Wise. Brett would need a pick-me-up for what Harris had in mind.
Harris plonked himself int the chair to the right of Brett, who did not bother to lower his newspaper.
“You look relaxed.” Harris grinned, signalling to the steward. “The same for me, please.”
Brett turned a page.
“Of course I do. I have not been involved with you for over a year.”
“Nah. You miss the action… admit it.”
“You mean dealing with a terror group whose leader threatened to slit my throat if I didn’t do his bidding…”
“The Sheik liked you.”
“No. The Sheik didn’t have time to make up his mind about me before the Counter-Terrorist Squad put a few bullets into him.”
“See. I always look after you.”
Brett folded his paper neatly and threw it onto the table.
“What do you want?”
“What do you know about Mosul’s museum?”
Harris’s drink arrived. Brett took a sip of his whisky, smiling with satisfaction, before responding.
“The second largest museum in Iraq after Baghdad. It was looted in the 2003 Iraq war.”
“Damn, you’ve already sold everything that was worth selling there then?”
Brett raised an eyebrow but ignored Harris’s banter. “But…” He took another sip. “It has been rebuilt and is about to re-open. There are still some very valuable contents that makes it a place worth visiting.”
Harris took a sip of whisky in turn. Brett could not help himself. Mention antiquities and he would come running, mention looting and he would be unstoppable.
“Is MI6 finally paying you enough that you can afford some of these treasures?” Brett raised his glass to Harris.
“My antiques come from Camden Market, mate.” Harris tapped his nose and took another slug. “What would it take for you to bring some of them across to Europe?”
Brett’s lanky face grew still. His faint blue eyes squinted. Was Harris serious?
“I do have contacts, but the goods need to come on the market… I can’t arrange a…”
“Say the goods come on the market as you say,” Harris interrupted, his voice’s serious edge changing the atmosphere between the two men in an instant.
“I have received offers from Nimrud, as I said over the phone. So yes, if the museum was looted I would be in a position to import goods either to Europe or the UK.”
“How quickly?”
Brett was holding the elegant tumbler with the tips of his fingers. He balanced it on the large arm of the chair, considering. “What are you not telling me?”
“You’ve been in the game long enough, Brett.”
“Need-to-know basis crap again. Really?”
“Yup, just give me an idea.”
“If you’re talking large artefacts, probably a week.”
Harris shook his head, a little disappointed; not as quick as he might have hoped.
“But,” Brett took a couple of sips, “if you have something else in mind, something smaller, like tablets or scrolls… it could be quicker.”
“And what if we are talking about something else?”
Brett’s face changed colour and a tinge of pink made the roots of his hair look even lighter. “You’re not serious?”
“Might be… Give me an idea.”
Brett considered his almost empty glass. He made a small move of the hand, calling the steward… he most definitely needed a refill.
* * *
Harris checked his MI6 mobile, no news from Amina or Sir John. He was walking along St James’s and soon turned into Piccadilly. Crowne would make contact to ask for a ransom, but Harris wondered whether Crowne had another plan. He increased the pace of his walk. Too much had happened too soon, and he needed to put RED HAWK into perspective. A gust of unseasonably cold wind blew into Harris. He lurched forward, lifting the collar of the jacket up. His stocky body had seen so much worse and yet he wondered how much he could now endure.
The Baghdad skyline is highlighted by a burst of lights against the darkness of the night, reds and oranges. Harris has been sitting at the window of a flat near the city centre for hours. The coalition forces are making the final assault and he has infiltrated Baghdad with other CIA agents. As soon as they can they need to lay their hands on the intelligence that lies in Saddam Hussein’s palace. Where are the weapons of mass destruction? Harris is smoking a cigarette, the last one he shares with his CIA contact, Jack O’Brian.
The flat they occupy has been vacant for days, left behind by a fleeing family. April in Baghdad can be cold and dreary. Harris has poured another cup of coffee from the flask he prepared earlier on. Jack is following the progress of a US infantry brigade. They are close to one of Saddam’s palaces and the fighting is fierce. US Marines are faced with heavy shelling from Iraqi artillery. The palace needs to be taken even if it means casualties. Harris brings the binoculars up to his eyes. They are not far from the bridge the coalition forces must cross to reach the place they intend to take. Harris knows the city well. Despite his fair skin and light brown hair, he has managed to move around Baghdad in times of peace without attracting much attention, sometimes as journalist or businessman. Harris’s nondescript physique helps him to become unremarkable.
The building rocks again. The fighting has intensified for the final push. Harris is only mildly concerned. The Iraqi forces are too engaged in the battle with the US Marines to divert their attention anywhere else. Jack is commenting on progress. Another large explosion, some plaster, dislodged from the ceiling, falls next to Harris. Jack has stopped talking and from the corner of his eyes Harris sees Jack putting down his binos, his hand slowly creeping towards the walkie-talkie. Harris then knows that when he is going to turn back, someone with a gun will be aiming at his head.
The traffic light at the crossing turned red, stopping Harris in his tracks. The images of what followed in Baghdad had pressed themselves into his mind. He knew the outcome, no need to recall events. But the feeling stayed with him to this day… he had shot a man dead and that man had been his first killing.
Harris reached the ‘airlock’ in Pimlico and changed back into his usual work clothes. Memories of Baghdad had unsettled him more than he liked to admit. Perhaps he didn’t need to convince James Radlett so quickly. Perhaps he should ask his team in Raqqa to step back. But intel must be gathered, and they had come too far to simply turn back.
Harris checked his phone mechanically… Amina had called. Sir John’s PA had called. Before leaving the Pimlico flat, Harris moved to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water and rested his body against the basin for a short moment… washing away the memories of Baghdad.
* * *
The fixer’s English was remarkably good. A man educated in America, used to talking the language of business. This fixer knew exactly what to do. It both impressed and repelled Henry at the same time, giving him an insight into a world Henry barely suspected existed… kidnapping for ransom was a lucrative business.
“Once we agree on the price, I receive 75% of what I charge you up front.” The educated voice was pleasant, professional.
“ISIL has been generous… 10% is a lot; 75% of 10% is a lot.”
“Perhaps, but what if something goes wrong?”
“Then you’ll be out of pocket.”
Silence at the other end of the line. Henry waited.
“What do you offer?”
“40% when we agree on the deal, the rest when we receive the money.”
“65, 35.”
“45, 55… my last offer.” Henry wouldn’t budge. He would simply go back to The Treasurer to complain about the fixer.
“Done.” The voice had lost its affable tone. This was just another deal even if the fixer was dealing with ISIL. Henry argued the details of h
ow and when the fixer would contact the journalists and management at the Sunday Times. The fixer assured him he knew what to do. Henry did not care. Mattie was the daughter of Harold Colmore MP. IS wanted to avoid any interference from the British government.
Wasim knocked at Henry’s door, as they had agreed earlier on. As soon as he entered they started their scripted conversation. Henry placed his mobile so that each word they spoke could be heard distinctly. Wasim smiled; it was enjoyable to beat ISIL at its own game of disinformation.
“The fixer will contact the head of international affairs first.” Henry handed Wasim a can of lemonade from the fridge.
“I presume he won’t go direct?”
“Didn’t ask and doesn’t care. We can assume the Sunday Times won’t contact the UK government if they’re serious about negotiating with us.”
“Very good… we just wait and see.” Wasim took a swig of lemonade.
“We’ll give the Sunday Times 48 hours and then… we move to Plan B.”
“Does the fixer know?”
“He doesn’t but he is not stupid. He will hang around even if the first deal doesn’t go through.”
“Anybody else involved?”
“My guess is that he’ll contact some local NGOs. It’s good to have them on side when the deal goes through.”
Wasim nodded. “Great job.” He moved away from the subject of ransom to that of oil. Yet again another scripted conversation that he and Henry had rehearsed.
“I hope Hamza takes my suggestions seriously now he has a senior contact in Turkey who’ll make sure he can sell at a decent price.”
“Which is?”
“Use the Kirkuk oil pipeline to feed in ISIL’s oil at several entry points. It will be almost impossible to detect where the oil comes from as so many production units feed into this oleoduct. We simply need to agree with other intermediaries how much we feed in to receive payment. But the oil itself will not be traceable.”
“Kirkuk ends up in Turkey, right?”
“Right.”
“Do you think your contact will play ball?”
“He will… the last thing he needs is his name being mentioned in association with armament trafficking involving Qaddafi and the IRA.”
“But he can’t be helping us on his own… Do you think the Turks will let it go if they discover what’s going on?”
“They can’t do so openly, but there’s far too much money to be made not to attract the serious attention of other senior figures.”
“Do you have any idea about who to contact?”
“Certainly. I’ve done business in Turkey before… as a banker that is… and I’m pretty sure that we’ll find men in the PM’s entourage amenable to the deal.”
“Are you serious?” Wasim’s voice hit the right amazed tone.
“I am more than serious. I will find someone, and we will be paid handsomely for the oil we export… in size. I think The Treasurer has realised that… but I’m not giving him my contacts access until he’s a bit more forthcoming. I think he knows that too.”
“Do you have an estimate?”
“Rough calculation from the product figures Hamza gave me. We’ll reach $1m a day.”
“Through Kirkuk alone?”
“No, you’re right, that wouldn’t be enough. We need to increase our smuggling through Jordan but that’s very doable. We need to be a bit more generous with the border guards and the intermediaries… The Far East is thirsty for oil and a good number of countries will not be asking too many questions.”
“A clever strategy.” Wasim’s face broadened into a smile.
“I said I would help, and I shall. There’s so much I can do with the assets ISIL has already amassed.” Henry gave the thumbs up to Wasim. Excellent piece of Henry Crowne: The Expert Financier.
Wasim’s job was done… there was little he could add. He left quickly. There was still time to visit one of the tearooms he had spotted near the hotel. He could perhaps reach MOTHER again today, after all, he was only browsing a website… Henry picked up his mobile, turned it over a few times in his hand and made a wager. If his little charade had worked, he should have a call from The Treasurer or one of his people quite soon. If he didn’t… well. He would have to think about another strategy to bolster his credibility. Or perhaps it would mean something entirely different… perhaps it was not The Treasurer eavesdropping on him.
He stretched his arms over his head and decided on a shower. At least a luxury he was enjoying to the full before it was taken from him again. He discarded his clothes and entered the bathroom, welcomed by the scent of fresh soap that reminded him of his apartment in London. As he was about to turn the water on, his mobile phone started ringing.
* * *
A message was waiting for him at reception after he had gone through Vauxhall Cross’s multi-tier security checks. Sir John was requiring his presence soonest. Harris took the elevator to the fifth floor. Sir John’s PA was waiting for him as the door opened. She greeted him with a smile, ushered him into Sir John’s office without announcing him. He was expected.
“Mosul’s attack has started.” Sir John did not bother to greet Harris. He had become a daily presence in The Chief’s timetable, no need for common courtesies. Harris joined him in the part of his office fitted with a row of monitors. A large digital map of the area showing terrain, roads and cities in Iraq and Syria as well as the allocation of territory to various factions was projected onto the back wall. Harris noticed the sheer complexity of the colour coding. He had experienced how fractious and divided the region was, during his own time there, but things had got much worse. Since the Arab Spring, the Middle East had become an even more complex region to navigate. The most alarming development visible on the map was the growing presence of ISIL, capturing territories in both Iraq and Syria, unchallenged. The screens were relaying live pictures from Reaper drones deployed from the UK Cyprus base in Akrotiri. The convoys of ISIL fighters, easily recognisable by the black flags they were flying, were moving at speed. Caterpillars of trucks, SUVs and Humvees were approaching the city from several directions. The monitors relaying these images split into four screens, showing the effort ISIL was putting in attacking its target. The first screen showed the city itself. Another screen showed the two divisions of Iraqi fighters, each division counting 15,000 men. The third screen had zeroed in on Mosul’s airport and its armament. The final screen showed a summary of the forces confronting in battle and their commanders: Lieutenant General Mahdi Al-Gharrawi on the Iraqi side, Abu Abdulrahman al-Bilawi for ISIL. A military HQ could not have drawn a more complete picture.
“Any news from your people on the ground?”
“They’re making progress in understanding ISIL’s structure.”
Sir John turned towards Harris. “At last, some good news.”
“Crowne has made contact with one of the fixers ISIL works with.”
“Mosul?”
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid. Henry and Wasim are confident they’ll hear about the attack soon… the question is in how much detail.”
“I’ve had Sir Mortimer on the phone. The MoD is hoping our Iraqi friends will listen to our intel and act upon it.”
Harris nodded. He pulled a chair, helped himself to coffee and started scrutinising the maps.
“Who is manning the drones, sir?”
“British pilots in Cyprus. Why?”
“UK drones?”
“I can ask them to redirect them somewhere else if you think it’s important.”
“Do we know how many ISIL fighters are on the ground?”
“It’s only an estimate, but so far 100,000.”
“Against 30,000 Iraqi soldiers?”
“That’s right. I am expecting they will pause and regroup… assess their position. Perhaps wait for other fighters to arrive. They are outnum
bered 30 to 1.”
“That’s precisely what ISIL would want us to think. Death doesn’t matter to them. They’re seeking to be martyred to their cause… the most noble of deaths.” Harris balled a fist… Even in Muslim countries, the sheer dedication or perhaps fanaticism of ISIL followers was underestimated.
Sir John eyed Harris with interest. “You know the area better than anyone. You think they will attack?”
“If their commander is on the move and has galvanised his troops, he will. We can also expect some locals to join ISIL to save their skins.”
Harris drank his coffee in small sips, almost oblivious to the motion of his head towards his cup. “The Iraqis need to strike hard now if they have a chance of stopping them.”
“Do you know this ISIL commander?” Sir John turned towards the screen and read the name out loud. “Abu Abdulrahman al-Bilawi.”
“He has a reputation of always being the first to join a fight. If he’s leading his men, at the forefront. The other convoys have not even reached Mosul… then there is a chance. He may launch the attack before consolidating his troops.”
“Would he really be that careless?”
“Yet again, sir. It’s not carelessness… it’s a show of strength.”
“I’ll relay this to Sir Mortimer. Anything else?”
“No… but I’ll go back to Amina, I mean Ms Brown, and check our latest intel.”
“Excellent. Keep me updated at all times. Mosul must not fall.”
Harris nodded. He would not be holding his breath. ISIL was on a roll, deadly and, he feared, unstoppable.
Chapter Twenty
Henry emerged from the bathroom and ran to the phone. He held back for the fourth ring to go through and answered just before it went to voicemail.
“Marhabaan.”
“A car will pick you up after early prayer, come on your own.” The Treasurer replied in Arabic.
“Of course, I’ll wait to be picked up.” The phone went dead.
Henry wondered why Wasim had not been invited. A test? He had expected it might happen but perhaps not so soon. He left the phone on the bedside table. He fought the urge to walk out to the balcony and speak to Wasim. Instead he moved back to the bathroom and started to shower. He had left the door open. If they wanted to spy on his every move, they would have to put up with some pretty boring stuff too.
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