3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  ‘One of these days. May I introduce to you a friend from England?’ Ashe was not to be introduced by name. Zaqqarah smiled sweetly and shook hands with Ashe.

  As they emerged from the stairwell hatch into the light, Ashe struggled with the glare of the afternoon sun; the heat came hard.

  An American sergeant saluted Richmond. ‘We’ve gotten you a BMW, sir.’

  ‘Class 5 or 7, Sergeant?’

  ‘Class 5, sir.’

  ‘I asked for Class 7.’

  ‘The last one left the compound with Major Rudetsky, an hour ago, sir.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the Merc?’

  ‘Fuel pump, sir. It’ll be ready tonight.’

  Richmond turned to Zappa. ‘Class 5 today, Zap.’

  ‘The Lord giveth, Major.’

  Ashe looked quizzical.

  ‘It’s about adapted security features, Ashe. Additional batteries, secondary air-con systems, armoured chassis, bulletproofing, tracking features, weaponry. I’d hoped for the Merc Class 7. Apparently, we’re not important enough. Or you aren’t!’

  The two men laughed.

  ‘I suppose some are more indispensable than others.’ Dr Zaqqarah’s nervous laugh cracked audibly.

  The sergeant opened the door for the three men and saluted. ‘Good luck, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  Ashe got into the back of the BMW with the interpreter. The doors slammed shut. This was it: Ashe’s first operation in the field.

  39

  The grey BMW passed through the al-Kindi gate into the heart of Baghdad. A busy late afternoon and the streets were pullulating with hot, dusty activity. Most Baghdadis understood the ‘live and let live’ principle, Ashe was coming to realise, but that didn’t mean someone was going to let them live.

  Heading towards the Tigris along al-Mamoun Boulevard, the car turned sharp right, following signs for the Main Supply Route – or MSR as Richmond referred to the Basra–Baghdad highway.

  Ashe enjoyed talking to Dr Zaqqarah. It turned out he had a cousin working as a surgeon in Burton-on-Trent, ten miles from Ashe’s home. Ashe wondered if Zaqqarah’s cousin might find better employment in Iraq.

  ‘This is what I tell him, sir. And he says, “Come home? Is it safe?” What can I tell him? Here, criminals kidnap doctors and hold them to ransom every week. The rebellion must stop; we want normal lives.’

  The car pulled up outside a café at a huge crossroads. The single-storey establishment stood out starkly against the barren site. The surrounding structures had been bombed and the debris bulldozed to make way for yet another car park. The positive point was that there was little cover for anyone contemplating an ambush, and ample means of escape should such a thing occur.

  The air was still; Richmond checked his watch. Zappa muttered under his breath, ‘Eyes peeled, TA.’

  The American stretched his left arm down to an M4 carbine secured in a special pocket to the side of his seat. Richmond had his hand close to his jacket’s inside pocket; he checked his watch again.

  ‘Twenty seconds.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  A red Toyota pickup skidded into the bay at the side of the café. A teenager emerged from the back of the building, spoke to the driver and went back inside.

  ‘That’s it, guys, we’re off.’

  Richmond put the car in gear.

  ‘Hold it, Major. Look!’ Zappa pointed to the café entrance. A big man in a dark-pink shirt and holding a newspaper came out of the café. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and blew his nose. At the same moment, the teenager returned to the Toyota at the side, carrying a huge plastic petrol container.

  ‘It’s OK. Black market.’

  ‘Free market,’ added Zaqqarah.

  The man with the newspaper thrust a fat cigarette through the bush of his moustache. A match failed; he reached into his back pocket for a lighter.

  ‘That’s the signal.’

  Richmond revved the car twice. The man walked slowly towards the BMW.

  Ashe held his breath. It could be a set-up. He fingered the SIG, trying to recall a wet weekend’s weapons-handling course at British Army Kineton. A dismally damp Warwickshire suddenly seemed a very attractive alternative to a car park in Iraq.

  Zaqqarah depressed the rear-window control and spoke to the man in Arabic.

  Before Ashe had a moment to grasp the exchange, the car had a new passenger and was speeding off south. Hurried, nervous conversation passed between the man and the interpreter.

  ‘What’s going on, Simon?’

  ‘Confirmation of the price. Agreement of terms.’

  ‘Price?’

  ‘Replacement car parts mostly. Handy equipment, difficult to obtain. A car service. Nothing conspicuous. Maybe a little money. Petrol. That sort of stuff. Common things but bloody useful.’

  The car sped on beyond the outskirts of Baghdad. In the distance, Ashe caught sight of a row of massive guard towers, spaced out some fifty meters from one to another. It looked like the outer limits of hell. As the car got closer and the towers loomed larger, gargantuan soil embankments 100 metres high blocked the eye line, leaving the perimeter road in heavy shadow.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘That is the al-Tuwaitha Research Facility.’

  ‘And those mounds? Looks like archaeology.’

  ‘Maybe in the future. This is just part of Saddam’s protection investment.’

  The car screeched to a standstill.

  ‘Shit!’

  Thirty metres down the road, a great plume of black smoke billowed from a cauldron of twisted metal and orange fire: a Humvee had hit a mine. A makeshift roadblock had been erected.

  The source began to fidget awkwardly in his seat.

  ‘Everybody, stay calm. Translate that, please Dr Zaqqarah.’

  The source was sweating uncontrollably. Ashe’s shoulder was feeling the damp.

  An M16 was levelled at the car. An American private indicated for an interpreter to move forwards between himself and the vehicle. As the interpreter raised a battery-powered megaphone, he tripped over a corpse by his feet.

  ‘Get down everyone!’ bellowed Richmond.

  The private looked startled, and released a three-round burst towards the car. Tiny shards of windscreen scattered as the car shook, echoing with the deafening shots.

  ‘Christ!’

  The private’s interpreter screamed. ‘No shoot! It’s all right. I trip on body.’

  The soldier, young, nervous, distracted, fired harsh words at the interpreter. The interpreter begged the driver and passengers of the BMW to get out, one by one, and lie on the ground with hands and legs stretched out in a cross pattern.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He says everyone out of the car, one at a time. Only one at a time, or they shoot. No questions.’

  Richmond spoke under his breath. ‘Thank God it’s a Class 5 windscreen. OK, you first Vinny.’

  ‘Why the fuck is it always me?’

  ‘Yanks like to be first, don’t they?’

  The source lost control. Panicking, he flailed his arms about, kicking the backs of the seats.

  ‘For God’s sake, TA, calm him down!’

  ‘Why not show him your pistol?’

  ‘If they see me do that, you can kiss your life goodbye.’

  ‘I not want to die! I not want to die!’

  ‘Not you! Zaqqarah, tell the man we’ll all be bloody dead if he carries on like this!’

  The interpreter reached for his megaphone. ‘One by one. Now!’

  ‘Shit, Simon! If the source gets out on his own, he could blow the whole thing.’

  Zappa turned to the source. ‘Listen, man! You know some English, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I don’t want—’

  ‘Can it! If you’re a good boy, brave lion, big man… your father’s son, pride of your family, then we all live, OK?’

  Zaqqarah translated for good measure. The man nod
ded and wiped his nose.

  The interpreter with the megaphone repeated the orders in Arabic. Richmond put his hand on Zappa’s shoulder. ‘Come on, old friend.’

  Zappa calmly got out of the car, his hands in the air. The private indicated with his rifle barrel that he should hit the deck.

  ‘Next man out!’

  Ashe was next. Gingerly, he opened the back door to see, in the distance, the private calling up a ground-mounted machine gun: a bright new M240B. The crew loaded it, itching to give the lethal weapon a road test.

  Ashe held his breath, tried to smile, and lay down near to Zappa. Zappa whispered to Ashe. ‘Why the fuck doesn’t the soldier use his sight?’

  Ashe whispered back. ‘None as blind as them that won’t see.’

  Zappa closed his eyes and began running Beatles songs through his mind, trying to get the singles in order of release – an old trick he’d been using at the dentist ever since he was a boy. With any luck, by the time he’d got to ‘The Long and Winding Road’ the pain would be over.

  The source had begun to shake again, and had developed a curious tick in his neck. Richmond implored the interpreter inside the car to do something. ‘Tell him he’ll be fine. I’ll leave the car last.

  ‘OK, now you, Dr Zaqqarah. Give ’em a big smile and raise your hands. Everything’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘I’m afraid… I’m afraid I have…’ Zaqqarah tried to edge his way out of the car; his trousers were stuck to the seat. He gave an awful look to Richmond and shook his head. A stomach-turning stench filled the car’s interior.

  Ashe, his body roasting on the tarmac, tried to move to spread the heat. He heard Zaqqarah’s feet crunch on the loose gravel chippings. In the distance: two choppers, like spiders descending from a celestial web, buzzed through the smoke-filled sky to the burning Humvee.

  Ashe could hear the machine-gun crew addressing the private. ‘Christ!’ he thought, ‘a group of five men in an expensive car. US casualties on the ground. What was the crew thinking? Revenge? Something to release the tension?’

  Ashe saw the machine-gun crew taking aim.

  The source emerged from the car and stared into the barrel of the M240B, like a rabbit in headlights; he was paralysed.

  ‘One at a time,’ whispered Zappa from somewhere between ‘She loves you’ and ‘I want to hold your hand’. ‘Come on, boy!’

  Ashe thought he heard something on the machine gun. The helicopters were now directly overhead, whipping up the gravel that danced along the road like demented locusts. The private and the gun crew started shouting at each other above the increased whirl and roar of ’copter blades. The crew pointed at the source, shaking by the back door. The man dropped to his knees. The private levelled his M16 downwards.

  ‘Move away from the car!’ pleaded Zaqqarah to the source.

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted the private’s interpreter.

  ‘Move away!’

  The man would not move.

  Richmond started audibly praying. The helicopter hovered overhead. Nothing he could say would be heard. The source would not move.

  40

  Richmond raised his arms in surrender to the car roof, his fists clenched; his nails dug into his hands.

  The machine-gunners caught the movement inside the car and pulled the gun towards the windscreen.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  The machine-gun crew screamed at the private. The crew sergeant got to his feet. ‘Lower your weapon, Soldier! That goddamn guy out there is one of us! Why don’t you use the fuckin’ sight?’

  ‘It’s my shades, Sarge. Covered in blood. I was assisting wounded and this car’s suddenly there, Sergeant. I couldn’t see good.’

  The sergeant told the interpreter he could use English. The interpreter was confused. The sergeant grabbed the megaphone and walked towards the car. ‘OK you guys! There’s been a misunderstanding over here. Stand up and approach the roadblock!’

  Zappa, whistling ‘A Ticket to Ride’, hauled his weight off the tarmac and went round to the source, who was still kneeling, crippled with fear.

  ‘Come on, pal, you’re safe. You tell him, Doctor.’

  Ashe, still apprehensive, rolled over onto his back and snapped to his feet. Feeling dizzy, he tried to stop holding his breath.

  Medics were pouring from the ’copter and racing across to the wounded soldiers. Richmond approached the sergeant, showed his ID and shared a joke – both trying to ignore the cries of the men being strapped onto stretchers.

  ‘You’re damned lucky, sir. My crew here had you marked out as fuckin’ terrorists. Excuse my language, sir; they’re in no mood to be delicate about it. If you take my advice, sir, you’ll be outta here as soon as possible. Lord knows what else is gonna come this way now. Those ’copters make mighty fine targets for rocket grenades. This whole damn country’s a weapon of mass destruction!’

  ‘That’s what they’d like you to believe, Sergeant. Good luck.’

  Richmond thanked the apologetic machine-gun crew for not opening fire. Zappa went back to the BMW and manoeuvred it slowly through the smoke.

  Dr Zaqqarah removed his trousers and used Richmond’s mineral water to wash his backside, drying it with the discarded garments.

  And the source sat cross-legged by the car, praying out loud to Allah to deliver him and everybody else from the checkpoint inferno.

  That night, Ashe drank himself sober. He lay still, gazing at the rough wool of the blanket in the bunk above his head.

  Had he been frightened? Yes. Had he ever been as scared as that? No, he didn’t think so. But had he ever been more alive? That he couldn’t answer; he’d had some incredible experiences in the past, things so special that memory itself was inadequate to replay them. This was different – and what a bond had been forged in just a few hours between himself, Zappa and Richmond. He could see why many men found life outside the services difficult. Then he thought of poor Dr Zaqqarah going home to his wife that night: a pious Muslim, unable to drink, unable to speak, and with a new pair of ill-fitting trousers – and no explanation.

  And what of the poor source? He seemed to have aged five years in an afternoon.

  But, for all that, it had worked well. They’d taken the softened-up source to the edge of a stone quarry near the al-Tuwaitha installation, close to a Hungarian field hospital. Desperate to get back to his own world, the source had spilled everything he had on Kurdish political activity in Baghdad. Zappa even picked up some useful information on unrelated investigations. The source had gabbed and gabbed, and Zappa had been happy. They threw in a microwave and a spare set of tyres for his trouble. He said ‘Any time,’ but ‘could they meet in Baghdad next time?’

  Zappa and Richmond doubted if they’d see him again – at least until his car broke down again for want of parts.

  Both Yazar and Yildiz had been in Baghdad, ostensibly for discussions on the composition of the new Iraqi constitutional assembly, due to take control in the spring of ’05. Their presence there could be seen as innocent enough. They could just have been getting the low-down on Kurdish chances for autonomy, federation or even independence from central Iraqi power in the new Iraq so many dreamed of.

  There were hundreds of issues of importance to Kurdish politicians and the people they represented. For example, would the Kurdish militia be expected to amalgamate with a new Iraqi army? The Kurds, allied to US Forces, had been partially independent since the safe zone had been established in northern Iraq in 1991. Who would control an Iraqi army? How could a future military coup be prevented?

  These issues also exercised the minds of Turkish security forces. Yazar and Yildiz were operating under assumed names; the source had only recognised them from photographs in Zappa’s file. According to the source, Yazar and Yildiz had left Baghdad in a hurry. They’d gone north to Mosul.

  Mosul was Zappa’s territory; he liked the north of Iraq. For a start, the area had more supporters of the US effort than any other
part of the Middle and Near East. Zappa got on well with the Kurds and enjoyed the complex politicking that happened in every corner of the region. But, frankly, as he put it to Ashe before nesting down with a bottle of JD, Harlem at its worst was better than Kirkuk at its best.

  Ashe himself longed to get out of the DIA HQ. It felt like a bunker. This was doubtless due to the fact that it had once been a bunker. An Oddball’s bunker, no less – one of Saddam’s many lairs. It had been no surprise to learn that Richmond’s ‘office’, in dull, lavatorial green, once was an interrogation chamber.

  Ashe was beginning to think about getting back home; everyone was – except, perhaps, Zappa. Anyhow, no one voiced such thoughts too eagerly; the task lay before them, undone.

  Ashe had, somewhat to his surprise, become a component in what Major Richmond called ‘the intelligence cycle’. The idea worked like this: a certain number of objectives would be established. These would lead to a series of source interviews. The interviews would be assessed, checked, crosschecked, analysed and compared. New information would coalesce into a new set of priorities and a fresh intelligence cycle could begin.

  There was no jumping the gun, no place for undisciplined mavericks or loose cannons. In theory, original minds were welcome, but one man’s lateral thinker could be another man’s nut. There were no freewheeling agents acting on intuition, going from one gun-toting adventure to another. This was not acting, and James Bond could only be found on the Coalition Camp DVD screens.

  Intelligence-gathering was many things, but one thing it could not be described as was ‘entertaining’ – though it might contain the odd glimmer of light relief. The story of Zaqqarah’s trousers would do the rounds for some time – as would a certain black humour associated with the private’s shades, covered with blood.

  There was even some lightness to be gained from full exposure to Zappa’s extraordinary range of shirts. Like his shirts, Vinny’s turn of phrase was rarely anything less than florid. Vinny was an acquired taste; Ashe had acquired it.