Henry walked to the map of oil wells that stretched over the far wall. Most of the young men ignored him but a few started staring. Henry could feel the burn of their glares on the back of his neck. He stood calmly, tracing the border between the two countries with a finger, following the various pipelines that coursed towards the sea irrespective of frontiers. Henry turned around, walked back to Wasim’s side with a slow and measured step.
“Ask him whether the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline has entrance points in ISIL territory.”
Wasim translated.
The young man nodded. “Several,” he said in English.
“Then tell your dealer he can mix the oil you’re selling him in the Kirkuk pipeline and that it will be impossible to establish the origin of the oil arriving at the other end when it reaches Ceyhan in Turkey… No need for a second discount.”
The younger man nodded and called back. The deal was back on.
Henry walked to a place in the large room where a fridge had been installed. He opened it and took out a bottle of water. He had grown out of Fanta and Coca-Cola many years ago.
The Treasurer opened the door of his office and called both men in. His placid face had turned a dangerous shade of red. They needed to have a conversation urgently.
Henry and Wasim walked into the room, closing the door behind them.
The Treasurer was running his fingers through the prayer beads that never left his side with a twitchy rhythm.
“Kasim al-Haddawi is on his way.”
Wasim shot a sideways look at Henry.
“That’s fine.” Henry pointed to the chair in front of The Treasurer’s desk. “May I?”
The other man nodded.
“I don’t understand why he can’t wait until we know whether the Sunday Times is prepared to pay or not.”
The Treasurer tapped his fat fingers a few times on the desk. Politics was involved and this newcomer did not understand how the game was played.
“Does he have a plan to use the hostage-taking to promote ISIL?” Wasim asked whilst sitting down.
“Al-Haddawi is the brother-in-law of a member of the Saddam al-Jawal family. Al-Jawal has risen through the ranks pretty quickly and he has discussed the programme of hard-hitting videos with Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.”
Reality hit Henry square in the chest. He found it hard to control the revulsion and anger. Wasim had clenched his fists and released them almost immediately.
The Treasurer exhaled deeply, sitting back in his leather armchair. He was observing them carefully.
“Do you mean they will be… graphic?”
“Yes…” The Treasurer stopped playing with his prayer beads.
Henry fought the desire to stand up and savage the man in front of him, to inflict as much pain as ISIL were inflicting.
“It would be a shame to sacrifice a lucrative deal for a video shoot…” Wasim had spoken, breaking the heavy silence and easing off the tension that had risen in the room.
“That is exactly the point I made, but al-Haddawi wants to discuss it with me.”
Henry felt a tremor run down his spine, anger still coursing through his body like a wild animal. “Who will decide if a course of action cannot be agreed?”
The Treasurer’s gaze ran coolly over him. “Only one person can decide.”
The sound of loud voices and movement stopped Henry in his tracks. Al-Haddawi was making his way to The Treasurer’s office, accentuating his limp a little too much but greeted like a rock star by the young men in the room… A warrior and a hero. The Treasurer’s face darkened. These were his men and he did not like his authority to be overshadowed.
There was no knock at the door. It simply opened and al-Haddawi walked through its frame. One of his men pulled out a chair, al-Haddawi sat heavily into it, placing his dirty boots on The Treasurer’s desk.
“So, Treasurer, you want to save the life of a kafir, for the sake of money.” The words had been spoken in English, distinctly, emphatically.
The dark shirt, the dark army slacks, the black turban with extra cloth draped around his left shoulder gave al-Haddawi a theatrical air. He was on show, wielding power mercilessly.
The Treasurer had stood up at the commotion created by al-Haddawi. He sat down again, taking his time to draw his chair closer to his desk, elbows on its armrests, fingertips touching. “So, Commander, you want to spoil the life of a kafir for the sake of a video… When the money we could make out of it would serve the cause better.”
“The British do not pay ransom.” Al-Haddawi pushed his boots further on top of the desk.
“The British government may not… But others may.”
“Who? The family? Her father, the well-known English politician who would rather let his own people die than pay.”
The words stunned the other three men. Al-Haddawi had been doing his homework since Mattie had been brought to Raqqa.
The Treasurer stalled for a moment, casting a quick look towards Henry and Wasim.
“But the newspaper she works for, The Sunday Times, might.” Henry had leaned his body forward, turning it to face al-Haddawi. It was hard to believe the same man had somehow given Henry the OK or perhaps he had looked upon Henry as someone to be exploited until no longer needed and then…
Al-Haddawi spat on the floor. “You listen to another kafir, who has come to us under the pretence that he believes in the jihad but who is no brother and never will be.”
Henry bent forward towards the backpack he had dropped at the bottom of his chair. Out of it came his Qur’an, a small book, bound in green leather and by the looks of it well thumbed.
“There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”
“La ilaha illallah muhammadur rasulullah.” Henry repeated in perfect Arabic.
The Treasurer sat back in his seat, content about the sudden commitment to the faith of this latest recruit. Abu Maeraka was right… he would be an asset, at least for a while. Wasim’s eyes widened for an instant and he held his breath for what was coming next.
“You think that because you speak the words, you are a Muslim… but is your heart in it I wonder?” Al-Haddawi’s jaw clenched so hard, muscles in his neck shot out, twitching. His hand moved closer to his handgun.
“If my heart was not in it, I would not have come to Raqqa.” Henry sat still. He could see from the corner of his eyes Wasim’s hand moving to his own handgun hidden in the small of his back.
Al-Haddawi grabbed Henry’s Qur’an from his hands and stood face to face with him.
“I wonder how much of the holy book you know… How many verses you can recite?”
Henry smiled, amused.
He closed his eyes and recited, without hesitation the Al-Fatiha Surah, the opening prayer of the Qur’an, one of the most important of the entire book.
The Treasurer could not suppress a grin. There was no doubt in his mind that Henry had memorised most of the Surahs by heart. There was no need to test him in that respect.
Al-Haddawi recoiled in anger.
When Henry opened his eyes, he was already through the door. The limp in his leg, this time almost absent, did not slow him down. His men had followed him in silence.
Not losing a moment, The Treasurer placed a call to Raqqa Stadium. Mattie Colmore was to be taken out of jail this instant and brought to another location. He placed another call to one of his own lieutenants and issued the same order. He then invited Henry and Wasim to sit down again.
“How do you propose we contact the Sunday Times?”
Henry replaced his Qur’an in his rucksack, took out a bottle of water and gulped down the last few mouthfuls.
“There’s a journalist at the Sunday Times I know well. I’ll make contact.”
The Treasurer had started slowly fingering his prayer beads again, his round face replete with the satisfaction of
victory.
Chapter Fifteen
The previous night’s meal had been hard to swallow. She suspected these were leftovers from what the fighters had been served but she was too hungry to give it further thought. She had wondered whether there would be only one meal a day, until a guard, this time on his own, had thrown another bottle of water into her cell without looking at her. The plate of food she was hoping for never came.
She was losing track of time, caught between moments of slumber, fear and despair. She had only heard silence when she had last ventured to the door and tried to listen, keeping motionless, leaning against its frame. Unlike some of the prisons she had seen in Eastern Europe where the guards made a lot of raucous noise, the sinister calm of this jail somehow made it less humane.
Mattie moved to the door once more. She wondered whether perhaps she was on her own. Her hearing had grown much sharper, tuning into sounds she would have otherwise ignored. A small but persistent tapping noise at the right of her cell attracted her attention. She moved closer to the wall and stuck her ear to it. The noise had stopped. She was disappointed.
She returned to reading again the messages some of the past prisoners had left behind. A chilling reminder that so few had left the basement of Raqqa Stadium alive.
The rattle of keys took her by surprise and she again forgot to cover her face when the door opened. She had not expected a visit so soon.
This could not be good.
The older guard who had ogled her for far too long entered. Mattie hurriedly brought the veil to her face, whilst a trickle of ice dropped into her stomach… it could not be happening… She looked around for something she could use to defend herself.
Another man entered.
The lightbulb seemed to gain in intensity, controlled from outside the cell. Its brightness blinded her. She brought a protective hand over her eyes. The man who had just come in waited until she was able to see again. He surveyed her with interest.
“You are being moved.” He had spoken in Arabic, knowing he would be understood.
Mattie hesitated. “Why?”
“You’ll see.” The swift move of a hood over her head muffled her cry. Two hands grabbed her arms and she was dragged out of the cell. She stumbled, almost falling, but the hands did not let go.
They drove a short distance.
One of the guards abruptly removed the hood from over her head. The neighbourhood they had arrived in looked unexpectedly peaceful. The only indication perhaps that a war was going on was the number of American Humvees parked in the streets.
The gates of a large villa were opened. Someone Mattie recognised was waiting for her on the porch of the luxury house when her car arrived. Henry walked down the few steps that led him to the driveway. Mattie opened the car door and forced herself to take her time. Wasim appeared from within the property, waiting at the door.
“We’ll take it from here.” Henry extended a hand towards Mattie. The guards did not bother to reply. The car simply turned around and left.
Mattie followed Henry into the wealthy looking house, still wary of what his intentions were. They entered a room which was well-furnished and comfortable. Mattie bit her lip to suppress a sob. She doubted it was the end of her ordeal in Raqqa but at least for a moment she could feel safe.
No one spoke. Henry sat down on the large sofa that curved round the room, extending a hand towards the seat as if to soften his landing. Mattie’s eyes roved around the room before deciding to join them. Wasim had disappeared and after a few minutes he came back with three glasses and a small samovar of tea on an ornate brass tray.
“How did you manage this?” Mattie’s hand was shaking as she extended it to take the tea that had been offered to her. She closed her fingers around the glass to make the tremors stop.
“I’m afraid it’s all about money.” Henry was sipping his tea.
Mattie moved her slender hand over her face, letting the scarf slide from her hair. “You mean ransom?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I’m in deep bloody trouble… The UK does not pay ransom and even if it did my father would certainly refuse as a matter of principle.” Mattie inhaled deeply. “He is a Tory MP and…”
Henry lifted a hand, refilled his glass and offered to refill hers. “We know.”
His blue eyes narrowed as he drank the burning liquid. “I’m not relying on the UK government at all…”
“I don’t think you understand how determined my father is and I don’t mind telling you. He won’t move one finger to help, or perhaps worse.” Mattie sipped her tea with a sigh.
“There is sometimes a difference between sounding tough and acting tough.” Henry was searching her face. Was it really possible that Harold Colmore MP would let his own daughter… die?
“He would.” Mattie nodded. “I know you think I’m being perhaps too harsh, but he has no empathy for anyone, absolutely none…”
“Understood.” Henry bent forward and refilled her glass. “But we’re not relying on the UK government.”
“I’ve no money of my own if that’s what you are thinking…” Mattie’s voice tilted down as she finished her sentence. It was a silly thing to say, Henry had done his research and there was only one other possibility…
“The Sunday Times, I’m sure, would very much like to have you back.”
“Is my name already out there?”
“You mean in the media?”
“Well yes, where else?” Mattie’s eyes drilled into Henry for a second. She could not quite figure out why this man who knew so little about the Middle East was so self-assured. Was it pure façade?
Henry grinned. He was enjoying her pluckiness. And it seemed she was quite prepared to give him more of it.
“I need a name or names from you. Someone I can contact and who will listen.”
Mattie drank some more tea. Her hands had stopped shaking. Would the Sunday Times pay? Did she want them to pay?
“This is the only way you can make it out of Raqqa alive.” Wasim had spoken in his slow and considerate voice.
“Why are you helping?” Mattie moved her eyes from Henry to Wasim and back to Henry again. Both men pulled back from the edge of their seats.
A no-go area.
“Ted Parker is the international editor and a good friend. If anyone is going to fight for me, it’s him.”
“Is there anyone else who could help?”
“I’m not sure… I’ve had my… moments with the Director…” Mattie’s head dipped a little. Better not to mention her latest blistering row with him about her going to Aleppo… If she ever got out of this mess alive, he would greet her return with a typical I told you so… and this time he would be right.
“You mean you disagreed with him about reporting from Syria?” Henry’s eyes became animated again, in amusement.
Mattie pursed her lips, but she too could see the dark humour in this. How the hell did he know?
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Glad the niqab hasn’t dented any of it.”
Wasim stood up abruptly and they both fell silent. He walked to the door and opened it suddenly. A dark shadow made off to get away. Wasim closed the door behind him, leaving Henry and Mattie on their own.
“Why?” Mattie asked again, her voice now pressing. She needed to know whether she could trust him. Henry gave her a quick smile. “Trust me.”
“How can I trust you if I don’t understand…”
Henry stood up and came to sit down next to her. “I can’t tell you any more than just that… for your own safety.”
Mattie grabbed his hands with surprising strength. “Please… give me something.”
Henry pressed his fingers into hers. “I will get you out.” Their eyes had locked into each other. He meant it.
The handle of the door tur
ned, sending Henry swiftly back to his original seat.
“Who was it?” he asked Wasim as he entered the room.
“One of the women who prepared the tea. She doesn’t seem to speak English and I gave her a good fright. Still, we need to be more careful.”
“I’ve got what I need in any case.” Henry was about to stand up.
“Are you sending me back to the stadium?”
“No.” Wasim shook his head. “We have another plan for you in mind.”
* * *
The composure James Radlett displayed when he was told about Henry had surprised Harris. He had expected an explosion of protest or worse. He had even imagined James walking out of Vauxhall Cross after having slammed the door in his face. But he had not anticipated James’s response. His light blue eyes had become cold and distant. He was a professional assessing a serious proposition.
First class.
“Who came up with the idea?” James crossed his legs and settled into the back of his chair.
“Does it make a difference:”
“Just tell me.”
“Crowne himself.” Steve stopped himself from moving towards his table – no indication of his keenness, please. Keep it calm and cool.
James pulled a knowing face. “I’m only half surprised.”
“How so?”
“If he can convince me, through you… and he knows it’s a pretty big if, but if he can, he knows how I operate. He knows how I think. He knows I will understand what support he needs in the field because I know how he in turn operates. And if you are using him because of his understanding of finance then I will be the natural bridge between understanding the technicalities of what he uncovers and knowing how to operate at SIS.”
Harris remained silent for a moment. James had got to the point impressively fast. Still one question remained. “You don’t think he’s worried about your seeking revenge for who he was, for his IRA involvement?”
“That’s your job, Steve,” James gave the beginning of a smile. “That’s your job to ascertain whether I’m the sort who can put his former life aside and work with the likes of Henry.” James moved forward, picked up the cup of coffee and leaned back against his chair. “And he knows that too.”
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