by Dc Alden
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘She is. What’s your name?’
‘Danesh. Danesh Khan.’
‘Patrick Clarke. So, what’s going on out there? All I get on the radio is some bloody government message, some sort of national emergency or something. I heard there’d been rioting in Southampton. A lot of people here have packed up and gone.’
‘There is no government,’ Khan told him. ‘London is a war zone and you can forget Europe too.’ Khan spent the next few minutes explaining who he was and recounting the events of the last thirty-six hours.
‘Jesus,’ was all Clarke could whisper when he’d finished. He flopped down at the chart table, the Glock still in his hand. ‘That explains the helicopters, the flashes on the horizon. No wonder it’s deserted around here.’
‘It’s going to get worse. Right now, the Arabian military is pouring equipment into the country. They’re using the docks at Southampton, probably others along the coast. The clock’s ticking, Patrick. Pretty soon they’ll have everything locked down and we’ll be under martial law. That’s why I’m leaving. I think the only friends we have left are the Yanks, so I’m heading for the States.’
Clarke stared at the table, deep in thought. Then he looked up. ‘You’ve done that route before?’
‘No. Been as far as the Azores though, several times. I was planning to pick up the trade winds from there.’
‘Tricky this time of year,’ Clarke warned. ‘Almost hurricane season. Better to head further south, Cape Verde, then head westwards. What about your family?’
Khan shrugged. ‘I’m single. Parents are dead. You?’
‘Wife and sons are in Martha’s Vineyard. I’ve got a place out there. They left a week ago.’
‘Lucky.’
‘Right. I’m supposed to join them next week, but then all this kicked off. I was here in Hamble when it started. Came down to do a bit of work on the boat.’
Khan held out his hand. ‘Think I could have my weapon back?’
Clarke stared at him for a moment. ‘What?’ He looked at the gun in his hand. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’
Khan took the gun and made it safe, tucking it back into his jeans. ‘Where did you learn to shoot?’
‘The States. I keep a gun on the property there.’
‘Very wise. How long do you intend to hide out down here?’
Clarke shook his head. ‘I’m not hiding.’
Khan frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ve been watching the chandlery,’ Clarke explained, ‘but I fell asleep. Then you woke me up.’
‘The chandlery? What for?’
‘Supplies. Place has been closed since I got here. Obviously the owners have other priorities, but I need to get in there. I’ve got a very long shopping list.’ Clarke smiled. ‘You’re not the only one with dishonest intentions around here.’
Khan raised an optimistic eyebrow. ‘What do you need supplies for?
‘You say you want to head for the States?’ Khan nodded. ‘Good, because that’s where my family is. I’ve done the crossing before and the Sunflower is certainly up for the job, but I could really use a mate. Help me skipper her home, Danesh. You’d be doing us both a favour.’
Khan let out a long breath. He’d been lucky so far, but this bordered on something else, a more divine hand at work. For the last few years he’d used his religion like a tool, a key to a door behind which lurked a shadowy world of terror cells, plots and conspiracies. He’d lost touch with the true meaning of faith, its purpose and strength. And its signs.
‘You’re on,’ he said, taking Clarke’s outstretched hand. ‘I’ll push the trolley, but let’s make it quick. The noose is already tightening.’
They put to sea almost two hours later. Under engine power, the Sunflower cruised quietly through the still waters of the Hamble River and out into the Solent, turning south towards Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Khan and Clarke stood behind the twin steering wheels as the boat made steady progress towards the open waters of the English Channel. Clarke suggested that they wait until they were out of the channel before unfurling the huge white sails that would be seen for miles.
The boat was indeed everything Khan thought it would be. Everything was automated, including the sail rigging and the boat’s navigation systems, and the automatic pilot was on-line and functioning. The sophisticated radar told them that there were two large freighters steaming up from the south towards East Solent, but the Sunflower would pass well ahead of them. It turned out Clarke was a serious sailor, a hobby that had blossomed into a passion over the years, financially aided by the public floatation of his communications company. He recommended hugging the coastline until they were well clear of the major shipping lanes, before heading out into the Atlantic. Khan agreed.
As they reached Calshot Spit, Khan turned and looked back towards the eastern docks a few miles behind them. The horizon was dotted with powerful arc lights that blazed along the miles of dockside. The Arabians weren’t bothering with camouflage or light-discipline drills, unconcerned by a British counter attack. That in itself spoke volumes. The Sunflower continued onwards, rounding the point and heading southwest towards Hurst Spit. Beyond that, the open waters of the English Channel beckoned.
The helicopter came in unexpectedly from the north as the Sunflower glided past the Beaulieu Estuary at four knots. In a few seconds, the distant throbbing turned into a thunderous hammer-beat as an Arabian gunship headed straight for the sailboat from the darkness of the New Forest. Khan shoved Clarke below and ordered him to stay put.
Suddenly, the Sunflower was bathed in a powerful searchlight. Khan’s hands went immediately to the boat’s controls, quickly setting their course and flicking on the autopilot. The helicopter, a huge, black shape silhouetted against the night sky, spun over the boat and hovered fifty feet off the port bow like a giant, deadly dragonfly. Khan could see the pilots, their faces lit by the green wash of the cockpit instrumentation. His eyes tracked slowly back to the open compartment behind the cockpit, where a crewman sat behind a wicked-looking mini-gun. Waving stupidly and sporting a wide grin, Khan reached for the rope behind him. Earlier, while Clarke prepared the boat for sail, Khan had slipped back on shore. There was one other item he wanted, something he thought may come in useful.
As the rotor wash of the gunship battered the Sunflower, Khan’s hand yanked the rope and the large, green and white Arabian flag unfurled on the flagpole and snapped outwards, fluttering behind the Sunflower in the offshore breeze. Khan continued to wave and grin stupidly, all the time praying that the helicopter would leave them alone.
‘What do you think?’ asked the captain of the gunship.
‘Nice boat,’ replied the co-pilot. Their earpieces hissed as the door gunner behind them keyed his microphone.
‘Want me to put a few rounds into the water, get him to heave to?’
The captain considered that while he interrogated his on-board camera system. Khan’s beaming face was displayed in tight close-up, his hand shielding his eyes from the searchlight, while his hair and clothing were whipped by the downwash of the helicopter.
‘He looks like one of ours. Besides, we’re low on fuel and we haven’t got the time. Funny hour to be out sailing though.’
‘Agreed,’ said the co-pilot. ‘Pick him up later?’
The captain traced his finger along an electronic map display. ‘Maybe.’
‘Shall we alert a patrol boat?’
Khan’s beaming smile and continuously waving arm filled the screen inside the gunship. ‘Negative. Look at that stupid grin. He’s probably an officer, helping himself to some local booty. If that’s the case, then good luck to him. I’m looking to get something out of this myself.’
‘Oh? Like what?’ asked the co-pilot.
‘I hear apartments will be made available to officers who were in the first wave. Accommodation in the more fashionable districts of London.’
‘Really? Who told you that?’
<
br /> ‘Just a rumour I heard. In the meantime, let’s get this bird back to base. I could use a coffee.’
‘Roger that.’
Khan lowered his arm as the searchlight blinked out and the helicopter banked away, lost in the darkness. A million coloured spots danced before his eyes as they grew accustomed to the gloom once again. At his feet, the cabin door moved a crack and he heard Clarke’s voice.
‘Have they gone?’
‘Looks like it. Stay put a while longer, just in case.’
Khan’s heart pounded in his chest. Another gut-wrenching moment, one of a series that seemed to have lasted for days. In reality it was less than two. I’ll be grey-haired by the time we reach the States, he thought.
The Sunflower continued onwards without further incident, cutting quietly through the dark Channel. Clarke was back skippering the boat when Khan appeared from below with two cups of freshly brewed coffee. To the east the sky was just beginning to lighten.
‘Thanks,’ said Clarke, sipping the steaming brew carefully. ‘So far, so good, eh?’
‘We’re not out of the woods yet.’
‘True. But I’ve got a good feeling, same feeling I had about this boat the first time I stepped aboard her.’ He put his brew down and smiled. ‘This is going to sound a bit weird, but three days ago I was in London, working, when I got a sudden urge to come down here, to the Sunflower. That night I packed a bag and drove down to the coast. Didn’t think much of it at the time.’ Clarke gently tapped the gleaming fibre-glass of the instrument housing. ‘You may laugh, but the more I think about it the more I believe she was calling me. She called you too, you know, brought us together. That’s why I’ve got a good feeling about this trip.’
Ordinarily Khan wasn’t superstitious. He was more used to living and working on the darker fringes of society, where sound intelligence and careful planning altered the game play, not luck or chance. But Clarke had a point, had felt compelled to travel to Hamble on a feeling. And it had saved him.
Khan’s thoughts turned again to the possibility of a more powerful force at work, the same force that had protected him thus far, had guided him to the Sunflower where another man waited in the darkness, a man who’d also been called. Clarke was almost right; it wasn’t the Sunflower that had brought them together. It was God. And He would see them safely across the ocean.
Khan took a deep breath of salty air and smiled in spite of himself. ‘I think you’re right, Patrick. I think we’re going to make it.’
‘Look.’ Clarke pointed to a dark headland off the starboard bow that jutted out into the sea. ‘That’s Hurst Spit. After that we’re in the Channel.’
‘Open water,’ realised Khan.
‘Correct. Once we’re past the Spit we’ll set the pilot and go below, take a look at the charts.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ smiled Khan, throwing up a mock salute. Their laughter echoed across the dark waters of the Solent.
Baghdad
It could have been much worse, Mousa reflected, stamping on the accelerator and powering the Mercedes saloon past a slow-moving livestock truck. He could’ve been demoted, flogged – even executed – but deep down he knew it wouldn’t have come to that.
He glanced out of the window as he swept past the rumbling vehicle, at the rows of sheep that stared back at him from between the wooden slats, marking his passage with tired bleats and cold, dead eyes. Mousa smiled. They reminded him of the elders, the twelve jurists and clerics of the Guardian Council who’d presided over his recent military tribunal at the Palace of Justice in central Baghdad. The Cleric, clearly intending to distance himself from the proceedings, had observed them discreetly, sometimes seated near the back of the hall, occasionally settling into the witness gallery above the marbled floor.
Mousa had dreaded meeting him, for once at a loss as to how to explain his actions, his blatant insubordination. But after arriving in Baghdad, the Holy One hadn’t summoned him at all. For the first time in his life Mousa had felt exposed, naked. That first morning, standing alone in the defendant’s box (he’d refused legal counsel), Mousa had briefly caught the Holy One’s eye. When he did, he’d registered the disappointment behind the round spectacles and felt utterly shameful. He cared not for the judgements of the old men ranged before him on their ornate stage, only for the approval, and absolution, of the Holy One whom he’d so publicly disobeyed.
Mousa turned the wheel and cut across the highway, hitting the off-ramp at Al-Quahira, squinting as the rising sun caught the burnished domes of the grand mosque that dominated the near horizon, casting its golden rays across the city. He fished in the glove box for a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on, heading north on the empty Ali-Talib highway that would take him beyond the city limits. He crossed the Army Canal, leaving the gleaming towers of the business district behind him, and cruised by the smarter suburbs of Ash Sha’b and Hayy Sumar, their palm-lined avenues giving way to open fields beyond.
Mousa still marvelled at Baghdad’s transformation, its once teeming slums bulldozed, the residents banished to other districts, the new suburbs a lush network of low-rise homes and green parks. Now only the affluent and the influential travelled the city’s wide highways and occupied its gleaming marble and glass buildings, the capital of Arabia twinkling like a diamond in the sand by day, and like a bright constellation of stars at night.
Until recently, Mousa thought of himself as one of those influential personalities, his rank, reputation and proximity to the Holy One ensuring no door remained unopened, no order questioned. Now it was different. Word had spread of his tribunal, of the witnesses that had flown in from the European front to give evidence against him, including the preening Al-Bitruji, who’d marched into the courtroom with a confident stride and a grave look across his fat face. Mousa knew it was an act, knew the man was revelling in Mousa’s downfall.
Mousa had glowered at him as he gave evidence, causing Al-Bitruji to stumble and stammer through the weasel words of his prepared statement, the one that told of lost aircraft, tanks and men. He could’ve killed him on the spot, knowing that Al-Bitruji had leaked news of Mousa’s failure and insubordination to his contacts in Baghdad, that he lacked a soldier’s guts to do anything decisive himself, preferring instead to gossip like an old woman in the marketplace. Others had stepped forward too, from the command bunker in Grovely Wood, from Air Command at Heathrow, all allied to Al-Bitruji and eager to drive another nail into Mousa’s coffin. And that, Mousa was now convinced, had been their undoing.
As day three of his hearing had opened, the remainder of Al-Bitruji’s snakes had slithered into the witness stand and hissed their betrayal. Forced to endure their whining condemnations, Mousa had burned with rage as he glared at the traitors across the marble chamber.
It was then he’d noticed the Holy One again, flanked by two bodyguards as he watched from the shadows of the pillars that circled the hall, his lined face suddenly pained. No, it was more than that, Mousa had decided; there he stood, the Holy One’s trusted confidant, having to suffer the betrayals of those less loyal, less devoted, and certainly less capable than himself. Mousa had felt it then, a shift in the wind that blew against him, a turning of the tide indicated by the subtle nod of the Holy One as he caught Mousa’s glance. To be summoned here, to face the shame of a public hearing, was punishment enough for a man like Mousa. The Holy One must have known that, had seen the indignity etched on Mousa’s face, but the rituals had to be observed, the game played out to its conclusion.
The Guardian Council had made him wait for its judgement, three more days in fact, but the final outcome was one Mousa had begun to suspect. He’d stood straight and tall, resplendent in his best dress uniform, his back ram-rod straight, his eyes staring off into the middle distance as the elders passed down their judgement: banishment from the European theatre, a temporary attachment to an obscure Military Academy in Damascus, and a purse to be paid to the families of the dead soldiers and airmen, all one hundred and
seventy-four of them.
The Council had been lenient, their spokesman informed him. Mousa was relieved to have avoided the disgrace of demotion, yet it was on his lips to demand it, to be sent back to the European front as a mere private; combat was a far more attractive proposition than wasting his days giving lectures to officer cadets. Instead, he kept his mouth shut. He’d been saved by the Holy One, of that he was sure. Only time, and the course of action he’d now chosen to take, would tell whether he was right or not.
So now, the road ahead was practically empty, only the odd farm truck or military vehicle sharing the six-lane highway with his Mercedes saloon. He powered the window down, letting the warm breeze ruffle his hair. It needed cutting, as did the dark stubble on his face that reached down to the thick black curls that sprang from the open neck of his navy linen shirt. But he would get around to it, when the movement order to Damascus finally materialised. In the meantime, he would relax, keep a low profile. And visit old friends.
He was dressed casually, in jeans and trainers, a white galabiyya gown on the seat behind him should the need arise to change into more modest attire. He didn’t expect to today, however. At the side of the road a movement caught his eye, and in the shadows of a nearby palm grove he spotted a cluster of military vehicles, one of the many air defence teams that marked the outer boundary of the city. The wind snatched at the smoke of cooking fires and ruffled the camouflage nets, the sun dappling across the tips of the surface-to-air missiles beneath. So far Baghdad hadn’t been threatened, and nor did Mousa expect it to be. As long as the Israelis stayed out of the fight.
Another two hours had passed before Mousa turned off the highway, heading northeast across the flood plains of southern Salah ad-Din, the fields on either side of the road thick with summer crops, the water treatment systems whipping spray across armies of swaying cornstalks. Ahead, the Tigris River beckoned, marked by the thick forests of palms that lined its banks.