Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4

by Chris Ryan

  The Foreign Secretary made a show of considering the matter, but Hammond could tell that Thackeray’s wily flattery had already done its work. ‘Let us speak plainly,’ Chilvers said. ‘You want me to authorise an operation to extract information from Dhul Faqar, and also to assassinate these four middlemen.’

  Thackeray nodded slowly.

  Chilvers sniffed. You could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. ‘See that it’s done,’ he said finally. ‘But I want your best people on it. There must be complete deniability. The Americans can’t know and the PM can’t know. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Thackeray muttered.

  The two men stood up and stiffly shook hands. ‘I need to get back to my office,’ Chilvers said. ‘You’ll keep me informed of any progress?’

  ‘Of course, Foreign Secretary. You’ll be the first to know.’

  Chilvers gave Hammond and Alice Cracknell a cursory nod, then left the room, closing the door noisily behind him.

  There was a moment’s silence. Thackeray turned round to check that the door was indeed shut. Then he breathed out explosively. ‘That man,’ he announced, ‘is a grasping, snivelling, self-absorbed little cunt. No wonder he’s made such a name for himself in politics.’ He turned to Hammond. ‘I’ve had a whole team researching Dhul Faqar and his middlemen. It’s taken me six months to get to this point. Alice will give you everything we have. And Chilvers might be an idiot but he was right about two things: complete deniability, and your best men. The team who lifted these two migrants in the Med – you said they were your best.’

  Hammond nodded, trying hard not to let any expression of doubt show in his face.

  ‘Do they have names, old boy?’

  Hammond inclined his head and shuffled through the papers in front of him. He pulled out a file and handed three documents over to the chief. Thackeray glanced through them. ‘Danny Black,’ he murmured, ‘Spud Glover, Caitlin Wallace. I wasn’t aware you had females on the books, as it were.’

  ‘Australian,’ Hammond said. ‘On secondment. I have every confidence in her.’

  ‘Good,’ Thackeray said, adding the documents to his own pile of papers. ‘Assign them to the task. They’re to take out the middlemen, apprehend Dhul Faqar and squeeze every last drop of information about this Westminster Abbey hit out of him.’ He frowned. ‘I’ve had my eye on that monster for a long time. We’ll all sleep safer in our beds once Dhul Faqar’s crossed off our to-do list.’

  Hammond nodded. ‘We need to make a decision about the remaining IS target in Malta.’

  Thackeray gave him a sharp look. ‘I understood there were two of them.’

  ‘One didn’t make it through the interrogation process.’ And before Thackeray could ask the obvious question, he added: ‘It happened under the authority of the MI6 team. The Regiment personnel took over and successfully extracted the intel from the second man. I suggest they accompany him out of Malta. I don’t know who you’ve got running that place, but prisoners have a habit of ending up dead there.’ Hammond knew he was overstepping the mark, but the MI6 chief didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared lost in thought. ‘Sir?’ Hammond nudged him.

  Thackeray blinked. ‘I’m afraid he can’t leave the facility. We can’t risk word getting back to Dhul Faqar that we abducted his men. Not to mention the Americans.’ He sniffed. ‘Your men will have to . . . do what has to be done.’

  Hammond inclined his head. He had noticed that when it came to ordering an execution, the spooks had an endless supply of euphemisms.

  Thackeray neatened his papers, held them to his chest and headed to the door to follow Chilvers out of the room. But before leaving, he turned again, almost on an afterthought. ‘Oh, and for God’s sake, Hammond, tell me you’ve got someone on the way to Dubai to pick up that bloody liability Yellow Seven. I’ve got the palace on my back about it day and night – as if I don’t have more important things to think about.’

  Hammond took a deep breath, and forced himself not to give the answer he wanted to deliver.

  ‘It’s all under control,’ he said. ‘You can tell the palace that we’ve—’

  ‘Got our best man on it?’ Thackeray said with a faint smile. ‘I think I will at that. I’ll leave you in Alice’s capable hands. Get the job done, Hammond. There’s a lot riding on it. We can’t stop these migrants coming in. The only thing we can do is weed out the bad eggs at source. Excuse me. I have a lot to organise.’

  With that, he turned and finally left the room.

  Hammond spoke into his mobile phone. ‘Tell the Malta unit to eliminate the remaining prisoner, then get them back over to Sigonella military base, Italian section,’ he said. ‘I need to be on a plane to Sigonella as soon as possible to brief them. They’ll need full gear and supplies. Inform them that they’re heading east and I’ll brief them further when I see them.’ He killed the phone, then turned to Alice Cracknell, who was sitting primly, with a slightly superior look on her face. ‘Alright, love,’ Hammond said with a heavy sigh. ‘Dhul Faqar. Sounds like a right charmer. Show us what you’ve got.’

  Joe was shivering violently. He knew that he was dangerously cold. The wet gravel in which he was hiding was sucking every ounce of warmth from him. He was even beginning to feel sleepy, which he knew was the first sign of hypothermia. Time was running out.

  The train had stopped moving an hour ago, but he knew that he was still on the French side of the English Channel because it had not travelled far enough to make the tunnel crossing. And in any case, the rain had been incessant. With only his face showing at the surface of the gravel, it kept washing pieces of grit into his mouth and eyes. At times, he felt like he was suffocating. If the train had gone under the tunnel, there would have been some respite. But there was none.

  He didn’t know what the delay was, but he didn’t like it. The longer he remained in France, the greater the chance he would be discovered.

  Voices. French. Joe felt himself go rigid. It was difficult to locate where they were coming from, not only because of the rain but also because they were down on the ground and he was much higher up. He tried to work out how many there were. Four? Perhaps five? Probably just railway staff, he told himself. Stay calm.

  But it was difficult to stay calm when, thirty seconds later, he heard a needling, high-pitched whine. Like the buzzing of a giant insect, and it was getting closer . . .

  Five seconds later he saw an object float up above the edge of the carriage. He knew instantly what it was: a small drone. No doubt it was fitted with a camera, and was here to search the carriages. He felt a moment of panic. Then he told himself there was no time for that.

  There was no light coming from the drone, which meant that it had to be a night-vision camera. He quickly clamped his eyes shut, because he knew that an NV camera would pick up his retinas quite clearly. And he held his breath, because even the slightest movement could give him away. He concentrated hard on stopping the trembling, but that was more difficult. There was nothing he could do about it.

  The whining grew louder. Joe couldn’t see the drone, but he could sense it almost directly overhead. He had a horrible vision of it landing on his face. Please don’t see me, he thought desperately. After all this, please don’t see me . . .

  There was a crack of thunder overhead. Rain lashed down. Joe felt it washing the gravel from his face. He cursed himself. Why had he thought nobody would guess there might be stowaways in these carriages? He had been so confident about his strategy before. Now he felt stupid.

  The rain fell.

  The drone hovered above his face.

  He waited for the guards to start shouting. Or for the crunching sound of feet across the gravel load.

  Neither came.

  The whining grew softer. The drone was moving on.

  Joe still didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Barely breathed. His limbs were numb and heavy, and he felt the sharp nausea of fear. This had to work. He had to get across the border.

>   ‘C’est bon!’ called a French voice from below. ‘Allez!’

  There was a sudden, loud hiss. The freight train eased into motion.

  Joe’s pulse started to race. The train gathered speed and, a minute later, the sensation of hard rain across his face came to a halt. He opened his eyes. Total darkness.

  He knew he was in the tunnel. He felt a sense of elation.

  He forced himself to move. His body ached, and the inside of his mouth was caked with grit. He didn’t know how high the roof of the tunnel was, so he kept low, hunched in a little ball as the wind and the noise rushed past his ears. He thought of how far he had come – the dangerous sea crossing on a tiny boat full of desperate migrants. The long journey through Europe, stowing away in the back of more lorries than he could remember. He ignored the hunger gnawing at his stomach, and the thirst that burned the back of his throat, and the pain in his muscles, and the piercing cold . . .

  He was about to enter the UK, and that was all that mattered.

  Lights. Rain. The train had suddenly emerged from the tunnel. Joe flung himself on to his back again, breathing heavily as the brakes gave a loud, ear-piercing squeak. Even up here, he could tell that the wheels were sparking against the rails, because there was a faintly blue light in the air. He uncovered his rucksack and pulled out his glasses. They were smeared from being stuffed in his rucksack, but he placed them carefully on his face. Smudged vision was better than blurred vision. He crawled to the edge of the carriage, and waited for the train to come to a halt.

  Silence.

  Joe put his hands up over his head and grabbed the edge of the carriage. The wet metal bit against his hands as he pulled himself up. The thin muscles in his arms burned.

  He peered gingerly over the side of the carriage. The train had pulled in to a railway siding. In the distance he could see a network of wire fences, telegraph towers and solitary freight carriages. There was a road, maybe 150 metres away, with car headlamps burning through the torrential rain. Joe was breathing heavily. He had a call to make. Did he climb out of the train here, or wait for it to travel further into the UK?

  He made his decision quickly. It was dangerous to be stowed away in a carriage full of gravel. He didn’t know how it would be emptied out, but he had no desire to be inside when that happened. And it didn’t matter where in the UK he alighted. As long as he was here, that was all that mattered.

  He hauled himself over the side of the carriage, scrambling wetly to grab the rungs of the ladder on the outside. He descended slowly and carefully. His limbs were still trembling, and he wasn’t at all sure that his fingers had the strength to grip the metal.

  But they did. Thirty seconds later, Joe felt his feet crunch on to the ground. Not a moment too soon. The freight train suddenly hissed again, and began moving backwards out of the siding.

  Joe watched it leave. Then he looked down at himself. His saturated clothes were covered in wet, gravelly mud. His jeans were ripped. One of his trainer soles had come loose. He removed his glasses and tried to wipe the rain from his face with his sleeve, but just winced as grit scraped across his skin.

  He put his glasses back on – and his heart stopped. He could see many multiples of his shadow stretching out in front of him, fanned out along the train track. That meant there were several light sources behind him. They were moving.

  ‘Hey! Hey you! What are you doing there? Get away from the side of the track!’

  Joe spun round. He winced. There were three torches, very bright, about twenty metres away. He couldn’t see the shapes of the people holding them.

  ‘I said get away from the side of the track! We are armed. I repeat, we are armed.’

  Joe stepped sideways, away from the track. At the same time, he raised his arms above his head.

  It all happened so quickly. Before Joe even knew what was happening, the three men with torches were upon him. He caught a flash of camouflage gear and realised they were soldiers. Two of them stood to one side, holding their beams at head level and shining them directly at him. The third grabbed him roughly and forced him down, grinding Joe’s cheek against the rough ground. ‘What are you?’ the soldier growled. ‘One of those fucking migrants? Reckon you’re going to be put up in some posh hotel, do you? Here for some handouts, are you?’

  Joe felt the hinges on his glasses go. He tried not to panic. Instead, he twisted his head to look directly into the fierce stare of the soldier who had pinned him down to the floor.

  ‘I want to claim political asylum,’ he said.

  December 21

  Seven

  It had been two months since Baba had arrived at the compound of Dhul Faqar. The worst two months of her short life.

  Baba had seen daylight three times. The first time had been three days after her arrival. Dhul Faqar’s wife – Baba had learned that her name was Malinka – had made her scrub her skin so harshly that it was red and raw. It stung when she applied the pungent perfume with which she was obliged to douse herself. And the gossamer-thin, see-through gown she was forced to wear, although it looked soft and silky, was harsh and sore against her skin. When Malinka had taken her into Dhul Faqar’s chamber, Baba had thought the sore skin was the worst of her problems. She had soon forgotten about it.

  Malinka had whispered in her ear that if she did not perform properly, she could expect a harsh punishment. Then she had left them together.

  Dhul Faqar had been strangely kittenish at first, as he approached her and tried to slip the gown from her shoulder, while Baba kept her eyes averted from his gaze. She had recoiled in instinctive horror at his touch. Dhul Faqar had instantly changed. He had called for his wife, who had entered so quickly that Baba knew she must have been waiting on the other side of the door. Malinka had dragged her out of the room by her hair and, blinking, into the midday sun. There, Malinka had ordered two of Dhul Faqar’s men to flog Baba. They did it willingly, with vicious grins on their faces. Twenty lashes, each one leaving a snake of blood up Baba’s naked back. They had taken three weeks to heal, but by that time Baba had learned not to flinch when Dhul Faqar approached her.

  The second time she saw sunlight was a month into her incarceration. Dhul Faqar had called for her, and Malinka had brought her to his chamber. She didn’t struggle – she had somehow found the ability to keep control. She cried, of course, when the act happened, but that seemed to increase Dhul Faqar’s pleasure, not decrease it – even if her tears always earned her a few words of contempt from Malinka. On this occasion, it had been over more quickly than usual. The relief must have shown in Baba’s face. Dhul Faqar had turned suddenly angry, as though his sexual humiliation was her fault. Malinka had dragged her outside again. On this occasion she had been spared a flogging. She was simply beaten and kicked until her breasts and stomach were bruised.

  The third time she had seen sunlight was on the day she had tried to escape.

  Baba hadn’t been planning it. She was too numb to plan anything. Dhul Faqar had been particularly brutal in the preceding days. He had left her bleeding and unable to walk properly. When Malinka had inadvertently failed to lock the door of the dingy room in which she was forced to exist when she wasn’t servicing Dhul Faqar’s needs, Baba had simply made a run for it. To her astonishment, there were no guards outside. Baba had sprinted away from the buildings, and for a wild moment of exaltation she thought the nightmare was over.

  But then she had heard the laughter behind her. She had turned round to see two of Dhul Faqar’s guards – the two who had delivered the twenty lashes – watching from a distance of twenty metres. They each had a snarling black dog on a leash. The animals were straining to get at her. ‘Go on then,’ one of them shouted. ‘Make a run for it. They could do with a meal.’

  Baba had simply collapsed in fear.

  Malinka’s wrath had been truly terrifying. She had administered the punishments herself this time. Baba had two black eyes to show for it, a bleeding lip and more bruises to her body and cuts to her c
heek from Malinka’s perfectly manicured nails. There was a thin scab against her jugular where Malinka had held her evil knife and threatened to cut Baba’s throat if she ever tried such a thing again.

  Baba had hated the lonely cell in which she had been kept during the first six weeks of her incarceration. It contained nothing except a clay pot for her to use as a toilet. It stank, and was cold and uncomfortable. But after her escape attempt, she would have given almost anything to be returned to it. Because from that point on, she had been chained like an animal to a post in the room where Dhul Faqar spent his days. A thick metal collar was locked round her neck, with a chain leading from it to the post. Under the collar, her skin was sore, sweaty and spotty. And now she was no longer taken to Dhul Faqar’s chamber when he wished to abuse her. Instead, on a daily basis, the room was cleared and the act would take place while she was chained up like a dog.

  Now, Baba spent all day in the presence of the man whom she hated more than any other, always taking great care not to look him in the eye. She saw him at work. She witnessed his meetings with a wide variety of dead-eyed militants. Some of them she recognised. When Dhul Faqar was not around, they would leer unpleasantly at her. When he was there, however, they did not dare. It was clear to Baba that they feared him greatly. When she needed the toilet, or to be washed, Malinka would release her from her chain and accompany her, all the while whispering threats of great punishment if she did not remain utterly compliant. Then she would return her to the chain.