The Hijack s-2

by Duncan Falconer

  Stratton nodded anyway.

  ‘Didn’t catch them though,’ Sumners said, scoffing. ‘Must’ve been fit chaps to outrun you lot, eh?’

  Stratton couldn’t be bothered telling him the poor bastards had much more to lose if they were caught than the SBS had to gain by capturing them. Sumners was a desk spy and would never understand ground operatives and their complex, unwritten rules of survival.

  ‘Kraken,’ Sumners mused. ‘A Scandinavian sea monster. Did you know that? “Then once by man and angels to be seen, in roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.” Tennyson. Expecting the Russians to die so easily was more wishful thinking than optimism, especially in those days ...Those were the days, though, eh, Stratton? The Russian was an adversary to be sure . . . in some things. Toe-to-toe, compared to this terrorist malarkey these days . . .

  ‘But OP Kraken was far bigger than merely observing the Russian infiltration of Europe and the UK,’ Sumners went on. ‘It’s what they were doing when they got to the UK that was of greater interest. It turned out the buggers were busy setting up sabotage teams near military targets up and down the country. It wasn’t until after the Cold War we learned they had at least twenty-two sabotage hides placed in various locations in England and Scotland, though we don’t know where. We found one in the late seventies in Portsmouth in a public park - a children’s playground, no less. Clever bastards used an abandoned sewage system. They were ingenious at concealing these hides. We have only ever found one other . . .

  ‘Chalmers was the one who came up with a sabotage hide being the relationship between Zhilev and Thetford Forest, or, to put it another way, Russian Special Forces and the Mildenhall and Lakenheath air bases. The thought that Gabriel had managed to stumble upon Zhilev as he was actually looking for a hide was far too irresistible to ignore.The RAF has a piece of equipment called Gronar or ground sonar, designed to find underground pipes and communication cables, et cetera. Pretty useful at finding certain types of landmines too, so I hear. We found the hide close to the spot Gabriel was attacked. Unfortunately, when Gabriel disturbed Zhilev, he was on his way out of the hide, not going in and he had already taken what he wanted. We believe he’s carrying a nuclear device. In fact, we’re certain of it. Simple reason is there should have been three such devices in the hide but there were only two.’

  Stratton could feel the words ‘nuclear device’ coming before Sumners said them. He knew about the hide in Portsmouth, or cache as the SBS called it. Stratton didn’t see it for himself but one of the older SBS lads at the time had been on the operation to secure and recover the cache and its contents. The fear was that there might have been Spetsnatz in the area so it was prudent to take a few operatives along, just in case. There was no interference from the Russians and the rumour was that three atomic weapons had been lifted from the cache along with an assortment of biological and chemical weapons.

  So this Russian had a nuke, Stratton pondered. That changed everything. Suddenly the many things Gabriel had talked about over the past few weeks dropped into entirely different slots, the most troubling of all being his comment that he had seen his own death at the hands of whatever it was the man in his viewings possessed.

  ‘We haven’t told the Russians about the nuclear device, but we’ve created enough suspicion around Zhilev’s suspected terrorist connections that they’re doing all they can to track him down,’ Sumners said. ‘We haven’t told them about Kastellorizo either. If we can find him on our own we will.’

  Stratton could guess the reasoning behind that. If they could produce a former Russian Spetsnaz with a nuke the Russians had planted in Britain, it would be an immense bartering tool.

  ‘Any ideas as to where he’s headed?’ Sumners asked. ‘Stratton?’

  Stratton snapped out of his thoughts. ‘What?’

  ‘Zhilev. Any thoughts on where he could be heading?’

  Stratton looked at a map in his head, the Mediterranean, Kastellorizo, Turkey to the north, Egypt to the south, Libya to the west of that, and then Cyprus, Syria, Lebanon and Israel to the east. He considered the range of a small boat, but then there were plenty of places to pick up fuel. If it was one of the fishing boats he had seen in the island’s harbour it could carry enough cans of fuel to cross the Med. In short, Zhilev could be anywhere. The big question was what did he want to blow up with a nuclear bomb?

  ‘Did the Russians provide a psychological profile?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Yes, and I’m afraid it isn’t very encouraging. Zhilev was retired from the Spetsnaz for medical reasons. The report cites physical as well as psychological problems but it was unclear about the relationship between them. Chalmers suggested Zhilev might have been one of their medical experiments. It wasn’t uncommon for them to use their own people as guinea pigs for various experimental mind and body enhancing drugs. Then again so did we until a few years ago. But we didn’t use our best soldiers. Can’t understand that one,’ Sumners said.

  Stratton didn’t believe him. The person who gave the orders was someone just like Sumners except they’d been brought up by a regime with an historical lack of regard for the lives of its own people, especially its military.

  Sumners leaned towards Chalmers. ‘The picture,’ he said to him. Chalmers looked up with an innocent expression, not understanding Sumners’ request. ‘The picture,’ Sumners repeated sarcastically, outlining a small rectangle with his index fingers. ‘Zhilev.’

  Chalmers opened a file, removed a couple of photographs and stretched across the table to hand them to Sumners who passed them to Stratton. One of the pictures was a group shot of Zhilev with several Spetsnaz colleagues but not a good one of him. The other Stratton recognised from the tanker, the one he had found in Vladimir’s wallet.

  ‘That’s him with his brother,’ Sumners said. ‘Apparently, when they forcibly retired Zhilev from the Spetsnaz, he threatened to blow up a government department. The facts regarding that side of it the Russians left deliberately vague but one thing is obvious: Zhilev appears to favour explosives as a form of revenge. The scenario we’re most in favour of is he’s avenging his brother’s murder. Zhilev headed east from England. The killers were Islamic extremists and so I think it’s safe to assume the target is therefore Islamic. Question is where? Saudi Arabia is a good bet, Mecca and the like, but obviously he is spoilt for choices in the Middle East. One option would be a landfall somewhere in the Levant in Syria or Lebanon. Perhaps Israel is also a possibility, but their coastal security is very tight both physically as well as electronically and one would expect Zhilev to suspect that given his background. But then Lebanon would be difficult too, for a foreigner anyway, and Syria is very tight since the Iraq conflict.

  ‘The only other realistic option east is through the Suez Canal, which leads to a thousand miles of Saudi coastline, but that would be quite a trek in a small fishing boat. If he left Kastellorizo a week ago, he would be through the canal by now. We’ve asked Egypt and Jordan to report in if Zhilev makes port but that would take a month under normal circumstances and there’s no way on earth we can tell them an atom bomb is possibly passing through their borders. The word would be out in a heartbeat and there’d be a mad rush by every Arab state and Islamic organisation to get their hands on it. If they found him, we’d be the last people to know.’

  Sumners took the photos out of Stratton’s hands and put them back on the table.

  ‘One other thing,’ Sumners said. ‘Zhilev withdrew every penny he had in his bank account, the equivalent of several thousand pounds. He was a frugal man who spent little of his pension, which could suggest he’s not planning to return home. He’s committed. All in all, I think we have a rather serious problem on our hands.’

  With all the talk about the Middle East, Stratton wondered where the aircraft was heading. The sun was shining in through the starboard window and slightly ahead of the plane. He checked the compass on his watch to confirm they were indeed flying southeast. ‘Where are we going?’ he aske
d.

  ‘Tel Aviv. It’s time to bring Mossad into the game,’ Sumners said. ‘We can’t tell them about a nuclear device either, of course. Got to play the Israelis carefully when it comes to threats against Islam. They wouldn’t exactly bend over backwards to prevent a bomb blowing up that lot.’

  ‘Unless it was made to look like the Israelis did it,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Horrifying thought,’ Sumners said as he got to his feet. ‘I’m going to grab a nap. Been a long night.’

  Sumners stifled a yawn and was about to head towards the seats when he thought of something else. ‘How is he?’ he asked, referring to Gabriel. ‘Fit, you think?’

  ‘He’s tired.’

  ‘I expect he wants to see this through though.’

  Stratton gave nothing away, looking at the top of Gabriel’s head just visible above his headrest.

  ‘We’re all believers now, aren’t we, eh, Stratton?’ Sumners said as he walked away.

  Stratton watched him step into the row behind Gabriel and plonk himself tiredly into a seat, but his mind was fixed on the most important implication of this entire situation.

  ‘Stratton?’ a voice called out.

  Stratton looked around to see it was Chalmers holding out a pamphlet. ‘The specs on the likely device,’ he said.

  How apt, Stratton thought as he reached over, took the pamphlet and flicked through it. He knew a bit about suitcase bombs anyway. It was a requirement for senior operatives to understand at least the basics of them, just in case. It was a crazy world and one could expect to run into anything these days. Explosives were one of Stratton’s fortes anyway.

  The implication that remained a painful distraction was Gabriel’s fear that he was going to die by Zhilev’s device. Gabriel did not know it was an atomic bomb. Stratton had never been more than a few hundred yards from Gabriel’s side while on the assignment and was hardly likely to ever be much further since his job was to protect him as well as help in the decoding. The device had a destructive radius of five miles, which did not include the fallout. That clearly meant that if Gabriel was going to be killed by it then so was anyone else with him. Sumners would not tell Gabriel about the weapon in case it affected his will to continue in pursuit of it. The information could only have a negative effect on Gabriel’s performance and so why take the risk? Gabriel was the most important tool in locating Zhilev and his life was entirely expendable in the light of the gravity of the situation. The same went for Stratton. Sumners was unaware of Gabriel’s fears and was clearly optimistic about finding Zhilev and the bomb before it was detonated. Stratton could withhold Gabriel’s fears from Sumners and refuse to continue with the assignment, but that would mean bringing in someone else to take over the operation and Stratton would effectively be sending that person to his death, along with Gabriel.

  Stratton tried to tell himself that didn’t matter as long as he lived, but it wouldn’t stick. He couldn’t send someone else to die in his place, nor could he turn his back on Gabriel.They were team-mates now and, like it or not, in this together.

  ‘Chicken or chicken?’ a voice said, interrupting Stratton’s thoughts.

  Stratton looked up to see the loadmaster standing in front of him holding a stack of polystyrene in-flight rations boxes. He was reminded of the standing joke in the SBS about the lack of choice regarding RAF flight meals, which always seemed to be a couple of slightly warmed Kentucky Fried Chicken drumsticks and a serving of soggy chips.

  ‘I’ll have the chicken,’ Stratton said, and was handed a box.

  As the loadmaster moved on to offer the selection to the rest of the cabin, Stratton went back to his thoughts. He had a dilemma to say the least. There were some hard choices to make, and not a lot of time in which to make them.

  Chapter 10

  Abed’s mother lay on a mattress on the concrete floor, a white veil around her pale, wrinkled face which was bathed in the light from several candles flickering in the drab, airless room. A tattered towel hung across a small window high in the wall to cut out the daylight and half a dozen old women, all in black, squatted or stood about, one chanting a prayer while another prepared tea on a small wood-burning cooker in a corner.

  She was not dead, though no one expected her to survive for long. Her breathing was so shallow the women frequently used a mirror kept by her side to see if she was still alive. The doctor had said that as long as she did not have the will to live nothing would stop her from dying. Since the day Abed left Gaza, his mother had hardly eaten or gone outside of her house. Neighbours took to bringing food and some spent time with her, cooking and trying to be comforting, but their efforts had been in vain. All meaning had gone from her existence; now that Abed had left, never to return, life had become utterly pointless to her. For the first few months after his departure, she could not resist clinging to the hope that he might one day walk back into the house. She dreamed of the times he used to take hold of her as if she were his daughter, and stroke her hair while holding her face against his chest. Few men showed such affection for their mothers. She had been lucky. Abed was the finest son a mother could ask for. But their luck ran out that night the Israeli soldiers came to Rafah to round up all the men. Frightened as she was at the time, she had no idea it was the beginning of the end for them as a family. As time trickled by, she began to accept that she would never see Abed again and then, as if the truth had tripped something in her body, she began to die.

  She knew the end was very near and her thoughts drifted more and more to her childhood, playing in the streets of Rafah, which at that time seemed a normal place to her, as it did to all of the very young. She recalled her days in school and the faces of the friends she had made that she no longer knew.

  Then suddenly, despite her low level of consciousness, she sensed a change in the room. It was unmistakable, as if a powerful presence had entered. It was noticeable in the energy of the other women, and the chanting had stopped.

  Her eyes flickered as she fought to open them, but it was incredibly difficult, as if she had gone far too deep beneath consciousness to ever climb back above it.

  The presence felt neither good nor evil, but it drew her out of the depths.

  She finally managed to open her eyes and fought to focus on the cracked, brittle ceiling where tiny stalactites formed along the lines where the rain leaked in.

  The presence was at the door and she concentrated hard to turn her head on the pillow and look towards it. The light was bad as was her eyesight but there was a figure standing in the doorway, she could tell that much.

  The figure took a step towards her, and she could discern it was a man but not clearly enough to make out any features. She wondered why any man would be in her house. The doctor had left hours before and would not return until she was dead. Women like her died in the company of women and no man would venture to enter her house even to say farewell, no man save one perhaps. Her heart suddenly fluttered and raced in expectation and she struggled to find the oxygen to fuel the strength she needed to push death away, if only for a moment. She attempted to raise a hand and move her feet but the effort was futile. Nothing worked. Her limbs had atrophied to the point of uselessness. She tried to utter her son’s name but there was not enough breath to form a word or moisture to lubricate her tongue.

  As the figure stepped forward, the other women in the room moved back as if in fear.The man reached the mattress. As he crouched by her side he came into focus, and Abed’s mother stopped breathing for a moment as the shock hit her like the blow from a hammer.

  Her eyes remained fixed on him as he got down on his knees and placed a hand on one of hers. She had recognised him instantly, though he looked much older than she would have imagined, but then it was almost twenty years since she had last seen him. The memory of those days flooded through her as she recalled them without effort, especially that very last day. He was holding Abed in his arms, talking to him, and then he gave him a soft toy he had brought as a present, hidden
under his tunic so that none of the other soldiers would see it. She recalled the heart-breaking words as he explained that he could never see them again. As she lay there staring up at him she wanted to cry, but she was spent and could not summon one more drop of sorrow, as if a lifetime of pain and tears had finally emptied her of those resources. All she could do was look at the Israeli she had once loved, the father of her son, and accept that he was here at her side. He had come to say goodbye and despite everything that had happened over the years, she was glad.

  She tried once more to say something, but the words would not come.

  ‘Give me some water,’ he said to one of the women who quickly obeyed, handing him a small cup. He placed the edge against her lips and allowed a little liquid to trickle into them.

  ‘David,’ she suddenly murmured, as if the word had come from elsewhere other than her lips.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ he said softly and with deep affection as he took hold of her thin hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he continued after a thoughtful pause. ‘I never thought I would see you again . . . I’m glad I came.’

  She thought about the other women in the room, what they might make of this, for he was without a doubt Israeli, but then almost immediately she realised how pointless her fears were. It was not twenty years ago. What did it matter? David was old, Abed was gone and she was dying.

  It felt strange being called David after so many years, for that was not his real name. He could never have risked telling her who he was for many reasons, but primarily because of his own survival. Israelis did not fraternise with Palestinians without great personal risk, especially Israelis like him. He wondered if she had an inkling of who he was now. His picture had been in the papers on occasion, which had never been wise considering his position, but it could not always be helped. But then again, she probably never read the Israeli papers, since they were unwanted and not sold openly in Gaza. Perhaps she was wondering how he had the ability to enter this camp since it was illegal for Israelis to cross into Palestinian territory. But she was so close to death, why should he expect her to be cognisant enough to consider any of that.