by Chris Ryan
‘Qif,’ shouted a voice behind them.
Jed knew that word, and he knew he didn’t want to hear it. Stop.
He spun round.
At the doorway, he saw a man looking straight at them. He was a wearing an olive-green uniform, with the purple shoulder insignia of the Special Republican Guard.
In his hand, there was a Russian-made MP412 handgun, with a distinctive snub-nosed silver barrel.
And he was aiming it straight at Nick’s head.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jed paused, holding himself perfectly still, his right hand gripping the railing. The SRG officer was standing with his legs slightly apart, and with both his hands firmly holding the gun. On his face, there was a look of resolute concentration.
Jed glanced at Nick. His body was immobile, but Jed could tell what he was thinking. Shall I rush the bugger before he has a chance to shoot? That was the Regiment drill. Make your move quickly, before your opponent has a chance to steady themselves.
Don’t do it, thought Jed. The guy is good. I can tell that just from the way he holds himself. As soon as you move, he is going to put two bullets through your forehead.
‘Qif,’ the man repeated. His voice was louder this time.
Nick didn’t move.
The officer rattled out another phrase in Arabic, but it meant nothing to Jed, and he was pretty sure that Nick was as clueless as he was.
His finger jutted forward on the gun.
An Iraqi soldier who doesn’t speak Arabic, thought Jed. You don’t exactly need to be Muhammad bloody Holmes to figure out that something fishy is going on.
He could see Nick’s shoulder muscles twitching, the stance of a man about to move. And he could see the officer steadying his finger on the trigger of his gun, and narrowing his eyes to make sure his aim was true.
The old bugger is not going to make it.
Reaching down into his boot, Jed slipped out a hunting knife. They had guns but it was too dangerous to start shooting in here: it would bring the entire Iraqi Army down on them. The blade was just six inches long, but strong and razor-sharp. He twisted it into the palm of his hand. Taking a deep breath, he took a mental calculation of the distance between him and the officer, and the flight and spin the knife would need to reach its target. Then, with a sudden movement, the knife flew from his hand. It arced through the air, travelling for just a fraction of a second, before hitting the officer in the side of the head. Jed had meant to slice open his throat, but his aim wasn’t good enough. The blow momentarily stunned the Iraqi, and in the next instant, Nick lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. Jed followed swiftly, pressing himself down on the man’s chest, and ramming his left hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out. Nick was holding on to his legs, but the man was wriggling around like a fish out of water. ‘Stab the fucker,’ Nick hissed.
Jed picked up the knife from the floor, and carved it deep into the man’s chest. He could feel him heaving, and blood spurted out of his mouth. Jed took the knife out, then stabbed again, then again, each time the man coughed up more blood, and his teeth bit on Jed’s left hand in agony. It took five plunges of the knife before the life was finally drained out of him.
‘You were in trouble,’ said Jed, pulling his bloodstained knife out of the man’s body.
‘I’d have been OK,’ growled Nick.
Jed angrily put the knife back into his boot. ‘He’d have bloody shot you.’
Nick shrugged. ‘He didn’t look that good to me. I reckon I could have taken him before he got the bullet out.’
He bent down, picking up the officer’s handgun, and tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. ‘And you should have cut the guy’s throat, you tosser, not buggered around stabbing his chest,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here, before they find the sod’s body.’
They had two more flights to descend. Jed noticed that Nick was moving more slowly now, careful not to make any more noise than was strictly necessary. He might not admit it, Jed thought, but he knew he’d made a mistake, and one that could have easily cost both their lives.
At the bottom of the staircase, there was a fire door, leading on to a corridor that stretched for about twenty yards. Jed had lost track of how deep underground they might be by now. At least seven flights of stairs, which meant a hundred feet or more. No wonder the cruise missiles weren’t making any difference, he thought. Against a bunker this deep, and this well protected, even a fully loaded Paveway had all the impact of a light sprinkling of drizzle.
‘We’re going in,’ said Nick. ‘This is the heart of the place.’
Jed felt certain he could detect a note of hesitancy in the man’s voice as he pushed aside the door. This is where the dark memories are all buried, he thought. Stepping back into these corridors is like stepping voluntarily back into a nightmare after you’ve already awoken. His voice, usually strong and robust, was touched with uncertainty and doubt.
‘You go first,’ said Nick suddenly.
‘You okay?’ said Jed.
‘My eyes, maybe,’ said Nick. ‘It’s … it’s dark in there.’ He paused. ‘Just get a bloody move on.’
Christ, thought Jed. That’s the first time I’ve heard the old bugger admit he’s not as young as he used to be.
He stepped through the door, and started walking along the corridor. The walls were built from thick slabs of concrete, and there was a series of metal tubes running alongside them. Every few yards, there was a bulb, throwing off a pale light, but since half of them were broken it remained dim and murky. There were no windows, of course, and no doors, apart from a single exit at the end of the twenty-yard stretch. Some kind of ventilation shaft, or service tunnel, Jed reckoned as he walked carefully along its length. The command and control centre and the interrogation rooms will be somewhere else.
Somewhere above him, Jed could hear the sound of another missile strike. Even though they were so deep underground, they could suddenly feel the earth vibrating beneath them. Dust from the walls filled the air, and then a muffled thunderclap rattled through the atmosphere. Another few days, there isn’t going to be much left of this place, thought Jed. We have to get Sarah out while we still can.
The door at the end of the twenty-yard corridor was shut, but not bolted. Jed slid it ajar, just wide enough to see what was on the other side. He looked back towards Nick. ‘Some kind of a junction,’ he said. ‘There are three different corridors leading off it. Two guards, both with their backs to us.’
Nick took his own knife out of his boot, and gestured towards Jed’s. The blade was glimmering in the pale light.
Jed reached out and touched his arm. ‘No,’ he said, with quiet determination. ‘We can’t kill all the fuckers in this place. We’ve got uniforms, let’s try and walk past them.’
Nick nodded. ‘The corridor to the right,’ he said. ‘Make it look like you know where you’re going.’
It’s the army, right, and they’re all the same, thought Jed. Walk quickly, and look important, and they’ll assume you’re an officer and be too scared to stop you.
He pushed the door firmly open. The knife was held in his pocket, ready to be whipped out within a second. The junction was better lit, with a series of neon tubes on the ceiling, but the walls were the same drab concrete. The two guards, both men in the twenties, clean-shaven and with clear, brown eyes, were wearing the uniform of the Fedayeen. Both were standing to attention, on either side of the central corridor. Jed walked swiftly, his boots clipping against the concrete floor. He glanced once at the guard closest to him, making sure there was nothing in his eyes: neither fear, nor suspicion, nor interest, just the indifferent look of a soldier going about his business. The guard didn’t smile or look back. Relieved, Jed walked on towards the right corridor. Nick was following close behind. Made it, he thought. This time at least.
‘You OK,’ Jed hissed, glancing at Nick.
He could see the fear etched into the man’s face: his eyes were flipping arou
nd, and there were beads of cold sweat running down the side of his face.
‘I’m fine,’ he muttered
‘No, you’re not,’ Jed said.
‘I just fucking told you, I’m OK,’ Nick growled.
The corridor stretched for fifty yards in front of them. They could tell they were drawing closer to the centre of the operation because the walls were now painted a pale green, and someone had taken the trouble to replace the light bulbs. As he reached the end, Jed pushed his way decisively through another fire door. This one led into a room, from which five corridors led in different directions. Don’t hesitate, Jed told himself. That would suggest you aren’t familiar with the place. That you don’t belong here.
He walked along the third corridor. A series of offices led off it, most of them with the doors open. Men were walking from one to another. There was a nervous round of tense chatter, punctuated by the occasional laugh then fits of swearing. In one room, Jed caught sight of someone he could have sworn was Saddam Hussein. This is the hub, thought Jed with a sharp intake of breath. They’re directing the whole bloody war from right here on this corridor. And I’m at the centre of it.
On screens he glimpsed through the office doors, he could see satellite TV pictures captured from around the world: CNN, Fox News, BBC News 24 and al-Jazeera were all flashed up on different screens. From what he could see, the ground invasion of Basra had already begun. British and American troops had punched their way through the coastal defences, and were on the road to Baghdad. Perhaps we should just wait right here, thought Jed. We could get a kettle on and have a nice brew waiting for the boys when they make it through to Baghdad.
An officer of the Special Republican Guard pushed Jed from where he was blocking the corridor. ‘Koos,’ he barked. Jed didn’t know a lot of Arabic, but he knew when a guy was calling him a cunt, and he could feel the anger swelling up inside his chest. Cool it, he told himself. You can’t get in a fight here.
He nodded apologetically, and kept on walking. They went past three more offices, each time glancing through to the TV screens. From what they could read of the news bars scrolling along the bottom of the screens, the allies were making good progress, but the Iraqis were expected to put up a stout defence of the heartlands closer to Baghdad. In the rooms, Jed could see staff officers poring over maps, no doubt debating how they would deploy their resources. They’d have a good laugh if they knew a couple of British guys were standing right here, he thought. And when they stopped laughing, they’d rip us limb from limb.
Jed looked round suddenly. A heated argument had just broken out among a group of officers. One of the junior staffers was getting a right monstering: his face, Jed noticed, was the mixture of resentment and fear familiar to soldiers being bollocked everywhere.
‘Keep going,’ muttered Nick, his voice barely registering above a whisper.
They were still walking towards the end of the corridor, trying to find a way to the dungeons. In his mind, Nick could see a picture of Marlow, his old commander’s face sneering at him across a desk. ‘Don’t fuck it up this time, old boy,’ he was saying.
Nick’s expression snapped. Suddenly, he was brisk and purposeful. They were approaching the end of the corridor. There were two more guards standing to attention, both with AK-47s held rigidly to their chests. They paid no attention as Nick and Jed moved quickly past them. They came out into another junction, this time with three corridors leading off it. One seemed to be a ventilation shaft, another led to a canteen. They could see a few officers eating, and drinking small cups of coffee. Their expressions were tense and nervous, and the mood among them was brittle. Nobody was laughing, as they would be in the British Army. Nobody was smiling, or even talking if they could avoid it. They were just keeping their heads down, getting on with their work, and hoping to survive.
The third corridor led towards what looked like a staircase. Nick headed for it, gesturing to Jed to follow him. From what he remembered of the place – and he’d done his best over the years to erase every last shred of the memory – the dungeons were two levels below the command and control complex. They had to keep going down if they were to have a chance of finding Sarah.
Another clap of thunder reverberated though the corridor. The ground shook, and the walls vibrated around them. Another missile strike, thought Jed. A big bastard this time. From the noise, it could have been a direct hit on the presidential compound. The men around them were looking up anxiously. They were probably safe down here, seven levels below the ground, but it was impossible to say what kind of hell was raging on the ground above them.
Ignore it, he told himself. This isn’t the time to think about how you’re going to get out of here.
Pushing through the door, he could see a staircase. Half the bulbs were out, leaving little light to steer yourself by. ‘Down here,’ hissed Nick.
‘You sure?’
‘I’ve bloody been here before,’ snapped Nick.
They dropped down one flight, then another. Up above, Jed could hear the sound of a siren blasting through the corridors. He could hear feet running along the corridors, followed by the racket of orders being barked. He knew the Americans had been working hard on bunker-busting bombs: cruise missiles with reinforced tips that could drill through layer after layer of concrete and armour. Had they made something that could get down this deep?
‘Keep going,’ hissed Nick. ‘We’re almost there.’
Jed pressed on. As they went deeper underground, the sound of the sirens above started to fade. A doorway loomed ahead of them. Nick pushed it aside, stepping through, and Jed followed closely behind. It led into a room, at the front of which was a set of strong steel bars, with a small doorway cut into them. Two guards snapped to attention. One of them barked at Nick in Arabic. He stepped forward, taking his knife from his pocket in a flash. The man was starting to unhook his AK-47 from his chest, but it was too late. Nick had already crashed into his side, knocking him off balance. His knife was gripped hard in his hand. With a sudden brutal movement, he had stabbed it into the side of the man’s neck, and was twisting the blade around. The skin was being cut open, and the blood started to seep on to the floor. A cry of pain erupted from his lips.
The second guard was advancing on Jed. Jed had already drawn his knife, and the blade was glinting in the dull light. The soldier could see it was too late to use his gun: in the time it took him to take aim and fire, Jed would have already sliced him open. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ said Jed.
With steel in his eyes, the man gripped his rifle by the wooden butt, and swung it through the air. The blow caught Jed on the side of his ribcage, knocking the wind out of his lungs, and for a moment he was struggling to breathe. A malicious smile started to spread across his opponent’s lips. He sensed that he’d hurt Jed, and that gave him the advantage. Jed steadied himself, and gripped the knife tighter in his hand. He slashed out at the man, and his knife cut through the nylon fabric of his tunic, but Jed could tell he was only cutting through cloth, not skin. At his side, he could see Nick stabbing hard at the guard he was fighting, hacking into his neck. Jed threw himself forward, stabbing the knife into the soldier’s ribcage. He could feel the blade digging into the flesh, and a howl of pain burst from the man’s lips. Jed twisted the blade, searching for an artery he could sever. Got to finish the buggers off, he told himself.
The soldier was strong, and his eyes were burning with the hatred of a man who’s just been wounded. Koos, koos, koos, he was repeating, the words spitting from his lips, and the saliva spitting on to Jed’s face. He pulled back suddenly, so that the knife was ripped out of Jed’s hand, and was left sticking in the man’s ribcage. With a roar, he thrust himself forward, landing on top of Jed. Both men crashed hard on to the floor, the soldier lying on top of Jed. Blood was seeping from the wound, dripping down Jed’s side. With his fists, the man was pummelling him with blows, hitting the side of his head again and again and again. Jed could feel himself starting to grow di
zzy. His vision was misting up, and his senses were groggy, like a boxer in the twelfth round of a hard fight. He was heaving upwards with his arms and legs, trying to push the man away, but the weight was too much for him. The blows were raining down hard, and Jed started scrambling for the knife still sticking in the ribcage. Twist that, he thought, and I can get the initiative again.
With his right hand, he gripped the man’s chest, trying to hold him close to his body so that he couldn’t hit so hard. With his left hand he reached for the handle of the knife. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. With a sudden movement, he gripped the handle, then tugged it free. The man screamed as the knife cut through his bleeding flesh. In the same instant, he ripped free of Jed’s embrace, swinging his right arm out, and knocking the blade clean out of Jed’s hand. It smashed against the wall, and fell to the ground with a crash. ‘Bugger,’ muttered Jed.
The man was thrusting his knee down into Jed’s chest, pinning him down. With his hands crossed together, he started to press down savagely on Jed’s throat, slowly cutting off the air supply. Jed could feel himself starting to weaken. The blows were still pummelling against the side of his face. Sharp knuckles were digging into his skin, cutting into the veins, and he could feel blood streaming from a cut in his forehead. Koos, koos, koos, spat the soldier, the sweat pouring from his face and dripping down on to Jed’s skin.
Then he screamed. His mouth opened, and a howl erupted from deep within his gut. His back arched up, and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. Jed struggled to regain his focus. The soldier had already started to loosen his grip, and a trickle of blood was choking out of his lips. Jed could see now that Nick was standing behind him. He had just ripped the man backwards by the neck. He thrust him on to the floor, punching him savagely in the head and neck. ‘Sit on his chest,’ Nick snapped.
Jed pulled himself swiftly up from the floor. He rolled himself on top of the guard, pressing his knees down on his chest, while Nick folded the palms of his hands around his neck. He started to squeeze, while Jed’s pressing force on his chest emptied his lungs, making him easier to strangle. Nick might be getting on, Jed thought, but he still knows how to handle himself in a fight. The man’s eyes were already starting to close. He struggled to see what was happening to him, but it was already too late. The life was ebbing away from him. Within another few seconds he was dead.