Klaus had turned his whole body to face Jane, moving his chair as he did. He was nodding.
“I’m sorry. I was unaware that your agent had passed her phone number through this morning. One of my team will get in touch. And Jane, you have to understand that our constitution and laws make it difficult to pursue individuals, to intercept handys, sorry, mobiles, to search premises, and similar. Our covert forces are very closely regulated.”
Jane headed back across to the small table.
“My agent’s view is that Mauning will kill the countess in the next twenty-four hours. If you know where die Kirche’s warehouse is, I strongly suggest you pursue legal authority to get eyes on. If you don’t know where it is, then my agent will lead you there. Isn’t that fair?”
Oberwachtmeister Klaus Homberg nodded.
“I need to make a phone call to Berlin. Is the room secure?”
I give up.
“Yes, of course. I’ll get us some more coffee.”
Chapter 18
One Kilometre North of Shabwah, Yemen
Click, click, click. Kevin’s Canon camera worked hard to keep up with the demand for his shots.
“He’s moving from right to left, across the courtyard now,” Martin said. He was watching through his binos while Kevin operated the camera.
“Do you think it’s Sahef?” Kevin asked. He couldn’t make out the man, as the image blurred as he swung the camera slowly left to keep the target in the centre of the small screen.
“Too far from here to say. But your shots should do him much better justice,” replied Martin.
The camera was at maximum optical zoom, currently at times-thirty. Kevin knew that subsequent digital enlargement, even on the camera’s small screen, should enable a very clear view of the man in the shot.
“Hang on,” Kevin said under his breath. “He’s unlocked a door and gone into a room on the bottom right of the courtyard. Have you got him?”
“Yup. He’s left the door open.”
Both their gazes were fixed on the developing scene that was just under a kilometre away. Kevin knew that catching sight of Tony James was always going to be a long shot. He was incarcerated, and unless his captors needed to move him from his cell, he would stay put—if he was even in one of the farm buildings. But having Sahef on film was as good as halfway to saying that James was in the same location. Somewhere.
“You keep eyes on; I’ll go and have a look at what I’ve got.”
Kevin dragged himself and his camera off the ridge. Putting his torso between the intense sun and the small screen, he flipped through the images he had just taken. The best one was where the Arab-looking man was halfway across the compound and had glanced in the camera’s direction. It was in perfect focus. He expanded it so just the man’s face was visible. It was a good, clear shot.
He had brought with him a green A5 Nyrex folder in his holdall, which was among a pile of rucksacks and equipment stuck beside a rock at his feet. He reached for the holdall and took out the folder. In it, slid between multiple plastic inserts, he had paper photographs of the main Daesh players and a couple of Tony James. He leafed through the three images he had of Sahef and compared them with the face on his Canon’s screen.
It was remarkable. The man on the camera was definitely the man in his folder. The likeness was uncannily sharp. He was even wearing the same-colour thawb and keffiyeh. Kevin really couldn’t tell them apart. Fantastic.
He turned to face up the hill. Martin’s boots were a few feet from him.
“Martin?” Quiet, but forceful.
“Yup?”
“It’s definitely him. One hundred per cent certain. I’m going to get my Iridium out and send the details to London.” He was already playing with the secure satellite phone. His camera was set up to Bluetooth the images to the Iridium. A few lines of text and the images would be on their way.
“No you’re not! Up here now with your camera! Quickly!” Martin was insistent.
Kevin dropped everything and scrambled to the top of the hill, immediately placing the camera down, its small, bendy-legged tripod lifting it just off the dirt.
“It’s James. Sahef is leading him from the room into the centre of the compound. I’m sure it’s him.” Martin was talking at a rapid pace, his binos pushed hard against his face.
Click, click, click. Kevin focused the camera. Click, click, click, click.
“Where’s he taking him?” Kevin asked, knowing that there was no way Martin would know the answer.
“He’s not. He’s leading him very slowly around the compound. Like a horse in a manège. He’s exercising him.” Martin’s last sentence was laced with incredulity. “I don’t get it. It’s like he’s keeping him fit.”
They both watched the Arab and the white man. The Arab leading, and the white man, a hesitant follower, parading around the compound. Another Arab had come out into the courtyard with a video camera. He started taking clips of the activity.
Kevin got plenty of snapshots of the bearded Captain Tony James as he staggered around the square. He was dragging one leg, his shoulders were hunched, and at one point he tripped and almost fell. What was extraordinary, but difficult to be sure of from this distance, was that it appeared Sahef was being gentle with James. He led him by a rope that was tied round James’s hands, but he didn’t drag him. He shepherded him, much like a proud Crufts competitor would lead a prize dog. It was shameful, but in some obtuse way, touching.
“It’s as London said in the report of a couple of days ago—Sahef is showboating James. A monkey on an organ. And I could think of a number of other sickening metaphors.” Martin’s voice trailed off at the end. Kevin kept his opinion of how he felt Sahef was treating James to himself.
Click, click, click.
“OK, Martin. I’m going to get these to London. The remaining question is, what should we do next?”
Kevin didn’t expect an answer. He left his colleague with his binos pressed against his face. He was sure he heard Martin mumble, “I can’t believe they’re doing this. The fuckers.”
Within a minute all of the photos had been transferred to the Iridium phone, and Kevin penned the following accompanying text: “Sahef and James. Looks like James is being exercised. Another Arab also there taking video clips. Are very exposed here. Send instructions. K + M.”
He pressed “Send” and crawled back up to the ridgeline.
FBI Briefing Room, Abilene, Texas
Albin was sitting toward the back of the room. He reckoned there must be close to fifty folks at the briefing. Up front was Special Agent Nick Rafferty, his boss. This was his show, and Albin was the boss’s driver. He was very proud of that. Albin wasn’t an agent, nor was he on the firearms or technical side. He just drove the fantastic black Ford Bronco pickup. Got the boss to the right place at the right time and he drove well, even if he was relatively new to the job. “It’s my anniversary coming up, Mamma,” he had said to his mother at breakfast this morning. “One year next week. I get a pay raise, you know!”
He spat his baccy pinch into a tissue he carried in his pocket and looked again round the room. At the beginning of the briefing, his boss had said that this was the largest joint operation in Texas for over ten years. You don’t say! There were six FBI agents. Two local—one was his boss. And four had come down from Washington to help out. There were two firearms teams who, his boss had said, would stay “tooled up, but out of sight” unless required. Earlier, Albin had asked to look in the back of their white Dodge van just before they’d started the briefing. He’d never seen so much hardware! He lost count of the number of M48s and MP5s. He spotted an M72LAN and a couple of Uzi 9 mms. He was pleased that they were on his side.
There was a media team from the FBI technical wing. Their job was to record the operation—he was glad he was wearing a clean checked shirt. Media were also “standing by to corral reporters like steers!”; he loved that joke from his boss. There were a couple of national TV channels; they wo
uld be held some distance back and only called forward should there be a story.
His boss had then introduced the three members of the IRS—geeks and boffins in Albin’s eyes. That’s when he had struggled to stay focused. They and an FBI lawyer were responsible for the document and computer search across the whole premises. He wasn’t great with computers and always admired anyone who could get them to work properly—he should have studied harder in high school. Important, but plain dull. That was his view. And finally, at the back of the room with him, wearing big hats and chewing just as much baccy, were a couple of teams of state troopers, four members of the local sheriff’s department, and a first-aid section from the city hospital. He couldn’t count them all, but with drivers ‘n’ all, it was close to forty. Maybe fifty. The parking lot had more cars, jeeps, and pickups than the local mall. All that was missing was the National Guard! Were they on call?
It was going to be one helluva show.
“OK then, folks, to summarise.” His boss was still talking. He was so good at that. Albin was always impressed when his boss spoke in front of people.
“You’ve all been issued maps and diagrams. At fifteen hundred hours, Samantha, the media rep, Jim, and I”—he was pointing at the tall special agent from Washington—“will leave the holding area at the parking lot at Abilene. Unless you get a call to stay firm, I want the second Bureau car, one state trooper vehicle, and the local law to follow at 15.10 hours. Sort that out among yourselves. Your job is backup, with a little bit of menace—flashing lights, but no sirens.”
Albin’s boss pressed a button on a laptop. The projected image, which until then had been the FBI logo, changed to an aerial view of the church’s real estate.
“You’ve all seen this and have copies. If we get no trouble, and I’m not expecting any, I’ll call the rest of you forward and we’ll break into the teams we agreed: blue, green, red, yellow, and black. Your allocated search areas are shown by the boundaries displayed on the map. We search everything; leave no stone unturned. And with sunset estimated for 20.45 hours, we don’t have that much time. I do not, repeat, do not want to come back and have to do this again. Are we clear?”
Albin joined the room with a resounding, “Yessir!”
“Any questions?”
“Special Agent Rafferty?” It was one of the state troopers from the back.
“Yes, sir,” was Rafferty’s response.
“What do we do if one of the perps decides to make a run for it?”
Albin noticed his boss give out an audible sigh.
“First, they’re not all ‘perps.’ We understand that one or two members of the church might be undertaking some criminal activity. Our job today is to search, only.” He reinforced only. “It is possible that, in light of all of us turning up, one or two folk on site might decide to flee the premises. Unless you get a direct order from a Bureau agent, or firearms have already been used, then you are to let anyone who wants to leave, leave. Is that clear?”
“Yessir.” There was some murmuring at the back of the room following the clarification.
“OK. Time check. I make it 11 . . . 38 precisely. Meet you all back here at 14.30. And I don’t need to remind you that this is a closed operation!”
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London
Jane was quickly penning an e-mail to the JIC covering four of the photos they had just got through from Kevin and Martin. It was the best possible news. If the SF could get to the farm buildings, they could rescue Tony James and take out Sahef. All in one shot. But there was a torrent of water to flow under that bridge between now and then.
The chief had reluctantly ordered Kevin and Martin to remain in position for the time being. It was the only call. If the SF were to launch, they would need to have up-to-the-minute confirmation that James was “still in the building.” To make that happen, either the two SIS men would have to stay put for as long as it took, or the SF might be able to fly in an early recce party to relieve Kevin and Martin in situ. It would be on the JIC’s recommendation, assuming that Brigadier Alasdair’s team was able to get some men there quick enough. The chief could veto any decision to delay the SIS men’s extraction, but she thought it was unlikely that he would.
Her scant knowledge of SF operations led her to think that the earliest they would attempt a rescue would be tomorrow night. Tonight, just hours away, was too tight a call, but tomorrow night could well be too late for the SIS men. It was a dilemma.
Every second counts. She rushed to finish her work. The e-mail was straightforward:
Dear JIC members,
See attached four photos. They were taken today at 12.15 Zulu, 16.15 Local. They are all of the farm buildings at Shabwah. Photo 1 is Sahef. Photos 2, 3, and 4 are of Sahef “exercising” Captain James. The second Arab in photo 3 is a man taking video footage of the exercising.
As you know, we have two agents in overwatch position in Shabwah. They are currently still in location, but they are very exposed. The chief would like them relieved in place as soon as possible. His view is that they must leave overnight tonight.
Advise please.
Jane Baker.
Jane knew she had overplayed the final sentence and those weren’t the chief’s words. But she had to do what she could to expedite Kevin and Martin’s extraction. She pressed “Send” and then looked at her watch: it was 4.10 p.m.
She had her team meeting in twenty minutes. In an ideal world, Mike, somehow or other, would have got the Doughnut to get ears on the Shabwah farm buildings. With phone taps in place, it might allow Kevin and Martin to get the hell out of there without the need for the SF to take over. But her guess was that there was no way the JIC would sanction an SF attack of the farm buildings without guaranteed intelligence that James was in the building. Covering a mobile phone, or landline or two, probably wasn’t going to be good enough. She had real sympathy with that view. But that didn’t help the very exposed Kevin Boswell and Martin Crane.
Altglienicke Strasse, Berlin, Germany
It was almost dark. They hadn’t seen Mauning come out of the building, nor had the Merc moved from its parking place. Sam’s friend Frank had kept in touch, and his view was that Mauning’s phone was still in the office block. That all seemed to indicate that Mauning had remained at work. But, as Sam had said, “He’s an ex-Stasi agent. I wouldn’t bet on anything.” That hadn’t helped Wolfgang’s disposition. Nor had Sam’s further interrogation on the Köln affair. He’d pushed back any additional questions, and she’d finally given up.
It had been a tense day. They had been given one or two odd looks from passers-by, but nobody seemed overly concerned. Sam had kept them supplied with rubbish food—he’d never drunk so much coffee. Thankfully he’d been able to sprint to Starbucks, relieve himself in the men’s room, and get back without incident. And they’d both managed to get some sleep.
It was now getting cold, and, in a late light-bulb moment, he had checked the Kadett’s fuel gauge. He reckoned they had no more than seventy kilometres left in the tank. That would have to do.
When they had both been awake, they hadn’t spoken of much. There wasn’t a great deal to say. The atmosphere in the car was so different from that of just twenty-four hours ago. Then, they couldn’t have been closer. But now . . . ? Sam had to appreciate that things had changed.
Anyhow, he preferred the silence to needless talking. Sam seemed to understand that.
They had one moment of boredom relief when Sam’s phone received a text from someone in the BfV. Sam’s boss had told her to expect them to contact her. The text was noncommittal. She had read it out.
“It says: ‘We are currently obtaining legal authority to pursue Herr Mauning. We expect to have this in the next four hours, at which point we would aim to meet up and take responsibility for the operation. Herr Vintner.’”
Sam had been derisory at that point until she realised that she was having a go at a well-respected arm of the government to a nonplussed German citizen.
Then she had shut up.
These British. They always think they know best.
Wolfgang checked his watch. It was five thirty. Sam had received the text just after two. What if Mauning appeared now? They’d follow him, of course. Where would that leave the BfV?
Maybe she was right about them. Maybe they were slow and bureaucratic. Mind you, the way he felt at the moment, nobody got a fair hearing.
He hadn’t been able to get his mother out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. He had thought through all the possible scenarios, but the only one that took hold was the one where she was dead. What would he do then? She was only fifty-eight! He needed her for at least another twenty years. His father had been his rock. His inspiration. His mentor. But his mother was his safety blanket, his comfort. He felt that she never judged him. He could have done pretty much anything, and she would have approved. More importantly, she was always there for him. A soft cushion on parquet flooring. There was no other woman like her.
Since last night, if nothing else, that had become clear to him.
As a result, he couldn’t stop himself from ruminating over the events of the last ten days. Trying to establish fault. Apportion blame. Had Sam Green taken him here? Or was it all down to him? Was he constantly looking for approval from his dead father? And had that led him to this madness? Was that it?
His thought process was interrupted.
“He’s coming out!” Sam whispered. “Look!”
Wolfgang shook himself and saw what Sam had just seen. He didn’t start the car. Fuel was precious, so he would wait until the last moment.
Mauning got into the Merc—it was dark so they couldn’t see what he was carrying. It took him a few minutes to sort himself out. Then the car switched on its lights, backed out of the parking slot, and drove around the car park. Seconds later it pulled out into the road ahead of them.
Fuelling the Fire Page 35