by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
‘How long you going to be in there? Why have you locked the door? We have a family coming in soon. Please!’
‘Patience. This is a security issue. Nobody leaves and nobody comes in without my order. Now return to your TV. Unless you want trouble.’
The man behind the door disappeared.
‘What is in the case, old man?’
‘Say nothing.’
The guard slapped the younger man again.
‘Did I tell you to do that, Bas?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t say sorry to me, Bas. Apologise to the gentleman here.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind. Forgive my enthusiastic colleague. He wants to get on in the service. He’s just learning to follow orders without thought or conscience.’
The old man looked desperate. He turned to his younger friend. ‘They will see!’
‘Oh yes, old man. We shall see. We shall see everything. Now you. You know who I am. How do you know?’
The younger man’s bright eyes surveyed the hunk of man standing before him. He looked into his eyes without fear. ‘Aslan. Turkish for “lion”. Lions have teeth, claws…’
‘Cut the bullshit. You didn’t meet me in a zoo. Where was it?’
‘Do you remember these places, Colonel: Diyarbakir, Bitlis, Silvan, Batman, Hoshap? You were well known in those places. Redwan, Midyat, Van, Zakho—’
‘Enough! That was fifteen years ago.’
‘What’s he saying, sir?’
‘I think he’s trying to incriminate himself, Ali. All areas where the PKK operated in the nineties. We may have found ourselves a terrorist. Stroke of luck perhaps.’
‘I’m not PKK.’
‘He says he’s not, sir.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Aslan noted the sincerity on the man’s face. He also recognised that no terrorist suspect would have been so open about knowing him, or about revealing where he had encountered him. But the suspect did not have to know that.
‘I’m sorry. You turn up in Hamburg – a known hangout for terrorists – with no papers, and no ID. You say you know me, a security officer. That must be a million to one chance! You demonstrate familiarity with some of the trouble spots of our southeastern provinces. And you ask me to take your word that you’re not a dangerous terrorist setting up a new cell in Germany. My friend, you’re either extraordinarily bold, or absurdly stupid. Or perhaps you are a suicidal maniac utterly careless for your personal safety. A fanatic! Why are you in Hamburg?’
‘You would not understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘You ask how I know you in those places. That is easy to answer. I am a doctor.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Medical doctor. Some of your Special Police victims were my patients.’
‘Bas, leave the room!’
‘Sir?’
‘Leave the room! Help Özdogan with the case. Go on! Get out!’
‘Sir!’
28
Aslan sat down at the table. ‘Can you prove to me you’re a doctor?’
‘Why don’t you break your leg? I could set it for you. Or even your neck.’
‘So you don’t like me. So what?’
‘Do you want to be liked?’
‘Lions are proud. Tread carefully.’
‘Have you been treading carefully, Colonel? Where your men went, they rounded up suspects. And being a suspect means you live in a village where someone says a terrorist has visited. And what is a collaborator? Someone who speaks Kurdish. You tortured people for information. You murdered innocent people. I soaked up their blood and heard their last words. I often heard your name – Aslan. Aslan was an authority, an order – an excuse.’
‘Many stories were told about me. Propaganda, most of it. PKK lies.’
‘Most of it?’
‘I’m not proud of everything I had to do. I did my duty. You did yours. Sometimes innocent people and guilty people look the same. Look at you two! One looks like a tramp, the other, an accountant. What am I to make of that? Are you innocent illegals, or guilty illegals? Guilty or innocent, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why? Because I’m here, and you won’t say anything. That was always the problem!’
‘Problem, Colonel?’
‘They never speak!’
‘They’re frightened, Colonel.’
‘Yes, yes! They’re always fucking frightened! If people stood up to the terrorists, we could finish the job quickly, without all the mess.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘Every combat zone is a mess, Doctor. Chechnya, Kosovo… Their problems have been bleeding the countries white for years. We didn’t want that in Turkey. We wanted to sort it out quickly and get on with the future. Better than a long, slow drip of perpetual misery. We wanted to sort it out!’
‘The old way.’
‘If you like. The way we know best. It worked before.’
‘And is it sorted out?’
‘Mistakes were made. Mistakes were made… in the past. It’s over.’
Aslan got up and started pacing the narrow room. ‘There’s something about you, Doctor. Something strange. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, then all this trouble can go away. Give me something.’
‘Give something to Colonel Aslan, who took everything from my—’
‘Your what?’
‘My patients, Colonel.’
‘Your Turkish is good. Better than my Kurdish. Not born in Turkey, were you?’
The doctor said nothing.
Özdogan opened the front door.
‘Who gave you permission to enter? Get out!’
Özdogan slammed the door and stood outside with Bas in the rain.
Ali looked up at Aslan. Suddenly, he did not recognise his boss. ‘Sir?’
‘Ali?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Memories hard, are they Colonel?’
Aslan slapped the doctor hard across his face. Blood poured from his nose, but his eyes did not leave those of his attacker.
‘Damn it! I need some fresh air.’ Aslan nearly wrenched the door off its hinges, then took a deep breath. The two security men were soaked to the skin.
‘Why aren’t you in the car?’
‘Waiting for your orders, sir.’
‘My… why is everyone always waiting for orders? Why not just do them?’
‘You told us to—’
‘I know what I said! Come in! What’s in the case? Is it safe?’
‘Nothing came up on the screen, sir. I’d say it’s clean.’
‘Of course it’s safe.’ Aslan snatched it from Özdogan and threw it onto the table.
The old man was startled. ‘Please! Please! It’s sacred!’
‘Sacred? What’s the old man talking about?’
‘Some old junk, sir.’
‘Let’s have a look at it then!’
Özdogan opened the suitcase wide above the table and let the contents fall clanging onto the surface. Aslan’s eyebrows rose as he surveyed the scattered contents.
There were three bronze pieces. One had a large circular base with two spheres above it, and a screw thread. The second had a smaller base and was crowned with three spheres of decreasing size. Aslan picked up the third piece. Its graceful, sinuous shape resembled a cock or a dove. Its tail curved round flamboyantly at the back; its beak was long and arched downwards.
Its meaning suddenly dawned on Aslan. He dropped the piece on the table as if it were red hot.
‘Close your book, Ali.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Don’t ask why! I’m sick of people forever asking why. Ask them!’ He pointed to the two men. ‘Ask them why!’ The two men shrugged their shoulders.
‘Ali! Photograph them for the records. Özdogan! Bas! Back to the car. These men have nothing to do with our mission. The old man is an antiques dealer and the young man is clearly his son, protecting him. It’s a matter for German immigration.
‘
Our apologies, gentlemen. A case of mistaken identity.’
29
Standing at the front hatch of the RAF Hercules, fingers shaking, Ashe gripped his blue canvas bag. Baghdad International Airport felt like a vast oven. A blanket of heat penetrated his beige cotton clothes, welding them damply to his skin.
‘Come on, mate. Only ten minutes left to unload!’
Ashe was hurried down the ladder to the scorching tarmac. The muscular corporal jogged to the rear of the aircraft to supervise the scheduled roll-off of replacement vehicles and parts.
Ashe wiped his brow and dropped his bag, half expecting it to fry like an egg on the shimmering runway. If the Pope had kissed this turf, he’d have left his lips behind.
From the direction of the distant control tower and its nearby lookout posts, a Land Rover Defender 110 sped towards him. Ashe thought longingly of the green fields of RAF Brize Norton. He could be back there just in time for pub-closing. All he had to do was turn round and climb back up.
Too late. The Land Rover drew up smartly to the side of the cockpit. Out stepped a good-looking, enthusiastic young officer. Smiling, he extended a huge right hand.
‘Welcome to Baghdad International! How do you feel?’
‘Good to see you again, Simon. Bloody good.’
‘Toby, I’m afraid you’ll have to sit in the back of the Snatch.’
‘Snatch?’
‘This is an in-and-out vehicle.’
‘What?’ The noise from the Hercules was deafening.
‘IN AND OUT! Snatch!’
‘Check!’
Ashe climbed into the rear seat. In front of him was an American private, face obscured by helmet and shades, gripping an M4 carbine: small but lethal enough to incapacitate anyone within 600 metres.
‘You’re not in uniform, Simon.’
‘Officially, I’m off duty. But pass me my helmet will you? There’s one for passengers on the right. Put the body armour on as well. Straps are self-explanatory.’
As he buckled the helmet strapping around his face, the reality of the situation struck Ashe. ‘Are we likely to make it through the international zone in one piece?’
Major Richmond put the Snatch into first and sped off towards the roadblock at the airport perimeter. ‘Look in the back!’
‘What?’
‘Rear of the vehicle. Take a look.’
Through the narrow window behind the back seat sat two US marines. One of them cuddled the hard butt of a massive Browning .50 calibre heavy machine gun, mounted to the rear. The other clutched an M16A2. They both kept a keen eye on everything around them.
‘Quite a deterrent!’
‘Unfortunately, Toby, deterrents attract the mad.’
‘You’re sure putting me at my ease, Simon.’
‘You’ll be all right. But this is Baghdad, Toby, and no one forced you to come. Keep your eyes peeled and learn from what you see – and what you don’t. We were lucky to get support this morning. Incident at the UN Food Programme.’
‘Incident?’
‘Suicide bomber. Seems to be a never-ending supply of them.’
‘Home grown?’
‘Some. Many slip over the Syrian border. It’s an open wound.’
Ashe had already been briefed on Major Simon Richmond’s position in Baghdad. At the request of US military intelligence, he had been seconded to Baghdad from his Basra posting with the 1st Battalion, the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Having made an impression on senior American staff, Richmond was clearly a rising star.
As the Snatch sped along the corridor between the leafy suburbs of Baghdad and the Green Zone at the city’s centre, Ashe studied Richmond, noting the confident tilt of his jaw, and his steady blue-eyed gaze. Ashe had known him since Richmond was a shy teenager – a likeable, open-faced youth eager to follow his father into the army. Judging by the speed and authority with which he now received and relayed messages via the radio mike attached to his helmet, he had taken to officer training like a duck to water. Seeing him in his element like this, Ashe experienced a pride normally reserved for fathers.
Ashe studied the rows of shell-damaged but still attractive sandy-coloured hotels, offices, residences and shops that lined the four-lane motorway into the historic metropolis. Many of the newer structures had been the work of British construction teams, most of whom had enjoyed a decent life in Baghdad before the first Gulf War.
By and large, the Brits were not unpopular in Iraq – out of uniform, anyhow. Iraqi hospitality was legendary, and Ashe recalled a saying that some attributed to the Prophet Muhammad: ‘When you entertain a stranger, you are entertaining God.’
‘OK, Toby, you see over there? That’s the al-Kindi Gate – one of the three entrances to the secure area.’
‘The Green Zone.’
‘You’ve got the River Tigris on either side, and the US, UK and Australian embassies inside it.’
Ashe looked out of the bulletproof windows. Blackhawk helicopters buzzed about the perimeter. ‘Are those snipers on the walls?’
‘Yeah, they’re watching every possible point of entry. It’s like a sleep session for them, before they head back out there themselves.’
M1 Abrams tanks were as common as taxis in Trafalgar Square. Humvees and Bradley combat vehicles filled the gaps and lined the road to the entrance. Queues of Iraqi civilian workers shuffled up to the checkpoint, one by one, towards the body searches. Any one of them could bring instant death to dozens of men, women and children.
‘Ten thousand work there every day, Toby.’
‘That’s a lot of body searches.’
‘We’ve trained the Iraqis to do the job.’
‘What are they like to work with?’
‘They do the job, but there are problems.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘They’re cowed by authority. I’ll give you an example. An Iraqi guard is approached by someone looking like an officer. The guard asks for ID, which he is obliged to do. The officer screams at the guard, “I’m your superior!”, or something like that. The guard lets the man through. When we ask later, “Did you let a man dressed as an officer through without showing ID?”, he says “No”. We ask again. He says, “I always ask for ID. Those are my orders.” Different way of life.
‘People lie as a matter of course, because pride, for men, is more important than telling the truth. Truth is for religion. Truth comes with authority: something you must do or must believe. In ordinary life, truth costs money; it could cost you your livelihood, or your life – or the lives of your family, which is everything.
‘In Iraq, the truth is always veiled. They never believe official pronouncements. They want to see the body. If you ask a question, people will tend to give the answer they think you want to hear. Telling lies is almost a way of being polite – preserving your pride as well as theirs. If you ask the way to somewhere and they don’t know the answer, they’ll give you the wrong route just to appear helpful and so they don’t lose face. You get used to it.’
‘Tricky.’
‘No one asked us to come!’
Ashe took in the barricades and concrete blast walls ringing the priority offices.
‘You’ll be wanting the UK Embassy.’
‘Check. And a drink. I’m parched.’
‘Toby, I’m sorry. Here!’
Richmond handed Ashe a large bottle of Vittel mineral water from under his seat. ‘It’s a bit warm – I meant to give it to you at the airport.’
Ashe took as big a swig as he could and passed the bottle to the American private.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Snatch drew up at the embassy checkpoint. The American soldiers smiled but still looked distinctly stiff and nervous. The Snatch was waved through.
‘Right, Toby. If you still want that bed at the Coalition HQ, I’ll pick you up if you can call me before five. Give me your mobile. I’ll type my number in… That’s it. You can keep the body armour, but I need the helmet back in the ca
r. I’ll do what I can, but I should tell you, I’m under orders most of the time.’
Ashe removed the helmet and shook hands with Richmond. The major waved the marines off to rejoin their unit. ‘See you ’round, fellas. Keep your heads down.’
‘We will, sir.’
Ashe entered the reception of the pockmarked embassy. To the right of the reception desk, a gunner from the 1st Battalion, the Irish Guards, adjusted the optical sight of his formidable FN Minimi light machine gun. Concrete and sandbags provided cover.
‘I have an appointment with the ambassador.’
‘Papers please, Mr…?’
‘Ashe, Toby Ashe. Schedule B operation.’
The British staff receptionist, a Hindu with a Derbyshire accent, carefully perused Ashe’s papers and checked them on his computer. He then telephoned the ambassador’s office. The receptionist appeared somewhat doubtful as he looked Ashe up and down. He nodded at his interlocutor, then put the phone down abruptly.
‘I’m afraid, Mr Ashe, the ambassador is on a shopping expedition.’
‘Shopping expedition?’
‘If you would like to wait, there’s also a compound cafeteria, sir. Here’s your pass. Please wear it at all times. No exceptions, sir.’
‘How long?’
‘Maybe one hour. Maybe two.’
‘I’ll try the cafeteria.’
‘It’s very nice, sir.’
It was heartening to know there was something nice in Baghdad. After having his bag scoured by security, Ashe was directed towards a small quadrangle at the centre of the compound. Olive trees and date palms offered a luscious shade to the few dozen staff enjoying an early lunch and a beer. An Iraqi barman in a bright white shirt and black tie stood proudly behind the rolled stainless-steel bar. Ashe bought a bottle of Löwenbräu in pounds sterling and began to relax a little, despite the leaden weight of body armour suspended over his breastbone, back and crotch. He did not feel like taking it off.
He took a seat by a small enamelled fountain. What had once been a refreshing torrent was now a thirst-inducing trickle, but the wetness caught the sun, and the splashing sounds were welcome enough.
My God, Ashe thought to himself, what have I done? He reached inside his canvas bag for a notebook and began confiding his thoughts to paper. The important thing is—