by Chris Ryan
The four men surrounding him looked similar. They all wore keffiyehs to protect their heads from the punishing heat of the day. Their dirty jeans and T-shirts didn’t disguise their lean, weathered bodies. Unlike the top-gunner, they were armed with assault rifles, and they each had a bandolier of ammo strapped round themselves. They wore casual expressions, and smiles.
None of them spoke, and only occasionally did any of them look down. At their feet there was a silver flight case, firmly locked and strapped to the bottom of the truck to stop it from slipping around. It was no bigger than a small suitcase.
The Toyota hadn’t been going very fast, but now it slowed down.
It ground to a halt.
All the men stood up, guns trained forwards. The top-gunner narrowed his eyes.
A roadblock up ahead. About fifty metres.
It wasn’t an official roadblock, of course, because nothing was official in this country. Just a few shacks by the side of the track, and a couple of ragged-looking men with AKs blocking the road and pointing their weapons directly at the Toyota.
The vehicle’s engine turned over noisily as the top-gunner waited for the man in the passenger seat to give his instructions.
In one of the roadside shacks, a baby girl wailed. She was hungry, but that was something the kid was going to have to get used to. Her mother was hungry too, and her large, dark breasts had no more milk for the infant. They had named the child Khadra, which meant ‘lucky’, but there wasn’t much luck to go around in their world, and what luck there was seldom found its way into this poor, one-roomed home. All Khadra’s mother could do was hold the little girl in the crook of her arm and comfort her.
The child’s father scowled at the crying baby. ‘Can’t you do something to shut her up?’ he demanded of the woman, speaking the Somali language in a thin voice. The woman didn’t reply or even look at him. She just continued to rock the child gently.
The man was less hungry than his wife and child, but that was only because of the khat he was chewing. He’d spent his remaining money on a bunch of the leaves two days ago, and the mouthful that he rolled round between his tongue and his cheek was the last of it. He made a sucking, slurping sound as he milked the leaves of their precious stimulant juices.
A shout from outside. The father grabbed the rifle that was leaning up against the wall of their shack and ran out into the road, ignoring the woman’s shout of ‘Dalmar, no!’
Dalmar’s friend Korfa was there, if friend was not too loose a word for the bandit who stood pointing his own rifle towards the truck that was arriving from the distance. Dalmar knew that Korfa would put a bullet in him any time it suited him, but that would leave just one of them to man this roadblock where they stopped any passing vehicles and extorted cash from the occupants at gunpoint. How else were they going to earn any money around here? Extortion was the local industry. The police couldn’t stop them because there were no police. No, out here, you earned a living however you could, if you didn’t want to starve.
‘Clients,’ Korfa said. Dalmar stood by him and raised his rifle as well.
The truck stopped.
Sweat dripped down Dalmar’s face.
They waited.
The driver of the Toyota turned off the engine.
His passenger opened his door. He bent over and leant out, using the metal of the door as a shield against the gunmen up ahead, then addressed the top-gunner. ‘Fire above their heads,’ he instructed.
The top-gunner didn’t need telling twice.
Dalmar, who stood fifty metres away, had heard the sound of many weapons in his life. In his country, firearms were more common than toothbrushes. But he had never been fired at by a .50-cal machine gun before, so he was unprepared for the noise.
The thundering of the rounds sent a shock all the way through him, and for a moment he thought he had been shot. But they landed harmlessly about twenty metres behind him, kicking up bursts of dust. Dalmar stood his ground.
The same couldn’t be said of Korfa. The moment the gunner had opened fire, Dalmar’s accomplice had hit the dirt, and was even now crawling to the side of the road. Dalmar watched him from the corner of his eye. If Korfa wanted to be a coward, that was his decision; but if Dalmar got any money from this lot, there was no way he was going to share it. He sucked a little bit more enthusiastically on his khat.
‘Dalmar!’
His wife’s voice from the door of the shack. Dalmar looked over his shoulder. She still had the baby in her arm.
‘Don’t be so stupid!’ the woman told him. ‘Get back inside!’
Dalmar stared at her, his eyes a little wild. ‘This is my roadblock,’ he hissed. ‘If they want to pass, they must pay.’ He was vaguely aware of Korfa, who had reached the side of the road and was now up and running away.
‘Don’t be an idiot!’ his wife screamed. ‘They will kill you. And who will look after your child then?’
‘What is the point of having a roadblock, if I don’t use it to get money?’ Dalmar countered. ‘We have nothing for food.’
His wife narrowed her eyes. ‘If you hadn’t spent it all on khat—’ she started to say, but she fell quiet at a harsh look from her husband.
Suddenly, the .50-cal thundered over his head again. The child woke up and started to scream. Dalmar sucked harder at the leaves in his mouth as he turned back to the vehicle. ‘You get inside,’ he instructed. And then, as an idea hit him: ‘No! Wait!’
He turned to the woman and child again. ‘Come here,’ he said.
The woman looked at him suspiciously, then started backing away into the shack.
‘Come here!’ He strode towards his wife, grabbed her by the hair, then pulled her and the screaming child out into the road. Dalmar faced the stationary vehicle, then raised his AK-47 in the air and fired it in a gesture of defiance.
‘Please, Dalmar,’ the wife whimpered. ‘Think of the child.’
He stood behind his wife and child and grinned. They thought they were men, with their expensive truck and big gun. But his khat-addled brain persuaded him that they wouldn’t fire upon an innocent woman and her child. They were the perfect shield, and Dalmar felt pleased with himself.
He would charge these people double, he decided. And none of it would go to that coward Korfa.
In the Toyota, nobody spoke.
The man in the passenger seat watched as the idiot ahead fired his rifle in the air, then stood in the road with the woman and her child. He looked at the driver sitting next to him.
‘We could just pay him,’ the driver said.
The passenger shook his head. ‘And let him try to rob us? With what we are carrying in the back?’ He looked towards the gunman again. ‘You think the boss would let us live if we mess this up?’
The driver’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel a bit more firmly. ‘We have more men than him,’ he countered. ‘More weapons. We could overpower him easily. Do you really want to kill a woman and her child?’
The passenger thought for a moment, then spat out of the open door. ‘Look at them,’ he said in his raspy voice. ‘Look at where they live. You think that child will live long enough to be a man to fight?’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Or a woman to fuck.’
And he was right, of course. These people were at the bottom of the food chain. And those at the bottom of the food chain got eaten.
He leaned out of the door again and called up to the top-gunner.
‘Kill them,’ he said.
The first round to be fired from the .50-cal killed the woman immediately, blowing away half her head but miraculously missing Dalmar, who was still standing behind her.
As her body slumped, the screaming baby fell to the ground. Dalmar did nothing to help his daughter. He just turned and ran. But he didn’t get far. The second burst of fire followed him up the road, before slamming three rounds in a neat line up his spine. A fourth round just missed his head, but by that time he was dead.
The gunner
wasn’t taking any chances, though. He aimed his weapon at Dalmar’s body again, discharging another short burst straight at it. The corpse shuddered from the impact of the rounds, and blood sprayed on to the road around him. When the gun fell silent, there was only one sound to be heard. The noise of a small child crying as it lay helpless on the floor.
The gunner readjusted his sights and aimed at the prostrate figure of the woman. Then he sprayed another burst of fire in her general vicinity.
And when the gun fell silent this time, there was no crying.
There was no sound at all.
The passenger pulled his door shut and the driver started the engine. The smell of cordite permeated the air, overpowering even the diesel fumes. In the back of the van, the armed men sat down again, but this time they had their guns pointed over the edge of the truck in case the shack by the side of the road contained any unseen surprises. They didn’t look overly disturbed by what had happened – gun battles were an everyday occurrence for them, after all. They did, however, glance at the silver flight case perhaps a little more frequently.
As the Toyota reached the corpses, it swerved round them.
None of the occupants looked down, so they didn’t see the remains of the woman and her child, turned into mincemeat by the vicious rounds of the .50-cal. Certainly they didn’t think of stopping to move them off the road. The wild animals could take care of that. They had other things to attend to, such as the safe delivery of their small cargo.
The truck swerved a second time to avoid the body of the man. Then it kicked up a bigger cloud of dust and accelerated so that soon it was just a trembling, shining mirage in the sun-ravaged distance.
6
The residence of the American Ambassador, Regent’s Park, London.
Nathaniel D. Gresham looked out from one of the elegant white windows on the first floor of Winfield House on to the acres of parkland below, golden-green in the early evening sun. He’d been in the job a couple of years now, but it never failed to impress him that such a large, peaceful space should exist here in the heart of London. His days, whether at the embassy or here at the residence, were busy. To be able to take a few moments between meetings to gaze at the grass below was, for him, like taking a lungful of fresh air.
A knock on the door. With a slight pang of regret, Gresham turned back to look into the room. It was richly appointed, with a Gainsborough on the wall and finely upholstered furniture. Not quite to Gresham’s taste, nor to his wife’s – they thought of themselves as more modern than that. But hell, as he’d said to her more than once, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and as far as gift horses went, the residence was a goddamn thoroughbred.
‘Come on in,’ he called.
The door opened and Elsa, a young intern, appeared. She was a fine-looking thing, with a short brown bob, a little upturned nose and what Gresham thought of as a ‘fuck me’ face. He had to remind himself that he was fifty and she was twenty. Not that it had worried that old dog Clinton, of course, but Gresham had known Bill since his Arkansas days and was man enough to admit that the former president had been more of a pussy magnet even without the aphrodisiac of supreme power; whereas Gresham had to admit ruefully that his best days were behind him. Hell, his own breasts were only slightly smaller than Elsa’s.
So he did his best not to be lecherous as he talked to the girl. ‘Yes, Elsa?’
‘Your five-thirty appointment is here, Mr Ambassador.’ She looked at her clipboard. ‘Mr Khan, from the Islamic Council for Peace.’
He gave her what he hoped was a fatherly smile. ‘Show him in, would you?’
A minute later, Elsa opened the door again and a man entered. He was a slight-looking guy, with a short black beard, round glasses and a thin face. Kind of like a Middle Eastern Gandhi, Gresham thought to himself as he stepped forward to shake the man’s hand. Come to think of it, the resemblance didn’t stop at his physical features. Habib Khan had twice been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. People who talked about such things – and Gresham was one of them – had two theories as to why he had never been awarded the prize itself. Firstly, he wasn’t a big enough celebrity. And secondly he was, by all accounts, thoroughly unpredictable. There was always a chance that he would reject the award for some high-minded reason of his own, and that would be an embarrassment the Nobel Committee couldn’t countenance.
Still, no one could deny that Habib Khan had done his bit to keep the British Muslim community on the right track, and Gresham was curious to meet him. ‘Mr Khan,’ he announced, affecting that jolly, booming voice he always used for official meetings. ‘It’s a real pleasure to welcome you to Winfield House. I know you must be a busy man, and I sure appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to come see me.’
Khan bowed his head. He looked a little bit awkward, as though he thought he didn’t quite deserve to be here. ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said, his voice quiet and his language precise. ‘This is a most magnificent building, Mr Ambassador.’
‘Please, call me Nat. Isn’t it though?’ He put one hand conspiratorially on Khan’s shoulder. ‘Let me tell you something – I gotta keep hoping my wife doesn’t get too used to it. In my job, you never know where you’ll end up next. Word is that the embassy in Kabul’s a bunch of crap.’ He laughed at his own joke, then winced inwardly when he realised Khan was uncomfortable with that kind of language. ‘What can I get you, Mr Khan? Tea? I’m more of a coffee man myself, but please – whatever you like.’
Khan held up one hand. ‘Nothing, really,’ he said.
Gresham looked over at the intern. ‘Thank you, Elsa,’ he said, and she quietly left the room.
‘Have a seat, Mr Khan.’ The ambassador led his guest to one of the sofas surrounding a glass coffee table, and they sat down together. ‘You’re probably wondering,’ he said, ‘why I’ve invited you here.’
Khan smiled. ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he said.
‘Sure, sure.’ He moulded his face into a more serious expression. ‘Mr Khan,’ he continued. ‘For reasons of security, I’d appreciate it if this conversation went no further than ourselves for the time being.’
‘Of course, Mr— Of course, Nat.’
They smiled at each other.
‘The President will be making a visit to London this year on July seventh. He’ll be dining at the Houses of Parliament, then giving a speech to reinforce the special relationship that exists between Great Britain and the United States. He feels that to do this on the anniversary of the London bombings will be an effective way of reminding the world why the Coalition remains in Afghanistan, and what our aims are. There will be all the usual . . .’ He rolled his hand in the air as he searched for a word. ‘All the usual flummery – an audience with the Queen, the usual meet-and-greets. I’ll be straight with you, Mr Khan – most of that stuff is window dressing, nothing more, but the President is keen to do some real work while he’s here. He’s aware of your efforts, and those of your organisation, to promote the peaceful observance of Islam, and he’s very keen for me to arrange a meeting. To show the world that our fight is not with Islam itself, but with extremism.’ Gresham interlinked his fingers and laid his hands on his ample stomach. ‘Is that something that might appeal?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued to gabble. ‘The President arrives at RAF Northolt at about five-thirty p.m. on the seventh. From there he goes straight to Parliament, so really the rest of that day is out. But he’ll be staying here overnight and has a lunchtime audience with Her Majesty before returning to Washington, so perhaps breakfast here on the eighth? We could arrange a photo call for ten a.m.?’
Gresham leaned back. If he was honest, this was one of the most enjoyable parts of the job. Offering an audience with the world’s most powerful man made him feel powerful himself.
Khan removed his spectacles, cleaned them on his rather unfashionable tie, then returned them to his nose. ‘Nat,’ he said, ‘that is a most thoughtful offer. I regret immensely that
I must decline.’
Gresham blinked. Decline? Nobody declined. If the President of the United States wanted a meeting with this guy, he got a meeting with this guy. Washington would go nuts if he reported back that he’d said no.
‘Ah, Mr Khan,’ he said delicately. ‘Please don’t feel obliged to give me your answer now. Perhaps you could think about it overnight.’
Khan gave him a gentle smile. ‘Mr Ambassador,’ he said, ‘that is very kind of you. But I do not need to give the matter any more consideration.’
Gresham frowned. This was beginning to be tiresome. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Of course,’ Khan replied. He stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Your President,’ he said, ‘is a good man. In the struggle for peace between Islam and the West – and I truly believe, Nat, that this is the principal struggle of our times – he is a tireless fighter. You and I know that, because we see things how they are.’ He turned to look back at the ambassador. ‘But there are many people who do not see things as they are, Nat. Their view of the world is filtered through a film of hatred and misunderstanding. It is these people – these extremists and terrorists in waiting – that I must reach out to. If they have the impression that I am too close to your President, a man who – forgive me – they despise with all their heart, any good I can achieve will be immediately undone.’
Gresham stared at him. In his world, the world of politics and public relations, anyone would give their eye teeth for a photo op with the President. It wouldn’t be anything to do with their cause, whatever that happened to be, and everything to do with their own vanity.
But not this guy, it seemed. Habib Khan, with his owl-like features and understated presence, didn’t have any vanity – at least none that Gresham could detect.
Khan clearly noticed that the ambassador was at a loss for words, and so he filled the awkward silence. ‘Your President and I,’ he said, ‘want the same thing. We want peace. But we must go about it in different ways. I hope he will understand that.’