Extracted

by RR Haywood

  She saw the same Ben Ryder during those first couple of days. The way he took everything in his stride and didn’t panic and the way he stood back until she got hit then ploughed in and the violence he used. Untrained but devastating. Ruthless yet human. Not a monster but a hero.

  The attack Ben stopped when he was seventeen was sexually motivated, but even so, the fact that a white youth stopped a gang from attacking an Indian woman and her child stuck with Safa. Safa had seen racism first-hand. She suffered it growing up, the insults, the taunts, the bullying, but she knew there were decent, courageous people in the world. She knew she would protect people and stand up for what was right. Years later, she witnessed what he did at Holborn and saw the world react as they learnt the connection between that man at the train station and the boy on the country lane so many years before. The name Ben Ryder came to mean decency, moral fortitude, honour and courage. She joined the Diplomatic Protection Squad because of what he did. She devoted her life to the protection of others because of Ben Ryder. Harry understood this and gave the patience he had shown over the months on the basis of her words.

  Being told something and seeing it for yourself are two different things and Harry doesn’t show a flicker other than leaning closer to the screen. Safa watches him for a reaction but the soldier gives nothing away. Her eyes go back to the footage and Ben running towards while everyone else runs away. People falling on the tracks, dying from electrocution. Smoke hanging in the air and body parts strewn across the ground. The ginger man trying to detonate his vest and Ben running towards him. The dark-haired man using a sawn-off shotgun to devastating effect and the speed at which Ben switches from running towards the ginger guy to heading into the blonde woman firing the two pistols. He takes her down, driving her hard into the floor as she screams at the man with the shotgun. An instinct in Ben to stop that communication between the attackers and he kills the woman with the pistol taken from her hand. A split second later and he’s up, firing into the man with the shotgun, killing him outright, before spinning round to scan for the ginger man now throwing people on to the live rails.

  Another attack, this one from a woman lunging at Ben with a knife. The speed of reaction and sheer aggression shown by Ben is staggering. They watch him slipping and sliding but his reactions are perfect and the reason this clip is shown to specialist firearms officers all over the world. Be this man. Match his aggression. Ben shoots the woman in the head. Another split second and that threat is negated, and so Ben switches back to the primary target and somewhere in his untrained mind he knows the ginger man has a bomb and therefore poses the greatest risk. Running and firing with a face snarling with determination and fear. We can train you not to miss, but only you can match the aggression and instincts of Ben Ryder.

  Even when the pistol clicks empty Ben doesn’t falter, but takes the bomber down on to the tracks with a show of absolute, extreme violence, pinning the man down while driving fists into his face. They could never ask Ben, but the analysis produced after suggested that Ben knew the train was approaching, which is why he tore the suicide vest open and switched from punching to stamping, in so doing delivering the killing blow and rendering the man unable to detonate himself.

  Still that threat assessment continues. On his feet, dragging the dead man down the tracks, desperately trying to get the bomb away from the train. He almost makes it too. Another few metres and he would have survived.

  ‘Is that you?’ Harry asks, blinking at the younger Safa on the screen, running on to the platform in full uniform.

  ‘Yeah,’ she whispers. She can smell the chemicals in the air. The dry heat of air blasted through the tunnels. The smell of iron in the blood and the stench of faeces from bowels opening on death and locking eyes with Ben running backwards, dragging a dead man. She didn’t know who he was at that point, or why he was pulling the man, but she caught sight of the suicide vest and the connection was made. She ran screaming at the driver, who slammed the brakes on but too late. The train goes in, blocking the view of Ben as it fills the station, and a few seconds later the explosion tears through the tunnel, bucking the train backwards and up on to the platform as she runs back to the safety of the exit.

  Her heart hammers in her chest as the footage ends and Harry sits back, folding his arms across his chest in contemplation of the event he just witnessed.

  ‘Christ,’ Roland says again. He too knows Ben now. He knows the man, and to see Ben at work is something else. Malcolm and Konrad feel the same and every bad thought they had of the man that refused to work vanishes. Safa was right. They have to remember him as he was and not how he is.

  ‘Okay,’ Harry says, still with his arms folded.

  ‘There it is,’ Safa whispers as the footage ends, changing to a black screen.

  It’s said of the commandos during the Second World War that you cannot fictionalise anything they ever did because they would have done it in real life, and Harry knows good work when he sees it. His eyes narrow and he blasts air out through his nose. That man he just watched is not the man here. He thinks of Ben outside placing the shots with an almost casual manner. He thinks of the first day and the intelligence in him. He thinks of the fight in this room and how Ben ran in despite being terrified to the core. Some soldiers are made and some are born.

  Harry never says much but he speaks now. Mad Harry Madden, who brought a German base to its knees, and when Mad Harry Madden speaks out, others listen.

  Thirty

  They have already been paramedics for this mission and now they are tourists. Bearded, unshaven, clean shaven, tidy hair, messy hair. Neat clothes, slightly creased clothes. They blend in and do not draw attention. Their clothing is carefully chosen to be loose-fitting to hide their muscular forms and they constantly check each other for visual clues that could suggest a military background.

  They drink beer but not copious amounts. In public, they chat amiably as old friends. They tell jokes, berate each other and discuss buildings, art, road layouts, the youth of today, sports and every other normal topic of conversation.

  The five work the city thoroughly, varying the teams to disrupt their profiles to avoid easy recognition.

  A bearded man with a clean-shaved man wearing dark blue waterproofs and stout walking boots one day will be two cleanly shaven men wearing checked shirts, jeans and trainers the next day. Hats are used to limit profile awareness. They are German with varying dialects. They are English and politely spoken. Some are French and display the typical nuances associated with that country. They are what they need to be.

  Alpha and Bravo drink coffee in a café. It has been a long morning already and they spread the tourist map open on the table to idly peruse and quietly discuss the sights they should see next.

  Bravo eats a cake. Bravo doesn’t actually like cake but it fits the profile so he eats the cake. Alpha hums softly as he flicks through the guidebook and glances between the pages and the map on the tabletop.

  The café is either half-full or half-empty, depending on the way you view life. To the men, the café is at half capacity of occupancy, such is the manner in which they think.

  Bravo ignores the door opening. His instincts tell him two people just entered but his training prevents him from immediately looking. Instead, he drops a crumb from his mouth on to his shirt and rolls his eyes as he brushes it off, giving him a plausible reason for glancing over to see two average-looking men walking to the counter. They look entirely normal. Average height. Average build. Short hair. They also look intensely worried. Like they’ve just had very bad news. One rubs the back of his neck and sighs deeply while the other orders two coffees in fluent German that bears a trace of an English accent somewhere within it.

  ‘Danke,’ the German man with the hint of English says at the counter as he takes the two mugs.

  ‘That footage was forty-six years ago,’ Malcolm says, rubbing his neck as they walk past the table.

  ‘Yeah,’ Konrad says. His tone is sad, worr
ied. ‘Can’t believe we’ve actually met him . . . She was right to show us.’

  ‘Oh, definitely,’ Malcolm says emphatically. ‘You think Harry’s plan will work?’

  They walk on down the café and the words are lost. Bravo eats his cake. Alpha thumbs through the guide.

  ‘Kaffee?’ Bravo asks in perfect German after finishing his cake.

  ‘Bitte,’ Alpha says amiably, also in fluent dialect-worthy German.

  Bravo gets two fresh coffees and returns to the table. They converse quietly about the buildings, the area, the hotel they stayed in last night, the food they ate, the price of public transport.

  Alpha pulls out his phone and thumbs the screen with a roll of his eyes. ‘Meine mutter,’ he says, as though ever so slightly irritated at having to write his mother a message.

  ‘Ah.’ Bravo smiles benignly.

  Alpha writes the message.

  Hi Mother, we are having a nice coffee and cake in a lovely little café in central Berlin that is really quite interesting. The weather is fine. How is Aunty?

  He sighs when he finishes and sips his coffee. The phone bleeps softly.

  I am fine, dear. Aunty is recovering from her operation. Your café sounds lovely. I shall surely try it the next time I visit that area.

  ‘Mutter?’ Bravo asks, nodding at the phone in the manner of mocking his old friend who has a worrisome mother.

  ‘Ja,’ Alpha tuts, knowing their location is being sent from the signal within the phone.

  ‘. . . Safa will be heartbroken. She’s tried so hard with him . . .’

  ‘But it’s down to him now. We can’t do anything more for him, Malc. Danke,’ the German-speaking Englishman calls out to the girl behind the counter as the two men head to the door.

  Alpha and Bravo gather their maps and groan like middle-aged men as they stand up and politely take their cups back to the counter. ‘Danke,’ Bravo says, handing them over.

  ‘Bitte,’ the girl says, marvelling at how polite middle-aged German men are.

  The two tourists head outside. Bravo turns the map round as though perplexed as to why he was holding it upside down. Alpha idly watches the direction taken by the two men.

  ‘Ah,’ Bravo says, finally getting his map the right way just in time to allow the correct foot follow distance to form. ‘Which way?’ he asks in perfect English.

  ‘This way I believe,’ Alpha replies, also in perfect English.

  They match pace. Not closing the gap or widening it. There is an art to foot follows and they show their mastery by perfect motion and an almost sixth sense with regards to guessing when to stop and turn and when to keep forward momentum.

  They follow the men along the busy main road, jammed full of noisy people. The general hubbub of a city centre so conducive to hiding in plain sight. Electric cars hum as they go past. The rare sound of a petrol or diesel engine interspersed here and there. People chatting seemingly to themselves using ear inserts and wireless microphones to carry out perfect conversations with perfect clarity. Other tourists wear digital glasses showing the route they need to take on the interior of the lens. Others stop to read messages only they can see and speak the responses to be sent.

  ‘Is that a Chinese restaurant?’ Alpha asks, as though pleasantly surprised to see such a thing.

  ‘I believe it is,’ Bravo says. ‘Is it open?’

  ‘We’ll have a look, maybe we could eat there tonight.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Bravo says with mild enthusiasm.

  Konrad and Malcolm reach the Chinese restaurant and turn right into the back road. The tourists amble after them and stop to read the digital menu displayed on the screen inside the window.

  ‘Now that’s old Berlin,’ Alpha remarks casually, having glanced down the back road to the grey, brick-built buildings.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Bravo says, absent-minded as he reads the menu. ‘What was that? Oh, I see, yes, yes, it is rather. Maybe pre-Second World War. Shall we have a look?’

  ‘Would you mind?’ Alpha asks.

  ‘Not at all. It is rare to see existing industrial buildings still intact after that period.’

  ‘Gosh, look at that one. Nice Gothic drainage systems.’

  ‘The cornice is very good if slightly eroded.’

  ‘Good brickwork I might add.’

  ‘Indeed. I do like the transition from city centre to quiet back road and the way the buildings seem to morph from office to dwelling and light industrial usage. I say, is that a storage warehouse?’

  ‘Certainly looks like it.’

  ‘Is it in use?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. It certainly looks very secure.’

  ‘Well, we are in a central location and I should imagine crime rates are significant.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Stout doors and, oh yes, those two men are operating an alarm system as they enter.’

  ‘Yes, so they are. That is worrying, isn’t it? I do hope this isn’t a high-crime area.’

  ‘Oh, bother. My mother is emailing me again. What shall I tell her this time?’

  ‘Tell her we may have found a suitable location to rest and recuperate.’

  ‘I will tell her exactly that. Shall we go back and look at that menu again?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  Thirty-One

  The door opens without a knock. Ben looks up to see Harry staring at him. ‘You ready?’ he asks bluntly. His face impassive as ever.

  Ben nods. There isn’t much else to say. It’s done. He is going back. He is empty inside and ready. He has nothing left.

  ‘Follow me,’ Harry says and walks off. Ben gets up and follows him dumbly through the room with the blue chairs and out into the corridor full of doors to rooms ready to be used. He will never see this place again. He will never be here again. He doesn’t feel anything. Nothing. He is devoid of feeling. He does not belong here.

  They reach the end of the corridor. Harry pushes the door open and nods for Ben to go first into the empty main room. Ben doesn’t ask where everyone else is or how they are going to do this. He does not care. He cannot bring forth any sense of caring about anything other than the fact he died at Holborn and everything since then has been wrong, like he is a ghost left behind in a world that no longer needs or wants him.

  The sound of liquid being poured brings Ben to a stop. The sound of a heavy flask being placed back on a wooden table and a cup being lifted with the gentle noise of a sip being taken. A sense of foreboding, of something happening that wasn’t expected. Ben turns round to see Harry standing with his back to him at the main table. Static charge fills the air. Ominous and heavy.

  ‘We going?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Minute,’ Harry says without turning. ‘Nice coffee this.’

  ‘Safa said—’

  ‘Safa isn’t here. I am.’ That dangerously low tone that Ben recognises from the day they had the fight in here.

  ‘What?’ Ben asks, blunt and uncaring. He wants to go. Get this finished. End it. Harry doesn’t answer but sips again from the cup that’s hidden from Ben’s view by his broad back and wide shoulders. Ben sighs. An exhalation of air into the otherwise silent room. His feet shuffle on the bare concrete. Harry sips from the coffee. Ben sags and does not care, then an instant later he feels an absurd flush of anger at being delayed, an instant after that and the energy ebbs away, leaving him uncaring and unbothered again. Ben frowns and tries to grasp at least one coherent thought but everything in his head is jumbled up.

  ‘Safa said I should try and talk you out of it.’

  Ben looks up and blinks as Harry turns to face him with the coffee cup looking tiny in his massive hands, and in that surreal second Ben wonders why he’s holding it in a double-handed grip.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Ben mumbles. ‘We going then?’

  ‘Said it might be better coming from me,’ Harry continues.

  Ben shrugs and stares back. Eyes locked. Harry sips. Ben stares. Harry lowers the mug from his mouth.

  ‘Are we going?’
Ben asks as that anger starts seeping back in at the way Harry is giving him the evil eye because Harry perceives him as weak and a coward and because he’s let Safa carry him and not done his part. Fuck Harry. Fuck his values and his sense of right and wrong. Ben is done. Ben wants it finished.

  Still Harry stares. Unblinking and expressionless, but within that passivity there is a whole bunch of meaning telegraphed. Harry sips again in an act designed to show he is taking his time, which reflects just how poorly he thinks of Ben.

  Ben takes a step towards him. ‘Are we going?’

  Still Harry sips and stares. Ben feels stupid and angry and confused and sad all at the same time. He feels lost and forlorn and full of hatred for everything and within that maelstrom of emotion he also feels hurt at this last show of power from Harry.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ben growls, petulant and getting irritated. His mood plummets down to despair then back up with a flash of rage that has him locking eyes on Harry for a second before Ben blinks away and shuffles impatiently. Ben is losing it. His mind is going. He can’t cope. He can’t be here. The walls are suffocating him. He feels trapped.

  ‘I have to go,’ Ben whispers, staring round with a chest starting to rise and fall quickly. ‘I can’t be here.’ His mind whirls and spins. His heart beats faster. A rush of adrenaline, then fear and dejection. ‘Please . . . can I go? Safa said I can go.’

  Still Harry stares. Harry doesn’t blink or move apart from lifting that fucking cup a few inches to sip with a noise like nails down a blackboard. Ben takes a breath and forces a calm tone into his voice. ‘Harry, Safa said I can go . . . stop sipping that fucking . . .’ Ben wants to ram it into his bearded face. He wants to rage and smash and destroy everything and himself at the same time.

  ‘Where’s Safa?’ Ben asks instead, sounding like a child. He turns and heads for the door. Harry doesn’t go after him. Ben will find Safa or Roland and make them take him back. He will go through that blue light and walk into the flames of the train explosion without a second thought.