3 Great Thrillers

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

  41

  The morning hit Ashe like a wet flannel. Every limb in his body ached, his head an unholy hole of regret and pain.

  Richmond burst into his room like a hammer to the temples. ‘Hands off cocks, on with socks!’

  The intelligence cycle had turned another crucial notch. A cog had slipped into place and while Ashe had slept the sleep of the just, an operation had been planned to get him up into Kurdistan.

  ‘Shit, shower and shave, Toby!’

  Ashe squinted at the naked strip light.

  ‘Come on! You can try these.’ Richmond withdrew a packet of hangover Eazers from the breast pocket of his US uniform shirt. ‘They’re pretty good if you have a big breakfast – give all that acid something to work on.’

  ‘Do I have to get up?’

  ‘We’ve got two armoured cars and four US guardsmen out there waiting to escort you to the wedding. Don’t they deserve a little enthusiasm?’

  Ashe struggled out of his bunk and tried to get his right foot into his shorts. He looked up at Richmond – dressed, for the first time in a fortnight, in combat uniform. It was a fine sight, set off by Simon Richmond’s perennially encouraging smile.

  ‘If you enjoyed our minor incident at the roadblock, you’re going to love this little outing.’

  ‘More friendly fire, Simon?’

  ‘You’ll be lucky!’

  Richmond tossed Ashe a helmet, freshly camouflaged. As Ashe caught it, his shorts fell down. Richmond tutted. ‘Limp cock. Bad sign.’

  While Zappa, Richmond and Ashe were making their way quickly through the DIA forward-planning area, Richmond handed Ashe a Browning 9 mm with its canvas holster and belt.

  ‘I forgot this, Toby. I hope you won’t.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  The shadowy room flickered with dozens of LCD monitors. There was a positive babel of voices on phones and in radio communication with contacts throughout the Middle East.

  ‘Say goodbye to civilisation, Toby!’

  ‘You’re kidding, Zap old boy! Civilisation is where we’re heading. We’re going to the land of Abraham!’

  ‘I think you’ll find Abraham’s moved out, bud.’

  ‘Must have seen you coming.’

  ‘Fuck off, Toby!’

  The trio mounted a series of cast-iron steps that led through the dark and up to the surface. An unfamiliar sound was tap-dancing its way over the closed steel hatch.

  ‘Umbrellas, anyone?’ quipped Richmond, as the three emerged into a torrential grey-and-brown downpour. An unpleasant green colour seemed to flash on and off as the banks of angry black clouds battled with each other for supremacy. The bullets of rain fell so heavily that soon every nose was dripping and every garment had turned into a soaking flannel. Ashe’s head felt oddly cocooned in his helmet as the rain echoed about and within his head like a Walkman.

  Richmond patted Ashe on the shoulder and shouted under his helmet rim. ‘Like I said, Toby. Limp cock. Bad sign!’

  ‘Hey! It’s size that matters.’

  ‘Then we’re sunk!’

  Through the barrage of rain and explosions of thunder, Ashe could hear the vehicles revving up for the 150-mile journey ahead: a caravan of steel.

  In front of him, reversing with great skill considering the conditions, were two US four-wheeled, four-door Humvees. The rear plating on one had been removed to accommodate two mounted machine guns, both wrapped in tarpaulin. The second vehicle had an enclosed rear with a winch attached at the back. Two privates, dressed in light-brown waterproof capes, directed the Humvees into position.

  Ashe called over to Richmond. ‘Are we going to get waterproofs, Simon?’

  ‘Afraid not. I’ve not been issued with one and there’s none left for you!’

  ‘That’s a— Hey! What’s that?’

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Toby. That’s our Merc. Class 7. Somebody’s decided you’re an important person.’

  Ashe looked at Zappa.

  ‘Don’t look at me, bud. Class 5’s always been good ’nough for me.’

  ‘Anyhow, Toby, if you still want protection from this rain, may I suggest…?’

  Richmond opened the front door.

  ‘Front this time?’

  ‘Hop in! Vinny – the back! What’s that? Yeah, gear’s loaded already.’

  Richmond settled into the driving seat. Ashe stared at the unfamiliar dashboard and complexity of additional features. ‘Very hi-tech, Simon.’

  ‘Yes, a CD player. Anyone fancy Dolly Parton?’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘How about Wagner for Soldiers – US Defense Special Issue?’

  ‘You’re fuckin’ joking!’

  ‘I jest not, Vinny. It’s a psy-ops production. Look!’

  ‘Fuck! Who’s been in this wagon?’

  ‘Francis Ford Coppola by the sound of things.’

  Richmond tried out the high-speed wipers. ‘We have vision, gentlemen. Now, here’s something. Rolling Stones, anybody?’

  ‘Just play “Start me Up”, Major, and cut the crap!’

  ‘I’m with Vinny. I want the Human Riff.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  ‘By the way, Simon, where’s our interpreter?’

  ‘Dr Zaqqarah was not available for duty. We’ve got Ibrahim on this trip. He’s behind us in the Humvee.’

  ‘Remind me again why they’re called “Humvees”?’

  ‘D’ya hear that? There’s something this boy doesn’t know. You explain it, Major.’

  ‘Humvee, Toby, is a… what’s that word? Diminutive?’

  ‘Don’t look at me, Major. Abbreviation?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s like that. Officially they’re called an HMMWV, which, if you say it fast with a mouth full of cornflakes, sounds a bit like “Humvee”.’

  ‘And what is an HMMWV?’

  ‘It’s an acronym!’

  ‘Now he tells us!’

  ‘Thank you, Toby. It’s an acronym for High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘OK, fasten your fears and lock up your doubts. Gentlemen, we’re go, go, go!’

  The Humvee in front led the way as a squad lifted a series of double razor-wire barriers. Ashe looked out of the window to see whether the Humvee behind was in step with the rest of the convoy. His spirits sank. Two familiar faces in British combat gear were approaching the stairwell hatch. The men stopped, looked over at the vehicles, and stared hard through the driving rain. Ashe pulled his head back in.

  Bagot and Colquitt. Like some awful old firm of debt collectors. What the fuck were the beagles doing in Baghdad? What was more, had they sniffed him? Ashe dared not stick his head out again. No one could screw up his operation quicker than Major Giles Bagot and Lieutenant Tony Colquitt. He prayed he would not hear the splash of running feet and a frantic knocking on the car door.

  ‘Come on, Simon, let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Are you all right, Toby? Why the haste?’

  ‘Let’s just move.’

  ‘Right.’ Richmond put his foot down and rushed through the barriers as fast as he could, almost hitting the Humvee in front.

  ‘Steady on, Major. We’ve a way to go yet.’

  If anything, the weather was getting worse. Forks of lightning between the thunder claps made a dramatic if disturbing show over the ancient city.

  Ashe jumped as a tortured-sounding voice echoed from a minaret overhead.

  ‘You must be on edge if a muezzin startles you,’ said Richmond.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ashe said. ‘It’s just this filthy weather. There’s something uncanny about the mix of Islamic pieties and the raging storm.’

  ‘Good job the call to prayer comes from a pre-recorded tape these days, then, eh? You wouldn’t want to be a live muezzin climbing up a minaret in lightning like this.’

  Ashe nodded, and the pair fell into a companionable silence as Richmond drove the Merc out of the confines of the city, happy to leave the stress of Baghdad behind
.

  ‘So, Toby, you were asking me about the Humvees?’

  ‘Was I? Oh yes. Those would be the High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles, would they not? Sometimes these acronyms go a bit far, don’t you think? I mean, are there any High Mobility Multipurpose Unwheeled Vehicles?’

  ‘Not on the road, bud.’

  ‘I suppose they’re trying to distinguish them from tanks.’

  ‘Even so, but imagine if the Pentagon had to define a woman in similar terms. A High Mobility, Multipurpose Long-legged—’

  ‘Thank the Lord they ain’t on to that yet, Toby!’

  The major quietly hummed the tune to ‘There is Nothing Like a Dame’.

  ‘That ain’t how they see things at the Pentagon these days, Major. The way things are goin’, the army would prefer to make no explicit distinction between males and females wherever humanly possible. They’d prefer some kind of hi-tech military-oriented hermaphrodite.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We got machines – robots – comin’ in to man roadblocks.’

  ‘If indeed “man” is the correct word.’

  ‘The word is appropriate, not correct.’

  ‘Are you saying it’s not appropriate to be correct?’

  ‘No, it’s only appropriate when it is correct.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Listen, all I’m saying is, how long will it be before—’

  ‘OK, Vinny, we’ve all seen Terminator! But it’s a few years to go before robots do all the fighting.’

  ‘But maybe it’s only tomorrow when the robots do the planning.’

  ‘Thank you, Toby. What you don’t realise is that our friend Vincent Zappa here is, by and large, a very balanced, reasonable fellow.’

  ‘I’m a regular guy!’

  ‘See what I mean? But he does have his sensitive areas. He’s scared of any technology that might make him redundant.’

  ‘I’m just fightin’ for my right to work, Major!’

  ‘You have my full support. Now, Toby, to answer your question. The Humvee up front is the M1043 Humvee armament carrier.’

  ‘Tell him what it weighs.’

  ‘About four tons.’

  ‘You won’t be pullin’ that with your teeth!’

  ‘Behind us – or, as we jocularly say, “up our rear” – is the M1038 cargo and troop carrier with winch.’

  ‘They throw the winch in extra!’

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘O’Gara-Hess & Eisenhardt of Fairfield, Ohio, if you must know.’

  ‘And let us not forget, O smartass Limey, several models derive from AM General, of South Bend, Indiana.’

  Ashe nodded with mock satisfaction. ‘Well, gentlemen, I feel suitably enlightened. Is all the conversation on this journey to be of such sparkling and informative character?’

  ‘Not if you leave it to us, Dr Toby Ashe. We’ll leave the really smart remarks to you.’

  ‘In that case, Simon, would you care to turn the music up?’

  The convoy sped north out of Baghdad to the tune of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Tumbling Dice’. But as he tapped his boot to the old chestnut, the question uppermost in Ashe’s mind was, on whose side were the dice loaded?

  42

  ‘This was a nice idea, Ms Gresham.’

  ‘For heaven’s sakes, Sherman, call me Leanne. My father did, and he never fell off his perch.’

  Beck had taken a taxi ten miles south of Langley, McLean, through Fairfax County, to meet Leanne Gresham at a little Italian restaurant on the green outskirts of Annandale. The glare of the sun reflected off the plastic gingham tablecloth. Through the fine old windowpanes of the colonial-style establishment, they could see a quiet road and a tranquil pony ranch.

  ‘That’s where I used to take my daughter for riding lessons.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Princeton.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be. She’s studying theology.’

  ‘Could be useful today.’

  ‘She thinks it will be even more useful tomorrow. Lord! How things change! I mean what use is theology in a laboratory? When I was growing up, theology was like studying antiquarian bookselling. Fascinating, but strictly for enthusiasts.’

  ‘As you say, things change.’

  ‘A law of the universe. And we in the Directorate of Science and Technology have as much trouble with it as anyone else. Take your boss. A fortnight ago, Lee Kellner could hardly bring himself to notice me in the corridor. Now he’s all grace and charm. Makes quite a difference.’

  ‘I guess he’s suddenly realised your importance.’

  ‘Well there is a change. And it isn’t just smiles and courtesies. He’s let me in on your story. Even asked me to finish briefing you before we – did you get that? we – go to California.’

  ‘Is that an order, ma’am?’

  ‘Objections?’

  The question struck Beck as slightly compromising, especially as uttered by Gresham. There was just a hint of seductiveness, a tiny silver sparkle in the air between them.

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. When duty calls, I follow.’

  Gresham smiled. ‘I do believe, Sherman, there’s gallantry in your soul. Don’t blush, honey. Paleness suits you.’

  A large Italian lady, singing a Puccini aria to herself, carried two steaming earthenware dishes over to their table, balancing them like the scales of justice.

  ‘Lasagne!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Grazie, madam. You both order salad.’

  ‘Yeah. Caesar salad.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll take your eyes off that woman’s derrière, Sherman, what did you want to know about al-Qasr? He’s quite a looker, you know.’

  ‘Kellner explained how al-Qasr used a Yezidi deserter for medical experiments at al-Tuwaitha.’

  ‘Scientists often turn a blind eye to the human dimensions of what they do. I’m not saying this to excuse Dr al-Qasr. I mean, I was as shocked about that as you were. But sometimes the pursuit of knowledge seems to outweigh every other consideration. Did you know that Robert Boyle and Christopher Wren—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Boyle and Wren. Two English scientists who were around just before Lord Fairfax bought what is now Virginia. Late seventeenth century. Fairfax’s house was where CIA Langley now stands.’

  ‘So what did Boyle and Wren do?’

  ‘They were interested in the way blood flows round the body. They understood that the condition of the blood is the clue to identifying illness. You could say these guys were at the root of what became genetic science.’

  ‘It’s all in the blood.’

  ‘It’s all in the blood. Anyhow, they drained a dog of all of its blood. Then they took a poor man, got him drunk, bled him, and transfused the dog’s blood into him.’

  Beck tried to take the idea in. It didn’t go well with lasagne and salad. ‘Yup. Sounds like science to me.’

  ‘You get the picture. Well, like the poor sap used by the old scientists in my story, the Yezidi man at the mercy of al-Qasr eventually succumbed.’

  ‘He murdered him.’

  Gresham sighed. ‘I guess so. The next thing is that the Yezidi man’s family petition Saddam as to their relative’s whereabouts. Eventually they’re told he volunteered for the front but was now missing – the usual story given to Iraqi families to explain why sons didn’t come home. Saddam didn’t want anyone to know the full extent of the carnage. Men killed by Iranian bullets and shells were routinely listed as having been transferred to another front. Desperate people will believe anything. Saddam needed new fronts. This partly explains the attack on Kuwait. Also, Saddam owed Kuwait the fifteen billion dollars borrowed to wage war on Iran.’

  ‘You’re very well informed, Leanne.’

  ‘Thank your nice Mr Kellner for that.’

  ‘No one ever called Lee “nice”.’

  ‘Well, apart from Lee, no one at Langley ever called me “beautiful” ei
ther!’

  ‘Was that appropriate?’

  ‘Spare me the PC bullshit, Sherman. I’d call it courteous!’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Not at all. I mean, he didn’t pinch my ass or anything!’

  Beck laughed. ‘OK. So what about al-Qasr?’

  ‘Lee’s informant knew – we don’t know how – that al-Qasr’s experimental victim had not returned to the guns and the fury. Apparently, the poor man was just as useful to al-Qasr dead as he had been alive. Al-Qasr had the body stored in a special freezing facility just north of Basra, protected by a missile bunker.’

  ‘I get it. That’s the place the British hit in 1992. The place mentioned in the informant’s first communication. Makes you wonder what the British knew about it.’

  ‘Right. All we know is the British Royal Air Force hit the facility in June 1992 as part of its holding operation in the no-fly zone after the end of the Gulf War. And that is when my department first heard of the great Dr Sami al-Qasr’s desire to defect from Saddam. Naturally, we welcomed al-Qasr with open arms.’

  ‘Why “naturally”?’

  ‘That’s a very good question, Sherman.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’d need clearance from your Mr Kellner to answer that.’

  ‘Touché.’

  43

  A black Mercedes limo drew up smoothly below the restaurant window.

  ‘Looks like our taxi, Sherman.’

  ‘That doesn’t look anything like our taxi!’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  Leanne Gresham and Sherman Beck slipped their jackets on, paid the waitress and made their way outside.

  Gresham opened the rear door for Beck.

  ‘Pleasant lunch, Agent Beck?’ Kellner looked up from a report he was perusing, took off his reading glasses and smiled. ‘Glad to have you aboard. And especially you, Mrs Gresham.’

  Leanne Gresham slipped into the front seat and arranged her skirt. ‘Thanks for the lift, Mr Kellner.’

  ‘Call me Lee.’

  ‘Lee and Sherman? I must say I would never have expected to be sharing a limo with two opposing Civil War generals!’

  Beck grinned.

  ‘Now, Lee. Agent Beck here was interested to know why my old department took such a keen interest in al-Qasr’s offer to defect to the States in 1992.’