Ultimate Weapon

by Chris Ryan

  Behind him, he could hear Salek laughing. ‘You know what your daughter needs?’ said Salek, as Nick strode out of the room. ‘A stronger and better father. It doesn’t matter what the fight is, you’re always going to lose.’

  THIRTEEN

  The air was dark and thick with tension. Jed walked slowly through the empty side street. He could see the garbage filling the huge black metal bins, and he could hear Steve and Matt close behind him. Each step was taking them deeper into enemy territory. Take a single wrong turning, and they’d find themselves in Saddam’s bedroom.

  ‘Which way?’ hissed Steve.

  ‘Keep bearing left,’ said Matt. ‘We’ll hit the industrial area eventually.’

  They had left Rob’s corpse by the river, and scrambled up the banks that led to an avenue running alongside the Tigris. It was lined with palm trees and, on the opposite side of the road, the big apartment blocks used by the Baath Party officials and senior army commanders. Up ahead, they could see the lights of the Republican Palace, a high, gaudy building, flanked by vaulting columns and two huge statues of Saddam cast in bronze. They were skirting the heart of the Iraqi government machine, Jed reminded himself. It was like a group of Germans walking down Whitehall in 1940. We’re as close to the edge as a soldier can get. And as close to death as well.

  It was just after five in the morning, and they had to get to the target as fast as possible to remain undetected: they wouldn’t go in until tonight, but it would be harder to travel around the city during the day. There were still three miles to cover. According to the intelligence briefings he’d sat through, Baghdad’s security was entrusted to three different groups. The Special Republican Guard were the elite unit of the army, and the most fiercely loyal to Saddam. It was commanded by Saddam’s son Qusai. The Fedayeen, the internal security apparatus, was commanded by another son, Udai. They were the specialists in torture and interrogation – if they were about to capture you, you were better off dead. And then there were the foreign fighters. Mostly Syrians, but also Lebanese, Egyptians and Moroccan mercenaries, Saddam had hired thousands of them to help defend the city, mostly because he no longer trusted his own army to fight for him. Intelligence reported that the three groups hardly spoke to each other. There was no coordination between them, and just because the Republican Guards were searching for you, it didn’t mean the Fedayeen or the mercenaries would help them.

  Bugger intelligence, thought Jed. We keep our eyes open and rely on our own wits. If there was one thing he’d learnt in the last couple of months, it was that all the intelligence on Iraq was crap. Nobody knew anything about what was happening inside this country. And the more they claimed to know, the less they really did.

  Dawn was breaking. Up ahead, Jed could see a dust cart driving down the street, two men on the back, stopping at every apartment and office block to pick up the night’s rubbish. He walked in a straight line, not stopping, not looking at the men. We’re just three Iraqis on the way to work, he thought. We all have black hair, beards, brown eyes, and the sun has tanned and dried out our skins. We blend in as well as any foreigner can be expected to.

  They kept walking. By six in the morning you could feel the city coming to life all around you, Jed noticed. The cars were growling along the streets, and the cafés and shops were opening for business. You could smell sweet Arabic coffee in the air: a thick, nutty aroma that gave you a shot of energy as you walked past a café.

  They had skirted north of the Republican Palace, tracking the river as it rolled through the city. A few clouds were smudged across the sky, but it looked like a fine day. As he crossed a road junction, Jed watched a couple of kids dragged by their mothers towards the gates of their school. Poor sods, thought Jed. They have no idea what’s about to hit them.

  ‘How far, you reckon?’ said Steve.

  He was speaking in hushed tones, making sure no one could hear him before he opened his mouth. If anyone heard them speaking English, the alarm would be raised. That couldn’t be risked.

  ‘About a mile,’ said Jed. ‘That will take us into the industrial centre on this side of the river. Then we have to lie up until darkness, and plan our entry.’

  Steve nodded. They crossed the road, skirted past the school, then took a side street that led away from the river and headed north. By the river, Jed could see some men digging trenches. They were hoisting out the earth and putting down sandbags; next to them, you could see the machine-gun turrets being assembled. The war is coming, Jed thought. They realise it. We realise it. And whatever anyone says there is going to be some bloody hard fighting before we take this city.

  He looked first towards Steve, then Matt. As he did so, Matt turned away. Leaving Rob behind was still hurting, Jed could see that in the man’s expression. He was a good soldier, but emotionally volatile. Losing one of his mates mattered to him. Not my fault, thought Jed. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t blame me for it. But we have to work together. Otherwise we’re done for.

  A roadblock. Jed glanced ahead, trying to get a good look at the soldiers. They were right at the end of the street, fifty yards away. A Toyota SUV had been parked across the road, and the soldiers were stopping people at random, checking their papers and asking them questions. They were wearing the drab, olive-green uniforms of the Republican Guard. Not for them the purple insignia of the SRG, nor the black, baggy pyjama-style uniform worn by the Fedayeen. The weakest link in Baghdad defences, decided Jed. The regular Republican Guard were just ordinary guys who’d been drafted and couldn’t wait to get home to their families. But that didn’t mean their bullets wouldn’t bite.

  ‘Seen them,’ hissed Steve.

  Jed dropped back a pace, so that he was walking level with Steve and Matt. It was important not to slow down when you saw a roadblock. Don’t break stride, Jed told himself. And don’t turn round. The soldiers were taught to look for anyone who didn’t want to be stopped. Draw attention to yourself, and you were already dead.

  ‘Just keep walking,’ said Jed. ‘Act like we’re on our way to work.’

  ‘I say we turn round, skirt past them on the next street,’ said Matt.

  His voice was low, nothing more than a whisper. The street led towards one of the big ministry buildings, and beyond that the factory district. There were no small side streets. Plenty of people were coming this way to work. Most of them were tired, and nearly all of them were nervous. Everyone minded their own business.

  ‘We walk past them,’ hissed Steve. ‘Turn round now, and they’ll spot us.’

  ‘It was your fucking idea to get the boat across the river,’ said Matt. ‘And now Rob’s dead.’

  ‘Shut it,’ hissed Jed. ‘You turn round if you want to, but we’re walking straight through.’

  He kept his head down, and walked steadily on. The guards weren’t stopping everyone. There were too many people on the streets at this time of the day. As he drew closer, Jed could see them more closely. Three boys, around eighteen or nineteen, with AK-47s slung around their shoulders and knives stuck into their leather belts. All of them had green tunics on, but two of them had black trousers. The Iraqi Army was so poorly equipped, many of the men didn’t even have proper uniforms. He looked up, but avoided their eyes. He was level with them now, with Steve and Matt both silent at his side. He took a step, then another. His breath was practically silent. Inside his chest, he could feel his heart skipping a beat as one of the soldiers glanced towards him. He could feel the man’s eyes resting on his skin, examining him. Then, in the same instant, he lost interest, his eyes flicking on to the next man walking past.

  Without varying his pace, Jed walked on. The temptation was to quicken the pace, to break into a run. But he knew that was a mistake. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he muttered when they were fifty yards clear of the roadblock.

  ‘Close one,’ said Steve. ‘Too bloody close for my liking. We’ve got to find ourselves some cover.’

  Jed glanced at Matt, but the man was silent, and his express
ion angry. Does he want to get caught? Jed wondered. Matt’s not handling the pressure. We need to watch him.

  The ministries and apartment blocks fell away after half a mile, replaced by the dustier roads of the industrial district. It was approaching eight thirty now. The kids were all in school, and the workers in their offices and factories. The streets were emptier, and Jed was conscious that three men walking through the roads were more conspicuous. Twice more they saw trenches being dug and machine-gun turrets being put up. Yet all around the preparations for war, people were getting on with their normal lives: shopping, cleaning, working. What else can the poor sods do, Jed thought. They didn’t ask for this fight. It’s just bad luck the battle is going to rage through their homes.

  Up ahead, Jed recognised a tower. It was just six storeys of dusty concrete, with air conditioners sticking out of every window, but to Jed it was familiar. ‘We’re getting close,’ he whispered to Matt and Steve.

  The street gave way to a square. Another three hundred yards on the left, and there was a road that took you down to the facility. Their target. Jed could feel the tiredness in his limbs. It was twenty-four hours now since they had slept. They needed to rest before they attempted the recce. And they needed to wait for darkness.

  A truck pulled up alongside them. Jed could smell the fumes pumping out of its exhaust. He watched the trucker walk across to a café, then sit down outside with a coffee and a roll. ‘There,’ hissed Jed. ‘That’s the place.’

  He’d checked the piece of paper a couple of times already: this was the café that al-Shaalan had told them to meet his cousin at. He walked slowly towards the café. There were trucks all around the square, most of them old, and all of them belching diesel fumes. The smell of chemicals, concrete and deep-fried food hung over the place, and the voices he could hear around him came from right across the regions: Syrians, Moroccans, Indians, even some Filipinos. If we can’t blend in here, Jed told himself, we can’t blend in anywhere.

  He put his kitbag on the ground, then waved at the waiter. A man in his late forties, wearing a stained white apron, he paid little attention to Jed’s accent as he ordered. ‘Kahwa,’ he said, holding up three fingers, and slurring the word so that the waiter wouldn’t notice how terrible his accent was. A minute later he put three tiny cups of sweet coffee down on the table. Jed drank it in two sips. He could feel the jolt of concentrated caffeine hitting his bloodstream, yet the energy only made him more aware of the danger they were in.

  ‘Jesus, this tastes like crap,’ muttered Matt.

  ‘Quiet,’ hissed Steve.

  Jed could see a couple of men looking at them, then look away. There were no women in the café, just guys aged between twenty and forty, most of them with thick, black moustaches, and sweaty, grease-stained T-shirts. At the next table there were two men, one about forty, the other around thirty. Right-looking table, reckoned Jed. He coughed and caught the man’s eyes. He looked straight at him, as if sizing him up.

  ‘How far to Tipperary?’ said Jed.

  ‘Five miles,’ replied the man.

  Jed nodded. Contact. This was their guy.

  From his pocket, he pulled out a roll of Iraqi dinars. The notes were brightly coloured, with big pictures of Saddam on them, but ever since the last Gulf War a shortage of printing equipment meant Iraqi money had no watermarks or metal strips, making it dead easy to forge. These were real ones, Jed reflected, as he peeled out twenty thousand, supplied by deserters who shipped up in Kuwait and were only too happy to trade their dinars for dollars supplied to them at the American army camps. He caught the eye of the man at the table next to him, then pushed the notes across the table. ‘We need somewhere to stay,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘Just for a day. We can pay in gold.’

  He paused, scrutinising the man’s face. Twenty thousand dinars translated to about ten dollars at the blackmarket exchange rate. Peanuts, but this was a country where men sold their lives for practically nothing. There was no point showing them too much money. In a place like this, if they thought you were rich, your throat would be cut in an instant. The only way they’d help was if they thought it was less trouble, and more profitable, than killing you.

  ‘Where’s my cousin?’ asked the older man.

  ‘Hiding,’ said Jed.

  There was no point in telling these guys al-Shaalan was dead. It would only antagonise them.

  There was a brief burst of conversation from the men. Jed tried to follow it, but it was impossible. Finally, the older man looked at him. ‘The back of my truck is empty,’ he said. ‘You can sleep there for twelve hours. For two ounces. Solid gold.’

  Jed shook his head. ‘One ounce is all I have,’ he said. ‘One ounce, plus one hundred thousand dinars.’

  The man nodded. ‘Payment up front.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jed.

  ‘Tell him we want some grub,’ hissed Matt.

  ‘Some food,’ said Jed. ‘Can you bring us some food?’

  The man laughed. ‘You want girls as well?’ he said. ‘For more gold, maybe I can arrange something.’

  Jed smiled. ‘Just somewhere to sleep, my friend.’

  He stood up. The older man was walking from the café, surveying the area. There were plenty of people about, but no soldiers. ‘This way,’ he muttered.

  Jed followed a couple of paces behind, with Steve and Matt at his side. The square was bustling with traffic, but the streets leading away from it were much quieter: just warehouses, factories and small workshops. Their workers were all inside at this time of the morning, and most of the deliveries had already been made. The street they were walking down was empty. A good place to cut a man’s throat.

  ‘Here,’ said the man.

  The truck was a Mercedes, but it must have been at least twenty years old. Jed didn’t recognise the number plate – not Iraqi anyway, he was sure of that. It was about sixty feet long, with a white body that was covered in dust and scratches. ‘You give me the money now,’ said the man, unhinging the back door.

  Jed peeled out some notes and one gold coin. ‘Bring us some food,’ he said. ‘Anything you can find. And some bottled water.’

  ‘A kebab,’ said Matt. ‘I could murder a kebab.’

  The man looked at him closely. ‘What happened to al-Shaalan?’ he repeated.

  Bloody idiot, thought Jed. Don’t push him. We’re about to go to war with this country, and he knows it. If they find us, they’ll kill him, then torture his whole family to death.

  ‘Hiding, like I said,’ said Jed.

  He could see the calculations running though the man’s head. He was afraid, but he wanted the money as well. Fear or greed? It was just an issue of which emotion was the strongest.

  ‘Two ounces,’ said the man.

  His younger friend was stepping up to his side. He kept his mouth shut, but his eyes were angry, looking for a fight. We could break you like a matchstick, thought Jed. But that would put us in deeper trouble.

  ‘That’s robbery,’ said Jed.

  ‘Then find another truck,’ sneered the man.

  Jed pulled one more coin from his kitbag, and handed it across. ‘That’s all we’ve got,’ he muttered.

  The man took the coin, scratching at its surface with a dirty finger. A drop of nitric acid was the only way to tell for certain there wasn’t bronze or copper underneath a thin plating of gold, but a fingernail was almost as good: plated coins would scratch, and would weigh differently in the palm of your hand. The man nodded, satisfied with his money, and tucked it into his pocket. He opened the doors of the truck, and motioned the three men inside.

  It was dark in the back of the truck. As he climbed inside, Jed could smell goats and mechanical grease. There were some old papers lying on the floor, and in one corner some empty crates, but otherwise the truck was empty. Jed heard the doors closing behind him. ‘We’ll be back later with some food,’ said the man.

  Jed peered into the darkness. He scrunched some of the newspapers together to
make a bed. Tossing his kitbag down, he lay back, putting his head on the bag. ‘Better get some kip, lads,’ he said. ‘Who wants first watch?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Matt. ‘Don’t think I’d want to trust either of you to watch my back. You’d probably leave me to die – just the way you left Rob.’

  ‘Drop it,’ snapped Steve. ‘There was nothing we could do about it.’

  Matt looked at him menacingly. He was sitting on his haunches, watching the door, but his blue eyes glowed in the darkness like the eyes of a cat.

  ‘Let’s get some sodding kip,’ said Jed, rolling over. ‘Then maybe we can get this job done, and then get home again.’

  Jed walked slowly down the street. It was just after ten, but although the factories and the workshops had shut up for the night, the place was still full of life. The cafés were full of men drinking coffee and talking, but the atmosphere was brittle.

  He’d slept for almost ten hours. It was one of the first lessons he’d learnt on joining the army: sleep and eat as much as you can when you can, because you never know when you’ll see a decent plate of grub or have a chance to put your head down again. After two hours’ sleep, the men had returned with the food: several packs of soft pitta bread, some dried fish and beef, sunflower seeds and a couple of melons. Jed had wolfed it down: they had some ready-to-eat camp meals in their kitbags, but they’d save those for the retreat. They tasted like microwaved dog crap anyway. After eating, Jed had taken the watch for a couple of hours, then they’d switched around. By nightfall, he was feeling rested and fed. And ready for the fight.

  He could see the facility about two hundred yards ahead of him. He recognised the network of streets from the last time he’d been here: off to the right he could see the spot where the small boy had been hassling him. This time at least the little bugger should be asleep, thought Jed. And if he isn’t, he’s in trouble.