Spy Shadows

by Freddie P Peters

  Wasim stands at the end of the corridor. The staircase leads down to an open-plan room on the ground floor. There the light is bright. The floor at the far end has been fitted with iron bars and men are sitting on the floor in this makeshift box prison. Wasim pulls back. The guards have started to arrange food on the main table in the centre of the room. There is another flight of stairs. It leads to the far end of the building. Perhaps the women’s quarter. Wasim shakes his head. It’s too far to go. Henry is not leaving. Perhaps it’s not.

  Voices are moving closer once more. And the weight of heavy boots shakes the stairwell. Wasim pulls Henry back the way they came. They won’t have time to reach the roof door. They move into one of the empty rooms, guns at the ready. The voices move into the recording studio and the light comes on. The conversation is friendly, even cheerful. They replay a recording. Henry can’t make out what it says. More laughter and banter.

  Henry goes for the roof first, unnoticed. He is waiting for Wasim, five long minutes. He is alert to any noise that comes from below.

  Wasim reaches the flat roof too. They climb noiselessly to the ground. Most guards have moved inside and the ones at the door are sitting on the ground cross legged, enjoying some food.

  “What is it you saw?” Wasim is back at the wheel of the truck, slowly edging it into the main road.

  “The orange jumpsuit that prisoners wear in Guantanamo.” A slow rumble goes through Henry’s body. The truck picks up speed as they move away from the cluster of buildings.

  Wasim changes gear angrily. They can no longer save these people.

  “I know how to help you around prayer time, so that you can download the data you have in mind. We’ll do it within the next 48 hours.”

  * * *

  The message had been marked urgent. He hoped he had conveyed to James the importance of the meeting. The old Ford Mondeo was full of junk, discarded newspapers, a few sandwich wrappers that had been there for far too long, a half-drunk water bottle that had started to mist over. Harris thought the car perfect for the task at hand. Nothing better than a high-rise estate to put someone in the mood. He had asked James to meet him in the middle of Whitechapel… just to remind him how grim surveillance was for some of the operatives he worked with.

  Harris parked the car in front of the Perfect Fried Chicken on Bethnal Green and walked the rest of the way to their meeting point. The weather had turned chilly for the season and rain had already fallen earlier in the day, collecting in pools of dark liquid in which bits of leftover food and plastic bags floated. He crossed the first estate without encountering anyone. He moved to the second group of high rises. A couple of young lads were showing off on their bikes, doing wheelies. Harris zipped up his denim bomber jacket and crossed the road to avoid walking past them. They observed him for a moment, but decided Harris looked uninteresting… cheap jeans, cheap shoes and light brown short-cropped hair that radiated blandness.

  He was five minutes late: excellent. James would have been festering in the small alleyway where they had arranged to meet. He hoped.

  James Radlett was looking at his watch. He took his mobile out to place a call.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Steve’s voice carried the distance and James replaced the phone in his jacket pocket.

  “You think I’m going to get mugged?” James moved toward Harris slowly. His square jaw face alert yet bemused.

  “I don’t think so, I know so, if you take out the latest iPhone in the open here.”

  “This is a strange way to try to convince me to join…”

  “Perhaps.” Harris had arrived where James was standing. He took a cigarette out of its pack and lit it. “I’m dealing with a situation and I need to know now…” He exhaled and a plume of smoke escaped from the side of his mouth. “… right now, whether you’re in or not. Don’t care whether you still need to speak to all your SIS ex-contacts to find out what I’m up to or whether you’ve got a conscience about Henry Crowne.”

  James’s eyebrows shot up.

  “If you don’t like this place, good… I don’t like it either, but that’s the sort of cesspit my assets have got to operate in to get results. They don’t dither, they don’t moan whether they gonna step into shit because they will, but they’ve got what it takes to do the job.”

  The two lads must have decided Harris was a new face around and worth a closer look after all. They appeared at the far end of the alleyway. James looked past Harris in their direction. “Fuck off, ya little shits, I’m ’avin a private conversation… Ya ’ear me?” The East End accent at full volume stopped the two dead. There was anger there too. They hesitated. Harris made as if to go after them and they quickly rode off.

  “Where was I… Oh yes, you’re not so sure anymore. Can you handle Crowne simply because you know how he thinks… maybe, but this isn’t going to be cushy investment banking… it will be wherever the op takes you. Think about it. Can’t afford to lose any more time.”

  James’s face clouded over. He was not a dilettante but perhaps banking had softened him more than he wanted to admit.

  “I’m finishing my cigarette and I’m off.”

  “Why do you want me to work on the Crowne file?”

  “Not on the file… with the man and because he’s asked for you. Now don’t tell me I’m not levelling with you on that one.”

  Shock, anger, disbelief… James was taken aback. “This is a joke.”

  “Couldn’t be more serious.” Harris took a final drag. He flicked the butt of his cigarette away. The red dot rolled into one of the puddles with a small fizz.

  “What’s the emergency?” James’s eyes had decided on a new stance. Defiance.

  “I need to get people out of Syria.”

  “Aleppo?”

  “No.”

  “Worse than Aleppo?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  James started to walk slowly towards the end of the alleyway. He turned his head to check Harris was still there.

  “Let’s go back to the Cross and you can tell me what I need to do.”

  * * *

  The fixer had got back to Henry. He listened again to the message he had left over an hour ago. The UK government was asking for a number of hostages to be freed, Mattie Colmore and other British prisoners of their choice. Henry remembered the men he had seen parked like cattle at the same time the fixer was making his call, the recording studio, the jumpsuits… it did not take much imagination to know what was coming next.

  Abu Maeraka was worth another hostage to IS, surely. But giving in to the UK would be interpreted as a sign of weakness; not enough men close to Baghdadi trusted him. Al-Haddawi would be the first to exploit the opportunity. Perhaps he could suggest another woman. Mattie had mentioned she was sharing with two others.

  Henry closed his eyes. The weight of her forehead on his back felt still fresh and physical. He could not let any of these bastards… Henry stood up abruptly.

  Don’t go there. He had spoken aloud. He cursed between gritted teeth: the phone in his hand was being recorded. He chucked it in his rucksack, playing and replaying the various scenarios he had been mulling over in his mind.

  Henry walked onto the terrace. The trees planted around the hotel were swaying slowly in the breeze. He opened a can of lemonade he had pulled from the fridge and sat down. In a few moments he would call Wasim and tell him what plan he had decided they should follow. It would mean leaving people behind… a lot of people, and it felt like defeat. He would bring back intelligence that would count in the fight against IS. But what was it worth in comparison with abandoning the hostages?

  Henry finished his drink in a few gulps. It was time to execute the plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Harris had lost almost two hours going through administrative pain – necessary, he had been told, even when he pointed out
he had filed a full report on James Radlett a month before. But now that the vetting process had started, there would be more background checks and a battery of evaluation tests that would make Harris wish, several times, he had never started… Still, RED HAWK needed James and Harris would ask for a special dispensation if he had to. Radlett had contacted his boss that evening, asking for a leave of absence; resignation would come later.

  Harris took the leather-cased burner phone and dialled the only number that was saved there. He did not bother to check the time of day. Brett was on call 24/7 when he was needed. Brett minded, of course, and that was where the fun was.

  “What time does your club close for the evening?”

  “Good evening… 11pm.”

  “Any news on your side?”

  “It’s late and my contacts don’t like being harassed.”

  “I’m about to ask for one of the largest cash payments ever attributed to an operation and you’re being pissy with me… really?”

  “The money’s not coming out of your pocket.”

  “By the time I’ve asked and it’s been agreed, it will feel like my pound of flesh.”

  “Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, I’m almost impressed.”

  “And I’m not even trying, Brett… where are your people?”

  “All right… all right, my old contact tells me he can extract goods or… people in the next three days. The longer we wait the more complicated it will become.”

  “Is he trying to bargain for an increase?”

  “No… He is telling me that the region is gradually falling to ISIL and that soon the Kurdish enclave will be so small it will be almost impossible to use for trafficking.”

  “I can buy that.” Harris fingered the cigarette packet he had taken out of his pocket. “How…”

  “Reliable?” Brett interrupted. “Let’s say I know his business enough to cause him serious trouble if I was minded speaking.”

  “Bit of blackmail, splendid!”

  “No… just a little incentive.”

  Harris took as much detail as he could from Brett. He liked the route. He knew the terrain. The Kurds and their fighters were the most reliable people he had ever met. Despite Brett’s concerns, IS would think twice before making incursions into Kurdish-held territory. The thought of being killed by a female Peshmerga did not sit well with their views on the female condition.

  Harris’s other mobile rang. Amina had relayed Henry’s proposal – ask for a second female hostage rather than a man – to Harris and The Chief. Sir John had pulled back at the thought. He needed to think it through.

  “Evening, sir.”

  “Good evening, Steve. I have spoken with the Home Office. We have been called to an emergency meeting.”

  Harris held back in hope; meeting with politicians had never been his bag. “Do you need me there, sir?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Need to change and…”

  “No Steve, now… please.” The Chief was not looking forward to the meeting either. “My driver will pick you up in ten minutes. I’ll see you there.”

  Harris looked down at his old jeans and his crumpled blue shirt, no tie. He ran a hand over his face; at least he had shaved this morning. He could not do anything about the jeans, but he might be able to do something about the shirt. Harris took the lift to the basement, scrolled down the list of contacts and called the number he was looking for.

  “Maureen, are you still around?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s Steve, Steve Harris.”

  “Little Steve… ’course. The shutters are down but give us a knock when you’re down, luv.”

  The shutters came up and the old lady grinned at Steve. “Little Steve… ’aven’t seen you for a time.”

  “Very kind, Maureen.”

  “No worries.” She tapped the side of her nose and laughed a laugh that spoke of chain smoking for many years. “What can I do you for?”

  “I need your help.”

  She ran an eye over Steve and nodded.

  “Not got a proper shirt to wear.” She did not wait for an answer. “Let’s see.” She disappeared at the back of the small dry-cleaning booth.

  “Got a nice blue one with a nice white stripe or a plain pink one your size.”

  “I’ll take the blue one, Maureen, you’re a star!”

  “So you say… I need it back tomorrow.”

  “Without fail… promise.”

  Maureen shushed him away with her hand. Harris ran to the gents and changed. He dashed to his office and stuffed the old shirt in his desk. Amina didn’t notice the change of shirt… so much for his attempt at looking a little smarter. He grabbed his jeans bomber jacket. It would have to do. Amina’s concentration on her screen made Harris stop.

  “More news?”

  “Not yet.” Her face changed colour with the regular flickering of her screens. “I’ll send you a text as soon as I have decided on what I am looking at.”

  * * *

  The Home Secretary and Sir John were already in conversation alone when Harris arrived. The glass bowl that served as a meeting room was small but discreet. A couple of the other people were waiting outside. Harris did not recognise him immediately. When he turned around, Harris identified the aide who had accompanied TRH Colmore MP to Vauxhall Cross. He had opted to stand as close as he could to the room, well positioned to capture how the meeting was going. Harris wondered whether he knew how to lip read. Perhaps an important skill set in his job? Harris moved closer to him and stood facing the office. He didn’t care whether the two people in conversation saw him. Harris had decided that he would speak his mind. His assets were on the ground in Raqqa and he was damned if he was going to let a bunch of politicians decide about their safety.

  Sir John opened the door and then closed it after him. He nodded to the other men waiting and walked over to greet Harris. “She’s coming around to the idea of asking for two women, perhaps three.”

  “I would rather we stuck to the plan. The fall of Mosul and the declaration of a caliphate changes a lot of things. We are running out of time.”

  Sir John interrupted by raising his hand. “You don’t need to convince me, you need to convince her.”

  The Home Secretary was in a combative mood. Harris walked in; her aide raised an eyebrow at the casual attire. She didn’t seem to mind. “Give me your side of the story.” Her firm dry hands clutched a simple biro poised to take her own notes. Harris told her about the progress made with the hostage situation, the intelligence coming from within Raqqa. He would not be drawn on the identity of his sources.

  “You’re sure the intel can be relied on?” her aide asked.

  “Without a doubt,” Sir John jumped in. It would be the end of the matter. The Chief of MI6 had validated it, time to move on.

  “Why are you keen to make the exchange so quickly?” She was taking fresh notes, not looking at Harris directly.

  “Because the situation in Syria and Iraq is deteriorating very rapidly, especially with the fall of Mosul and the proclamation of a caliphate, ma’am. IS is on the up and they will want to show their might to the Muslim world, incentivising others to join… if they are still in negotiation mood, we should seize the opportunity.”

  “Why would hostages be valuable to IS if not for ransom or an exchange?”

  “I can’t tell you yet, but their comms team has been very active on social media, and in their online magazine.”

  “Are you concerned about some form of reprisal?” The Home Secretary had stopped writing, her eyes scrutinising him.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  She inhaled deeply, stood up and walked to the window.

  “Surely we can try a few more days of negotiations?”

  “We don’t have a few days, I’m afraid.”<
br />
  “Why not?”

  “Because the chatter we are constantly monitoring on social media speaks of a mighty event. It is also Ramadan and a good time to mark the Muslim world with deeds that will be perceived as prophetic.”

  The Home Secretary turned back.

  “Do you know the hostages are alive?”

  “We do; the men were more recently seen than the women, but nothing indicates the women are not alive as well.”

  “How many men has your source seen?” Her aide was now tapping on his iPad.

  “That’s not relevant to this conversation. We know the people we are interested in are alive.” Harris avoided looking at the little git, trying instead to decipher his agenda.

  “So, your source knows where they are?”

  Harris hesitated. This was getting too close for comfort.

  “We can’t be certain. Hostages are moved around all the time.” Sir John’s voice had cut into the conversation. A do-not-interfere-with-our-operation tone that seemed to stop the aide in his tracks.

  “Do you?”

  Sir John stayed silent for a moment, wondering how to reply.

  “If the question is whether we could mount a commando intervention,” Harris hunched forward, forearms on the table, “I’d advise against it… We do not have enough intelligence to organise an SAS extraction mission, at least not yet. And it will not be an easy ride to land troops in Raqqa.”