether the big Scot would make it. They’d have to lie up at the safe house all day long and make their getaway at nightfall – which meant they had several hours in which to try to save him.
It wasn’t Abdul Sali’s favourite way to spend a Sunday afternoon, at a drinks party at the villa of the manager of the Imperial Bank of Beirut. Still, it would have been rude not to go, and the background rumble of the renewed fighting seemed to add a certain frisson to the gathering – a group of stalwarts continuing to party as the ship went down.
Abdul Sali had a decidedly odd relationship with the English. On the one hand he admired their sang-froid – their ability to keep the bank running smoothly and the lawn perfectly mown and the party invites going out, in spite of the war. On the other hand they were infidels, Crusaders, and close friends of the cursed Israelis. In a way he would have wished them all dead, if they weren’t such excellent bankers and guardians of the people’s money.
He grabbed some smoked salmon from the finger buffet and vacillated over a glass of wine. Again, he was typically torn. On the one hand Islam forbade the drinking of alcohol. On the other, it seemed rude towards his English hosts to refuse. He decided to take a glass to sip from politely, ensuring that little of the evil brew would pass his lips. He looked around for someone interesting to talk to. As he did so, he noticed Timothy Cuthbert, the manager of the Imperial Bank and the host, approaching him.
‘My dear Abdul Sali – wonderful to see you.’ Cuthbert grabbed his hand and shook it, taking several seconds to let go. ‘So good of you to come. Got to keep the home fires burning, you know.’
Before Abdul Sali could think of a suitable reply there was an interruption. A message boy had arrived. He gave a tug on Cuthbert’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear.
‘Private matter, old boy,’ Cuthbert remarked, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Back in a jiffy.’
Relieved of Cuthbert’s company, Abdul Sali busied himself with a beautiful young Arab lady who worked at one of the Kuwaiti banks. Within a few minutes the two were deep in conversation. Suddenly there was a sharp rapping from behind them. Abdul Sali turned to see Cuthbert banging the flat of his hand on one of the trestle tables. It was laden with sandwiches and jugs of iced fruit juice, which sloshed about and spilled a little of their contents. The noise of chatter in the garden died away.
As Timothy Cuthbert turned to speak to his garden-party guests, Abdul Sali felt his heart miss a beat: the British banker’s face had gone a deathly white. In the last five minutes he seemed to have aged as many years.
‘Erm … Thank you all for coming,’ Cuthbert announced quietly. ‘Most kind … Got to keep a stiff upper lip, what with the war and all …’ His voice trailed off into inaudibility. His gaze came to rest on Abdul Sali and he winced visibly. ‘No easy way to say this, so here goes … There has been an incident at the bank. Imperial Bank, that is. Several of you esteemed customers … An incident that is most grave and troublesome.’
‘What sort of incident?’ Abdul Sali blurted out.
‘What sort of incident?’ Cuthbert repeated. ‘Well, you could say a disastrous one, Abdul Sali, distinctly disastrous. The bank lies in ruins, apparently. Looks like the rest of the Green Line now … Several dead militia at the scene … Could be militia looting, no one seems to know. But the bank’s in absolute ruins.’
‘But what about the vault?’ Abdul Sali snapped.
Cuthbert took a gulp of his wine. ‘The vault? The vault’s history, Abdul Sali. Big gaping hole where one wall used to be. Big mess where the safes used to be. Big void where the money used to be. It’s gone, Abdul Sali. Gone. Empty. Cleaned out. Whisked off into chaotic, murderous Beirut,
never to be seen again, no doubt.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. They can’t have got into the vault. Yet it’s empty …’
Before Cuthbert had finished speaking Abdul Sali dumped his wine glass and bolted for his car.
‘Take me to Bank Street!’ he barked at his driver. ‘Rue Riad al-Sohl. I don’t care if it’s in the Green Line, just get me there.’
As his silver Mercedes roared out of the villa gates Abdul Sali was already trying to plan his next move. If the bank truly was in ruins and the vault empty, where could he run to in all the world to escape the wrath of the Sheikh?
Kilbride and his men had lain low all that Sunday and tended to their wounded. Smithy and Moynihan’s injuries were not life-threatening, but McKierran’s condition had worsened. Partly due to the morphine they had given him and partly due to the loss of blood, the big Scot was semi-delirious. During one of McKierran’s more lucid moments, Kilbride had asked him if he wanted an emergency medical evacuation. It would mean breaking radio silence, and it would more than likely blow the whole operation wide open. But Jock McKierran remained adamant: he wasn’t about to jeopardise their mission.
As darkness descended on the warring city Kilbride and his men changed into their black fatigues and loaded up the RIBs with the last five tons of the gold. Earlier they had divvied up Emile’s share of the loot, which was remaining with him at the safe house.
Kilbride got the three RIBs roped together in line astern, with fifteen feet between each craft. That way, Boerke and Berger could take the lead boat, with one man steering and one using the night-vision unit as they coasted down the Beirut River. Smithy and Moynihan, the two walking wounded, would man the central RIB, and Kilbride would ride in the rear craft, along with Jock McKierran.