by Chris Ryan
Does anyone know what kind of hell this place is being turned into?
Got to get away, he told himself. Three of us are dead already, and in the next few minutes I could well make it four out of four.
About a hundred yards away, Jed could see an army truck. A dozen soldiers were shouting orders, sometimes firing their guns over the heads of the anxious crowd. But even the troops seemed to be too nervous to climb down from their vehicles.
He slung his AK-47 into his kitbag, and started running down the street. Just keep moving until you see somewhere, he told himself. The bulk of the crowd was heading east, trying to get out of the city. Maybe they have friends or family in the villages there, he thought. Maybe they’re just going anywhere to get away from the missiles. He saw a small boy, maybe six or seven, crying, looking for the parents who had lost him in the rush. Jed pushed on. The soldiers had moved away. A couple of cars were trying to force their way down the street. One of them hit Jed in the thigh, and he cried out as the pain rippled through his leg, then stifled the noise. As he looked up, the driver was already leaning out of his window shouting at him. For a brief second, he seemed to realise Jed might be a foreigner, but then he moved on, interested only in saving his own skin. Jed ran another hundred yards, then turned left into a quieter street. Another missile had hit the city, maybe three or four miles away, and the sky was filled with sparks. He paused. No way anyone’s getting out of this hellhole, he told himself. The only thing is to hunker down and wait for it to end.
A sewer. Jed had tucked into a small alley squeezed between two apartment buildings. He could smell burning not very far away, but neither of the buildings were alight. Not yet anyway. There were three manhole covers right beneath his feet, arranged in a neat circle. He knelt down and ripped open the first one. The smell wasn’t as bad as he might have expected: a mixture of rotting fruit, bad eggs and diesel fuel. He lowered himself down slowly. It was dark inside, and impossible to tell how far a drop it might be, but Jed could hear the rushing water below, and judged it couldn’t be more than a few feet. He let go, his body collapsing through the air.
The fall lasted only a fraction of a second. His feet hit the freezing water first, then he rolled his body on to its side, to deflect the impact on his legs. In the next moment, he could feel the water rushing around his side, and over his head. He clamped his mouth tight, and closed his eyes. Kicking his legs down, he found his footing, stopped himself from being dragged along by the water, then stood up. He opened his eyes. The water was flowing around him, but only came up to his waist. Two yards away, he could see a ledge running along the side of water.
The tunnel was about ten feet across, and eight or nine feet high. Walking towards its side, he pulled himself up, and sat down. His clothes were wet through, and something sticky had attached itself to his hair and the beard that was growing on his chin. His hands felt clammy and hot, and his stomach was heaving. He closed his eyes, getting his breath back under control. Up above, he could hear the explosions of another pair of missiles striking the city, and even below the manholes, the noise of people running through the streets filtered through. Reaching into his kitbag, he took out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and swilled the water around his mouth to clean it out. Next he took out a packet of biscuits, eating three of them in quick succession. Get as much sugar into your bloodstream as you can, he told himself. You’re going to have to find some energy from somewhere.
Time to phone home, he thought. He walked through the putrid, icy water until he found a manhole cover, then edged it aside. He needed to hold the satphone to the open street to pick up a signal, but he knew as he was doing so he was creating an electronic splash that could be picked up by the enemy. Hold your breath and take the risk, he told himself. You don’t have any choice.
At least this bloody mission is over now, he thought. There can’t be anything more we can do in this godforsaken city. With the punishment it’s taking tonight, there may not be much of Baghdad left by the morning.
He glimpsed a flash of light and heard the thunderous echo of another missile strike as he punched out the number. One ring, then another. ‘Get me Laura,’ he snapped as soon as the phone was answered. ‘Right now.’
One second passed, then two. He could hear shouting above him, about a hundred yards away. Then a round of gunfire.
‘Laura here,’she said. Her voice was breathless, clipped, like a woman waiting for the results of a cancer test. ‘What happened?’
‘Didn’t you get satellites to take some pictures?’
‘Of course,’ she snapped. ‘But it’s not the same as having a man on the ground.’
‘It’s a fuck-up,’ said Jed tersely.
A pause. He could sense her lips tightening over the phone. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
‘The other three guys are dead,’ he continued. ‘Matt about an hour ago.’
‘The missile didn’t hit the plant?’
‘They hit it all right. We guided them home just like you asked us to, and it cost Matt his life. But there was a van that drove out of the place just before the missiles came in. I reckon that whatever you were trying to hit was inside.’
Jed paused. Another round of gunfire was rattling through the street and it sounded like at least one person had been shot.
‘The plant was destroyed?’
‘Wiped out,’ said Jed. ‘Two missiles slammed straight into it. I reckon even the cockroaches aren’t going to walk out of that place.’
‘You’ve done your job then,’ said Laura. ‘We’ll pick you up tomorrow night. Twenty-three hundred hours. The same spot where you were dropped down.’ She paused, and then her voice softened. ‘I’m sorry about the rest of the guys, Jed. I didn’t realise it was going to get so rough in there.’
‘It’s fucking World War Three in this place,’ snapped Jed. ‘I need to be picked up tonight. I’m not going to survive twenty-four hours in this craphole.’
‘Those are the orders, Jed.’
He gripped the bulky satphone tight into his fist. ‘Then fucking change them,’ he growled.
‘Too dangerous, Jed. Nothing can fly into that city tonight.’
Bugger, thought Jed. Can’t argue with that. Even if a chopper could pick me up, we’d be dodging our way through cruise missiles.
‘Tomorrow night. Twenty-three hundred hours,’ said Laura. ‘Good luck.’
The phone went dead. Jed had been about to speak, but the words had stalled on his lips. Now she killed the call, and it was too dangerous to try again: satellite phones created a splash out, and you had to limit yourself to no more than a few moments of talking. He took another hit of the water, and stuffed another biscuit into his mouth. Through the open manhole cover, he could see the flash of another missile strike. The noise and the screams would follow within a few seconds.
Jed sat on the ledge, and looked at the sewage flowing below. He buried his face in his hands, and could feel the exhaustion in every muscle of his body. Christ, man, he thought. You really are in the shit now.
TWENTY-THREE
The room felt cold and empty, and although Nick was a man used to spending time by himself, he had never felt as alone as he did right now. The television was still switched on, but after two hours Nick had tired of watching the lights flashing over Baghdad. Nobody knew what was going on, and the way he felt right now, it didn’t make any difference any more anyway.
First her mother died. Then her. And it’s all my fault …
Sarah was dead, he felt certain of it. They had lifted her into Iraq, there could be no doubt of that any longer. The Firm didn’t have any idea where she was now. Even if they did, they wouldn’t have a clue what to do about it.
The words repeated themselves in his mind, caught in an endless loop. I’ve lost her, I’ve lost her, I’ve lost her …
The British are now at war with Iraq. We’re bombing the hell out of the place. The Iraqis will be questioning Sarah about what she knows. But
once they’ve got what they need, they’ll show her no mercy. They’ll break her, then they’ll dispose of her. Hell, that’s what they did to me.
Nick slammed his fist down hard on the table. It shook and wobbled. He could feel a shot of pain where the bone had collided with the wood. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. He was desperate for a drink: there wasn’t even any water left in this room, and his throat was parched. Once I get out of this pisshole, I’m going to go straight to the nearest pub and get completely smashed. Then I’m going to find myself somewhere to crash, and as soon as I wake up, I’m going back to the pub to get pissed again. There’s nothing to keep myself sober for now.
How many hours had he been sitting here? He had lost count. Three, maybe four. He had no idea of the time. It could be two or three in the morning for all he knew. It made no difference. They could keep him here for a day, two days, a month even, but they had to let him out eventually. Nick stood up, pacing around the room. As soon as I get out of here, between the drinking, I’m going to rip that professor apart with my bare hands. I don’t care if they send me down for killing the bugger. There’s nothing worth living for anyway.
A noise. He turned round. The door had already been opened. Laura walked in, with Marlow a few paces behind her. She looked strained, tired. There were lines around her eyes, and her make-up had faded.
‘We’re going to make you a deal,’ she said, looking sharply at Nick.
Nick looked straight back. ‘Piss off,’ he spat. ‘There’s nothing you can do for me any more.’
Marlow stepped up close to him. ‘I’ve already told you to watch your damned language, man.’
Nick turned away, his expression sullen. Just swallow your pride, he warned himself. Take as much of their crap as you have to so you can get out of this place.
‘As it happens, there might be quite a lot that we can do for you,’ said Laura archly. She sat down behind the desk, glancing at the TV screen. ‘Take a seat.’
‘I’ll stand,’ snapped Nick.
‘She said, take a seat,’ said Marlow.
He sighed, then sat down. ‘Do you have any idea whether Sarah is alive or dead?’
‘That’s what we need to discuss.’
Nick could feel his pulse racing. Maybe there was hope after all?
Laura picked up a remote control from inside the desk. She pointed it towards the TV and flicked a button. The news channel disappeared from the screen, and was replaced by a grainy piece of black-and-white footage. Nick recognised it at once, even though it was clear the technology had advanced a lot since he’d last seen a set of pictures like these. A satellite image, he told himself. And at a rough guess, I’d say the bird was pointing at Iraq.
‘This is a research plant in the suburbs of Baghdad,’ said Laura. ‘From what we know, this is where we think Sarah was taken –’
‘You bloody knew where she was,’ interrupted Nick.
Laura glared at him. ‘Like I said, we think she was there.’
She flicked the remote again. Another series of images flashed on to the screen, showing various shots of the compound. They were black and white again, and there were some small clouds obscuring the view, but Nick could clearly make out a chemical plant with a large spherical orb at its centre, and next to that an admin block surrounded by military vehicles. ‘We ordered a missile strike for earlier this evening –’
‘You did what?’ snapped Nick.
‘Let her finish,’ said Marlow.
Nick tried to control his anger. Every instinct in his body told him to reach out and break her neck with his bare hands, but he knew he had to contain himself. That’s not going to do me any good. Or Sarah.
‘Listen, I know this is going to be tough for you to hear, but it’s important, so I’m just going to carry on,’ said Laura. ‘We believe Sarah was in that plant, and we believe she was about to give them important scientific information. Information, remember, which could make Saddam Hussein the most powerful man in the Middle East. We can’t allow that to happen. So we arranged for a missile strike to take out the plant. So as not to cause too much suspicion in the rest of the world, or among the Iraqis, we disguised the strike by launching a more general attack on Baghdad. The media are calling it “Shock and Awe” because that’s the briefing they’re getting. They think it’s an attempt to kill Saddam Hussein. But it’s not that at all. We’re well aware that Saddam almost certainly isn’t in Baghdad, and if he is, he’s buried so deep in a bunker that a cruise missile isn’t going to find him. We were just trying to destroy the plant where Sarah was being held prisoner.’
‘And kill my daughter –’
‘This is war, Nick,’ said Marlow. ‘You’re a soldier, you know that individual lives don’t count.’
‘Sarah’s not a soldier,’ said Nick.
Marlow shrugged. ‘Lots of people lose their children in wartime,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen that plenty of times. Their families take the news with dignity and pride because they know it’s for the good of their country.’
‘Or the good of some intelligence agency.’
‘Drop it,’ said Laura. ‘You two can debate the ethics of war on your own bloody time. It doesn’t matter right now, because there is a good chance that if she was in the compound Sarah survived.’
Nick looked at her closely. For the first time in hours, days, he could feel a few fragile embers of hope sparking to life within him. ‘Alive … ?’
Laura nodded.
‘What kind of missiles did you use?’
‘Paveways,’ said Laura.
‘How many pounds?’
‘Two thousand.’
Nick flinched. He’d seen a 2,000-pound Paveway land on a building during the first Iraq War, and if you hadn’t been told otherwise, you’d have thought it was a nuclear strike. ‘Nothing can survive that,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
Laura turned towards the screen. She clicked on the remote control, bringing up another grainy black-and-white image. With two more clicks of the remote, she enlarged the image. It was starting to take shape before Nick’s eyes. A road. He could see that clearly. And the roof of a van. He looked towards the plant. It was undamaged. That picture was taken before the missile strike, he realised. The van was escaping.
‘This picture was taken from the satellite one minute before the missile strike,’ said Laura.
She glanced at Nick, then flicked the remote control once more. Another picture flashed on to the screen. Enlarged twice over, the image started to take shape. The van was another two hundred yards down the road. And behind it, there was a huge fireball exploding out of the plant.
‘And this picture was taken thirty seconds after the strike.’ She turned back to at Nick. ‘As you can see, the van escaped unhurt. We think Sarah may have been inside it.’
Nick paused for a moment. A hundred different thoughts were raging inside his head, and he needed a few seconds to straighten them out. ‘You think she was in that van? Or you know … ?’
A fraction of a second passed before Laura replied. ‘We think …’ she said slowly. ‘All the intelligence coming out of Iraq is pretty shaky now. But they were clearly taking something valuable out of that plant in the few minutes before the missile strike. We reckon Sarah was the most valuable thing they had in there.’ She shrugged. ‘So it figures she may well have been in the van.’
‘It’s just a small van,’ said Marlow. ‘But from the look of the picture it has some kind of armour plating on it. It’s not big enough to carry any kind of serious industrial kit, so that means …’
Nick leant forward on the desk. His breathing was slow and measured. ‘Then you have to get her out,’ he said. ‘If there’s a chance she’s still alive, you have to go and get her.’
‘Exactly,’ said Laura. She hesitated, looking first at Marlow, then back at Nick. ‘In fact, we’d like you to do it.’
Nick didn’t reply. He’d expected a dozen different forms of betrayal from the Firm,
but he hadn’t expected that.
‘If she’s alive, and somewhere in Iraq, then we have to find her,’ Laura continued. ‘So we have a proposition for you. We’ll drop you into Iraq, and give you all the kit and backup you need. You find her for us, and bring her out.’
‘You’ve got a whole army out there, just waiting on the Kuwait border,’ said Nick suspiciously. ‘Why me?’
Marlow perched himself on the edge of the desk, and looked down at Nick. ‘If Sarah is inside that van, and the war has already started, then I reckon there’s just one place they will take her.’
‘Where?’
Even as he asked the question, Nick sensed he already knew the answer.
‘Into the cells underneath the Republican Palace.’ A frown creased up Marlow’s forehead before he continued. ‘There is only one man who has been there and come out alive,’ he continued. ‘That’s you. And that makes you the best man for the job. You’re the only guy who knows his way around the place.’
‘It’s my daughter,’ said Nick. ‘If she’s there, you don’t need to ask me twice.’
Marlow rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Just try and get it right this time, old boy,’ he said, a thin smile spreading across his lips as he spoke. ‘It would be a shame if your daughter had to die the same way some of your mates did the last time around. And all because you weren’t able to take a bit of a beating …’
His voice trailed off, but Nick could already feel the anger welling up inside him. Nobody really knew what had happened to him in Iraq, but Marlow had a better idea of the truth than most people. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he snapped. ‘Just give me the kit, and I’ll get her back.’ He looked at Laura. ‘I’m getting her back for myself,’ he said. ‘Not for you. And I’m on my own payroll. I’m not working for the Firm again, and I’m not signing back on for the Regiment.’