by Chris Ryan
A minute later, they were curving off the main road. Spud didn’t slow down for the roundabout up ahead, and ignored the angry horns as he muscled his way on to it, then off at the second exit. He felt his back tyres skidding slightly on the wet tarmac as they joined a much narrower road, hedges on either side that grew thicker after about 750 metres.
There were no vehicles up ahead. In the rear-view mirror, Spud saw a single set of headlamps at a distance of, he estimated, a hundred metres. Suddenly, twenty metres away, he saw a cutaway section in the grass verge for parking. There were no other vehicles there, so he slammed the brakes hard. They squealed in the wet, and Spud surged forward as the vehicle skidded through the rain. Spud skilfully kept control of the vehicle, steering into the skid and coming to a halt neatly in the verge.
He switched off the engine. The headlamps and the light on the dashboard faded. The car coming up behind them passed and disappeared.
Darkness.
Spud stepped outside into the rain. By the time he reached the boot, he was already soaked. He put the key in the lock, turned it and opened up.
He was ready for al-Meghrani’s pathetic attempt. As the cab driver lashed out from the boot, Spud grabbed his wrists and yanked him out. In a matter of seconds he had pulled off his gloves. The skin of his prisoner’s hands were just as he’d seen in the picture: peppered and shrapnel-scarred.
‘Who are you?’ al-Meghrani breathed, rain streaming down his terrified face. His Brummie accent wasn’t quite so pronounced as it had been in the car with Eleanor. ‘What do you want with me? I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Except carry a Claymore bag, fuck your hands up with dodgy explosives and . . .’ Spud plunged one hand into his own jacket pocket and pulled out the passport. The cab driver feebly attempted to grab it back. For his trouble, he received a brutal thump in the pit of his stomach, which made him bend double, half-gasping, half-spluttering. Spud flicked through the passport until he reached the photo ID page. He checked the name: Khaled al-Meghrani. Not Khalifa. And the picture, though a very good likeness, was not a perfect one.
‘Who is he?’ Spud asked. ‘Your brother?’
Al-Meghrani made no reply – he was too busy trying to suck in air – but it didn’t really matter. Spud ripped the photo ID page out of the soggy passport to render it useless, then threw the remnants into the boot.
The cab driver struggled again and tried to escape. It was totally in vain. Spud simply grabbed a clump of al-Meghrani’s sopping hair, then forcefully tugged his head towards him.
‘Where were you headed, sunshine?’ he breathed, his voice almost drowned out by the pouring rain. ‘Athens first, then Turkey, then on to Syria maybe? Let me tell you something. I’ve been the guest of the Syrian mukhabarat. They did things to me that would make you piss your pants just to hear about. I’ve had African warlords threaten to feed me to the fucking dogs. If you spend enough time with people like that, you pick up a thing or two. So here’s the bad news, you piece of shit. I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you find yourself lying, it’s going to fucking hurt. Understood?’
Al-Meghrani was taking short, shaky breaths. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. The rain hammered noisily on the roof of the vehicle.
‘Good,’ Spud said. ‘We’re getting somewhere. Question one: where did you fuck your hands up?’
The cab driver closed his eyes. ‘Iraq,’ he breathed. ‘A training camp. There was a faulty grenade . . .’
Spud didn’t let it show in his face, but the relief that washed over him was like a warm shower: he hadn’t been making this shit up after all.
‘Question two: where were you heading after Turkey?’
Al-Meghrani seemed more reluctant to answer this question. He tried to look away, but a firmer grip on his hair made him yelp the word: ‘Syria!’
Spud nodded. ‘Question three,’ he said. He twisted the cab driver’s head closer so they were just inches away from each other. ‘What do you know about the Caliph?’
Whatever reaction Spud had expected, it wasn’t this. Al-Meghrani’s shaking became more violent. He whimpered, and with a sudden surge of energy started flailing around, trying to release himself from Spud’s grip.
Spud didn’t hesitate. With one great swipe of his free arm, he slammed al-Meghrani’s solidly in the centre of the face. There was a brutal thud, accompanied by the cracking sound of a bone splintering. Al-Meghrani gasped in pain. When Spud lowered his fist, he saw that his nose was impressively broken, and blood was streaming down over his lips and dripping from his chin.
‘Let’s try that again,’ Spud whispered. ‘What do you know about the Caliph?’
‘Nothing,’ al-Meghrani whispered. But his pathetic denial was accompanied by a waft of urine. His companion had pissed himself with fright.
‘You’re scared of him?’ Spud said.
Al-Meghrani looked at him with a pitiful expression. He nodded.
‘Right now, my friend, you should be more scared of me.’ And without warning, he slammed his fist against the cab driver’s broken nose again. A yelp of pain filled the air, and when Spud looked at the bleeding face again, he saw streaks of tears on the blood-smeared cheeks. But both blood and tears were almost immediately washed away by the rain.
‘Please,’ al-Meghrani whispered. ‘Please . . .’
‘Have you met him?’
Al-Meghrani nodded faintly.
‘Where?’
‘In . . . in Iraq. At the training camp.’
‘So why’s he so fucking scary.’
Al-Meghrani could barely speak. Over the noise of the rain, Spud only faintly caught certain words.
‘Beheadings . . .’
‘Burnings . . .’
‘Families killed . . . villages wiped out . . .’
‘Crucifixions . . .’
The cab driver buried his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. Spud released his grip on the man’s hair. He’d broken him. Al-Meghrani’s pretence was over.
Spud stepped backwards. He was cold and soaking wet. But there was a fire inside his gut that kept him warm. A car sped past, momentarily lighting them up, but it didn’t stop. Spud looked at his shaking, bleeding hostage. He had a decision to make. Should he call Eleanor? Tell her what he’d discovered? Drag this bleeding, battered, wannabe jihadi into the MI6 building and wait for her to tell him exactly which procedures he’d failed to follow, and fit the target up with a medic and a decent lawyer?
Or should he head for Hereford, his home turf that no longer felt like home? Where Ray Hammond could tell him what a dead weight he was, and scoff at his attempt to keep in the game while the Regiment had bigger fish to fry?
He drew a deep breath. Neither choice appealed to him. But he couldn’t stay here, stuck down a country lane, with a terror suspect who might just have a link to the guy the Firm were chasing . . .
Spud suddenly grabbed the cab driver by his neck again.
‘What are you doing?’ Al-Meghrani whimpered. ‘What’s going on?’
Spud didn’t answer. He pushed the struggling cab driver back down into the boot cavity. Al-Meghrani shouted out in panic, and Spud winced as a shock of pain ran down his abdomen. But he kept the pressure on, and once more managed to bundle the cab driver and his scuffling, flailing limbs into the cavity and cram the boot shut with a dull clunk. Al-Meghrani’s renewed, panicked shouts became muffled. He banged furiously but ineffectually against the inside of the boot. Spud ignored the noises, walked round to the passenger door, slammed it shut and then clambered back behind the wheel.
He was drenched and slightly out of breath. His wounds throbbed agonisingly and he had a bastard pain between the eyes. He was in a bad state to make a clear decision, but that was what he had to do.
He inhaled deeply, started the car, lit the headlamps and knocked the engine into first. With screeching tyres, he pulled a quick 180-degree turn over the wet tarmac. Then he accelerated hard down the country lane.
He’d made his choice. He was heading to Hereford.
TWENTY-SEVEN
04.00 hrs AST.
They had taken it in turns to sleep through the night, but now everyone, even Mustafa, was awake and alert. From the window of Ahmed’s penthouse apartment, Danny saw the lights of a chopper approaching across the glowing Qatari skyline, its trajectory heading straight for them. It almost looked as if it was going to slam straight into the penthouse itself, but once it was fifty metres out it became clear that this was just an optical illusion. It was flying a good twenty metres higher than the building and disappeared overhead. Danny faintly heard the sound of its rotors beating on the roof above.
He turned to check out his crew. Like Danny himself, Tony and Caitlin had ditched their tracksuit tops and sports bags, and since there was now no need to hide the hardware they’d picked up in Bahrain, it was on full display. They wore T-shirts over which they’d donned their tactical vests. Their S&W handguns were tucked into the vests, and their KH-9 rifles were slung around their necks. They wore radio packs connected to their covert earphones, and their vests were packed with spare ammunition for their personal weapons, along with a flashbang each.
Mustafa and Ahmed couldn’t keep their eyes off the hardware. Buckingham was scowling, like a petulant child. ‘We should leave the fucking spook here,’ Tony had already suggested. ‘Cunt’ll only get in the way.’
‘He’s staying where I can see him,’ Danny said.
‘You’re fucking crazy. We should leave them all here – Buckingham, Mustafa, Ahmed.’
‘I don’t trust any of them. Until we’ve got the Caliph, they stay with us.’
Tony shrugged. ‘You’re the fucking boss,’ he said bitterly. ‘You can take the rap when they screw things up for us.’
Ahmed’s phone rang. He didn’t need to be told to put it on hands-free. Everyone in the room heard the conversation in Arabic, even though they didn’t all understand it.
‘The platform has been evacuated,’ Ahmed said once the call was over. ‘The last helicopter left two minutes ago.’
Danny shot Buckingham an enquiring look that said: is that what the conversation was about? Buckingham nodded. Danny took his own phone out and dialled through to Hereford. The call was answered immediately. ‘This is Bravo Nine Delta,’ Danny said. ‘We’re advancing to target.’
‘Roger that,’ came the reply. ‘We’ll expect you to contact us as soon as you’re on the platform.’
Danny killed the line. ‘Move the cases of money,’ he told Tony and Caitlin. As he spoke, he saw Ahmed’s face twitch. ‘What?’
‘What if I lose it?’ Ahmed asked quietly.
‘What if a psychopath releases a bioweapon in the middle of London?’ Danny countered. ‘Anyway, it was your idea.’
It took five minutes for Danny’s two companions to transport the flight cases of cash from Ahmed’s bedroom. They carried them out of the main entrance to the apartment and up on to the helipad above. Once they were fully loaded, Danny gave a single grim-faced command and all six of them prepared to leave.
Caitlin and Tony led the way. Ahmed and Mustafa followed, their shoulders sloped, like men walking to their death. Then Buckingham and Danny. But as the other four disappeared through the apartment’s main entrance, Buckingham held Danny back. Danny looked him up and down. The spook’s hands were shaking. He was clearly terrified. ‘Black,’ he hissed. ‘There is no need for me to come with you. I’m much better deployed here, as a conduit to—’
‘You’re coming,’ Danny told him.
‘Black, I swear to God, I know things about you that will put you in a military prison for the rest of your life, and that’s if you’re lucky. I know people in Langley who’d prefer you dead. One word from me and they’ll—’
‘You’re coming.’ Danny grabbed Buckingham’s arm and pushed him towards the exit. Buckingham was sweating as he staggered out of the apartment, Danny stalking him close behind. They moved past the dedicated elevator towards the metal door at the far end of the corridor, which the others had left open. The noise of the chopper was louder here. On the other side of the door was a flight of steps that led up to the rooftop helipad. The warm wind was strong this high up, and not just because of the chopper’s downdraught. All of Doha seemed to shine in the night beneath them, and seawards to the north and east, Danny could make out a busy coastline full of glowing vessels that became gradually less numerous as the distance from land increased.
Buckingham looked bilious – he clearly wasn’t good with heights – so Danny grabbed him by the arm and ushered him roughly across the helipad. Danny recognised the chopper as a Sikorsky S-76: blue tail, red body, orange- and white-striped rotor blades. From the outside it looked like a standard offshore-transport aircraft. The chopper’s side door was open, and the others were already inside. Danny pushed the spook aboard, then jumped in himself and closed the door.
‘GO!’ he shouted over the deafening noise of the rotors.
There were two flight crew, each of them wearing headsets. Danny noted with satisfaction that they seemed confused to be transporting anyone other than Ahmed. It took a word of instruction from their boss before the chopper rose from the helipad, buffeted slightly by the winds, and sped directly over the lower rooftops of the city towards the coast.
The interior of the Sikorsky was a lot more comfortable than any military transport Danny had ever been in. Twelve comfortable leather seats. A fridge with iced water. Ahmed was a man who liked to travel in style. But this morning he looked terrified. The dark rings around his eyes were more pronounced, and he kept glancing anxiously at the unit’s personal weapons.
Estimated flight time, thirty-five minutes. Land became sea. A couple of minutes later they had passed the bulk of the vessels mooring in Doha, and all Danny could see through the window of the chopper was the reflection of a bright moon on still water. He estimated that they had an hour till sunrise. He didn’t like not having a direct line into Hereford. He knew the head shed would have full surveillance on the area, but until they got on to the rig and opened up a secure line to them, it was useless to Danny and his team.
As the rotors spun rhythmically, Danny looked at his two unit colleagues. Unlike Ahmed, Mustafa and Buckingham, Tony and Caitlin’s faces were pictures of calm. They sat next to each other, and Danny noticed how Caitlin’s knee was pressed against Tony’s. He felt like warning her not to get too close. Tony was a man who ripped off the Hereford armoury and flogged the spoils on to the sort of people who shouldn’t be within a hundred metres of live ammo. A man who could call on a seedy underbelly of criminality to do his dirty work for him. A man who thought nothing of allowing his wife to head blindly into a terrorist atrocity. For one of the good guys, he had a bad way of looking at the world. Danny would have far preferred to have Spud or Ripley here, but he didn’t have that option. He just had to get on with it.
In the distance – it was hard to judge how far, but maybe ten or fifteen klicks – Danny caught sight of a structure glowing in the sea. One of the many oil platforms that dotted the Persian Gulf. Even from this distance it looked vast: a floating city.
The pilot looked back over his shoulder and shouted something in Arabic. Both Ahmed and Buckingham turned to Danny. ‘Five minutes,’ they translated in unison.
Danny nodded. He checked over his weapons, and saw that Tony and Caitlin were doing the same. The chopper started to lose height. Danny craned his neck to look through the front window of the aircraft. His angle of vision was awkward, but he could just make out another structure, much closer this time.
You would never know from up here that Qatar Drilling Rig 17 was abandoned. The vast rectangle glowed brightly in the dark sea. An enormous scaffolding column protruded upwards from the centre of the platform, and Danny counted two vast orange and white cranes hanging outwards from the rig over the sea. The platform itself was surrounded by suicide nets, and it seemed from this angle to hover above the surface of the sea because
its vast supporting legs were shrouded in darkness, although he could just make out white horses on the water’s surface where the sea broke against them. He identified a circular LZ – green, with a yellow circular landing spot marked with a glowing ‘H’ – on the nearest edge of the platform, which the chopper now headed for.
Danny turned to his unit. ‘Secure the LZ,’ he said. ‘The rest of you, stay on board till we give you the word.’ He cocked his rifle. Tony and Caitlin did the same.
Thirty seconds later, the chopper touched down, its nose facing inward towards the platform, its tail pointing back out to sea. Danny, Tony and Caitlin exited quickly and congregated about the chopper’s nose, Danny positioned centrally, Tony to his left, Caitlin to his right. Danny could hear the chopper’s rotors start to slow, but the downdraught was still strong. He scanned the scene ahead of him. The platform was huge – about the size of two football pitches – and was covered with a network of scaffolding frames, metal staircases and storage containers. Twenty metres below the LZ, Danny could make out a line of RIB lifeboats, and a vast salt water pump to deal with the constant threat of fire on board the platform.
But no personnel. No movement.
The rotors fell silent. Now they could hear the water crashing against the footings of the oil rig far below, and the movement of a breeze from the north-west. And on the edge of his senses, a humming sound, no doubt emanating from the generator that had to be keeping the electric lights burning, and some of the sound coming from the lights themselves. But there were no voices. It was eerie, being on a structure that was clearly meant to house humans, and knowing that they were the only people on board.