by Chris Ryan
‘Can we trust them?’ Laura hissed, looking around nervously as they approached the mosque.
Jed glanced back at the steady line of men that was blocking their way back to the car. ‘I’m more worried about whether I can trust you than the local ragheads.’
Behind the mosque, there was a simple, one-storey dwelling. It was made out of wood, with a straw roof. Tied up next to it was a donkey, and at its side, a pile of straw and firewood. The man led them inside. The building was just one room, with a fire in the corner, filling it with a sweet, sticky smoke. He pointed towards a table with a bench on either side of it. An elderly woman started to lay out some plates. She poured hot, sweet tea into their cups, and put down a series of wooden platters: pitta bread, black olives, tomatoes, white cheese, a jar of honey, and some deep-fried soujouk, a type of sausage made out of ground meats and spices. Jed waited a moment. It was days since he’d had anything proper to eat, and he knew that if he tucked in too quickly he would just make himself ill. He took a hit of the tea, letting the sugar fill his veins, then filled some pitta bread with sausage and cheese, taking a deep bite. Slowly, he could feel the food feeding some strength back into his muscles. Eat while you can, he told himself, as he packed another pitta. Any meal out here could be your last.
Wilmington and the man were talking quietly to each other in Kurdish, while Nick and Jed fell on their food. Laura hardly touched hers. Eventually, Wilmington turned to them. ‘Salek was here,’ he said. ‘He had a young woman with him, and she answers to Sarah’s description.’
Jed could see Nick stop chewing. He was holding his pitta bread in his hand, all interest lost in the food. ‘Was she OK?’
Wilmington nodded. ‘Tired, stressed, but not harmed.’
‘And where the hell is she now?’
‘Still with Salek,’ said Wilmington. ‘He’s known in these parts, and has enough money and connections to buy himself a safe passage through the mountains. He was taking her towards Khailyhameh.’
‘Where the hell’s that?’ said Nick.
‘A village, about forty miles from here, right up in the corner of the Zagros Mountains, where Iraq, Iran and Turkey all meet.’
‘Why?’ said Nick. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘He wants to hide her,’ said Laura. ‘Sarah is the only bargaining chip Salek has left now. He needs to take her to the most remote part of the country he can find. Salek’s looking after himself now, and he knows Sarah is valuable property. As Wilmington says, if the Iraqis are done for, he can just take her over the border to Iran.’
Nick put down his food. ‘Then let’s move,’ he said. ‘If that’s where she is, that’s where we’re going as well.’
Wilmington exchanged a few words in Kurdish with the man, then turned back to Nick. ‘Khailyhameh is a bad place,’ he said, with fear in his eyes. ‘It is part of Halabja valley, which saw some of the heaviest fighting during the Iran–Iraq War. Much of the society around there was destroyed. It was where Saddam used chemical gases against the Kurds who remained. These days, it is controlled by Ansar al-Islam, a radical Islamic group with links to al-Qaeda. They hate all Westerners. It isn’t safe for anyone to go there.’
‘And Sarah’s there?’ said Nick.
Wilmington nodded.
‘Then she’s in danger, and we’re going to get her.’ He looked straight at Wilmington. ‘And you can risk dying there, or you can die right here. It’s your choice.’
The late-afternoon sun was streaming through the valley. Jed steered the car along what was nothing more than a mud track. From the village to Halabja might have only been forty miles, but there was no proper road, and the Civic wasn’t built to drive across country. Along the way they’d had to stop a dozen times as the car had to be pushed through some thick mud. Once, they’d had to clear away a tree that had fallen across the track. It might have been quicker to walk, thought Jed. It would certainly have been faster on horseback.
Along the way, you could see the remnants of old battles everywhere. More than fifteen years might have passed since the end of the Iran–Iraq War, but there were still burnt-out husks of old tanks, abandoned trenches and empty trucks. They went through three ghost villages, the buildings still intact, but crumbling as the stones and mortar slowly turned back into dust: all the people had been wiped out in Saddam’s gas attacks. You could smell the destruction all around you, thought Jed, as he powered the car towards their destination. What must Sarah have felt as she was taken through these villages? That she was leaving all civilisation behind her. And all hope with it.
When they reached the village, Jed climbed out of the car. A dozen men were walking towards them, talking among themselves. They were rough-looking characters, with thick black beards, and AK-47s slung around their leather and sheepskin coats. Jed scanned their faces, looking to see who was the village elder, but none of the men looked to be more than twenty-five. Christ, who’s in charge here? Maybe no one.
Nick and Laura also climbed out of the car. The three of them stood next to the Civic, looking straight at the men walking towards them. Jed steadied himself. Show no fear, he told himself. Make sure they know you’re not afraid, and you’ll have earned their respect. That’s at least one battle won.
‘Get out, Professor,’ barked Jed. ‘Your mates are here.’
Wilmington started to climb out of the Civic. His face was drenched with sweat, and the fear was evident in his eyes. A few days’ growth of beard had collected on his face, and there were scratches and cuts on his skin. His clothes had been reduced to rags, and exhaustion had turned his skin and eyes to a grey, soggy pulp. His hands were shaking, and his voice was fractured. ‘Move it,’ Jed snapped.
In front of him, one man stood out from the pack. He was holding his finger tight on the trigger of his AK-47 and there was a pair of long, curved hunting knives hanging from the belt around his waist. His beard was long and scraggy, and he was so thin he was little more than a skeleton with bit of muscle hanging off it. Jed hadn’t met many men he wanted to kill the first moment he saw them, but this was one of them.
The sun was beginning to shade into the mountains, sending beams of pale orange light down into the valley. As Jed glanced around the village, all he could see were six single-storey houses. There was no sign of electricity, and just a well at the end of the single dirt street for water.
The man in front of the pack barked something in Kurdish. It was a rough, harsh dialect, different from Arabic or Turkish. He was pointing at Wilmington, and waving his gun at the same time.
‘He wants to speak to me,’ said Wilmington nervously.
‘Then bloody speak to him,’ said Jed, pushing him forward.
Wilmington staggered across the ten yards of scuffed ground that separated the dozen men from the Civic. One of the men grabbed his hands, yanking them hard behind his back. Wilmington cried out in pain.
‘Bloody leave him alone,’ Jed snapped.
The leader took a step forward. He was pointing his gun straight at Jed, and his finger was hovering menacingly on the trigger. Jed glanced into the car. His own kitbag was lying on the back seat, with his gun inside it. Out of reach. Even if they could take on all twelve of the bastards, they could never get to their guns in time.
‘Quiet, Jed,’ said Nick firmly. ‘Let Wilmington speak to them. He knows their language. If he tells them we’re British, maybe they’ll start to cooperate.’
‘Right,’ said Jed. ‘Or maybe they’ll get their frying pans out to put our balls in.’
The man was leading Wilmington towards a tree that lay behind the main road. It was still early in the year, but the first buds of fresh blossom could just be detected on its branches. The men were talking quickly in Kurdish, and Wilmington was shouting at them. As they pushed him, his expression was turning wilder and wilder. Eventually they thrust him against the tree trunk. Suddenly, five men were standing in a semicircle around him, their guns raised straight in front of their eyes.
‘
What the hell is happening?’ said Jed.
‘Buggered if I know,’ said Nick.
One man had pulled out a rope, and had already tied Wilmington’s hands behind his back. The knot was tight and cutting into his skin: his wrists were starting to bleed heavily where the bark and the rope were slicing the flesh open. He was shaking, and there were tears streaming down his face. He was shouting at the men in the Kurdish, yet Jed found it impossible to decipher a word. You don’t need to translate, he told himself grimly. He’s pleading desperately for his life. That sounds the same in any language.
‘Stop them,’ shouted Wilmington desperately.
His eyes were swivelling between Jed and Nick. ‘Please, please,’ he stuttered. ‘Stop them …’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ shouted Jed, heading for the tree.
One of the men took a pace forward, thumping the barrel of his AK-47 in Jed’s chest. He could feel the metal slamming into his muscles, and could see the man’s finger hovering on the trigger. ‘Leave it,’ snapped Nick.
‘They’re going to shoot the bastard,’ said Jed.
‘He brought Sarah here,’ said Nick. ‘He was going to pay for that one day.’
The barrel of the gun was still jabbing into Jed’s chest. He looked into the eyes of the gunman, just inches from his own face, and he could see the fury rising inside him, but also the fear. He looked no more than eighteen. No training, and no discipline, he realised. Just a teenager with a machine gun.
‘Leave it, Jed,’ said Laura. ‘We can’t help him now.’
For a brief second, the valley was silent. Wilmington had stopped screaming. His legs had buckled, and there was urine running down his trousers. He was falling to the ground, held up only by the knot securing him to the tree trunk. The leader barked a single command, triggering a rapid burst of fire from the five gunmen positioned around the tree. A hundred bullets ripped simultaneously through Wilmington’s body, puncturing it in a dozen different places. His lungs collapsed, and his head fell to one side, virtually sliced clean from his neck, held in place only by a thin twist of muscle.
Christ, thought Jed. No matter what he might have done, no man deserves to die like that.
The leader turned to face them. There was a jagged smile on his face. ‘That’s what we do to collaborators,’ he said, speaking in a rough, broken English.
‘You speak English,’ said Jed.
‘Of course,’ said the man angrily. ‘What do you think we are? Savages?’
He walked towards the Civic, while the boy with his AK-47 jabbed into Jed’s chest started to back away. There was a sparkle in his eyes, Jed noted: the look of a man who enjoyed giving the orders to kill. ‘He said you were British,’ he said, looking towards Nick.
‘We are,’ replied Nick.
His face was calm and impassive, like a piece of rock.
He nodded. ‘Then we have no quarrel with you,’ he said. ‘So long as you understand our rules. My name is Rezo. We are the law around here. Only us. You do what we ask, and you don’t cause any trouble.’
‘You killed our guide,’ said Nick.
Rezo shrugged. ‘He was a collaborator.’
‘I thought you said we weren’t your enemies,’ said Nick.
‘Kurds should never work with Iraqis,’ said Rezo. ‘It offends our pride. The punishment for that is death. But we have no quarrel with you because you are British.’ He stood back, resting the tip of his gun on the ground. ‘Now, what are you doing here?’
‘We’re looking for someone,’ said Nick. ‘A man named Salek. He should have passed through here with a young girl. A British girl …’
Rezo nodded. ‘He passed through here last night.’
Jed glanced across at Nick. As their eyes met, both men were thinking the same thing. We’re getting closer.
‘By himself ?’ said Nick. ‘Or with a girl.’
‘With the Iraqis,’ said Rezo. ‘About twelve of them. Special Republican Guard, I think.’ He spat on the ground. ‘We hate them.’
‘What was he doing here?’
Again Rezo shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Salek is a Kurd but he had Iraqi soldiers with him. They gassed our people, they tortured us, they slaughtered our wives and children.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Up in the mountains, I believe,’ said Rezo. ‘Where the caves are.’
‘The caves?’ said Nick.
‘A network of passages cut into the mountains,’ said Rezo. ‘Some of them are natural, some of the them are man-made. Anyone can disappear up there.’
‘We need to get in,’ said Nick. ‘We need to find him.’
Rezo chuckled, scratching his beard as he did so. As he looked at the man, Jed felt sure he could see lice moving around inside the thick layer of matted hair on his cheeks. ‘Then I wish you luck, British man,’ he said.
Nick shook his head. ‘We need help,’ he said. ‘There’s twelve trained soldiers up there and only three of us.’ He looked straight at Rezo. ‘We’d like you to help us.’
Rezo laughed again, louder this time. He turned around to the other men, barked a few words in Kurdish, then all of them laughed at the same time.
‘We’ll pay you,’ said Nick.
Jed remained silent, waiting for the response. Better to let Nick do the talking, he told himself. This Rezo guy seems to prefer talking to an older man.
‘How much is my life worth, you think?’ said Rezo.
Nick remained impassive. ‘We have gold and dollars,’ he said. ‘We’ll pay you what we can.’
‘How much?’ Rezo repeated.
Nick was already running the calculations in his head. Both he and Jed had another couple of hundred dollars in bills in their kitbags, and ten ounces of gold. They would need something to get out of here. ‘Two hundred dollars, and five ounces of gold,’ said Nick.
Rezo stepped closer. He was standing just a few inches from Nick, looking straight into the man’s eyes. ‘You just give me everything you have,’ he said.
‘We need some money to get out of here,’ said Nick firmly.
‘Everything,’ Rezo repeated. ‘Or else we can’t help you.’
Nick glanced at Jed, but neither man needed to speak. They had come this far: there was no way they could turn back now, not without Sarah.
He looked back to Rezo and nodded. ‘Four hundred dollars, and ten ounces of gold, that’s all we have,’ he said.
‘I have ten ounces, and a thousand dollars,’ said Laura.
Already Rezo was barking some instructions to his men. There was a few minutes’ conversation, before he turned back to Nick. ‘Five men will come with us,’ he said. ‘I will lead them.’
‘Then let’s go,’ said Nick.
‘No,’ said Rezo firmly. ‘The mountains are impassable at night. We march at dawn.’
THIRTY-THREE
Jed peered into the darkness. The moon was starting to fade into the clouds, and on the horizon the first glimmers of the dawn were starting to break through the mountains, but the valley was still shrouded in a thick, menacing darkness. He could smell the dew rolling off the hillsides, and the scent of the wild juniper bushes that filled the area.
Some men could sleep before a battle. He’d known guys in the Regiment who could grab some kip knowing that they might never wake up again. Yet he was finding it harder all the time. He could shut his eyes, but as tired as he was, he couldn’t quite reach out and catch hold of sleep. It kept dancing away from him, like a leaf caught on the breeze.
‘It gets harder as you get older,’ said Nick.
Jed was surprised to find the old guy standing right next to him. From somewhere, he’d managed to find some sweet tea, and had brewed up a couple of cups. He handed one to Jed. ‘I read once that even infantry soldiers at the Somme thought they were going to be OK. Somehow they figured they’d get through, that there wasn’t a bullet with their number on it. Even though the poor bastards didn’t have a chance.’
&n
bsp; Jed took a sip of the tea. It tasted hot and sticky, nothing like the way he’d usually make a brew, but it was better than nothing.
‘They were just teenagers, you see, and they thought nothing could ever happen to them. Then, as you get older, and you see more men around you dying, you realise there isn’t rhyme or reason to a battle. Some guys get a bullet, and some don’t, and none of it makes any sense. That’s when you figure out it might be you next time around. And that’s when it gets harder to sleep.’
‘You think I’m losing my nerve.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Just wising up,’ he said. ‘Realising that there is nothing special about you, and no reason why you should live to see another dawn.’
‘Is that what happened to you?’ asked Jed, sitting down. ‘After you came back from Iraq last time.’
Nick sat down next to Jed. They had spent a few hours trying to sleep on a pile of straw in one of the abandoned houses in the village. It might once have been the home of a whole family, and maybe a couple of goats as well, but you could still see the craters all around it where the shells had hit the village, and it was more than a decade since anyone had lived here. The place smelt of damp, and crumbling cement. Right now, they were sitting on what would have once been the front step, but was now just a slab of stone. ‘Is that why you started drinking?’ Jed persisted.
Nick thought for a moment, sipping on his tea. ‘I was shaken up pretty bad when I came back,’ he said. ‘They’d kept me in the cells for months, they’d tortured me, squeezed the life out of me until I thought there was nothing left. They sent me to the Regiment shrinks when I got back, but it was worse than bloody useless. Confront your demons, and all that therapy bollocks. It’s no good when you can’t sleep for months on end. There was only one place I could look my demons in the eye, and that was at the bottom of a whisky bottle.’
He scratched the thick, greying stubble that was growing on his chin. ‘I went on some missions, but the spirit was all beaten out of me. The Regiment could tell, they felt sorry for me, and they shuffled me off into some cushy jobs, but I wasn’t interested. It was time for me to get out and do something different.’