by Chris Ryan
The mullah handed across a helping of stew mixed with some rice. Using a plastic spoon, Jed dug into it. The smell was sweet, a mixture of raisins, dates and nuts mixed in with stringy bits of meat. Not too bad, he decided as he hungrily wolfed it down. I’ve had better, but I’ve also had a lot worse.
He took a gulp from one of the water bottles, then looked up at the mullah. ‘Where are you from?’ he said.
The mullah smiled up at him, and picked up his copy of the Koran. ‘Iran,’ he replied softly.
‘Then what are you doing here?’ said Jed.
The mullah shrugged. He opened the book on his lap, and started to read. ‘“God does not forbid you from being good to those who have not fought you in religion or driven you from your homes, or from being just towards them. God loves those who are just. God merely forbids you from taking as friends those who have fought you in religion and driven you from your homes and who supported your expulsion. Any who take them as friends are wrongdoers.”’ The mullah paused. ‘That is the word of the Prophet.’
He looked at Jed. ‘We have been enemies of Saddam for many more years than you have. We know our way around this country, and if the Americans and the British want to finish the work that we were not able to finish ourselves, then it is not up to us to question the wisdom of Allah.’
‘You’re a bleeding nutter,’ said Matt. ‘You’ll have the Yanks running this craphole in a few months’ time. You won’t like that much.’
The mullah scratched his beard. ‘Who knows who will be in charge here,’ he replied. ‘Invaders come and they go, and the Prophet always wins in the end, because he has the force of God on his side.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll settle for the force of a cruise missile, thanks,’ said Matt, arranging his kitbag into a rough pillow and putting his head down.
‘Who’s going to win the war, you reckon?’ said Jed.
‘God,’ the mullah replied. ‘God wins all wars.’
‘Yours or mine?’ said Jed.
‘They are the same,’ said the mullah. ‘Your God in your country, and mine in mine.’ He paused. ‘Why do you come here to fight? It’s a long way from your home.’
‘Buggered if any of the boys know,’ said Jed. ‘We’re just following our orders.’
‘Then you have your answer,’ said the mullah. ‘Because men who don’t know what they’re fighting for or why will always lose in the end.’ He looked back down at the Koran. ‘Get some sleep. When the war starts, you’ll need all the strength you can get.’
Jed lay back, resting his head on his kitbag. The surface of the floor felt rough and uncomfortable, but he was so tired he knew sleep would come soon. He thought about Sarah, and for a moment it struck him that he was unlikely to ever see her again. Both of them had disappeared from the face of the planet. He had no idea where she was, and no way of getting hold of Nick to see if he might have found her. He was tempted to use the satellite phone to call him, but he knew it was too dangerous. Every time it was switched on, there was a risk the army or police would track the signal. His eyes felt heavier. He could already hear Matt snoring: maybe that was why he was a good soldier, despite his hot head, because he could always grab some kip. He was trying to remember the last time he saw Sarah. Two months ago, in Cambridge. A few drinks in the pub, then a pizza, then back to her flat. Nothing special. Just part of the on-off relationship they’d been carrying on for years, both of them too nervous to commit, and too bound up in their own lives to make enough space for the other person.
I should have said something more to her. I should have told her that she was the only person who ever really mattered in my life. I should have told her that I loved her. Because I might never get the chance now.
NINETEEN
At lunchtime, a call had come through on his mobile. Nick had already checked out of his B&B, and was eating a sandwich in a café. I’ve found something about that money, Horton had told him. What, Nick had asked him instantly. Horton had paused before replying. ‘I can’t tell you on the phone. It’s too dangerous. We’ll have to meet up tonight.’Then he’d given him the name of the Chelmsford pub and put the phone down.
Too dangerous.
Can’t tell you on the phone.
Nick had repeated the phrases to himself a hundred times since then. What the hell is too dangerous to talk about on the phone?
Nick took a sip on the Coke he’d orderd, then walked over to a table. It was just after seven on a Tuesday evening, and the Ram’s Head was filling up with commuters stopping off for a quick drink on their way home from work. It was tucked into one of the side streets between Chelmsford station and the high street. Local enough to be welcoming, thought Nick, but not so local that a strange face would attract any attention. Maybe that’s why Bill chose the place: the guy has been playing the circuit long enough to know when to stay in the shadows, and when to come out of them.
He jostled past a couple of guys trying to get to the bar. WAR JUST DAYS AWAY, blared the headline in the Evening Standard that one of them was holding. Next to it there was a picture of some soldiers stationed in Kuwait. OUR BOYS GEAR UP FOR BATTLE, said the subhead running across it. IT AIN’T HALF HOT MUM, said the caption underneath. Spare us the sodding war dance, thought Nick as he turned away. None of the people writing that rubbish have any idea what it’s like to actually be there. They don’t know the sense of exhilaration and fear that grips the men on the eve of any battle. And they knew nothing of the remorse of the survivors for all the good men who don’t come back. If they did, they wouldn’t be celebrating the outbreak of any war. Not a chance.
Nick held on to his Coke, briefly wishing it was something stronger. For a guy who’s trying to stay on the wagon, I’m spending a lot of time in pubs, he thought.
He looked down at his mobile. No messages, no texts, nothing. He was still checking his phone a dozen times a day, but Sarah hadn’t been in touch, and he’d stopped calling her. He didn’t expect to get a message any more. He knew she hadn’t just taken off for a few days. Something had happened to her. That much was certain. The only question was whether he could find her. Or whether it was too late.
He looked around the pub again. No sign of Horton. It was now ten past seven. Late, he said to himself, rolling the word around in his mind. He’s Regiment. He’s never late. Lateness is beaten out of the men in the first weeks of training.
‘Still off the juice, I see.’
Nick looked up. Horton was standing right next to him. Somehow he hadn’t seen him come in. Slowing down, he wondered to himself. Horton sat down next to him at the small table. He was wearing black jeans and a blue sweatshirt, with a brown leather jacket over it. He had a whisky and soda with a generous helping of ice. He looked at Nick. ‘You sure you’re not drinking?’
Nick shook his head.
‘You should be.’
Nick leant forward on the table. He could smell the alcohol on Horton’s lips. ‘What the fuck have you found out?’ he muttered.
Horton drained his glass, sinking the whisky in one gulp. He glanced around the pub, scanning the faces of the men lining the bar. ‘Let’s go outside.’
Nick stood and followed him out of the pub, towards the car park. He could see the strain on Horton’s face. His skin was drawn tight, and his eyes were narrowing. He was studying the car park, examining the shadows, checking the thin spaces between the cars. As if he was looking for something. Or somebody.
This is a tough guy, thought Nick grimly. He’s been in plenty of fights. He feeds bodies and munitions into half the world’s wars. And something has just made him very frightened.
Horton leant against the bonnet of an Audi A3. He looked at Nick. ‘You’re mixed up in some heavy shit,’ he said.
‘Just give it to me straight.’
Horton glanced around the car park. He pulled out a Hamlet miniature cigar from his pocket, torching it from a greasy, oil-fuelled lighter. ‘I checked that account number you gave me,’ he started. ‘We do a
bit of work for the banks, and one of the security officers owes me a favour or two. All the banks have informal networks of information, because they all want to stay away from the dodgy customers – or at least the ones who won’t pay off their overdraft in time. It took him a couple of hours, but he came back with the info. The money was paid into Wilmington’s bank account from a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. That was registered in his own name. The money from that came from an account in Hong Kong. It had been through three separate accounts, but started out in a bank in Switzerland. Basic money-laundering stuff. It might fool the police, and give you some protection, but it doesn’t fool the bankers. They know this game, because they invented it.’ Horton relit his cigar, drew deeply on it, then blew a puff of smoke into the air. It caught on the chilly breeze, blowing past Nick’s face. ‘It was linked to a consortium of oil traders registered in the name of Salek al-Fayadh. We traced that back as well. Took another couple of hours. Eventually, my pal at the bank comes on to me and says I shouldn’t touch that money with a bargepole. It comes out of the United Nations oil-for-food programme.’
‘Meaning what?’ said Nick.
‘Oil for food, man,’ said Horton. ‘Jesus, where have you been hiding? For the past decade there have been sanctions on Iraq. They are allowed to sell a limited amount of oil through the UN to pay for food and medical supplies. It’s corrupt as hell. Everyone knows the money is used by Saddam Hussein.’ He took another puff on his cigar. ‘Your professor is being paid by the Iraqis.’
It took a moment for the information to sink in. It was as if a bullet had just struck him: he was numbed by the information. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered eventually. In his mind, he was still unpacking the consequences of what Horton had just told him. If Wilmington was being paid by the Iraqis, then they would know all about the work Sarah was doing in the lab. They would know about any breakthroughs she had made.
Could she possibly have been lifted by the Iraqis?
What the hell would they want from her? The cold-fusion technology?
‘They’ve got Sarah,’ he said out loud.
Horton looked up at him. ‘Your girl?’
‘Someone’s taken her, that’s for sure. If Wilmington is working for the Iraqis then I reckon it’s those bastards. I’ve just got to find out where.’
Horton puffed on his cigar again. In the darkness, the pale orange glow of its tip illuminated his lined, weather-beaten face. ‘They’re mad fuckers,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of bad people in the world. You and I have had to deal with more than our fair share of them. But Saddam and his boys take everything to extremes. Nobody messes with them, and nobody should.’
‘It’s my daughter,’ snapped Nick.
Horton nodded. The smoke was curling up around his face. Neither man needed to say anything else. They both understood that when family was at stake, all the usual calculations of risk turned into dust. You would do whatever was necessary. If it cost you life, that was just the tab you had to pick up.
He reached out with his right hand, and took hold of Nick’s shoulder. ‘You need help, you just ask for it,’ he said.
‘Thanks, but this is my battle,’ said Nick, turning away. ‘I’ll fight it myself.’
A few lights were shining from the building, but Nick reckoned the laboratory would be empty at this time of night. From Chelmsford, he’d got the train straight back to Cambridge, then walked from the station to here. Along the way, there had been plenty of time to think.
Cold fusion would change the geography of the global energy industry completely, and nobody had more of a stake in that than Saddam Hussein. If he could control cold fusion, he would stop it ever coming on to the market, because it would destroy the oil industry overnight. But he could also hold all his enemies in the Middle East to ransom. Because the secret of cold fusion threatened to destroy all their economies.
I know why the bastards wanted to lift her. But where would they have taken her? To Iraq? I hope to God she’s not there.
He’d already checked the front of the lab. The night guard was on duty in the lobby, but it was just a university building, and didn’t have any special security. The back door he and Jed had used a few days earlier had just a simple latchkey lock on it, and it gave way easily enough when Nick wrenched at it with a penknife. Once inside, he couldn’t see anybody in the corridors. One or two of the students might be working late, but it was unlikely they would pay him much attention. One good thing about students, he thought as he walked purposefully down the hallway. Most of them were so dopey, they could be relied upon not to notice anything that was happening around them.
The door to Wilmington’s office wasn’t locked. Nick pushed it open, and stepped quickly inside. He left the lights turned off: there was no point in drawing attention to himself. A street lamp was casting a soft glow in through the window, enough for Nick to see by once his vision had adjusted. He glanced around the room. The same pile of papers. Same faint equations on the board. Some book open on the desk. Nick started to search the drawers. A diary, maybe? he wondered. A map, some notes, perhaps a passport with some visa stamps in it. Anything that might contain some lead on where they have taken Sarah.
He pulled out a yellow folder, riffling through the pages. Some interdepartmental university memos. He pushed those aside. Notes on university admissions proceedings. A grid showing next term’s lecture schedule. Bugger it, thought Nick. Where does he keep the stuff that tells me what the bastard is really doing? Maybe I’m just going to have to beat it out of him. Take him hostage, and get him to speak to the bastards who’ve lifted Sarah. Tell them that if they don’t release her in the next twenty-four hours, then the professor is a dead man. Maximum speed, and maximum aggression. That’s what we learnt in the Regiment. It worked then, and it will work now.
He glanced at the computer. It had been left on, and as soon as he touched the mouse, the screen jumped back into life. His hands were sweaty. The tension was getting to him, he could tell that. He stared at the screen, examining the files. Using the mouse, he started to point and click. He opened up ‘My Documents’, clicking first on ‘History’. More memos, a couple of them written today. A reference for a postgrad applying to Harvard. A note to the college about a collaborative project with Hamburg University.
Nothing, thought Nick. Whatever the bugger’s hiding, it’s not here.
Nick sat back in the chair. He scanned the shelves on the cupboard wall. Science books, mostly. A couple of histories of the Second World War, a biography of Churchill, and one of Einstein, a pictorial book about Kurdistan. Three books by the professor himself, all on particle physics, and each of them translated into both German and Japanese.
Why would a man such as this be taking money from Iraq, he wondered. Good job, distinguished career, he had everything to lose. Maybe he needs the money. Gambling debts? Perhaps they’ve got something bad on him.
A noise.
The door was creaking.
Nick spun round in the chair. The door was ajar, a hand gripping the handle. Through the murky light, he could see a pair of shoulders. He whipped himself up from the chair, steadying himself for the fight. Wilmington was not a big man, and he was in his fifties. There won’t be much punch in him, Nick told himself grimly. Knock him out cold, then take him somewhere I can deal with him slowly. Make the bugger talk.
Nick stood behind the door, his knuckles poised to strike the first blow. A clean blow to the windpipe, he told himself. Then another to the centre of his jaw. Put him straight out before he knows what’s happened to him.
One person was entering the room. Then another.
Nick threw a punch. It flew into the air, then was caught in the palm of a hand. A young hand. A strong one. In the next instant, a blow smashed into his stomach. Then another one into the back of his neck. It felt as if iron rods were crashing into his bones, splintering and chewing them as they crashed into his body. A sharp pain was ripping up through his spine, and his vision was
blurring. His knees buckled, and he could feel himself starting to fall to the floor. Another punch. This time it was back to the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs and numbing his ribcage. Nick had taken a fair share of punches in his time, but this was different: the pain was searing, intense, as if his nerves were being burnt up, and it was impossible for him to react quickly enough to respond. In the next instant, two men were pressing down hard on him. One man was pinning down his chest, and another was gripping his legs: they were clearly trained to subdue a man no matter how hard he might fight back. He could smell processed cheese sandwiches on their breath, and the cologne on their necks. He looked up. A woman was peering into his face. Elegant, blonde, but with eyes that were as cold as they were blue. ‘My name is Laura Strangar,’ she said, her tone clipped and formal. ‘You’re under arrest.’
‘What the fuck for?’
He could feel some blood spitting from his torn lip as he spoke the words.
Laura glanced around the room. ‘Is this your office?’ she said sharply. ‘No. Well then, breaking and entering will do for a start. I’m sure we can find a few more things to charge you with once we get you down to the office.’
TWENTY
The streets looked darker than the last time Jed had walked along them. The people were moving faster. Nobody was stopping to talk. The pavement cafés were emptied of the men who usually spent half the day sitting around talking. The shops were sold out, a few even boarded up. Everywhere you looked, the faces of the people were strained and tired. Only the children were still playing in the streets.
They’re afraid, thought Jed. And right to be. This city is about to hammered into dust.
It was early afternoon, and Jed and Matt had just driven back across Baghdad towards the plant. The journey had been completed without incident. Jed couldn’t say for certain, but there seemed to be fewer soldiers on the streets today. Maybe they’d all returned to their barracks, getting in some training before the battle kicked off. Maybe they’ve already started abandoning their posts. There was no way of knowing. He was just grateful to get to the right district without meeting any roadblocks.