by Chris Ryan
Three minutes ticked by on his watch. Jed was still thinking.
‘Listen,’ said Sutton, his expression softening. ‘You’re a good man, Jed. You’ve got a great future in this outfit. With your academic qualifications and your skills in the field, you could go all the way. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but let me tell you this, if you blow out of the Regiment now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’
Jed looked back at him. He thought about the way he’d felt when he’d walked back into the regimental headquarters a few minutes ago after getting back from Cambridge. He thought about the trophies on the wall of the mess, marking the different battles the Regiment had fought throughout the world. He thought about the mates he had made since he signed up: men who would lay down their lives for him, and for whom he would gladly do the same. I belong here, he told himself. I sure as hell don’t belong anywhere else. Never did.
‘When do we start?’ he said.
Laura was standing at the front of the room. She glanced down at Jed, and a brief smile flickered across her lips. Obvious enough that I will know what she means, he thought to himself. But subtle enough so that no one else will.
‘Here,’ she said, pointing a finger at the map. ‘The target is right here.’
Jed looked around the room. He’d been introduced to the rest of the team ten minutes ago. Steve was a twenty-six-year-old Londoner, with two years in the Regiment behind him. Jed had worked with him once before and rated him as a tough, efficient operator. Rob was from Nottingham, and at thirty was the oldest of the unit. Married with one kid, he was a quiet and serious man. Jed had not worked with him before, but he’d heard good things about him. Matt was the final member of the four-man team, a loud Geordie, with an obsessive interest in football and women, who was usually found at the bar late at night with a beer in his hand, slagging off Sven-Göran Eriksson for not picking more Newcastle players for the England team. They were all good men, Jed decided. They probably deserved better than what they were about to get.
‘The drop-off will be three miles from the site,’ continued Laura.
From the black-and-white satellite map it looked more like Birmingham than Baghdad. A set of grey warehouses, surrounded by factories, and a huge great concrete road slung across another, smaller road with little thought for the local people.
She pointed to the compound, and even from a shot taken a couple of miles up in the sky, Jed could tell it was more heavily guarded than when he had taken pictures of it a couple of weeks ago: somebody had taken the trouble to build up its fortifications, and that was suspicious in itself. There was a thick set of concrete walls, topped off by barbed wire, with machine-gun turrets stationed every fifty yards. Inside the perimeter wall, there was what looked like a deep ditch or a moat: it was impossible from the satellite to tell which. Whatever the Iraqis were keeping in there, they certainly didn’t want anyone stumbling across it.
‘You’ll start out in Kuwait, then a Black Hawk will take you up to Baghdad,’ said Laura. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble on that bit of the journey. The Iraqis have given up contesting control of the air and are letting us do pretty much what we like up there. We’ll be using electronics to jam their radar systems in the vicinity, so hopefully they won’t even know there’s a chopper coming in. But, as you know, none of those systems are fail-safe, so you’ll have to be prepared to fight your way out of trouble if you need to. If it gets too hot on landing, the Black Hawk will abort and try to find another setting-down point. But once you’re down, that’s it. The chopper won’t be coming back. You’ll be on your own.
‘Jed has already been into the territory, so he’ll be leading the way. You’ll skirt around the edge of Baghdad for two miles, then strike into the centre of the city. You’ll have detailed maps so you won’t have to stop and ask for directions.’ Laura glanced around her audience, but quickly realised no one was smiling. ‘Once you get there, you’ll need to lay up and survey the scene. We’ll sort you out with plenty of dollars and some gold coins, so if you get the chance, bribe one of the locals to help you out. But remember, the most important thing is not to get caught.’
A second image flashed up on the screen. It showed the compound in greater detail. Jed recognised some of the details from his last visit: it had pipes running into it, and chimneys arranged around its core. ‘The mission is to get inside, and get pictures of what they are doing in there,’ Laura continued, tapping her finger impatiently against the satellite image. ‘If you can, get samples as well. You’ll all be issued with biological protection suits, because we have to assume there is some kind of chemical weapon inside this facility. If it gets too dangerous, evacuate, but make sure you’ve planned a way to get back in.’ She paused, her eyes resting on each man in turn. ‘This mission is critical. We have to find out what’s happening in there. If you don’t get it first go, you just have to keep trying.’
‘How are we supposed to fight with the bio suits on?’ said Matt.
Laura looked at him. ‘We have thirty-six hours until drop-down. I suggest you practise as hard as you can.’
‘But if we get faced with a choice, what’s the operating procedure?’ said Rob. ‘Abandon the suits and keep fighting, or retreat. What’s the intel? How great is the risk of contamination?’
‘Keep fighting,’ said Laura, with a hint of steel in her voice. ‘Before you go, one of the scientists is going to come from London to give you a basic briefing on what a biological weapons lab is going to look like. He’ll tell you what kind of kit to look for, the test tubes and testing facilities, and what it should be safe to touch. But you have to understand, we have limited intel on this plant. The only thing we know for certain is that it is very important. We haven’t much idea what’s in there. That’s why we must get you in.’
‘And how do we get out again?’ said Jed.
Her eyes latched on to his. ‘On your own,’ she replied.
‘All the way out of the country?’
‘We’ll give you maps, but you’ll have to make your own way down south to Basra. Once you hit the coast, radio in, and a navy boat will come and pick you up. You can call us on the satellite phone and tell us your position. If it is possible, we’ll send a chopper in to come and lift you out. But we can’t guarantee that. The war might have turned hot by then, and kit could be in short supply. So you have to be prepared to make your own way south. Laura paused. ‘Remember, the thing the Iraqis want most over the next couple of weeks is to capture some British or American special forces operating inside the country. It would be a huge coup for them. So unless you all want to be saying hello to your mums live on al-Jazeera, I suggest you lie low, and get down to Basra as fast as you can.’
Jed was about to speak, but Sutton had already stepped forward to close the briefing down. ‘We’ve got thirty-six hours,’ he said. ‘I suggest you get plenty of kip, and all the last-minute training you can.’
Andy Tullow had a craggy, tanned face, and an open, engaging manner. He was in his mid-forties, and most of the men knew who he was even before he’d been introduced. They’d seen him on TV when he was captured on a scud-busting mission last time around, his face broadcast around the world when Saddam Hussein took him hostage. ‘If I can help you I will,’ he said, looking around at Jed, Rob, Matt and Steve. ‘But once you hit the ground, then it’s up to you.’
In the last six months, the Regiment had been calling in some of the older guys who had fought in Gulf 1 to brief everyone on what it was like to fight on the ground in Iraq. Nobody was listening to the debate in the news about whether Saddam would comply with UN resolutions, or whether Parliament would vote for the war. The shooting was going to start soon. Everyone knew that. And it would be their fingers on the trigger.
‘Don’t ever underestimate the average fighting Iraqi man,’ said Tullow. ‘And don’t overestimate his kit. That’s the main thing I’d say to you. When we went in we had all this bollocks from the Ruperts about how the Iraqi Ar
my had top-grade Russian weapons, but the men didn’t want to fight. All crap. None of their kit worked. The Russian guns were more of a threat to the blokes firing them than they were to us. It was even worse than the rubbish they gave us. But the blokes were happy enough to get into a scrap. They may not have liked Saddam that much, probably still don’t, but they don’t like a bunch of Brits running around their country with guns either. So watch them. If you get into a scrap, they’ll be bloody vicious.’
The talk lasted for half an hour or so. Steve and Matt were asking most of the questions. How was the weather? Did it get cold at night? What was the layout of the houses like? Where would snipers take up their positions? Where could you expect to lay up and get cover? Could you drop into a sewer if the fighting got rough? They were all good, smart questions, and Tullow answered them all straight. You could never know too much about the territory you were about to wage war in. One stray scrap of information might save your life. Jed knew that. But he was only half listening: his mind was still focused on what might have happened to Sarah.
When Tullow’s session was over, they had a talk from a Mossad guy, who would download everything the Israeli intelligence agency had learnt about Iraq in the last few years. The SAS and Mossad had maintained close links ever since the Israelis had helped out with tracking down the arms shipments the Libyans gave to the IRA through the 1980s, and in return the Regiment had provided training and assistance for its boys. It was an informal arrangement that had worked well over the years – certainly Mossad would have no objections to seeing Saddam taking another beating. As the rest of the unit got up to leave, Jed paused by the door. He wanted to speak to Tullow before he left. Alone.
‘What was it like?’ he said, checking that the other three had already left the room. ‘Being captured?’
Tullow hesitated for a moment. ‘Worse than you can ever imagine.’
‘You know a guy called Nick Scott?’
‘Nick? Hell, yes. What’s happened to the bugger? I heard things got pretty rough for him. Bailed out of the Regiment, then his wife died. Is he OK?’
Jed nodded. ‘He’s getting by,’ he said. ‘He went through a spell with the bottle, but he’s mostly sober now. Works in security.’
‘Well, I’m pleased,’ said Tullow carefully. ‘He was a good man once, you know. That’s what being captured does to a guy. It breaks them.’
‘What happened to him in there?’
Tullow looked straight at Jed, and for a brief moment the younger man could sense real anger in his eyes. ‘You never ask a man that,’ he snapped. ‘Whatever happens, never ask a man who’s been captured what went on while he was a prisoner. That’s a conversation he has with himself, and no one else.’
Jed could smell the perfume on his skin: a faint, musty smell, as if a sprinkling of fresh flowers had been tossed across the bed. Her face was lying next to his, and her hair was lying across his chest. According to the clock on the wall, it was just after one thirty in the morning. Laura had arrived in his barracks room about half an hour ago, sneaking in like a schoolgirl breaking into the boys’ dorm. He’d taken her in his arms, and made love to her without really thinking about it: her body was flawless, perfect and toned, but there was something mechanical about having sex with her, as if she were just using him for her own pleasure. Hell, he’d thought, as he felt her legs curling around his back. When a man’s about to go on a mission from which the chances of returning alive are no more than fifty-fifty, he should grab every last morsel of pleasure he can extract from life.
When they were finished, he reached for the side of his bed, checking his mobile phone: still no message from Sarah. Not even a text.
‘What’s your bird like, then?’ said Laura.
Jed paused, taken aback by the question. He hadn’t imagined that Laura knew about Sarah. She certainly didn’t act like the possessive type. Christ, maybe she was about to start getting out Ikea catalogues, and talking about seating plans for the wedding.
‘Which bird is that, then?’
Laura ran her fingers through the hairs on his chest. ‘There is always a girl somewhere.’
Jed shook his head. ‘No one special.’
‘I’ve seen the files, Jed,’ said Laura sternly. ‘What’s her name again? Sarah? The daughter of a Regiment guy, right.’
Jed shrugged. ‘We might be on a break right now, I’m not really sure.’
He could hear Laura trying to stifle a laugh. ‘Guys always say that when they’re shagging someone else. Does she know about this break?’
‘It was her idea.’
‘So what’s she like?’
Jed rolled over, so that his body was lying right next to her. He could feel the friction of her skin against his. ‘First you tell me why we’re really going to Iraq.’
‘We told you, to find out what’s in that plant.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Jed. ‘There are easier ways of doing that than sending an SAS team into the place.’
Laura arched up, stretching out her lips so they met his. ‘You just do the shooting,’ she said. ‘Leave the thinking to us.’
SIX
Nick took the pizza from the oven, opened a bottle of water and started eating. There was always pizza in the freezer, and it always tasted the same. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered taking them out of the box: the pizza tasted of cardboard, so he might as well eat the whole thing.
On the hi-fi, he was playing Simon & Garfunkel’s ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, a song that had been among his and Mary’s favourites. They’d played it at their wedding, and he’d played it to Sarah when she was a baby: there was something about the harmonies that seemed to help to get her to sleep. ‘Silver girl,’ he thought to himself as he listened to the final verse of the song. It was where his nickname for her had come from. ‘Sail on silver girl, sail on by,’ crooned Art Garfunkel. ‘Your time has come to shine / All your dreams are on their way.’
He glanced through the two-bedroomed cottage. He’d bought it with Mary, but she’d died before they had time to decorate it. He’d thrown some magnolia paint on the walls, and in the study he’d kept a few mementos of his time in the Regiment, but otherwise it could have been a rented cottage. Tonight it looks even emptier than usual, Nick thought. It was missing something. Sarah. She wasn’t here very often, but there was always the sense that she might come home for a visit. Just the fact that she had a room made a difference, even if it was empty most of the time.
Right now, it doesn’t look like she’s coming back anytime soon.
He’d checked the phone as soon as he stepped through the door. Nothing. He’d checked the mail, but there was nothing apart from the usual bills, credit-card offers and a letter from the agency confirming his next shift on the rigs.
Finishing the pizza, he walked up to Sarah’s room. It was next to his own bedroom, and he’d left it almost exactly as it was when she was a teenager: there were some posters of Blur and Pulp on the wall, an easel where she liked to paint, and bookshelves crammed with all the books she’d needed for her A levels. Nothing else. Just like her room in Cambridge, Sarah left little of herself in any of the places she stayed. She took everything with her.
Her diary, thought Nick. It must be around here somewhere.
He found it in the drawer of her desk. He skipped past the writing – she’d only kept it for about six months when she was seventeen – towards the phone numbers. There was a list of about twenty of them, all written in her neat, black lettering – Sarah updated it occasionally when she came to stay so she could call her friends locally, but she hadn’t touched it for at least two years now. It was a long shot, he knew. Sarah wasn’t necessarily in contact with any of these people now. But when somebody vanishes off the face of the earth, where else do you start?
‘Is that Louise?’ he said into the phone as soon as it was answered.
‘Yes.’
The woman sounded tired and stressed. Somewhere in the background, he could hear a b
aby screaming. ‘It’s Nick Scott, Sarah’s dad.’
There was a pause while she tried to place them. ‘OK,’ she said.
‘I was just wondering if you had heard from Sarah at all?’
‘Is she OK?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nick. ‘No one has heard from her for a week or so. I was just wondering if she might be with one of her old friends.’
‘I haven’t seen her for almost two years,’ said Louise.
‘Sorry to trouble you.’
‘Jesus, I hope she’s OK.’
‘So do I.’
Nick put the phone down and glanced out of the window. It was a cold but clear night. The cottage was halfway up a hill, with a view on to the Black Mountains beyond. A three-quarter moon was hanging in the sky, sending pale shafts of silvery light into the grey-green hillside. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a car, but it was half a mile to the next house, and tonight, like every night, the hills were cloaked in silence. Nick tried the next number on his list. Emma had been Sarah’s best friend at school, the pair of them inseparable from the ages of fifteen to seventeen, although her mother, keen for her daughter to climb the heights of Herefordshire society, hadn’t liked Sarah much, and approved of Nick even less. Last he’d heard, Emma was working in London on a women’s magazine. He tried her on the mobile number. No, she told him. She hadn’t heard anything of Sarah. In fact, she hadn’t spoken to her for six months. Emma had called her asking if she could be a case study for a magazine feature about how brains stopped a girl from getting a proper boyfriend, and, to use Emma’s phrase, ‘she seemed a bit miffed about it’. So, no, she hadn’t heard from Sarah recently. Nick put the phone down, and looked out of the window again. He felt desperate for a drink, and was thankful that there was nothing in the cottage: if he’d been in town, nothing would have stopped him nipping out to the off-licence. He tried another number: James, a guy Sarah had dated when she stopped seeing Jed for about a year in her early twenties. No luck there. He’d changed address, and the person answering the phone didn’t know where he’d moved to. Bugger it, thought Nick. A brick wall would be more help than this.