The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  “I know, that was why he was so successful,” King paused watching the horizon as the plane lost altitude slightly. “You’d better get rid of him before you leave. The fire would be the best bet. He drew a weapon on me, that’s still loaded and with his body. I think he may have been using your computer to email his contacts. Just a thought, seeing he said he needed to email when you returned from dropping me off. I got the impression he’d used it before. If you can get the hard drive out and hand it to communications department, they may get something off it. ”

  Ozzy nodded, then eased the yoke forwards, bringing the aircraft into a steep climb. “All right, leave it to me,” he paused, then looked at him earnestly. “We’re about to cross the border, it’s best to do this at a low altitude, approximately two hundred feet. That takes us below Iraqi radar. We’ll keep at that height for about eighteen miles. Hang on, it feels pretty hairy at that height…” He brought the aircraft out of the steep dive, then pointed at a huge double spaced fence, snaking across the ground. “There, that’s the border…”

  King nodded and looked below. He had cut his way through the obstruction not long ago. The urgency had been frantic, both Colonel Al-Muqtadir’s troops and ISIS terrorists had been extremely close to capturing him. As an ‘unofficial’ agent of MI6, he knew the British Government would have denied knowledge as a matter of course. His capture would have meant certain denial and Lord only knew what fate at the hands of his captors. Now he was back.

  “Only another eight minutes before we reach the drop zone.” Ozzy eased the throttle a little more towards the control panel and pushed down the right rudder. “We’re approximately two minutes early, so I’m going to pull a medium turn and bring us back on the same approach. You’d better get ready!”

  King watched the hostile terrain shoot past, a little too close for his liking. As Ozzy maneuvered the plane into a tight starboard turn, he was left straining against his harness with nothing to see but the ground below.

  The Turk straightened the aircraft’s attitude, then pointed towards the horizon. “Kalsagir is approximately six miles in that direction.”

  King nodded, checked a nearby rocky hillock for reference then scanned as far as he could in all directions. There was no sign of the vehicle and the female CIA agent, but she was not essential. He knew where the village was and would prefer to work without the hindrance of a babysitter anyway. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the handheld GPS, switched it on and typed in the co-ordinates from memory. “No offence Ozzy, but I would rather double check our position.” He smiled at the Turk, then sat back and waited for the three satellites to form a fix on his position. He was lucky, the task can often take as long as ten minutes, but on this occasion he had timed it just right. “OK, that’s close enough!” He slipped the GPS back into his jacket pocket and turned towards his pilot. “When you’re ready! The light is good and the wind is not too strong. Take us up to eight hundred feet and let me know when we’re five seconds in front of the drop zone. When I exit, pull a sharp port turn and drop back down below radar. That way, you should only be a momentary blip on their screens.” He unfastened his harness and checked that the parachute’s straps were secure, then gathered up the rucksack, which was attached to a three metre length of nylon cord, which in turn, was fastened to the base of his parachute. He eased himself out onto the platform, and caught hold of the wing strut with his right hand. He glanced over at the pilot and grinned. “It’s been a pleasure Ozzy…”

  The Turk kept his eyes on the compass and the digital clock which had been mounted onto the control panel. “Good luck!” he shouted, his eyes not leaving the instruments. He held up his right hand and extended his fingers.

  King looked out onto the ground below and started to count down in his head. With five seconds passed, he leapt out into the cold air and released his grip on the rucksack. The engine’s revs increased dramatically as Osman readied himself for the sharp turn. The jolt to his system was not only unexpected, but violent enough to knock the wind out of him. The icy air lashed savagely into his face and he felt himself bang hard against the side of the fuselage. Again, he felt the back of the parachute impact against the aircraft and as a direct result he started to spin like a top. With no control over the situation, he tucked his head onto his chest and prepared for another fearsomely hard impact.

  Ozzy craned his neck to look for the source of the impact and leaned across the passenger seat, half expecting see King’s corpse dropping to the barren ground. Instead, he watched in horror as he saw the man take another beating against the side of the plane. He dropped back into his seat and did the only thing he could to enhance the man’s chances of survival, which was to by close down the throttle and turn to starboard. The inertia should ease King away from the plane. The aircraft slowed dramatically, but suddenly came too close to its stalling speed. Ozzy yanked the throttle back out and cringed, as he heard the Englishman impact against the fuselage once more.

  King flailed with his arms wildly, grabbing frantically for the nylon cord connected to his pack which was anchoring him to the aircraft. He caught sight of the rucksack, which had become entangled in the wing strut and knew that he had only one option. As the plane gathered more speed, he knew that he was due for another atrocious beating. He reached down to his belt and caught hold of the KA-Bar knife, gripping the polymer handle as tightly as he could, knowing full well that it was his only lifeline. He felt the plane slow dramatically and as he seemed to float with the sudden loss of speed, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed hold of the thin nylon cord. With an almighty swing, he slashed through the toughened cord and broke free, tumbling violently backwards as he parted company with the aircraft.

  There was little time to spare. At less than eight hundred feet from the ground, he let go of the knife and reached around to his side, taking a firm hold on the release tag. He pulled instantly, then felt the parachute release and unfold. Moments later came the sudden, welcoming jolt as he slowed dramatically and drifted peacefully towards the ground.

  Osman pulled the Cessna into a tight starboard turn and flew low over the area. He glanced at the compass, then scanned the area below. There was no sign of a body, but he had no idea of when King had finally broken free of the aircraft. All he knew was that the violent knocking against the plane’s fuselage had suddenly stopped only moments after he had started his climb to pull out of the sharp turn. He quickly pulled into a rapid port turn and started to dive, until he was down to two hundred feet. There he steadied the plane’s attitude and flew back over the area, well below the Iraqi radar.

  King’s breathing had started to return to normal, along with his pulse, which had pounded frantically in his ears during the traumatic ride alongside the aircraft. He looked below and realised that he was approximately three hundred feet above the barren ground and that although he had lost most of his equipment and his knife, he was lucky to be alive. He watched the Cessna pull into the turn and then straighten up. What was the man doing? He was meant to be heading back towards the border. Then King grasped that Ozzy was scouring the area for him, searching for his body on the ground. He smiled at the thought and realised that in different circumstances, Osman Emre would be the sort of person that one could easily call a friend. Even after such a short acquaintance, the man was concerned for his welfare. Either that or, more realistically, he was confirming his death for his report back to Istanbul.

  The airplane straightened and continued towards him. King watched, then to his dismay he saw that it was heading on a direct course. There was still a little height between the Cessna and himself but King was dropping at a steady rate and would soon be on the same level as the oncoming plane. He tensed as he watched the approaching aircraft, feeling despair that there was no hope. He was dropping ever closer to the plane’s flightpath.

  Ozzy’s heart sunk. The Englishman had perished, he was certain. Already, the hostile terrain was proving impossible to search, as the dayl
ight was not yet bright enough and the mass of gullies and dried-up wadis below could easily hide a camouflaged body. He looked up from the ground and glanced at the compass, then turned his eyes towards the horizon. He squinted through the dawning light, then gasped as he saw the object in front of him. There was barely time to react, as he pulled hard on the yoke and pressed the left rudder to the floor.

  King knew that he was about to collide with the oncoming plane and knew that the collision would be fatal. He reached up with both hands and caught hold of the cutaway tags. With only seconds to spare, he pulled hard and felt himself drop suddenly away from the oncoming plane. The wind rushed past him and he had to force his body rigid to avoid spinning out of control. He looked at the approaching ground, then pulled at the emergency cord, which would release his reserve parachute. The parachute fed out in front of him, wavered in the wind for a moment then suddenly opened into full canopy. King glanced at the ground, his eyes watering from the sudden rush of air, but there was no time to prepare for landing. He crashed heavily onto the hard, rocky earth and collapsed into a limp heap before rolling over onto his back and staring blankly up at the sky.

  His last vision was of the Cessna banking into too steep a turn, its engines straining. His eyes flickered for a second, then closed. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he heard the whine of the struggling engine, the shredding of the parachute on the propeller then the thunderous impact as the aircraft fell out of the sky and crashed to the rocky ground below.

  43

  He was back inside the home for boys. The room was cramped, and not only was the single bed hard, but he was aware that it had recently been slept in by someone else. The ceiling was unfamiliar and he felt the overwhelming sensation that he had been abandoned to fend for himself once more.

  He concentrated hard, willing himself to return to his senses. He did not know where he was and he did not know how he had arrived. The sight of the diving plane was his last recollection, and whilst he knew that he had sustained an injury from the fall, he could recall nothing else. He eased back the covers with his right hand and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then suddenly realised that he was naked. His clothes were nowhere to be seen, and as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, he felt a shock of pain in his left wrist. It was a sharp pain, one which he had felt before. He looked down at the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrist and forearm and knew that he had sprained it in the bid to break his rapid fall. King rose unsteadily to his feet and felt a sudden wave of light-headedness wash over him. He reached up to touch his forehead gently with his right hand and felt bandages wrapping it. He probed carefully and was acutely aware of a painful lump on his brow. He looked at his fingers, which were now bloody.

  He turned his attention back to the room, which was of timber construction and extremely basic design. There was no sink and no cupboards, yet the room lacked the air of a prison cell. He walked around the bed and searched for his clothes. When that search proved unsuccessful he resorted to taking the thin blanket off of the tiny bed. He hastily folded the blanket, then wrapped it round his waist like an Indonesian or Malaysian sarong, twisting and tucking the ends to hold it firm.

  The dark curtains were drawn, but a thin shaft of light had crept through and was now shining into his face. He walked over and gently pulled the rough fabric back a few inches. The view was bleak, with only the barren plateau for scenery and a ridge of hills many miles away. To the left of the window, a battered Toyota 4x4 pickup truck was parked next to a well with a stone rim and a metal bucket hanging from a nearby wooden post.

  He turned around and walked back across the room, then paused before cautiously opening the ill-fitting wooden door.

  “You shouldn’t be up yet.” The woman stared at him nosily, then frowned in concern. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, I suppose.” King felt another wave of pain wash over his head, and caught hold of the wooden door jamb to steady himself.

  “Strange,” she said. “Because you look like shit warmed up.”

  King looked down at the breakfast tray in the woman’s hands and nodded towards the glass of orange juice. “Is that for me, by any chance?”

  The woman balanced the tray on the palm of her left hand, then picked up the glass and passed it to him. “It’s tinned and tastes pretty awful, but it’s all you can get out here.”

  King accepted the glass and drank thirstily. It tasted pretty good to him, but then again, his mouth tasted like a gorilla’s armpit. He drained the remnants, then licked his dry lips. “Thank you.” He placed the empty glass back onto the tray, then looked at the woman, studying her pretty but slightly haggard features. She was blessed with good bone structure and a shapely figure, but her eyes were hard, surrounded by a web of crow’s feet and her lips were thin and cruel-looking. The woman had obviously seen the worst that life can offer. But so had he. And he was no oil painting either.

  He held out his right hand and smiled. “I’m Alex King, as you know. Thank you for helping me.”

  “You’re welcome.” She shook his hand, then looked towards the bed and smiled. “I’m Juliet Kalver, as you know. Now get back there and have some rest.”

  King shook his head. “No. Enough time has been wasted already,” he paused, then went to look at his watch, which was also absent. “What time is it, by the way?”

  “A little after midday. You’ve been out cold for around six hours.”

  He nodded. By the state of his headache, he could well believe it. “Where are my things?”

  She smiled and pointed towards the bed. “Sit down over there and I will go and get them,” she paused, then set the tray down on the floor. “If the Iraqi army came and found you with them, they would know who you were in an instant. I thought that, should you be found, it might be better if you were without any incriminating evidence.” She turned to walk out of the room, then called out over her shoulder. “You gave them enough clues last time…”

  King scoffed. “Thanks,” he paused. “What about Islamic State?”

  “They’re skirting the border,” she raised her voice for him to hear. King could hear her unlocking a drawer or box. “The Iraqis have them pinned down now that there’s a new commander in the region. I suppose they have you to thank for that. They look like they’re making some headway. The eyes of the world are watching to see if there are ISIS supporters within the military now. There are plenty of towns under ISIS control though,” she paused. “It’s unbelievable what they’ve done.”

  “I know. I’ve seen.”

  Juliet Kalver walked back into the room with the bundle of clothes and dropped them on the bed. “There wasn’t any equipment. Are you travelling light or something?” she asked, smiling at him coldly. “I suppose that if you don’t bring anything with you, you can’t leave anything behind this time…”

  King gathered up his combat trousers and hastily pulled them on, dropping the makeshift sarong at the last moment. He looked across at her, a little more comfortable with the situation, now that he had some clothing on. “I lost my equipment when I got tangled in the aircraft’s wing. As for leaving equipment behind this time, well the whole bag is probably lying in the desert somewhere, along with my combat knife, which I had to use to cut myself free and the main parachute, which I had to jettison at about two-hundred feet.”

  “My, we did get off to a good start!”

  “Shit happens, it’s as simple as that. I left my GPS finder here last time and now I have returned to kill two good men as a consequence. It’s a bogus mission to please your employers,” he snapped. “There was nothing incriminating in my rucksack, it only contained a water bottle, a medi-pack, some detonators and Czech made Semtex and some civilian clothes for my exfiltration. My passports, money and GPS were all in my combats. As for the knife, well, it’s just about the most popular combat knife there is. They sell them on the internet to anybody.”

  “And the parachute?” she asked, not in the least di
sturbed by his cold stare.

  “Russian,” King paused, and carefully pulled his sweatshirt over his bandaged head. He looked at her with a little more civility. “What about the pilot, is he dead?”

  Juliet Kalver shrugged. “The plane went down at least a kilometre from where I found you. I could see a group of vehicles on the horizon and didn’t want to chance taking a closer look,” she paused, deciding whether to offer to help him with his boots, but thought better of it. He looked in pain as he tentatively pulled them on. “I saw your chute open - way off course - and followed cross country in the truck, then the plane doubled back and flew low across the ground. I lost sight of you, but saw your reserve open just feet above the ground. When I got to you, you were out cold. I got you into the truck, then got us the fuck out of there.”

  King listened intently, noticing that the woman’s New York accent had gradually become heavier, indicating that she had not conversed in English for some time. He pulled on the thick khaki jacket. “Were the vehicles military or civilian?” he asked.

  “Terror Wagons, I think. You know? Toyota or Nissan pickup trucks. So quite possibly ISIS.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the stainless steel diver’s watch, studied the face for a second or two, then passed it to him. “My husband had one just like it. A Rolex Submariner...”

  “Popular watch,” King acknowledged. He knew that a great many pilots, divers, special forces soldiers and intelligence agents end up wearing that watch, above all others, as if it were a piece of their specialist equipment. Not only were they extremely reliable and durable, they also held their value possibly better than any other watch, giving easy access to collateral in desperate times. He unclipped the bracelet’s fastening and slipped it over his right wrist, suddenly remembering his bandaged left arm.

  “It looks like a mild sprain, nothing serious,” Juliet remarked, as she watched him struggle to fasten the clasp. “Your head took a bit of a knock. You cut it on a rock, but it was the swelling that was more worrying.”