She didn’t know what to do. She needed space. She needed to get out of the office. If she stayed where she was a second longer, she wouldn’t be able to hold it together. Her eyes darted round the room, onto her desk. Everything was a weapon. A pen. A stapler. Her chair. Everything at this exact moment could be used to hurt somebody. Herself. Even Frank—God no!
She had to get out.
I have to get out!
Sam sprung up and ran from the office, diving to her right into the ladies’ cloakroom.
Cubicles on the left. Sinks with mirrors on the right. She was panting. Rabid. Her eyes were out on stalks, her hands trembling.
Sam tried to stop herself. To be rational. To stare into one of the mirrors and talk herself through it. Her mum, her dad—and his slow decline and then death to dementia. And now Uncle Pete.
With that thought, she lost it. She turned to face the first cubicle. It was closed. “Under repair.”
Fuck you! She thumped it with all her might. A proper boxer’s punch. The door bounced, but it didn’t give. Shit—my hand hurts like hell!
But it didn’t hurt enough.
Smack! Smack! The door was still holding out manfully, but a fist-shaped indent was now evident.
Smack again! Noise and pain. Pain and noise.
Sam realised that tears were rolling down her face. She wiped them away with her still-clenched fist and tasted blood. She looked down. Her right hand was a red mess. She moved her fingers. They were still working. Good.
Take that!
Smack! She hit the door once more; this time the lock gave, and the door, thankful for any respite, bounced open to reveal the white porcelain pan.
Sam was shocked to find the door giving way. She took a step back. Snorted, snot dripping from her nose, mingling with the blood and tears. She looked down again at her hand. She moved her fingers. One didn’t work. That’s not good. She looked up again, focusing on the pan. Just now she was either going to kick it or throw up in it.
Her stomach made the decision for her. She bent down at the same time as she spewed. She fell into the cubicle. Some of the vomit made it into the pan. Much of it splattered everywhere. She was on her knees now. Heaving. The lining of her stomach fighting to make it through her oesophagus.
“Sam! Sam?” It was a voice of someone she recognised. It was difficult to tell with the thumping going on in her head, the sound reverberating around the pan.
Could it be Jane?
Sam turned and, through drenched eyes, made out Jane standing just outside the cubicle.
The sight of a familiar face, a kind face, someone who had saved her life in Sierra Leone and now looked after her like a caring mother, was too much for Sam. She broke down, sobbing with a pathetic whine that dribbled from her throat. She raised both arms like a child who had found a parent after she’d been lost in a supermarket for an hour. Her right hand a splotchy red thing.
Jane reached down, her grey suit jacket touching the floor, mingling with the vomit. She was crying now—Sam had no idea why.
Jane met Sam’s embrace, and then they were two people who became one mass of emotion.
“Sorry.” It was all Sam could muster.
“Me too, Sam. Me too.”
Sam had no idea why Jane was sorry. But she felt she truly was.
Chapter 4
15° 23' 43″ N, 44° 15' 36″ E, Northern Yemen
Trooper Steve Bliss checked his handheld Garmin GPS. He had covered just over thirty kilometres in six hours. It was tough. Leaving aside the heat, which was debilitating, the terrain was rocky and never flat. He was either scrambling uphill or sliding down. He started almost at a sprint—parkour does northern Yemen. Pushing off boulders and jumping small rocks. Even with just a daysack—he had left his bergen behind—he knew he was carrying fifteen kilos. But he hadn’t let that slow him down. Yet.
After a further exchange of gunfire in the direction of the enemy’s position, he had made a quick radio call to Jock, his radio signal rebounding through two remote rebroadcast stations that they had inserted on the way in. He told Jock he was on his way. And that the enemy was good—he hadn’t seen them. He’d just crouched behind cover as rocks and dust were thrown up by a hail of bullets. He’d managed to return fire, but only in the general direction. Jock told him that a team had already left, heading north in his direction. They had the GPS position of his beacon and would meet him somewhere en route. Then they’d have a discussion about what to do next. What to do about Tony, Sandy, and Ted.
He had slowed after about thirty minutes. As taught, he tried to put himself in the mind of the enemy. What would they do? If they came after him, and he assumed they would, how would they do that? He had been instructed on the terrorists’ modus operandi (MO), but something nagged at him. The four of them had been taken completely by surprise. Result: three out of the team were down. And he was running for his life. That was something else.
Steve thought they would move quickly to a vantage point and see if they could spot him—try to establish a direction of travel. So he had initially moved east for about four hundred metres, until he had put at least two small ridges between himself and the enemy. Then, just off the crest line, he had run in a southerly direction toward the Hub where Jock was, his weapon hanging loosely in his left hand, leaving his right arm free to steady himself against the slope and to push off boulders.
He had told himself that he wouldn’t stop until he had been going flat out for six hours. Only then would he take stock. He didn’t use the radio in case the enemy was listening. He’d almost turned off his beacon in case that was being monitored. Before insertion, they had been told that both the beacon and the radio were secure, that they couldn’t be intercepted. But something felt different about this enemy. Perhaps it was the two non-Arabs whom Tony had spoken of last night, when he had briefed them on today’s plan. A plan that didn’t include three of them being shot and the fourth running away like a frightened rabbit from a fox.
He rested in the shade of an overhang, drenched with sweat and needing fluid. Lots of it. There were two litres of water in his daysack, much less than he would have lost since leaving the contact point. But he had to be disciplined. While sitting there, he did some simple maths, calculations he was incapable of doing as he jogged along. The Hub was seventy-five clicks to the south. He had travelled almost half the distance. The team Jock had dispatched would be following his beacon, making adjustments, and trying to intercept him. They would be travelling slower, carrying overnight kits, much more ammunition—I must check how much I have left—and provisions. It would be about two hours before they’d meet up.
The sun had moved since he had sat in the shade. Its heat burned through the toe of his boot, which was now out of shadow. He twisted his foot and pulled it into cover. A bag of nuts and raisins filled a hole, and he drank half a litre of water.
Tiredness stalked him, his whole body aching from the morning’s exertion. He closed his eyes and tried to rehearse what he had been through—to try to give Jock something to go on when he got the chance. He went over the attack, the initial shots, the contact report from Ted. Then Sandy and Tony down, the further exchange, and finally the extraction. Steve was surprised to find that he wasn’t at all emotional.
He’d felt nothing when he saw Tony fall. There was no overwhelming sense of grief, just lots of stuff going on in his head—all manner of information—which he had to process. He should feel something, some sense of loss—or even fear. Nothing came. Maybe later?
Steve opened his eyes. He had to get going. And he mustn’t assume that they weren’t following him. Although, unless they were on a mountain or trail bike, there were few people who could keep up with him on foot. He was among the fittest in a squadron of very fit lads.
Just one more minute.
As he stared out across the shallow wadi to the rocky face opposite, he listened for nondesert noises. Vehicles. Perhaps a helicopter? At one point, he thought Jock might cal
l in the quick reaction force (QRF) in the Merlins, but he knew that they wouldn’t fly forward without someone on the ground directing them. And the only person who could have done that would have been him. But not now. He was long gone. Might Jock perhaps ask for an air extraction? Or would the QRF fly into the terrorist camp and kick arse anyway? He was neither a strategist nor a tactical genius. At twenty-five and one of the youngest members of the squadron, he was still on his year’s probation. So he didn’t have the experience either; this was just his second deployment. But even he knew that without “eyes on,” nobody flew into an enemy position blind.
That was if the camp was still even there. They’d probably have buggered off by now. He certainly would have.
“Come on, fella,” he said to himself. He crouched, threw his daysack on his back, and picked up his rifle. After a quick check of his compass and a scout to see if the ground looked any different, he ran out onto the hillside. Back into the blistering sun.
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
Jane led Sam into David’s office. She thought Sam had cleaned up well. Apart from the bandage on her hand and her bloodshot, baggy eyes, she looked presentable. Jane had sent her straight home after the incident in the cloakroom, not even bothering to press Sam for reasons. She knew Sam well enough to give her space. After they had clung to each other for what seemed like an hour—it was nowhere near, but it was long enough for three women to come in, see that their presence was probably not helpful, and then go upstairs to use another loo—Sam had got up, brushed herself off, and asked Jane meekly, “What happens now?”
“If you’re feeling slightly more contained, let’s go to the medical centre to sort out your hand. Then you should probably go home. I’ll give you a ring later, and we can talk this through. I’ll speak with Doctor Latimer, but I’m hoping his advice is for you to come back to work tomorrow and settle back into some sort of routine.” Jane paused for a second and then added, “You understand that I will need to tell David?”
Sam nodded whilst washing her face, flinching whenever she used her right hand. They walked down the corridor, and, with no explanation sought, the nurse had checked visually for breaks, cleaned up the cuts, bandaged her hand up to the wrist, and told Sam to pop along to A&E to have an X-ray. “To be on the safe side.”
Jane accompanied Sam back to her desk and then to the front entrance. They still hadn’t discussed why Sam had done what she had done. Jane knew that she would pick that up, either on the telephone later or in the margins elsewhere. She was a spy, after all.
“So, Sam,”—David had ushered them in to sit on the sofa in his office—“Jane has told me about your uncle. I am so very sorry.” He seemed to leave the sentence hanging, waiting for an answer.
Jane looked across at Sam. She was staring down at her hands, fiddling with an imaginary set of beads or something similar.
David coughed. “Are you fit enough for work, Sam? Do you need some time off?”
Sam looked up now, directly at David. She stopped moving her hands.
“Why were there twenty-five photos taken from the cloud the day before yesterday? This morning Jane said she had removed them and couldn’t amplify on why that was the case. I’d like to know why.” Complete clarity. No emotion.
David looked at Jane. She, sensing his surprise at where this was going, gently raised her eyebrows and leaned her head on one side. Beats me . . .
“Because, erm . . . look, it’s complicated, and sometimes we don’t share all our information with all of our staff. You know that.” His voice raised perceptibly. David was affronted, confused—neither of which he could disguise in the tone of his reply.
No, you’ve got the wrong voice, David, thought Jane. Sam’s not stupid. She knows something is up. Something that impacts on her, or one of the team of analysts.
Sam began to say something and Jane interrupted.
“I think, if you don’t mind, David, we should get this all out in the open. Especially after last night’s news from Yemen.” In the four years Jane had worked for David, her confidence had grown. She knew she was in credit, and she often pressed David to change direction, not that he always did.
Just now, Sam was close to being irrecoverably broken after the death of her uncle. The news that Manning and Bell were alive and operating among Islamic terrorists would exacerbate her disposition. But Jane’s view was to get all of this bad news out there now. Let Sam reconcile everything. All of it. And then work out if she were fit enough for work. With three members of the SRR either dead or in captivity somewhere in lawless Yemen, they needed their best analysts working on the case in London—while those on the ground sought out and sent home the clues. Sam was the best they had. If she were fit, they needed her.
David scratched at his bald patch, looked over his shoulder to the window, and then started. “Yesterday the SRR OP in northern Yemen was compromised. Only one man got out. The other three are either dead or being held. The soldier who got out, Trooper Steve Bliss, made contact with the insertion group, and they have all made it back over the Saudi border and are safe.” He shuffled in his chair, leaning forward.
“Satellite images taken six hours ago has shown that there is nothing left of the training camp. You saw the original pictures?”
Clever of David to engage Sam, make sure she’s on message.
But there was no answer, just an imperceptible nod.
“Sam! Answer me . . . please.” The please was softer, but his initial retort demonstrated David’s frustration. He could have sent Sam home indefinitely, pending a psychiatric and disciplinary report. Instead Jane saw that he was trying hard. Working to reengage one of the best analysts in the building. Anchor her down, to save her from herself.
He leaned back and held his hands up, an open stance.
“Sorry, sir. Sorry.” A quick and heartfelt response from Sam. She was listening.
“Good . . . thanks.” He was leaning forward again now. “Just before the compromise, the OP leader took photos of two new arrivals at the camp.” He paused, waiting. Waiting for something. Jane didn’t know what. “The men were Kurt Manning and Ralph Bell.” He didn’t stop for a reaction. “The MO of the attack on the OP was very un-terrorist. It showed all the signs of a professional hit. We think that the two either coordinated or carried out the attack.”
He stopped now—letting all of it sink in. Jane looked at Sam. Her facial expression hadn’t changed; she just stared straight ahead at David. She was either incredibly focused and calm or had tuned out completely.
The pause hung in the air. The outcome unknown. Jane was ready to hold Sam down if she tried to run out of the office. She was trained to do that—although a little bit on the rusty side.
Sam didn’t flinch.
Nothing.
Then, almost at a gabble, “I’d like three days off please. I need to take with me one of those Nexus tablets that your field agents have. The ones that enable them to access secure information away from the office. Particularly for me: the cloud e-mails and those photographs, which I need you to ‘Unhide.’” Sam stopped for a second, almost gathering breath. She stole a quick glance at Jane.
“I’d like to go now, or after any further briefings you have.” Then Sam added, “Sir.”
David smiled. It was a smile of bemused incredulity, rather than acceptance or acknowledgement that Sam’s request was in any way acceptable.
Jane led, “Why, Sam?”
Sam turned sharply to Jane and gave a grimace of a smile.
“I can’t thank you enough for being there for me yesterday. As we discussed on the phone, I have nothing left. Nobody other than my work colleagues who I can turn to.” Jane saw Sam welling up, but womanfully holding it all together. She smiled at Sam—her best motherly smile.
Sam looked back at David. “I need to go to the crash site to see where my Uncle Peter died. I need to do that now. I hope you can understand. But I also need to work. I probably know Manning and Bell bett
er than anyone, having been stalked and then taken by them in West Africa. I know the ground well, having studied thousands of photos of Yemen. And I have a good grip of both the Al-Qaeda and Daesh hierarchy in the Saudi peninsula.” It was all matter of fact, almost rehearsed, but delivered at machine gun pace. She hadn’t slowed down, her sentences melding into one. “And I can do both. Together.” A pause. “Sir.”
David breathed out. Jane could see his cogs turning. He stood up and walked to the window, his favourite place for thinking. She imagined that he was looking down over the White Water Horses sculpture just up from the building, emerging from the river as the tide slid out into the North Sea.
Without turning around, David replied, “What about yesterday? The breakdown. It is the elephant in the room.” He turned, facing them both. “I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.”
That was tough. But fair.
Sam was looking back down at her knees. She had closed her eyes.
“Sir.” A good start, Jane thought. “You need all the help you can get just now.” Sam was now looking up again, glancing between both her and David. Her animation adding expression to her words. “Do an investigation, as you must. Get Doctor Latimer to review me again for suitability for employment. Sack me if you have to. But first let’s find those two bastards, and, please”—she brought both her hands together—“. . . give me a couple of days to get this thing right in my head.”
David had walked to behind his desk and leaned with both hands on the top of his chair. There was another long pause. Nobody said anything. David looked at Sam, across to Jane, and then back to Sam. God, this is all very dramatic.
“There’s a team brief in”—he looked up at the Vienna-style wall clock—“ fifteen minutes. Analysts don’t normally come to those, as you know; Jane represents you. But I’d like you to come.” He looked across to Jane. “After get Sam a Nexus tablet and a secure phone. Make sure I have her number.” He looked back to Sam. “You have seventy-two hours, which I’m prepared to extend by a further twenty-four if you need it. But in the meantime, it’s fifty-fifty. Work and convalescence.”
Fuelling the Fire Page 6