by Chris Ryan
‘We need to get back to the plant,’ said Jed.
Mansour paused. ‘That’s up to you,’ he replied.
‘Too right it’s up to us,’ said Matt. ‘Trouble is, it’s up to you too. We need some transport, and we need you to help us.’
Mansour tried to smile, but there was no humour in the expression. He had the look of a man who was trying to calculate who he was most afraid of: the men in front of him, or the men who would be dealing with him if he was caught helping a pair of British soldiers. Not a pretty calculation for anyone to make, thought Jed. Still, if he didn’t want to play with those odds, then he shouldn’t have got into this game in the first place. ‘Where do you need to go?’ he said nervously.
‘Across town,’ said Jed. ‘We’ve got the address.’
After getting the order from the Firm, he’d sent a message back to say they’d received it, and it would be executed tomorrow night as instructed. Both he and Matt were pissed off about it. Even though they knew what they were signing up for when they joined the Regiment, and it was too late to start complaining now, it didn’t stop either of them being pissed off at the position they were being put in – and the risks they were being asked to run.
Jed had contacted the Firm to get details of RVP for the pickup. They were planning a cruise missile strike on the plant, with fighter bombers in support if necessary. People thought cruises were smart missiles the way they were written up in the press. But actually they were only smart in the way a stag party tumbling out of a lap-dancing club at three in the morning was smart. They didn’t know their way home, and neither did a cruise. They were fine for taking out a village, but useless for a precision target. That’s why you needed what the army referred to as ‘man-in-the-loop’ technology. Roughly translated, that meant some poor bugger had to risk his bollocks bringing the big angry bird home. You used a laser-target designator to pinpoint an invisible laser beam straight on to the target, and that guided the bomb straight into its path. The LTD had a range of more than a mile, so you could put a bit of distance between yourself and the big bang, but it was still rough and dangerous work. And the closer you got into the centre of a city, the rougher and more dangerous it became.
The LTD was a small piece of kit, but it needed a tripod to set it up properly. Somebody – and Jed had no idea who – had stashed weapons and materials at different points around Baghdad – as if they’d been planning this war for a while, Jed thought. The Firm had given them the address of the place where they could pick the kit up. All they had to do was get there, then head back to the plant. And stay alive.
‘I’m not a taxi driver,’ said Mansour.
‘You are now, mate,’ said Matt. ‘Nothing wrong with doing a bit of minicabbing on the side. Comes in handy when you need a bit of extra cash.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘For us as well,’ said Matt.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ repeated Mansour, ignoring the remark. ‘There are roadblocks all over this city. I get found with you two, I’m a dead man.’
Matt took a menacing step towards him. ‘And you’re a bloody dead man if you don’t.’
A bead of sweat had already started to form on Mansour’s forehead. It was hot in the workshop, and Jed could feel the tension crackling between the men. ‘Cut my throat if you have to, Englishman,’ said Mansour. ‘At least it will just be me that dies.’
‘I’m bloody tempted,’ said Matt, taking another step forward.
‘It makes no difference,’ said Mansour. ‘You have no idea what it’s like in this city. If the Fedayeen capture me transporting a couple of British soldiers around Baghdad, they won’t just shoot me on the spot. They’ll torture me first. They’ll round up family. They’ll gangrape my wife and my sister, in front of me, then kill them. They’ll torture my children before my own eyes. They’ll get my brothers, cousins, their wives, everybody, and shoot them all.’ He looked first at Matt, then at Jed, the defiance gleaming in his eyes. ‘So just fucking do it if you want to. Getting my throat cut here would be a blessing.’
Matt had already pulled a hunting knife from his pocket. The blade was glistening in the pale light. Jed stepped forward. ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘The guy’s got family. He’s done enough for us already.’
‘You trying to get us bloody killed again, Jed?’ said Matt.
Jed shook his head. ‘Just trying to come out of this war without causing any more carnage than necessary.’
He looked at Mansour. ‘Give us a car, and a decent map, we’ll find our own way.’
‘There’s no car,’ said Mansour.
‘Get us one,’ snapped Matt.
‘I’ve done enough,’ growled Mansour. ‘My house is being watched. This is your war, you fight it. I can give you a map, that’s all.’
Matt looked as if he was about to punch the man, but Jed moved to block him. There was no point squeezing the guy any more, he thought, we’ve already got all the juice we’re going to get out of that one. ‘Try and get your family somewhere safe, mate,’ said Jed. ‘I reckon this city is going to turn very nasty in the next forty-eight hours.’
With Matt at his side, he walked out of the workshop. It was just after four in the afternoon, and the sun was shining brightly on the city. The road was empty, but up in the distance you could hear the rumbling traffic of central Baghdad. Across the road, they found a blue Toyota Corolla with at least fifteen years on it, they thought. Matt had done training in nicking cars – he’d picked up tips as a kid – and broke into the bonnet to hot-wire the vehicle. Modern cars were hard to break into, because they had so many sophicticated anti-theft devices built into them, but an old wreck like this was easy. They would be able to have it started in a matter of minutes.
Jed slung his kitbag on to the back seat and fired the ignition. The engine spluttered, then roared into life.
Jed steered the car out on to the road. The pickup point was towards the north of the city, in the al-Zawiyah district, composed mostly of the residential streets, some factories and workshops, and an army barracks. Matt had a map out on his lap. ‘Keep to the side roads,’ he said. ‘I reckon that’s the best chance of staying out of trouble.’
Jed put the Toyota into third, and picked up speed. They had their AK-47s tucked down beneath their legs, and both of them knew what they had to do if they were stopped. Start shooting, and keep on shooting, until either they’d killed all the guys in front of them, or been killed themselves. There was no point in trying to bluff their way out. They didn’t stand a chance. And there was no point in being taken alive. Better to go down fighting.
They covered one mile, then another. People were coming out of the factories and offices, and the kids were all home from school. Some were kicking balls around the street, other were just hanging out, chatting. There weren’t any proper shops, just stalls selling fruit and rice, and the occasional piece of meat. Christ, it’s a miserable place, thought Jed, as he steered the Toyota through yet another street crowded with apartment blocks and rough-looking cafés. At least the bombs can’t make it much worse.
‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath.
He looked across at Matt, then straight ahead. There was a roadblock about a hundred yards up the street, with at least five soldiers manning it. Fifteen cars were backed up in a line. A couple of guys in front were honking. Jed craned his neck, trying to see what was happening. The car at the front of the queue had been stopped, and two men ordered out of it. Another man was sitting on the back seat. Three soldiers were shouting at the men, their AK-47s pointing straight at them. Suddenly a shot rattled through the crowded street. Instinctively, Jed flinched, then looked back up. The cars had all fallen silent. Up ahead, he could see that one man was slumped over the bonnet of the car, blood seeping from the open wounds on his head. The second man was cowering at his side. Another soldier was pulling the third man from the car.
‘Shit,’ muttered Matt. ‘What the hell do we do now?
’
‘Hold tight,’ said Jed.
‘We should run for it,’ said Matt. ‘While we still have a chance.’
‘I said, hold tight,’ repeated Jed through gritted teeth.
He stretched his neck to keep an eye on the fight. Another rapid burst of gunfire split through the sky, then another. A silence had overtaken the street. None of the cars were moving. No one was running away. Nobody was saying a word, just sitting quietly, thought Jed grimly. And giving thanks to Allah it was those buggers and not them.
The captain started waving the cars through. Almost reluctantly, they started to move again. Jed’s breath was shallow, and a bead of cold sweat was running down the back of his spine. Whatever those boys were doing, it probably wasn’t as bad as what we’re planning. If they shot them on the spot, what the hell would they do to us?
The Toyota drew level with the roadblock. Jed looked straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the bumper of the Renault in front of him. Don’t look round, he told himself. Don’t let them look into your eyes. The soldier was inspecting one of the corpses on the ground. Another was being lifted up and bundled into the back seat of the car he’d been driving just a few minutes before. They’ll probably take him to the river, thought Jed. Life is cheap in this city.
They drove straight through. The guards were no longer stopping people. I guess they’ve had enough trouble for one day. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the roadblock. Through the rear-view mirror, he could see a woman running up to the guards, shouting and waving her arms. Already, the soldiers were aiming their AK-47s at her, and their commander was pointing his pistol into the air. Bugger, thought Jed. This city is on a knife edge. When cruise missiles start crashing into the streets, the whole place is going to implode.
It was another two miles to the house. The drive was slow and painful, twisting through the early-evening traffic. They saw plenty of soldiers on the streets, but no more roadblocks: most of the troops looked to be digging trenches and putting sandbags around gun emplacements. Street-to-street fighting, that’s what they’re planning for, thought Jed. It’s going to be a hard, nasty slog when our boys start trying to take this place.
The house in al-Zawiyah seemed boarded up when they pulled the Toyota up outside. The whitewash on the walls had long since faded, and a layer of grime had attached itself to the surface. Jed got out of the car, and looked quickly up and down the street. It was a quiet district. There were a couple of restaurants and a shop opposite, but otherwise the street was overlooked mainly by five-or six-storey residential apartment blocks. A few people were drifting home, and it didn’t look like they were planning to come out again until morning. They’re just hunkering down in their homes, Jed thought. Waiting for the worst.
Matt was already pushing the front gate open. It creaked on its hinges, and a coating of dust came away. Jed followed him into the internal courtyard. It was surprisingly quiet and cool inside. He checked his watch. It was just after seven in the evening. Their guns were packed into their kitbags, concealed from view, but Jed knew he could have it ready for action within three seconds. He listened. Silence. He stood perfectly still, his eyes scanning the four walls that surrounded him. One had a doorway that led into the house, another into the garage. There were weeds growing up between the paving stones in the courtyard, and ahead of him there was a broken can once used to collect rainwater coming in from the gutters but now rusting into the wall. It didn’t look like anyone lived here any more. And if they did, they were letting the place fall apart.
‘British?’ said a voice.
The accent was heavy, Arabic, but not like the other voices they’d heard in Baghdad. The man was clearly expecting them. Jed held his right hand ready to whip out his Browning handgun, and he knew where his grenades were. The Firm has sent them to this address, and it was meant to be a safe house, one of a series that had been set up after the first Gulf War to help support the coup that was widely expected to topple Saddam; during the last few months many of them had been reactivated to stash kit for the special forces guys who’d be swarming through the place once the war started. It should still be safe. They’d told him it was. But what the hell did they know? They were all sitting at their desks in Vauxhall, swivelling around in their shiny leather seats, with nothing worse to worry about than how much this year’s pay rise might be. The house could have been compromised at any time in the last few weeks. And the Iraqis might well be staking the place out, watching and waiting for someone to turn up to collect the gear. And then gun them down in cold blood.
‘Who’s there?’ Jed said warily.
‘Show yourself,’ growled Matt.
Silence.
It was nearly dark now, and the moon was out, sending a set of shadows flickering across the courtyard. A noise. Jed’s eyes darted across the walls, but he couldn’t see anything. A door was squeaking. He looked behind him. The gate on to the street was shut. Ahead of him, the door to the house was pushed open. A pale light was shining behind it. Slowly, the figure of a man stepped forward. He was dressed in long black robes, with a belt around the middle. His face was dark, but most of it was obscured by ten inches of scruffy grey beard. Some kind of mullah, thought Jed. What kind of nutters has the Firm hooked up with in this city?
‘You are the British soldiers?’ he said.
Jed nodded.
‘Then come inside,’ said the man.
He turned round, heading back into the house. Jed exchanged glances with Matt, then both men nodded and started to walk. In his pocket, Jed was gripping on to his knife. He looked harmless enough, but you could never be too careful. They might just be luring them into a trap. He went through the door and looked into the room. The walls were stripped and empty, like the interior of a barn. There was a smell of boiled rice, and some kind of meat stew. Lamb or goat, maybe, thought Jed. Christ, maybe even dog. Who knows? The mullah was leading them towards the back of the room. He had a single gas ring on which the food was slowly cooking, and a crate of bottled water. In the corner there was nothing but a strip of blankets, and some sheets of cardboard that were being used as a pillow.
‘We’re here to pick up some kit,’ said Jed. ‘British kit.’
The mullah nodded. ‘It’s all downstairs,’ he said. ‘I will show you in a moment.’
He spoke English fluently, but with a fraction of a second delay between each word: the manner of a man who had learnt the language many years ago and had let it grow rusty.
‘Show us now,’ said Matt.
The mullah glanced at him. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘What’s your name?’ said Jed.
The mullah shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘We don’t need any names here. It’s better that way.’
Flicking on a torch, the mullah led the way. A thin beam of light broke through the gloom. Jed followed the mullah down into the cellar, with Matt closely behind. The cellar smelt damp, mixed with spilt fuel oil. ‘Here,’ said the mullah, shining the torch around.
It took Jed a moment to adjust his eyes. There were six rows of metal shelving, pre-built, and jammed towards the back of the wall. Enough kit to start a small war, thought Jed. Which was probably exactly what the guys who shipped it here were planning. He could see RPGs, machine guns, equipped with what looked like about ten thousand rounds of ammo, regular grenades and stun grenades, sniper rifles, a dozen surface-to-air missiles, and five mortars plus shells. He scanned the shelves more closely. There were six pieces of laser kit, although they would only need one. Jed took it from the shelf. It was a GLTD II, manufactured in America by Northrop Grumann. Painted military olive green, it looked something like a squat film camera, with a rifle butt sticking out of its back. It weighed just twelve pounds, and was powered by a lithium battery fuel cell. It could mark out a target at a range of up to ten kilometres, with a deviation of no more than five centimetres, and was specificall
y built to bring home Paveway bombs, Hellfire missiles and Copperhead munitions. Jed handed it to Matt. ‘I don’t know how the hell they got these here,’ he said. ‘But it’s just what we need.’
‘Anything else?’ said Matt.
Jed looked at the armoury. If it came to a fight, they could use all this and more, but the risk of carrying it across town was too great. You couldn’t conceal a surface-to-air missile in the back of a Toyota Corolla. He picked up a box of grenades. ‘Just these,’ he said. ‘If anything goes wrong, we’ll have another go at blowing the place ourselves.’
He followed Matt and the mullah as they went back upstairs to the single room. The mullah put the torch down on the floor, and switched it off. There was a copy of the Koran lying on the floor next to him. ‘We’ll be off,’ said Matt.
The mullah raised a hand. ‘Don’t go out on the streets,’ he said. ‘You’ll be picked up by the army in no time.’
‘We’ve got a car,’ said Matt.
The mullah looked at him sharply. ‘I’m not here to help the British,’ he said. ‘I’m just looking after this equipment because I’ve been paid to. But I can tell you that after eight in the evening Saddam’s Fedayeen and the Syrians stop anyone out on the streets. They take them in for torture, or they shoot them on the spot.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘A lot of the young men get press-ganged into the army, and I don’t think you’d enjoy that.’
He nodded towards the floor. ‘You can stay here for the night, and have something to eat.’
Jed hesitated, then sat down. The mullah was almost certainly right. It was too dangerous to try and get around Baghdad by night. This was as good a place as any. Matt slumped down against the wall, resting on the side of his kitbag. Glancing at him, Jed suddenly noticed how terrible he looked. His hair was matted thick with sweat and dirt. And there was a layer of grime across his face. his clothes looked shredded and worn, and his eyes were sunk deep into his face, bloodshot and tired.