Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  She had done her best for Wolfgang. He was out of it. It was a combination of the Kadett taking an almighty sideswipe that, from what she had seen and latterly felt in the blackness of the container, had punctured a hole in his leg. The horror of what happened next had finished him off.

  Once they had been thrown in the container he had slumped to the floor, spent. Sam knew immediately that if Mauning and his merry men didn’t come back soon and finish them off, the seeping cold and their leaching metal cell would beat them to it. At the back of the container, surrounded by suffocating darkness, she had fumbled around and found some old wooden pallets. She counted nine. There was nothing else. She lay three in a row next to Wolfgang and, with a Herculean effort, had lifted him onto the makeshift bed so that at least his body was off the metal floor. He had groaned as she moved him, but hadn’t uttered a sound since.

  She had touched his new wound. It felt as though the gear lever had ruptured his thigh. It didn’t seem as bad as the wound in his arm had been, but it was bleeding; her fingers were wet and sticky. She had pulled back his jumper and ripped the arm off his shirt, using her teeth to start the tear. At first, she thought she might need to apply a tourniquet to the upper reaches of his leg. That would stop the flow of blood in its tracks. But it would also eventually kill the foot and the rest of the leg as the blood failed to carry out its normal duties. So she decided to opt for a simple pressure dressing. She used her bra, which at least was reasonably clean, and placed it on top of the wound. She then wrapped the ripped sleeve around the leg and tied it tightly.

  She’d checked her watch and every half an hour had felt the dressing for blood. The last time she had touched it there was a little dampness, but she seemed to have stemmed the flow. Wolfgang was unlikely to die from loss of blood. He might, however, just perish from a combination of freezing temperatures and a broken heart.

  The horror that followed the car crash was unspeakable. It was the most malicious act Sam had ever witnessed.

  She had tried to get away from the Kadett after it had been impaled by a forklift truck. It had smacked into them as they had attempted to cross the gap between the warehouses. The moment she had stepped out of the car, a man had knocked her down. She had no idea what had happened, except she now had a huge bruise on the back of her head. The next half hour or so had been hazy. A blur. She remembered someone searching her; her mobile and wallet were taken out of the pockets in her trousers. They had manhandled her into the second warehouse; she wasn’t sure if they had dragged her or if she had been carried. The next thing she remembered was being thrown onto a concrete floor in a large open space. They hadn’t climbed any stairs, so she assumed they were still on the bottom floor. It was a large open area, maybe as big as a school gymnasium, but segregated by square brick columns rising up to the ceiling. Two opposing walls had windows—she had tried to check to see if they were locked, but she couldn’t make anything out. And the other two walls were wholly brick, with a couple of wooden doors breaking up the monotony of red.

  A minute or so later, Wolfgang was flung down next to her, and the man who had thrown him stood watch over both of them. Wolfgang was unconscious. Sam had spotted the leg wound, which looked like a puncture—blood oozing from it like ketchup from an upturned bottle. She had tried to say something to Wolfgang, but she had been slapped across the face by the man. Bastard. The slap was hard enough to ensure that she wouldn’t do that again.

  Sam looked out for an escape, but she saw no possibilities. As far as she could see, there were four men in the large room, one of whom was Mauning. She recognised a second from the church’s congregation, but not the other two. All of them had rifles slung, except the man looking over them. His rifle was pointing in Sam’s general direction.

  What caught her attention, but for all the wrong reasons, was that to the edge of the room was a crate—the only furniture in the huge space. The crate was partially covered with a decorative piece of purple cloth. And on the cloth was a handgun, just like the one that had been blessed in the barn. That didn’t bode well for either of them.

  Over the next minute or so, two of the men had laid out a large green tarpaulin, maybe twenty metres square. It was so big that they had to turn the corners up to get it to fit between the brick stacks. In another universe, it would have been a fairly humorous moment. But not now. Not with the ritual gun in the room. And then they laid out three chairs on top of the tarpaulin, the vertices of a triangle. Facing each other. Mauning stood in the centre of the tarpaulin and appeared to undertake some form of religious ceremony, as if he was blessing the space. It was, she guessed, in Hebrew. It was weird. And it scared the hell out of her.

  Sam knew then that she was facing her death. She got that two of the chairs were for her and Wolfgang—but she had no idea who the third was for. Maybe Mauning would sit in one and take pot shots at them from a distance? Anything was possible.

  Soon enough, Sam found out that she was right about the first part. After a babble of German from Mauning, two of the men lifted Wolfgang onto one of the chairs. He gave no resistance as he slumped into the seat, his head lolled back, barely staying upright. Then they lifted her by her arms and carried her across to the second chair.

  She had thought that she might want to resist, to make a dash for it, at least die trying to escape what appeared to be her impending, cold-blooded killing. But some strange dignity came over her. She knew escape was completely futile. An unarmed woman against four men, carrying rifles and at least one handgun. This wasn’t a film set; she wasn’t Uma Thurman. So, rather than give these savages the pleasure of watching her squirm, she knew straight away that she would face her death like Anne Boleyn. She would be unflinching. Stoic.

  But then the setup changed. Two new men—shit, that makes six—brought out someone who she immediately knew was Wolfgang’s mother. Her legs and hands were tied and she was gagged. As soon as she saw Wolfgang, she turned hysterical. It took the two men all of their effort to drag her across the floor.

  Sam’s resolve snapped.

  She saw a chance, or, more honestly, she just lost it and launched herself from her chair toward the two men, determined to make some gesture—to intervene in some way.

  What she hadn’t realised was that there was a stalker behind her. He’d obviously spotted her starting to move, and the next thing she knew she was on the floor, her legs having been taken out from under her by something, possibly a rifle. As she raised herself to launch for a second time, a boot caught her in the stomach, and all the wind was forced out of her. Debilitating pain spread from side to side. At that point she was a rag doll. Good for nothing.

  Back on her chair with “her man” holding her shoulder, she watched Wolfgang’s mother being tied to the third chair. She jumped and pushed, so they hit her. First it was a slap across the face. But she had more spunk than that. She thrashed her head from side to side, trying to bite through her gag, her eyes out on stalks looking across at Wolfgang. The noises coming from her were those of a mother faced with the worst possible fate for her and her son, muffled by an inconveniently placed cloth. So this time, they hit her straight in the face with a rifle butt. As Wolfgang’s mother’s head snapped backward, Sam heard a crack. A bone had been broken, maybe a couple. Her head rolled about, blood pouring from her nose, her remonstrations stopped by a single blow. She was conscious and making a pathetic sobbing noise, but the will to fight had been smashed out of her.

  Next their attention turned to Wolfgang. They had the simple treat of a bucket of water, which they threw over him. The slosh took away some of his delirium, and he slowly lifted his head. His eyes were glazed and his face etched with pain and tiredness. Sam couldn’t tell if he recognised his mother, where they were, or what was happening.

  Except . . .

  . . . when Mauning took the pistol from the top of the crate and walked over to the countess. He aimed the gun at the back of her head, released the safety catch, and, with no hesitation and no f
urther ceremony, blew her face off.

  Walk, aim, shoot. Bang!

  Death.

  Wolfgang’s whole body lurched as though the bullet had hit him. It might have been the ear-shattering noise of a pistol being fired in an enclosed space, the sound reverberating around the room for seconds afterward. Or, he had indeed recognised the despicable spectacle of his mother being slaughtered like a farm animal before his eyes. Whatever the case, immediately afterward, his head dropped again. He was gone.

  As if in harmony with the horror, Sam couldn’t stop herself from throwing up all over the tarpaulin-covered floor. She spat out bile and vomit, and then she retched some more. Next it would be the lining of her stomach.

  Mauning walked toward Sam.

  She knew it was her time. She was ready. She had cheated death twice before. First in Camp Bastion, Afghanistan, where she had held her insides in her hands through an opening in her stomach that shouldn’t have been there. The second, having been drugged and then being left to die in an inferno in Kenema, Sierra Leone. Third time lucky. She didn’t care. Not now. She might have a few days ago. That was before Wolfgang’s demeanour had altered from knight in shining armour to, perhaps understandably, self-obsessed mummy’s boy. It was a cruel comparison, but she was in no mood to be generous.

  Now they could take her. Just as someone had taken Mum, Dad, Uncle Pete, and Chris. My Chris—how she missed him. How she now longed to join him.

  Sam closed her eyes and waited for Nirvana.

  Her waiting was shattered by a piercing, but daftly incongruous, polyphonic ringtone. Was it “Super Trouper” by Abba?

  “Scheiβe!”

  Sam opened her eyes. Mauning had stopped midstride, pistol in hand. He reached into his pocket for his phone. He looked at the number, consternation spreading across his face.

  “Halten sie fest,” he shouted. Her stalker held her tightly by the shoulder.

  Sam was lost, angry, and very tearful. What’s so important that it stops my execution? Come on, you bastards. Get it over with!

  The only words she picked up from Mauning’s German conversation with his phone were Ja! and Kurt. It all meant nothing to her.

  Mauning put his phone away and barked orders at the men in the warehouse. Sam was surprised to be manhandled from her chair and dragged toward the door they had come in through. As she was unceremoniously pulled away, she glanced behind to see Wolfgang slung over a man’s shoulders a few steps behind her. And, most pitiful of all, his mother being wrapped up in the tarpaulin. No mess. No evidence. Clever.

  And now she and Wolfgang were here in the container. It had taken the thugs a couple of minutes to find the right one. It was an old and rusty-orange one, set back four or five rows from the front line. They were well and truly hidden. No one would hear her calling from this cell.

  Sam checked her watch. It was one thirty in the morning. It was time to look over Wolfgang’s wound. She had to find a routine. If she could survive another four hours it would start to get warmer, and then there might be some respite from this biting chill. She had been given a stay of execution. Again. For the third time. She needed to find the inner strength to make it through to another day.

  She stood up, her legs wobbly.

  I’ll walk. Up and down. Down and up. Until I drop. Keep warm. Exercise. That’s what I’ll do. First though, I’ll check on Wolfgang.

  One Kilometre North of Shabwah, Yemen

  It was dark on the hill and getting cold. It had been a long, nervous day. Kevin felt his phone vibrate. Keeping the glare of the screen within the confines of his jacket, he checked the SMS he’d just received: “Charleston. We’re at the Land Rover.”

  Thank God, the cavalry has arrived. OK, let’s go.

  Over the past twelve hours there had been a slow stream of e-mail and SMS traffic between Kevin’s Iridium and London. Early this morning the first order, “to stay put,” was understandable—but worrying. He reckoned they had already outstayed their welcome.

  If he thought their location on top of the hill was fragile, he was even more concerned about the Land Rover. It was well off any main road or even a track, but was visible from a wide angle if you looked hard enough. The Bedouin nomads were inquisitive people and attuned to things not being “just so” on their land. A white truck, thinly disguised as an extension to a piece of rock, wouldn’t fool them. With the Bedouin kicking about, staying put into a further day was a real worry.

  But that’s what they’d been asked to do. The plan had developed throughout the day. Eventually, London had sent through a short set of instructions, a military Op Order, which included some code words. He didn’t see the point in code words, as all of their communication devices were encrypted up the yin yang, but the army had its ways.

  The long and the short of it was that an eight-man SAS recce party would be dropped in after dark that evening and rendezvous with them at the lookout. The SAS would then take responsibility for keeping eyes on and hold the position until the following night. Assuming James remained in the compound, a larger group of SAS would be helicoptered in and attack the farm buildings the next evening. That was about twenty-four hours from now.

  As Kevin had read the Op Order, he’d asked himself the question, Where does this leave us?

  And then he reached the bottom of the instruction:

  7.b. Coord. SIS team to remain under command of C21B. They are to extract with C21B by hel. Veh to be left in situ. All sy eqpt to be either destroyed or taken with team.

  That made sense, then? Kevin had assumed that once the SAS were in place, they’d make a dash for it back to Sana’a. But that didn’t appear to be the plan. They would hang about for a further day and fly out with the army. Anything for a free helicopter ride.

  Kevin tapped in a reply to the SMS: “Am coming down now. Be with you in two minutes.”

  “Martin!” A quiet call through a clenched jaw.

  “Yes.” A hushed reply from the OP on top of the hill.

  “The SAS are here. I’m heading off the hill.”

  “OK. Mine’s a beer.”

  Bloody hilarious.

  Picking his way carefully off the hill, almost tripping over twice in the dark, Kevin made his way down to the Land Rover. There, with his weapon initially pointing at Kevin, he was met by a soldier.

  “Charleston!”

  OK. If I must.

  “Quickstep!”

  The soldier lowered his weapon.

  “Hi. I’m Sergeant Barry Fawcett.” In the dark, Kevin noticed that he was holding out his hand. He shook it.

  “We have some provisions for you, and a couple of my boys will head up the hill and take over the OP, if you can lead the way. And . . .” The soldier seemed to be hesitant. “We’re going to move the vehicle. Maybe a couple of clicks down the ridgeline. So if anyone sees it they won’t necessarily link it to the OP. Can you empty it?”

  Kevin thought for a second.

  “It’s got nothing in it that we need. By the way, I’m Kevin Boswell.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. Anything incriminating in the vehicle?”

  Kevin wasn’t very happy with being treated like a complete idiot.

  “No. Everything with our metaphoric name on it is up on the hill.”

  “That’s good. If you could get the keys out and give to them to Jack over there.” Kevin looked at an area of blackness, out of which appeared another soldier. How do they do that? “And then lead me up to the OP. That’ll be great.”

  Kevin dug out the keys from his pocket and handed them to Jack the magician. He then turned to head up the hill.

  SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall, London

  Jane knew David wouldn’t mind her using the pulldown in his office. The bed was comfortable, and with the bombproof glass in the outside windows, the room was quiet. But she couldn’t sleep.

  It had been a night of mixed emotions. By the time they had got confirmation that the SAS had linked up with Kevin and Martin, it was past two in the
morning. With still no idea what had happened to Sam, she couldn’t think about going home.

  It was odd. She had deep professional interest in how the Op in Yemen went. She knew Martin Crane well and had met Kevin Boswell on a number of occasions. They were both outstanding field agents, and their work in Yemen was highly regarded. And bloody dangerous. So she was delighted and relieved that the small isolated team had met up with the Special Forces. Between them they should be able to handle themselves, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if they came back with Captain Tony James?

  Sam Green was a different story. She, or more fairly SIS, hadn’t used Sam—well, not exactly. She was pretty sure of that. Sam was her own woman. Completely and utterly independent. Sam did what Sam wanted to do, and the SIS were lucky that, most of the time, it was in tune with what they had in mind. She had, with the help of her friend, the German noble, pieced together the top left-hand corner of a complex and significant jigsaw that was enabling the CIA to finish the bottom right. The Church of the White Cross, in Jane’s mind, was definitely central to some anti-Muslim, antimigration, anti–almost everything but religious adherence to some ancient script, worldwide conspiracy. And Sam, in a matter of days, had helped to bring that conspiracy into sharp relief.