Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  The voice of the fixer came back in focus. “Will you be there?”

  “Certainly. I want to make sure everything goes according to plan.”

  Henry hung up after agreeing on their next call. Sunset prayer time was approaching. He grabbed his backpack, dropped the phone into it and walked out of his room. It would be the last prayer held at IS Treasury office before everyone went home. An excellent drill for what he had in mind.

  * * *

  Most men had already retreated to the facilities and started their ablutions. Henry dropped the backpack in the main treasury room. Hamza was still at his desk. He greeted Henry amicably. “Abu Shabh, perhaps we can talk when you have time?”

  “Certainly, but first… prayer. It is time.”

  Hamza looked around the large room. Two other young men were still at their desks. He looked undecided. Henry waited. Hamza called the others. They looked up at the clock on the wall and hurriedly made their way towards the bathrooms. Hamza locked his computer, went through the desks and locked one that had been left unattended. Henry slowly reached the door. Hamza always followed one step behind.

  The other men were already done when they reached the cubicles and Henry braced himself. He found one that looked reasonably clean. It took a little less than five minutes. When he came out the booths were empty, apart from one: someone was being very thorough with their routine. Henry reached the prayer room just as the men were bringing their hands towards their bodies. He shook his shoes off, grabbed a prayer mat and joined the congregation. Hamza was nowhere to be seen. When he bent forward for the first move of the ground supplication, Henry lost sight of the entrance door. A moment later, as he stood up again, Hamza appeared at the far end of the room. Asr prayer lasted a little over five minutes. At the end of it, The Treasurer led the believers in a moment of reflection. Everyone was there in attendance to hear the address from one of IS’s key leaders.

  Henry breathed in deeply as he prostrated himself for the last time. He fastened the laces of his no-longer-white sports shoes. The dirt and grime of the city was already taking its toll. The Treasurer had echoed the words of al-Baghdadi. The caliphate’s declaration was the moment of triumph for true Islam… Wasim would have shuddered. Everyone listened in respectful silence. One man, though, was discreetly surveying the others. Hamza’s eyes moved methodically around the room. Who are you working for? Henry felt his gaze land on him, and for a short moment their eyes met. If Hamza was not listening to The Treasurer, then neither was Henry. Henry cursed. He left the room after everyone else. Hamza had disappeared promptly after their silent exchange.

  “Abu Shabh.” Wasim’s call surprised Henry. He had appeared in the corridor and seemed keen to speak.

  “Trouble?”

  Wasim moved closer. “The hostages have been moved and taken to another place. I don’t know where yet. The men who were in Raqqa Stadium and the women in Umm Sayyaf apartment.”

  “Mattie?”

  Wasim nodded.

  “How do you know?”

  “Not important. Though if you must know, there’s nothing a Middle Eastern man likes to do more than gossip… I’m good at it too.”

  The cold hand that clasped his neck sent a shiver down his spine. Henry walked into the empty Treasury office. Ramadan had started and everyone was keen to reach their home to enjoy freshly cooked food after a day of fasting.

  “The hostages have been rounded up and taken to a new location.” Henry’s jaw clenched as he spoke.

  “Abu Kasim al-Haddawi has taken over their guard.” The Treasurer did not seem overly concerned.

  “There is a small step between guarding the hostages and doing what he wants with them.”

  “Small but significant one. The Treasury still retains the use of the hostages for the purposes of negotiating the release of Abu Maeraka.”

  “How are we going to make sure they are kept safe, unharmed?”

  “Does it matter?” The answer struck Henry.

  “A dead hostage is not going to do us any good.”

  “Well, as long as no one knows the hostage is dead, does it matter?” Henry was close to protesting. Had he read The Treasurer’s intentions’ right? “But I agree with you, we need to have them alive for the exchange. Caliph Ibrahim agrees.”

  Henry’s mind went blank. Had al-Baghdadi renamed himself Caliph Ibrahim?

  “As long as Kasim al-Haddawi does not scupper my negotiations and the agreement I reached with the fixer this afternoon. The UK government is holding an emergency meeting and we are negotiating a location for the exchange.”

  The Treasurer stopped his tidying up. The dim rumble of his stomach told him it was time to leave but perhaps he needed to spend a moment more at the office.

  “Progress has been made very fast. Why do you think that is?”

  “Because IS is no longer a terrorist group, it’s a state. It has the power to defy the West. An exchange of hostages is the only way to keep Mattie Colmore alive.”

  “I think you are right.” The Treasurer had paused to consider Henry’s opinion, his small intelligent eyes scrutinising him for clues. “I am still amazed that the UK should be so keen to save this woman’s life, but pleased that they do.”

  “What matters is that we free Abu Maeraka. I owe him as much.”

  “You do, and we make sacrifices for someone of such value. Caliph Ibrahim is also making a sacrifice.”

  The picture The Treasurer had painted made Henry nauseous. But his eyes had grown cold, he detached himself from the thought and focused on the man in front of him. All that mattered now was that he use his anger in the same way he had so many times before, to bring this man down and destroy these people until nothing was left of them. Nothing.

  “You look puzzled. Don’t you think some of these women may be good in bed?”

  “Of course, why not? That is a way of making use of the kafir.” The taunt had almost worked, and Henry hoped The Treasurer was convinced enough to let it go.

  “The women will not be killed and that is all that matters.”

  Henry nodded. “If we have to give proof of life, it does.”

  The Treasurer’s belly rumbled a little louder. He took one of the elegant pens on his desk, tore a page from a notepad and wrote an address in large letters.

  “They are being kept on the outskirts of Raqqa. If you need proof of life you can go. But I want to know first before you do.”

  Henry held back from grabbing the note. The Treasurer handed the folded paper to him between his index and middle finger. “I want to know.”

  By the time Henry was leaving his office, everyone had gone. Hamza seemed to have cleared his desk too. Henry picked up his rucksack and went in search of Wasim.

  * * *

  He was waiting in the old truck. Wasim sat in the driver’s seat. Henry threw his rucksack into the back of the truck; the rumble of the engine and the noise of other cars driving past would nicely cover their conversation. There would be little to glean from his phone. Henry jumped into the passenger seat and indicated with a movement of his hand that Wasim should start the engine.

  “I know where they are.”

  “Raqqa?”

  Henry nodded.

  “I somehow need to let MOTHER know.”

  “It’s Ramadan now, aren’t the tearooms shut?”

  “The IS fighters are still using them during the day to access the internet but granted this is more complicated.”

  “And at night?”

  “Some are still open after dusk… not tried any yet.”

  Henry leaned back in the passenger seat, thinking.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “That’s a strange kind of question.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “That is usually the outcome of an entire day fasting.”

 
“Great, so are all the other Muslims in this town. Let’s go and check out this place when everyone is truly ravenous and thinking about only one thing…”

  “Filling up their stomachs.”

  “Yep… I want to know whether they are safe.”

  “Don’t BS me Henry. You want to check Mattie is safe.”

  “That too.” Henry looked away and waited for Wasim to disagree.

  “You can’t protect them all from whatever abuse Baghdadi or al-Haddawi have in store for them. You know that.”

  “I thought you wanted to save the hostages?”

  “Don’t be an idiot… I do. But I know what we can achieve and what will end up making us share their cells, wherever they now are.”

  “I ought at least to be able to protect them from the guards… If they touch any of them, I’ll come down on them like a ton of bricks.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t dictate to these people. They are al-Haddawi’s men, not The Treasurer’s.”

  “Got to try. If you don’t come with me, I’ll go on my own.”

  Wasim revved the engine and moved into gear.

  “You are the greatest pain in the arse I’ve ever worked with.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to say that.”

  “Assuming we get there and they let us approach the area, what are you going to do?”

  “I will personally make sure their balls are chopped off.”

  “Seriously, Henry.”

  “I am incredibly serious. If the hostages come to any harm, I’ll come back for them.”

  “Fine. Let me do the talking. We perhaps have half a chance then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “The Home Office has insisted we need to exchange more than one hostage if they are to agree to the release of Maeraka.” Sir John was sitting on the long table that occupied the corner of his office. He had called up digital maps of the region on the large plasma screen that hung on the far wall. Raqqa. Mosul. Aleppo.

  “I’m sure it will be just a question of negotiation now. It would be a real coup for IS to gain Maeraka’s freedom. If we ask for female hostages, it will be easier. I have a sense from the chatter we picked up that men are not going to be freed that easily.”

  “Any details I can relay to the Home Office?”

  “IS has equipped itself with a large comms machine, magazines, video, tweets, websites… the lot. Al-Baghdadi addresses his followers in very good and well-presented clips.”

  “You mean they want to use the hostages as… what? Propaganda…”

  “I don’t know, sir, I just see a pattern which tells me they are ramping up their campaign.”

  “Poor blokes…” Sir John inhaled deeply and let the air out of his lungs slowly. “Still… we should try.”

  “Agreed but I don’t think we should be overoptimistic.”

  “Fine, I’ll ring the Home Office.”

  “I have spoken again to the CIA. I don’t think there is as much engagement on their side as there is on ours. The FBI is coordinating with the families and leading the US effort to get the hostages back.”

  “No thoughts of extraction then?”

  “My contact sounded vague. He promised he’d come back but then again, he doesn’t always get to see everything Langley plans in the Middle East. They must be at least considering extraction as a possible option.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I made the point that an intervention in Raqqa requires a lot of solid intel and prep. We’ll see whether this has registered…” Sir John activated the screens again and the map of Raqqa zoomed in at street level.

  A few key sites had been marked with red dots:

  Raqqa Stadium, which had become the IS HQ and a centre for interrogation and detention.

  Malahi Avenue. The hotel where Henry and Wasim were staying, as well as most of their best fighters.

  Fardos Street: address of the IS Treasury building.

  A couple of other residences where key members might be living.

  The sites were very easy to identify and yet impossible to target, areas well-chosen in providing plenty of human shield protection. It would take more than a surgical strike to eliminate the centre from which IS operated.

  Harris’s phone buzzed; he took it out, frowning. “Who is this?”

  Sir John jumped from the table joining Harris in a few long strides. Harris showed him the screen display. “Amina… take the call.”

  “What’s up?” Harris listened intently and placed the phone on mute. “Intel from the team: the hostages have been moved.”

  “Put her on speaker.”

  Harris placed the phone carefully on the table. “You’re on speaker, Amina. Sir John is here too.”

  “Hello, sir, new intel from the team. The hostages have been moved to another location on the outskirts of Raqqa. Both men and women. It’s an old disused oil refinery. I have the exact address.”

  “Give it to me. Raqqa is onscreen at the moment.”

  “Off Makef Street, coordinates, 35.9594o N, 38.9981o E”

  Sir John entered the coordinates into the map database. The screen went black and recalibrated to display an area in which a cluster of old buildings looked isolated from other habitation, flat roofs, ample space for parking road vehicles and to store heavy goods.

  “It’s a good place to keep people confined in… plenty of space and a very defensible position.” There was a small intake of breath by both men. “Anything else?”

  “One of the rooms has been fitted with video equipment.”

  “Did they manage to gain access to it?”

  “The site was too well guarded, sir.”

  “Anything else?” Harris had taken his packet of cigarettes out, fiddling with its flap.

  “Something peculiar perhaps. They saw orange suits… similar to those worn by Guantanamo prisoners… lying in the room.”

  “Thanks, Amina, let me know if anything else comes through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harris shook his head. “We are going to have to share this with the Yanks.”

  “And this isn’t going to help our case.”

  Harris took a cigarette out of its pack.

  “Your thoughts?”

  “We need to agree on the exchange now. Otherwise, we won’t be able to control the flow of events.”

  “I am doing my utmost…”

  “I’m not saying otherwise, sir, but…”

  “I know what’s at the back of your mind, Steve, but it’s not yet the time for an extraction. We need as much intel as we can until the exchange is done.”

  “But you agree that the situation on the ground has become… precarious?”

  “It was always going to be complicated. For the time being we stay put. We need that intel.”

  Harris nodded. He had always been good at looking convincingly in agreement and doing what he wanted in the meantime.

  * * *

  The Treasurer’s pass granted to Henry allows them through two road checks. Henry could have sworn that the first one had not been there the day before. Wasim parks the old truck in the yard of a factory that had closed for the night. They move to the back of the building and find a strong set of pipes fitted against the back wall. Wasim climbs up first, lifting himself along the frame, placing his foot on the ledge of a large window. A few more careful steps and he is on the roof. Henry follows and he joins Wasim, prone on his belly, binoculars to his eyes.

  There is little conversation between the two. They communicate by signs and movements. Wasim hands over the binoculars. Henry can trace the outline of the tallest building in the area. He spots some brand-new trucks and a couple of Humvees parked in its yard. Men are patrolling the perimeter, brand new M249 light machine guns in their hands. Henry recalls the passag
e in the financial report under the heading ARMAMENT; the sums are large, but some of the weapons have also been reported as seized from the Iraqi and Syrian armies. His brain still thinks finance at the most unexpected of times.

  The sun has set an hour ago and food will soon be served to these men and they have not eaten or drunk all day.

  “Let’s get as close as we can on foot. Then we wait for their meals to arrive.” Wasim’s low voice has a gravelly tone that makes Henry more alert. They climb down into the wall’s shadow. Wasim leads. They duck around vehicles and low walls, then dart away from the buildings towards the old oil refinery. There are a few yards to cover in the open which they won’t cross until the guards are no longer paying attention. They haven’t got long to wait. The trucks arrive within minutes. They slow down at the factory’s gate. The smell of cooking reaches them. Henry’s mouth waters. He too has had almost no food all day, although he has broken fast with a packet of nuts and water from a bottle he has kept hidden in his bathroom.

  They crawl alongside the wall and it takes them a couple of minutes to scramble over it. The back of the oil refinery is much the same as the one they’ve just left… pipes running to its top. The guards manning the perimeter have congregated to the front where the trucks have stopped. Henry starts climbing to the roof, followed by Wasim. When he reaches it, he drops on his belly. There is a small door at the bottom of a few steps. They are in luck, no one on the roof is guarding it, or perhaps they have spotted the trucks and disappeared to meet them. Wasim moves to the door. It isn’t shut. The gun comes out of his small rucksack. He has managed to find guns for both. Henry doesn’t know how but he has. Wasim glances through the small crack in the door and he holds his gun up. Henry stops. They can hear voices. The voices come closer and move away. Wasim risks his head through the doorway. They can resume their search.

  The upper part of the building is in darkness. It must have once been offices. They look through the open doors of the empty rooms. At the end of the corridor they reach a larger room. The moonlight helps them to find their way around and spot some equipment. Cameras, sound recording devices, computers… they both advance slowly, mindful not to disturb the items or trip over cables. Henry stops to take in the place: it feels more like a recording studio of a high-end TV station than an old office room in a disused building. Wasim indicates it’s time to move on. Henry makes his way back, he stops one more time; there is only one chair in the centre of what looks like a stage. At the back of the chair he recognises the flag, the black IS standard, next to it on the floor something has been dumped. He moves slowly towards it and raises the material. It’s a suit. A jumpsuit. Henry slaps his hand against his mouth to muffle a small cry. It is the suit Guantanamo inmates wear. This is no coincidence. These hostages are going to pay. He forces himself to leave the room, his heart racing.