* * *
Henry took his time to climb the slope that led to the top of the hill. He could feel the effect of the arid landscape that stretched to the East. They had left behind a zone where crops were cultivated to enter a drier part of Iraq.
Ali was crouching near a steep drop, eyes stuck to the binoculars he had brought with him, checking for unusual traffic on the road they had just left. Henry stood for a moment observing him. His slim fingers had turned almost white from clutching the field glasses. The Kalashnikov he had slung over his shoulder had slipped towards the ground. He must have felt Henry’s gaze. He lowered the glasses, one hand now on the gun. He smiled when he saw Henry.
“All good.” He pointed in the direction of the road and gave the thumbs up.
“Great stuff.” Henry smiled back, returning the thumbs up.
He reached Ali and stretched out his hand. He was handed the binoculars, and began surveying the landscape below. The new track they were about to embark on to make contact with their ISIL escort and then reach Raqqa looked well established and easy to drive. Ali stood up, his lanky body wrapped in an oversized army jacket. Henry glanced at him sideways as he adjusted the binoculars to his eyes. He looked far too gentle to be a soldier let alone a jihadist, or perhaps not, perhaps the romantic idea of fighting for a cause had inspired him. Henry adjusted the field reach to long distance and turned towards the Euphrates. For a moment he enjoyed the spectacle, making out the dark blue colour of its waters and the sparkle of light on its surface. Henry checked his watch. He surveyed the contrasting landscape, that was almost lunar. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Must go back.” Ali ventured, tapping his watch to make himself understood better.
“Not yet.” Henry moved away from their initial position, walking to the other side of the hill top. The slope was much softer here. Vegetation hugged the hump of land as if seeking protection. Henry was surprised at how green the foliage looked. He spent a little less than ten minutes scouring the horizon for a yet-to-be-encountered enemy, moving the field glasses around methodically.
Ali was puzzled. Why wait? He sat on the ground, picking up a stick and drawing random shapes in the dust. Henry had almost given up when he spotted movement in the far distance. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and reopened them to make sure he was not mistaken. Something was on the move. He tried to adjust the reach of the binoculars again, but they were at their maximum extent. A flash of light told him it was metal he could see.
“Check this out?” Henry handed the glasses to Ali. The young man sprang up and adjusted them to his face.
“Cars.” He moved around a little. “No… trucks… many…”
“Can you see who they are?”
Ali shook his head.
“Time to go.”
Henry hurried down the path, sliding on the gravel and stones. Ali’s agile steps were following him. Henry hoped he had given Wasim enough time to make his calls. But there was no question that they needed to move.
Wasim was still on a call when they turned the corner.
“People are coming…” Henry shouted, hoping he would give Wasim enough warning. “Trucks… lots of them.”
Wasim put the call on hold.
“Who are they?”
“No idea… too far.”
Ali explained in his quick Arabic what he had seen. Wasim moved his head towards the car. He ended the conversation abruptly.
Time to make a move.
Henry lifted the heavy tarp that covered the back of the truck to resume his place inside. He froze, one boot on the foot hold, ready to jump in.
“What is it?” Wasim’s driver door was left half open.
“Mattie… she’s not here.”
* * *
She balanced a coffee cup on her iPad to get to the security pass stuck in her back pocket. There was no way she would wear it round her neck. She was not a cow… although some ill-intentioned colleagues may have argued otherwise. She could have clipped it to the lapel of a jacket, but Amina did not do jackets unless they were leather. The cup wobbled. She cursed but managed to avoid the disaster of dropping her drink. Vauxhall Cross’s Control Command was buzzing, people changing shifts, relentless activity expressed in the hum of low voices greeting colleagues but never discussing “business” until huddled in the sound-proofed rooms arranged around its perimeter. The Cross inner sanctum oversaw all operations on the ground that required physical interventions, satellites, drones, eyes in the sky, eavesdropping of any shape and form.
Amina tapped Raj’s shoulder. He ignored her for a second, then pushed his chair away from his desk to face her.
“They’ve got company… not sure who though.”
“Can’t be the Syrian army… they would be well out of their comfort zone.”
“Al-Qaeda or ISIL?”
Amina pulled a face. “Al-Qaeda is retreating to the north east of Syria…”
“We are still pretty close to their old territory though.” Raj opened the top drawer of his desk took out a packet of nuts. “All the satellite tracking is saved for you to take a look at as agreed,” he said before throwing a handful of them in his mouth.
“Any chance of a surveillance drone being available to take a closer look?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Amina nodded her thanks. She left Control Command to return to RED HAWK Control Room. Harris had already called her about Sir John’s request for intelligence to be gathered on the ground in Syria and Iraq. She had not bothered to protest. Wasim and Henry had already crossed the Euphrates, they would soon be reaching Raqqa. She had received by now a full account of the incident at the bridge. An excellent bit of information to keep The Chief happy. The Syrian army had been surprisingly fast at reacting to the tip off that a faction group vehicle was in the area. They had chased and promptly eliminated the threat. Through an MI6 eye in the sky Amina and Harris had seen how the two fighters in the 4x4 had been summarily executed. The Syrian army was not in the mood for taking prisoners.
The call with Wasim had yielded a little more information but it was now only a matter of time before Henry and Wasim made contact with the ISIL convoy that had been sent to accompany them to Raqqa. No matter what Raj said, Amina was certain Al-Qaeda would not dare venture into the territory now held by ISIL, the expanding terror group run by al-Baghdadi.
She sat back at her desk in RED HAWK Control Room, logged in and scrawled through the new data that was being sent to her using key name searches. A name popped out. “Shit.” She clicked on it.
Mattie Colmore.
It was the draft of an announcement that would be released on Reuters, the news agency, within hours.
Speculation is mounting that Mattie Colmore, journalist and war correspondent for the Sunday Times, has been abducted in Syria. She was last seen in an internet café in Antakya, Turkey, the small town where journalists congregate before crossing into Syria. Rumours are circulating that a secret journalists’ FB site has been hacked by spotters on the border between Turkey and Syria who sell information about reporters to Islamists and other rebel factions. Her cameraman has confirmed he has not seen her since they met in the café and her hotel has also confirmed she has not been seen for over 48 hours.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Amina fitted her headphones over her head and speed dialled Harris’s number.
He answered after the first ring. “What’s up?”
“Reuters is about to release a news bulletin about Colmore.”
“Shit, shit, shit.”
“My take on the situation exactly.”
“Who is the moron not understanding media information black out when it comes to abduction?”
“From what I can tell, whoever is writing this bulletin is still verifying the information.” Amina went back to her screen. “But I’d say it will be
ready for release in a couple of hours max.”
“Leave it with me… I’ll get on to Reuters. Where are our guys at the moment?”
“Back on the move but they’ve got company.”
“Friendlies?”
“Well, if you can call the beardos friendly, I’d say almost certainly.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I asked Raj whether we could use one of the surveillance drones to get a better look. He is pretty good at delivering. I should have access within minutes.”
“OK… keep me posted.”
“About Reuters… I’m wondering what the reaction is going to be. If we’re too heavy handed, they’ll know the story is true.”
“You’re worried there’ll be a leak?”
“To another newspaper or news channel… maybe.”
“Good point… I’ll call The Chief too.”
The phone went dead. Amina took no offence. There was seldom time for niceties when lives were at risk.
Amina returned to her monitors. A new request for a connection had come through. She clicked on it, tapped her fingers on her desk as she waited. The image was taking forever to materialise.
A convoy of trucks and armoured vehicles had stopped.
Henry and Wasim’s old pick-up was not moving either. They were not close to one another, but there was no doubt in Amina’s mind that the fighters had seen the truck and those in the car had seen the fighters.
She zoomed in as much as the lens of the drone allowed her to. She could make out four cars that looked like US Humvees, followed by a couple of desert patrol vehicles and three more trucks bursting with men seating on each side of the metal frame in the rear. She hesitated for an instant but there was no time to call Wasim. She was now certain these were ISIL fighters. Her hand was frozen on her mouse… powerless.
They were about to make contact.
She by-passed Raj, as agreed in an emergency, and dialled RAF Akrotiri UK Army base to speak to a sensor operator in the Reaper Drone Patrol.
“I am accessing images through Drone MQ-9/23. Any payload on this one? I have a situation.”
“What’s your access code Ma’am?” The young man was already accessing the information of her surveillance drone.
“TZR8HR” Amina read, one eye still on the scene on the ground in which no one had moved.
“Validation check.” Amina could hear typing and the voice came back. “No Hellfire payload on this one Ma’am. Purely surveillance.”
“How long from launch to target for a Hellfire strike?” Amina asked, but it would never come on time.
The line crackled with static. The young man’s voice became intelligible again.
“Forty-two minutes.”
“Nothing already airborne we could use?”
The line went dead for a short moment.
“Only one surveillance drone out at the moment, I’m afraid.”
Amina held her breath.
The convoy was back on the move and so was the old pick-up.
* * *
The back of the truck was empty. The footsteps of the three men had receded, the grinding noise of heavy boots on gravel and dusty earth. She shuffled slowly along the bench that had been hastily welded to the side of the pick-up interior. The drugs she had been given had stopped working a short while ago, yet the pain had become bearable. Wasim’s back was just visible, mostly hidden by the bend the track made around the rock. Ali and Abu Shabh had disappeared altogether. Abu Shabh presented a conundrum that Mattie would have very much liked to solve… if she lived long enough for that.
She gathered the heavy cloth of the abaya around her hips and jumped out of the truck. She winced as she landed on the ground. The sounds of her feet hitting the gravel were deafening. She froze for a moment. Wasim was still in deep conversation. The others had not returned. Mattie moved to the side of the vehicle and looked around to take her bearings. The land was dry and grey, the small hill typical of the desert landscape that characterised this part of Syria away from the Euphrates. In the distance she spotted cultivated fields. They were moving inland and if they were to re-join ISIL forces they would be going to Raqqa.
Mattie’s attention moved to the track. She had no hope of climbing downhill without Wasim noticing. She turned towards the top of the hill and started moving noiselessly.
The track’s steepness eased off after a few yards and it divided into two around the rock. She stopped, stooping cautiously to examine the ground. The dust of the left-hand path had been disturbed. She chose the other. The route was clear. She hesitated and shook her head with a smile, pulled her robes up again, her trousers down, and squatted. She relieved herself with a sigh.
So much material designed to hide her body and yet here she was peeing in full view of anyone who came along or looked up towards the hill.
She did not care. It was an excellent excuse should any of the men catch up with her. She was determined to test how far they were prepared to go, how much pain they were willing to inflict too.
She stood up, wriggled back into her trousers and abaya. Her watch had been taken from her. It was of little monetary value but deprived her of the ability to keep track of time and created confusion. It was not the first time she had found herself in a tight spot, robbed of her belongings or threatened by fighters, but it had never gone this far. She had tried to keep a mental record of what was happening but the medication she had been given had not helped. Still, she reckoned that no more than 48 hours had elapsed since her abduction. The sun had been creeping up over the horizon, it was 9, perhaps 10am, no later. The temperature had started to rise steadily, and it would soon be difficult to be out of the shade. Her chances of escaping in the middle of Syria, in ISIL territory, were next to nothing. A woman would be expected to travel accompanied. She had to stay put for the time being… but once in Raqqa perhaps? Her failed attempt at escaping near the Bab al-Hawa crossing might have worked. But here, close to the top of the hill, she was trapped. She waited a moment and heard hurried footsteps coming down the other path. Mattie turned away and instead of retracing her steps walked up to the top. The track came to an abrupt end. She walked to the edge of the rock face. It was not as sheer as she had expected. With proper shoes and a little equipment, she could have climbed down easily. The desire to escape or perhaps even the call of danger was almost irresistible. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.
She might have a story to tell if she survived the ordeal or even found out who Abu Shabh was and why a well-educated and intelligent man from London like him wanted to join the ranks of ISIL.
It was time to go back if she wanted to clinch that story.
She started retracing her steps and was almost at the fork where the two paths split when a figure stood in front of her. His face was thunder and he grabbed her by her uninjured arm.
“What are you doing out here on your own?”
“Did you know that a woman’s bladder holds a third less water than a man’s and that a women’s period comes every 30 days?”
Henry’s furious look and set jaw did not move… was she for real?
“If you needed a damn pee or a change of Tampax you should have asked.”
A man who can talk about a woman’s bodily functions without blushing… unusual.
“You guys had all disappeared.” She shrugged and smiled.
“We have company… so you’d better get back inside the truck.”
“Have you made contact with ISIL then?”
Henry could not hide his surprise. How did she know?
“Don’t look so amazed… we’re in Syria, who else could it be?”
She moved past Henry, accelerating the pace. Wasim was waiting inside the truck, his fists clenched on the wheel. He too looked furious but, like Henry’s, his face lacked the cruelty that Mattie had seen on so man
y jihadists. Still, his eyes met hers asking a question.
How much trouble was Mattie Colmore going to be?
Quite a lot it seemed.
Chapter Seven
The truck started its slow descent towards the flat plains that extended in front of the small hill they had just left.
Ali had been tasked with making sure Mattie stuck to her place at the back of the vehicle duly covered and would not move again unless Wasim or Henry said so.
Henry sat in the passenger seat next to Wasim and rearranged his blue and white shemagh scarf over his head and round his neck. His dark beard and his tan had enhanced the blue of his eyes – distinctive, perceptive eyes that could show coolness and anger with a change in colour.
“How long before we make contact?”
“Twenty minutes tops.” Wasim rolled his shoulders without noticing. He had already given Henry an ETA of 30 minutes for the ISIL welcome party ten minutes ago. He did not begrudge Henry’s nervousness.
This was it… the contact with the people-traffickers who worked for ISIL. The camps, even the few fighters they had met, had been a pale introduction to what awaited them. Months of slow and persuasive infiltration had given them insight and credibility and yet in a few minutes’ time these would be tested as never before.
Henry was about to find out whether Wasim’s You’re ready, back in Manchester’s suburbs, still held good, and whether ISIL’s leader was convinced by his story. Both Henry and Wasim knew that if he wasn’t their end would not be swift but slow and painful.
“Can I say it?” Henry cleared his throat from the dust he had been breathing when he had run down the hill path.
“You may…”
“I am shitting myself.”
“Don’t tell me you need me to stop.”
“I’m being metaphorical.”
Wasim kept his eye firmly on the road. “If that’s any consolation… so am I.”
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