She gathered up her robes and made herself move cautiously, starting the descent into a world that would almost certainly resemble hell.
* * *
Harris had not anticipated being back into The Chief’s office so soon. He was not certain he wanted all this attention from the top of the hierarchy. But here he was.
Sir John’s frosty PA had been a little more welcoming than yesterday and had offered him a cup of tea. He would have much preferred coffee but for once Harris decided not to be his awkward self… yes, he would very much like a cup of tea thank you.
He had been waiting for almost ten minutes when the door opened on a harassed Sir John. “Sorry for the delay.”
Harris nodded a not-to-worry sign and they both entered Sir John’s office.
“How much intelligence have you gathered on Mattie Colmore?” Sir John offered Harris a seat in front of his desk.
“We know she is in Raqqa…” Harris grunted.
Sir John stopped before sitting down himself. “The hostage situation is confirmed, I presume.”
“It’s not confirmed, sir…”
Sir John raised an eyebrow.
“By that I mean we haven’t yet seen any demand linked to her.”
“I have just had a conversation with her father the Rt Hon. Harold Colmore MP.”
“Surprising… Has he received a request directly?”
“Not exactly, no. Let me show you a video I had someone pull for me.”
Sir John moved away from his desk to a larger screen in the room. He switched on the monitor and started streaming the video.
Harold Colmore was addressing the House of Commons in Westminster. He was vociferous in defending US policy when it came to terrorists’ requests.
“There can be no negotiations with evil.” His voice carried across the Commons with the majesty and arrogance only a well-established MP could deliver. Did we not have a special relationship? Did we not think it an excellent idea to emulate the US in following their hostage response policy? The chamber roared in approval. There could be no payment of ransom, no exchange of prisoners… The UK would walk hand in hand with… Harris had stopped listening. His right arm was folded around his torso, supporting a left arm with fist stuck against his mouth.
Sir John froze the video. He too had no intention of viewing the performance till the end.
“I wonder what his take is going to be when he knows his daughter has been kidnapped.”
“Estranged daughter… they haven’t spoken in years. Apparently, he didn’t approve of her becoming a journalist and giving voice to people she should have no time for… to quote the man himself.” Harris moved away from the screen. “Why did he call?”
“I have the feeling his wife might have pushed him. Since she, on the other hand, is still in touch with his daughter.”
Harris followed The Chief back to his desk.
“But he doesn’t know his daughter has been taken.”
“He doesn’t, but she has gone missing and the rumours are still circulating. It is his version in any case.”
“It can’t come from us; of that I am sure.”
“How about the Reuters journalist?”
Harris ran an angry hand through his hair. “I did have a very difficult conversation with Ms Murdock.”
“You mean you read her the Riot Act?” Sir John nodded, approvingly.
“I think you beat me to it, sir.”
“Is that so?” The Chief chuckled.
“I wish she had given me the time to give her a piece of my mind though…” Harris remained silent for a moment. “Could I offer an alternative explanation?”
He was invited to sit. “Please do.”
“I may sound very Machiavellian.”
Sir John moved his hand in the air in a so-what gesture.
“His thoughts on the matter of hostage-taking are clear… he doesn’t know it for sure yet, but he knows there is at least a strong probability his daughter has been taken.”
“Agreed.”
“He is now in a very uncomfortable position… if he does nothing about Mattie.” Harris hesitated. “We are not there yet, but he knows that kidnappings by terrorist groups rarely end up well… worst case scenario…” Harris again hesitated.
“Death.” Sir John followed the thought through, completing the sentence Harris had hesitated to.
Harris nodded.
“He will be portrayed as a monster.”
“Almost certainly. On the other hand, if he does advocate compromise, he’ll be branded a hypocrite.”
Sir John smiled. He appreciated the way Harris was tackling the problem and his no-nonsense approach.
“So, what do you think he will ask us to do?”
“He needs to receive information before everyone else so that he can anticipate what to do.”
“He has asked for that already. But what is his endgame?” Sir John had turned his seat away from the desk, looking through the large, green-tinted windows. “There always is something else…”
Harris waited for a moment.
“Perhaps… what he is expecting is for MI6 to sort this out for him.”
“In what way?” Sir John had not yet moved.
“A hostage rescue mission… risky but sometimes worthwhile.”
“In particular as the British government will not pay ransom… and we will not be in a position to facilitate, even through an intermediary.” A warning to Harris from The Chief – his assets on the ground had better be careful about what they imagined they could get.
Harris nodded. He knew what the policy was, but each policy had an exception when that exception brought a high enough reward.
“Do you deal with a lot of politicians? I didn’t think you did.” Sir John moved on.
“Not in the UK, but abroad… I have dealt with quite a few who were SIS assets.”
Sir John made a short intake of breath. “I don’t want this to interfere with Operation RED HAWK.” Sir John moved his hands to his keyboard, calling up more data to come on screen.
A map of Turkey, Syria and Iraq materialised. “Since we’re talking about it, let’s have an update on the situation there.”
Harris sat back in his chair. “They have arrived in Raqqa.”
* * *
The Reuters news bulletin was not as damning as it could have been. It still referred to the disappearance of Mattie Colmore without giving any conclusions as to her whereabouts.
James read the news a couple of times. A media blackout would be imposed if Mattie Colmore had been abducted. He wondered whether his experience might have been of some help had he already joined the agency.
The day had been busy, but uneventful; his team was still engaged in client calls that would last until late into the evening. A few urgent emails still needed a reply. He could do this from his Blackberry. The information he required to do so was in his head – no need for the complex spreadsheets stored on his computer.
James read the news one more time. He needed a walk to clear his mind. The meeting with Steve Jackson, although he now doubted it was his real name, had unsettled him or perhaps given him hope that there was something out there he would enjoy doing more than what he was doing today. His ambition had never been to succeed Henry… an irony. He had been content to be his number two, to let Henry handle the politics, the schmoozing of egos, the tough negotiations about promotions, bonuses and budgets. But he had enjoyed standing by his beliefs during the takeover that had cost Henry so dearly. He was proud of the way he had handled himself.
Uncompromising.
For once the good guys had won the battle. After five years at the very top of management, James had to face the facts. He never was one of them and never would be.
He grabbed his jacket, warned his PA he was going out on an
errand and disappeared.
It was still light and busy outside. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, not quite sure where he was going, but kept walking, taking a turn whenever the street ahead looked too crowded. He crossed a smaller street near St Paul’s Tube station. Walking down Cheapside, he slowed down to take in more of the surrounding buildings he never usually bothered to look at properly.
The large shopping mall he had just left behind was still very new. He tried to remember which building had been savaged to make way for Boots, Hotel Chocolat and an array of other well-known brands. He hoped the little alleyways, tortuous passages and maze of small streets in the City would never be destroyed. They often made him queasy, bringing back memories of ambushes and return fires. But he liked the historical aspect, the fact that these places went back centuries, some of the street pattern having even survived the Great Fire of 1666. James found himself turning into another street and crossing a larger road, to end up in front of St Mary-le-Bow church. This was a piece of architecture after his own heart. Originally built in medieval times, 1080 to be exact, as the headquarters of the Archbishop of Canterbury. It had managed to survive for a few hundred years but was not spared by the Great Fire. It had been rebuilt by Wren, the architect of St Paul’s, and damaged again during WWII; it had reopened in 1964. James liked its resilience, its ability to transform and inspire people to worship and visit.
James had rebuilt his life a few times too and might perhaps have to do so again. He hesitated, checked the time: 6.40pm. The church would be closing in 20 minutes. He could still steal a moment, sitting within the stillness of its walls. He pushed open the wooden door and entered.
Chapter Eleven
“I could murder a beer.” Henry yawned as they were back on the terrace of their hotel room.
Wasim couldn’t help but smile, the dimple in his cheeks barely showing through his thick beard. “You are incorrigible, Henry Crowne.”
“Yup… but I’m pretty good too.”
Wasim had been impressed – he had already said so – by Henry’s capacity to grasp the financial workings of an organisation in a couple of hours.
A succession of well-targeted questions, the intelligence to look for solutions as soon as an issue presented itself and the ability to summon up an inexhaustible number of options… all this had taken aback the man ISIL people named The Treasurer. The podgy man would need more than just this to be completely won over but at least he wanted to hear more and had convened a second meeting.
Henry grew serious suddenly. “ISIL is sitting on an unimaginable amount of cash through the oil fields they have captured… I hadn’t realised. If they keep expanding their territory, they’ll keep increasing their wealth. It’s going to be hard to fight a group that has so many resources.”
“I didn’t realise that either… I don’t think anybody does. And, yes, money means good weaponry, good fighters that you pay well and good supplies.”
“Their main issue is how to sell their oil without it being identified as ISIL oil… I spoke about Turkey and Mr Podgy Man was impressed but it can’t be the only route they are using… the number of barrels a day is too great.”
“Mr Podgy Man as you call him isn’t going to tell you all his secrets in one go.”
“And he will want to squeeze as much as possible out of me before he does… I get it.”
Henry had bought coffee from a small street vendor who sold food and beverages (no alcohol of course). He had asked the man to fill his water bottle with the dark liquid. The man had looked puzzled but thought better than to query Henry, with his long beard and army fatigues… he must be one of them.
The cardamom coffee was delicious, the perfect balance of bitterness and velvety smoothness. He had poured the drink into two cups he had found in the room. Wasim had almost finished his. Henry was still sipping; such an enjoyable taste had to be savoured.
“How long do you think they are going to give me?” Henry had finished his coffee, putting the cup down on the floor.
“You mean before they ask you to prove you really are one of them?”
“There’s only one way they’ll ever trust me…”
“That’s right… or at least it will be the beginning. You won’t survive here otherwise.” Wasim took a swig of the cold drink he had just opened and pulled a face. Henry shook his head at Wasim… it tasted the way it smelled… synthetic.
“I know… It’s a bit too late to get cold feet now and so I won’t. But I need to maximise the effect, find the right moment.”
“As long as you don’t leave it too late. Your understanding of the Qur’an is already pretty good.”
“Surprisingly… I’m enjoying reading it.”
“It all depends at what level and how you are reading the text, of course.”
“Same with the Bible you know. You can believe that God created the earth and man in seven days, but you are going to be pushed hard the day you find out about Einstein and Darwin. On the other hand, if you see the text as a metaphor, an image that helps you live better within yourself and with others… that’s a different matter.”
Wasim smiled, his light brown eyes charged with kindness. His face turned serious and cautious again.
“The sort of theory that is going to get you killed in this place…”
“I thought Allah was merciful.”
“He is… It depends what mercy means to the one wielding the sword.”
Both men fell silent, returning to their respective drinks.
“Going back to your question about optimisation.” Wasim stressed the last word. “You should do this before we meet al-Baghdadi.”
“That I have gathered – the issue is where do I do it?”
“You need to swear allegiance in front of other Muslims… ones who will count.”
“I still can’t get over how easy it is to convert… I say the Shahada and then I’m in.”
“That’s the idea… to make it easy for people to join. As long as your heart is in it of course.”
“And if it’s not… I’m off the hook.”
“No, you’re a traitor…” Wasim handed Henry a can of the same fizzy drink he was having. “You need to behave like one of them once you have made that move.”
“Otherwise they will come after me with vengeful Saifs… you told me.”
Wasim did not reply. He simply waited.
“Sorry, I’m trying to make it sound easy, but I know I need to follow the five pillars of Islam if I’m going to survive here. Afterwards, well… I’ll cross that bridge…” Henry cleared his throat and nodded, opening the can Wasim had given him. Even though he’d known the risks when he had agreed to join Operation RED HAWK, his chances of coming out of it alive were perhaps slimmer than he had anticipated.
“If you keep doing as well as you have, we have a chance.”
Henry nodded. “I’ll find the right audience at the right time.”
Wasim stood up. He walked to the parapet, surveying their surroundings. A habit that had helped keep them alive so far.
“You must do what you have to do to combat these fanatics… I’m not offended at the way you’re going about it… You’re the one putting yourself in harm’s way after all.”
“My choice… a necessary one. But thanks anyway.”
Wasim was about to reply, but he abruptly put a hand forward, silencing them both. There was someone at the door. He walked back into the room.
The air outside was finally cooling and Henry shivered. He stood up too; he was ready to go back inside. Wasim was at the door, craning his neck to speak to someone. Henry recognised Ali’s voice, hesitant, and that of other men he did not know. Henry stood back, waiting.
Wasim closed the door. As he did the call to prayer reverberated through the city.
* * *
“I’m gobsmacked,” Am
ina had pursed her lips into a mocking pout. “The Chief has called you twice in less than 24 hours…”
Harris fell into his chair. “Harold Colmore MP, father of Mattie Colmore journalist, has been in touch.”
“Bummer, what does the big man want?”
“RED HAWK is already complicated enough as it is… I don’t need a wretched politician getting involved.”
“He and his daughter haven’t seen each other for years. They’ve cut each other off and I’m not sure he is going to be that helpful to her.”
“Precisely.” Harris nodded. Amina always had the latest intel at her fingertips.
“He is the type who always covers their own arse… if it goes belly up, he doesn’t want to be blamed.”
“He may have a point.” Amina rubbed her hands over her face. The late-night surveillance was starting to take its toll. “Why the fuck did Crowne have to get involved?”
“I think that’s supposed to be my line… and the answer is… to save a life.”
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t save her life… incidentally, I think she’s a bloody ballsy journalist. But Henry is in ISIL territory with zippo experience of infiltration.”
“I’m sure he’ll make it serve his plan.”
“And the plan should be to get the intel we need and get out of there.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Harris shrugged off his jacket, leaning backwards to let it slide down more easily. He fell into his seat. He did not need Amina to lose patience with Henry. She wouldn’t, she was too professional for that. Still, he did not want to have to keep assessing whether his view was right.
“Look, it is what it is. Wasim let it happen too. And he, on the other hand, knows exactly what he is doing.”
“Very true.” Amina returned to her computer. She moved around screens that were splitting the monitored information into different sections. “There is a lot of activity on social media. From Syria and Iraq… and yet…” She moved a few more screens around. “We are hitting a blind spot on Raqqa.”
Harris stood up to move over to her screens. “Do you think they’ve already imposed a ban, gone dark?”
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