Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  Henry nodded approvingly.

  Outstanding.

  Henry came closer to the map, looked at the location of the wells. His fingers traced a route from these to the closest port… Turkey seemed the most obvious choice to ensure the oil reached its destination. This meant a large number of trucks needed to cross the border.

  “You’re smuggling into Turkey on a large scale, right?” Henry spoke slowly, in his heavily accented yet fluent Arabic.

  The Treasurer’s face dropped for an instant and then regained its amiable composure. “True, why ask the question?”

  “It’s all about logistics… You need to have a large border with the country into which you smuggle to spread the risk of being caught and you need a seaport to ship the goods. It’s either Iran… not convenient from Syria and probably less amenable too… or Turkey.”

  The podgy man nodded. The kafir was quick.

  “How many barrels do you sell a day?”

  “Eight thousand at least.” Pride shone in his eyes. “And we are increasing production.”

  “Excellent… If I recall correctly a barrel of crude is worth a little more than $85. You must make a bit over $0.6m a day.” Henry grabbed a pencil and piece of paper that were lying on an empty table so he could take notes.

  “What do you do with the cash? Are you using the same route to repatriate it into ISIL territories?”

  The Treasurer looked at Wasim, then Henry… why not indulge the newcomers’ interest?

  “That’s what I am here for.” Henry’s voice had the business tone he would have used with any good client, factual, keen to show his knowledge of the subject they were discussing yet accommodating.

  “Yes, we do.” The Treasurer had yielded to his curiosity.

  “That might not be ideal… perhaps you might consider routing it to countries that would allow you to use it more productively.”

  The Treasurer had pulled out a chair from the next table, sitting down comfortably without inviting either Henry or Wasim to do so. He was here to be impressed… and he was waiting. Wasim retreated a little, taking in the scene and any other information he could glean.

  “We have started looking into this.”

  “Have you made a decision?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good… I’d recommend the UAE, Qatar and Cyprus. You should use the legal structures available on your doorstep so you can keep in close touch with the people who help you set them up, and pay them a visit if needed.”

  “That should also increase our access to other clients or suppliers…”

  “Exactly right.” Henry nodded. “Do you need armament or medical supplies?”

  “It’s a war.”

  “I see the armament and vehicles around Raqqa.” Henry stopped writing. “You must have captured a lot of supply from Iraq, both US and British. So, my question is, do you need more guns, munitions? Much more efficient and much easier to access the suppliers from abroad, hence my suggestion.”

  The podgy man, The Treasurer did not impress easily but he did not quite know how to take Henry’s bluntness … How did he know?

  Henry smiled. “I was once an IRA terrorist… I know what it takes.”

  * * *

  The mobile was threatening to go to voicemail. Harris looked at his watch. He had received the news about the impending Reuters publication of their article about Mattie Colmore almost two hours ago. He was cutting it fine, although he was certain The Chief’s office had placed a call to the head of the news agency as soon as he had told Sir John of their intention to publish.

  A voice that seemed distant replied just before the final ring… Kerry Murdock.

  Harris introduced himself and the voice focused immediately on their conversation. “No need to call twice… I’ve got it. Although I’m not convinced this is the right thing to do.”

  “You mean getting MI6’s chief to call your boss or divulging information about a potential abduction?”

  “I’d say both.” The voice had turned belligerent and stubborn. “And please… let’s drop the pretence… we all know what’s happened to Mattie Colmore.”

  “Are you at your desk?”

  “No… I’m in the middle of Trafalgar Square, shouting all I know about this kidnapping to whoever wants to hear…” There was a silence and Harris almost fell for it.

  “Very amusing… you’re at your desk… that is good. It will avoid me having to send some agents to physically gag you.”

  “A treat?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I’ll respect the media embargo for as long as there’s no chatter about her… if this changes and I think it’s important for people to know the truth, I’ll think again.”

  Harris was about to make the point that this was not the way a media blackout was meant to work, but the line had gone dead. He looked at his mobile in disbelief. Ms Murdock needed to be met in person.

  Chapter Ten

  “They are in Raqqa.” Amina had returned to her desk in Operation RED HAWK Control Room.

  “How much imagery are we receiving from satellite surveillance?”

  “They’re good enough as long as we don’t need to track them very closely.”

  Harris rolled his eyes… was that not the idea?

  “It’s not what you want to hear, but we can no longer rely on drone surveillance… it’s too risky… I’d rather concentrate on the chatter Ahmed is following on social media.”

  “Whether they mention Henry’s arrival?”

  “Or mention the hostages.” Amina pulled her chair out from underneath her desk and swirled it on its central axis so that it faced Harris’s desk.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “We haven’t heard anything more about Mattie Colmore… neither in the various chat rooms nor the messaging systems we monitor.”

  “Too early… they’ve just arrived. ISIL is deciding what they intend to do.”

  “Would they execute a female hostage?” A blunt but relevant question.

  “Not that I know of, but now that ISIL has severed its links with Al-Qaeda, it’s a young organisation going it alone and they need to show everyone they’re the ultimate radicals.”

  “The Americans have said they have hostages of their own already and are making little progress.” Amina had rolled her chair across the carpeted floor until she was almost sitting next to him.

  “I’m not sure the Yanks are going to volunteer much anyway.”

  “They don’t pay ransom either and they can’t be seen to compromise on that…” Amina hesitated.

  “C’mon, spit it out.” Harris patted the back of her chair.

  “Don’t you have a contact at the CIA you could get info from… just so we know what to look out for, to anticipate…?”

  “You mean Jack. I suppose I could ask, but kidnappings are also covered by the FBI.”

  “Because they involve American citizens?”

  “Yup… and the two agencies are not known to work that well together.”

  “Unlike the UK of course, where everyone shares information no matter what.” Amina raised her eyebrows and cocked her head.

  “You’re so cynical sometimes.”

  “I’m always cynical when it comes to high stakes like this one… and when we have assets on the ground.”

  “And patronising too… fine, I’ll speak to Jack.”

  “Seriously, what happens to her when RED HAWK is over?”

  “One step at a time… Henry has something in mind beyond bringing back a hostage to Raqqa.”

  “As long as she doesn’t blow his cover.”

  “It’s something to consider, I agree, but Henry’s not stupid. He’s going to try the ransom route first, then come up with another option. He needs to learn to read these people first before he
can decide what to do.”

  “Let’s hope Crowne’s not going to bite off more than he can chew.”

  Harris shrugged. “Why? I think his reading of the situation so far is good. He may slightly overstretch himself but that was always going to be the case.”

  “The UK will do what the US does, they won’t let anyone offer to pay either.”

  “But Mattie Colmore is a slightly different proposition, isn’t she?”

  “You mean because of her father Harold Colmore? Yes, he’s an MP, but as Tory as Tory goes.”

  “Still, she is his daughter.”

  “Correction, estranged daughter.” Amina stabbed her finger on her desk. “And I have the impression their relationship is not ready to thaw anytime soon.”

  “Let me find out what Jack knows… but I’m not calling on any favours from these guys just yet.” Harris had moved his computer mouse to bring the screens to life again. “Reuters was hard enough to keep quiet. And I’m going to need to have a face-to-face conversation with one of their pig-headed journalists. I don’t want to discuss Mattie with the CIA just yet. If I come up with the info too soon, they’ll smell a rat and there’s no way I want them to know or even suspect we have some assets in Raqqa.”

  “Don’t you trust Jack?”

  “I do but the fewer people know about our guys on the ground the better. You know that, I know that… and Jack would do the same thing in my shoes.”

  Amina rolled her chair back to her desk.

  “You know I’m right, don’t you?” Harris pushed himself away from his desk.

  “Fine… but this hostage story has added a layer of complexity to the operation and we need to take stock.”

  “Agreed, let Henry and Wasim do the evaluation on the ground… I know you’re MOTHER but give your boys a bit of free rope.”

  “If something goes wrong…”

  “My arse will be on the line. I am fully aware of that.”

  “And you’re used to it.”

  “Yep.” Harris checked a couple of emails, did not find what he wanted and got up. Time to let Amina brew a little and to check for fresh intel with the DATA OP Mid East Team.

  He was at the door when his phone rang. Amina picked up the call and immediately waved her hand in the air to stop him disappearing.

  “Yes, sir… I will tell him… right away.”

  The Chief wanted a word.

  * * *

  The young woman who had helped clean her wounds did not leave the bathroom when Mattie started showering. Mattie removed her clothes and dumped them on the ground. She did not do shy, having shared many journalist digs, mostly with men.

  She did her best to wash off the grime, careful not to wet the fresh bandages. She turned away from the woman and let the lukewarm water run over her body, savouring the soothing effect it was having on her tired muscles. She had almost forgotten she was not alone, but any desire to intimidate her would not work. The bathroom door opened, and the older woman entered with a fresh abaya. She took her time picking up Mattie’s old clothes, handing over the fresh garment to her colleague. Mattie looked over her shoulder a few times and went about her business of getting clean, unperturbed. She grabbed the large towel that hung from a hook next to the shower and wrapped it round her body.

  “Is that for me?” she asked in Arabic, pointing at the black dress.

  Try to engage – Mattie’s best chance of staying alive was to make people see she was a person, not some entity that did not practise their religion.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.” Mattie’s Arabic seemed to intimidate the younger woman. Mattie felt empathy and made a note to get to know the woman better. The older woman left the bathroom, no doubt to report on progress.

  Mattie dressed promptly. The large robe smelled of cheap soap but at least it was clean. She fitted her niqab around and over her head, the young woman watching her, curious that she knew how to put on Muslim female clothing. Mattie looked into the mirror at the results of her efforts: apart from the blue-green eyes that were such a distinctive feature of her face, there was nothing left for others to see.

  “I am Mattie… What is your name?”

  The young woman hesitated. She looked in the direction of the door. “Gulan,” she whispered.

  Mattie nodded. “Is she waiting for us?”

  Gulan closed her eyes; yes, she was.

  Mattie ventured one more question. “Is this her house?” Gulan shook her head.

  Mattie opened the door slowly. It would not be a good idea to cause trouble for someone she was trying to befriend. Gulan tied her mask over her face whispering hurriedly. “We are slaves of Umm Sayyaf.”

  The old woman had prepared food. Her droopy cheeks, emphasised by her tightly bound scarf, made her resemble a large hamster. Mattie had moved into the main lounge and looked around to find a seat. The woman shooed her towards the far side where a few sofas had been arranged in a small square. There was already some khoubz, hummus and tea set out on a low table. Mattie thanked her and ate in silence, lifting her veil each time to take each mouthful or sip of her tea. She had not been told she could remove it and would play along for the time being. No need to upset anyone.

  She was soon glad of her decision. The door of the apartment opened unexpectedly and the same man who had delivered her there entered. He looked around and seemed satisfied. Mattie noticed that the younger woman had made sure her veil was covering her face properly but the other hadn’t. He had to be a close relative of hers… a son or brother. He made a sign, sharp and impatient, summoning Mattie to follow, a gesture that might as well have been directed to an animal. There were no words, no need either. She quickly finished her tea and moved towards him.

  The young woman gave her a glance that told Mattie all she needed to know: sadness, concern and above all fear.

  * * *

  A tattered old Suzuki pick-up was waiting for them. The man took the front seat and Mattie sat at the back. They started the journey towards the north. Mattie turned her head towards the window, her field of vision greatly reduced by the cloth of the niqab. She wondered whether the rumours that had been circulating about what living under the new terror group was like in Raqqa were true. A few cars were on the road. The streets looked well maintained and bore no signs of fighting. White apartment blocks had not yet suffered from conflicts the way other cities in the Middle East had, no crumbling buildings, entire walls taken down by rockets and sharp incisions of shrapnel and bullets. A few men were walking along the pavements, all dressed in long white robes, a shemagh or taqiyah on their heads. Mattie did not expect to see any women on the street, even in groups, and there were none.

  The car picked up speed and arrived at a large roundabout. The traffic was light but still there was some. Raqqa was starting to feel the pressure of a strict application of Islamic rule. She spotted a couple of cars on which the ISIL flag had been painted and the recognisable Arabic words that expressed its creed inscribed – There is no god but Allah. Mohamed is the messenger of Allah. The cars had stopped a motorcycle. Its driver was standing in the middle of a group of five men. He held his helmet in his hands in front of him, almost as protection. Mattie couldn’t see his face, but his body spoke volumes, shoulders slumped, head bent forward. He was terrified. The fighters were shouting, laughing… pushing him around.

  And then it started. One of the fighters took a stick out of one of the cars and hit the man with brutal force across the chest. It was the start of savage attack.

  The man was now on the ground, curled up in a ball. Mattie turned around to see what happened next. The fighters were kicking him with their heavy boots. She couldn’t help but let out a small cry.

  “This is what happens to those who break Allah’s law,” the driver said to her, his voice sanctimonious and triumphant.

  “What has he done?”


  There was no reply. Mattie gritted her teeth. The most abhorrent of actions, abuse of power, would be rife in ISIL-dominated Raqqa.

  The car slowed down after a few minutes. They had arrived, it seemed.

  Mattie moved her body forward towards the door, her head cocked against the window. She recognised the place, not that she had ever visited it before. But the sports stadium looked like any other in the world: large, imposing, a tribute to men’s achievement and ego. The white walls had suffered, unlike the place she had come from; fighting must have taken place there. At regular intervals, carved gates shaped in the typical pointed Arabic style had been positioned to provide multiple entrances. The car stopped and a couple of fighters, Kalashnikovs at the ready, moved towards them. A few words were exchanged, and they allowed the vehicle to enter. The driver parked the car, got out and, without waiting for her, set foot in a large entrance hall. It had been stripped bare of any features expected to be found there, no ticket booths or turnstiles, no logos or vending machines. These had been ripped from the ground roughly, leaving gaping holes in the floor.

  Mattie followed the man towards a staircase that turned on itself, endlessly dropping downward.

  She stopped at the top, her body rocking slowly at the edge of the first step. A fist tightened around her stomach and a small ripple of fear coursed down her spine. She turned around. Behind her she could still see the brightness of the air, the somewhat cloudy sky, through open doors. The desire to run gripped her.

  The man had stopped, waiting. It would be so easy to catch her… Mattie ensconced in her abaya, he in his army fatigues. She might cover a short distance… and then give him a reason to hit her or worse. His calm surprised Mattie. For the first time since she had been abducted a sense of inevitability almost overwhelmed her.

  She had been taken.

  She would be used in whatever way they saw fit and there was nothing she could do.

  Nothing.

  The driver finally took a step towards her. If she delayed following him, she would pay for it. And if she was going to be beaten, it had to be for something worthwhile.