Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (13 page)

‘The sex is more straightforward. IS routinely take girls hostage to use as sex slaves. Their commanders get the pick of the bunch. There have been a number of special forces raids – British and American – on the compounds these vermin use to keep their harems. We’ve managed to rescue some of the girls, and they’ve given us detailed information on how they are being used and abused. The reports make for . . .’ Thackeray sniffed ‘. . . unedifying reading.’

‘We should be bombing these IS strongholds – us and the Americans,’ Chilvers said.

‘I couldn’t agree more, Foreign Secretary. There is some, how can I put it, frustration among the security services at the rationale behind which IS strongholds in northern Iraq and Syria are being targeted, and which aren’t.’

‘Your frustration is shared,’ Chilvers replied darkly. ‘But we don’t have the mandate from the public to step up a bombing campaign in the Middle East. Not to mention that we don’t have enough planes.’

Thackeray raised an eyebrow. ‘Mandates can be doctored,’ he said blithely. ‘And resources can be made available. No, Foreign Secretary, I think you and I both know that the Americans are running the show in the Middle East. We have a great deal to lose from falling out with the US, so there’s no way we would bomb these targets independently without the Americans’ say-so. And it appears the Americans have their reasons for holding back on these targets.’ Thackeray got to his feet and started pacing round the room. ‘Britain has its own little part to play in the conflict, Foreign Secretary, and we mustn’t get ideas above our station.’ He stopped and looked directly at Chilvers. ‘Of course, there are those who think that Britain should not be playing the part of America’s poodle. Whether you yourself are of that frame of mind, I couldn’t possibly say.’

His comment seemed to hang between the two men. Hammond cleared his throat. ‘Westminster Abbey?’ he reminded them.

Thackeray sat down again. ‘Westminster Abbey,’ he repeated placidly.

‘I have to warn you that we can put all the usual precautions in place, but—’

‘—if a device has already been planted, we might not be able to locate it.’

‘But how can that be possible?’ Chilvers demanded. ‘Don’t you have resources for this kind of thing?’

‘The kind of IEDs we’re coming up against these days are incredibly sophisticated,’ Hammond said. ‘And the terrorists are fast learners. They’re setting explosives into composite blocks, for example, then into concrete. When they do that, it’s impossible for dogs to sniff them out. And they’re getting skilled at making these things so that metal detectors can’t pick them up – plastic components in the detonators, only tiny bits of metal.’

Chilvers scratched his blond hair. ‘But . . . in Westminster Abbey? How would they . . .’

‘The Brighton bomb that targeted Thatcher was in place months before it was detonated. With technology now, digital timers and the like, they can put IEDs in place
years
beforehand. A couple of rogue concrete slabs when they’re doing restorations – the whole place could be an explosion waiting to happen. Then, of course, there’s the suicide bomber factor – if somebody wants to walk in there on the day wearing several kilos of C5, there’s not a lot we can do . . .’

There was an ominous silence as the assembled personnel considered the implication of Hammond’s words.

Eventually, Chilvers spoke again. ‘This Dhul Faqar character,’ he said. ‘He would know the identity of whoever’s in the UK orchestrating this attack, one presumes.’

Hammond had to hand it to Thackeray. He was playing Chilvers like an instrument. His reaction was subtle. An imperceptible widening of the eyes, as if he had not previously considered this option and was impressed at the Foreign Secretary’s perceptiveness. ‘One would assume so,’ he said. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, 9/11 was conceived and planned in Afghanistan. The Paris attacks were conceived and planned in Syria. The hard truth is that if you’re trying to prevent these atrocities by targeting individuals in the UK, you’re already too late.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you’re drinking water from a stream that’s giving you stomachache, your best bet is to head upstream and remove the animal turd that’s poisoning it, if you take my meaning.’

The Foreign Secretary blinked hard. ‘Then we must apprehend him.’

Thackeray inclined his head. ‘It’s a possibility,’ he said. ‘But I should warn that the PM is unlikely to give his approval to our going in under the Americans’ radar.’

‘Bollocks to the PM,’ Chilvers snapped. ‘I’m the Foreign Secretary, this is within my authorisation.’

Thackeray nodded. ‘A bold stance is needed,’ he said approvingly. He turned to Alice Cracknell, but she seemed to be one step ahead of him and was already handing over a Manila folder. ‘If that’s your decision, George, there’s a chance that we could kill two birds with one stone.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘So to speak.’

‘How so?’

‘Our intelligence tells us that Dhul Faqar is hosting four of these middlemen we talked about, the ones who broker oil from the IS-controlled oilfields on to the wider market. I’m sure I hardly need to point out that the elimination of these individuals would be a serious blow to Islamic State. If they can’t broker their oil, a substantial chunk of their funding will be cut off.’

‘You’re asking me to authorise an assassination attempt?’ the Foreign Secretary said.

‘It’s your decision, of course, but such a course of action will require high-level approval. And like I say, I don’t feel comfortable approaching the wider cabinet in case we inadvertently tip off the Americans that we’re listening in on their intelligence sources. The PM would almost certainly veto the operation. It needs the authority of somebody with the ability to see the wider picture. And of course, the person who supported MI6 in this matter would be assured of our support in the future.’ He sat back and let his words sink in.

The Foreign Secretary made a show of considering the matter, but Hammond could tell that Thackeray’s wily flattery had already done its work. ‘Let us speak plainly,’ Chilvers said. ‘You want me to authorise an operation to extract information from Dhul Faqar, and also to assassinate these four middlemen.’

Thackeray nodded slowly.

Chilvers sniffed. You could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. ‘See that it’s done,’ he said finally. ‘But I want your best people on it. There must be complete deniability. The Americans can’t know and the PM can’t know. Is that understood?’

‘Perfectly,’ Thackeray muttered.

The two men stood up and stiffly shook hands. ‘I need to get back to my office,’ Chilvers said. ‘You’ll keep me informed of any progress?’

‘Of course, Foreign Secretary. You’ll be the first to know.’

Chilvers gave Hammond and Alice Cracknell a cursory nod, then left the room, closing the door noisily behind him.

There was a moment’s silence. Thackeray turned round to check that the door was indeed shut. Then he breathed out explosively. ‘That man,’ he announced, ‘is a grasping, snivelling, self-absorbed little cunt. No wonder he’s made such a name for himself in politics.’ He turned to Hammond. ‘I’ve had a whole team researching Dhul Faqar and his middlemen. It’s taken me six months to get to this point. Alice will give you everything we have. And Chilvers might be an idiot but he was right about two things: complete deniability, and your best men. The team who lifted these two migrants in the Med – you said
they
were your best.’

Hammond nodded, trying hard not to let any expression of doubt show in his face.

‘Do they have names, old boy?’

Hammond inclined his head and shuffled through the papers in front of him. He pulled out a file and handed three documents over to the chief. Thackeray glanced through them. ‘Danny Black,’ he murmured, ‘Spud Glover, Caitlin Wallace. I wasn’t aware you had females on the books, as it were.’

‘Australian,’ Hammond said. ‘On secondment. I have every confidence in her.’

‘Good,’ Thackeray said, adding the documents to his own pile of papers. ‘Assign them to the task. They’re to take out the middlemen, apprehend Dhul Faqar and squeeze every last drop of information about this Westminster Abbey hit out of him.’ He frowned. ‘I’ve had my eye on that monster for a long time. We’ll all sleep safer in our beds once Dhul Faqar’s crossed off our to-do list.’

Hammond nodded. ‘We need to make a decision about the remaining IS target in Malta.’

Thackeray gave him a sharp look. ‘I understood there were two of them.’

‘One didn’t make it through the interrogation process.’ And before Thackeray could ask the obvious question, he added: ‘It happened under the authority of the MI6 team. The Regiment personnel took over and successfully extracted the intel from the second man. I suggest they accompany him out of Malta. I don’t know who you’ve got running that place, but prisoners have a habit of ending up dead there.’ Hammond knew he was overstepping the mark, but the MI6 chief didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared lost in thought. ‘Sir?’ Hammond nudged him.

Thackeray blinked. ‘I’m afraid he can’t leave the facility. We can’t risk word getting back to Dhul Faqar that we abducted his men. Not to mention the Americans.’ He sniffed. ‘Your men will have to . . . do what has to be done.’

Hammond inclined his head. He had noticed that when it came to ordering an execution, the spooks had an endless supply of euphemisms.

Thackeray neatened his papers, held them to his chest and headed to the door to follow Chilvers out of the room. But before leaving, he turned again, almost on an afterthought. ‘Oh, and for God’s sake, Hammond,
tell
me you’ve got someone on the way to Dubai to pick up that bloody liability Yellow Seven. I’ve got the palace on my back about it day and night – as if I don’t have more important things to think about.’

Hammond took a deep breath, and forced himself not to give the answer he wanted to deliver.

‘It’s all under control,’ he said. ‘You can tell the palace that we’ve—’

‘Got our best man on it?’ Thackeray said with a faint smile. ‘I think I will at that. I’ll leave you in Alice’s capable hands. Get the job done, Hammond. There’s a lot riding on it. We can’t stop these migrants coming in. The only thing we can do is weed out the bad eggs at source. Excuse me. I have a lot to organise.’

With that, he turned and finally left the room.

Hammond spoke into his mobile phone. ‘Tell the Malta unit to eliminate the remaining prisoner, then get them back over to Sigonella military base, Italian section,’ he said. ‘I need to be on a plane to Sigonella as soon as possible to brief them. They’ll need full gear and supplies. Inform them that they’re heading east and I’ll brief them further when I see them.’ He killed the phone, then turned to Alice Cracknell, who was sitting primly, with a slightly superior look on her face. ‘Alright, love,’ Hammond said with a heavy sigh. ‘Dhul Faqar. Sounds like a right charmer. Show us what you’ve got.’

Joe was shivering violently. He knew that he was dangerously cold. The wet gravel in which he was hiding was sucking every ounce of warmth from him. He was even beginning to feel sleepy, which he knew was the first sign of hypothermia. Time was running out.

The train had stopped moving an hour ago, but he knew that he was still on the French side of the English Channel because it had not travelled far enough to make the tunnel crossing. And in any case, the rain had been incessant. With only his face showing at the surface of the gravel, it kept washing pieces of grit into his mouth and eyes. At times, he felt like he was suffocating. If the train had gone under the tunnel, there would have been some respite. But there was none.

He didn’t know what the delay was, but he didn’t like it. The longer he remained in France, the greater the chance he would be discovered.

Voices. French. Joe felt himself go rigid. It was difficult to locate where they were coming from, not only because of the rain but also because they were down on the ground and he was much higher up. He tried to work out how many there were. Four? Perhaps five? Probably just railway staff, he told himself. Stay calm.

But it was difficult to stay calm when, thirty seconds later, he heard a needling, high-pitched whine. Like the buzzing of a giant insect, and it was getting closer . . .

Five seconds later he saw an object float up above the edge of the carriage. He knew instantly what it was: a small drone. No doubt it was fitted with a camera, and was here to search the carriages. He felt a moment of panic. Then he told himself there was no time for that.

There was no light coming from the drone, which meant that it had to be a night-vision camera. He quickly clamped his eyes shut, because he knew that an NV camera would pick up his retinas quite clearly. And he held his breath, because even the slightest movement could give him away. He concentrated hard on stopping the trembling, but that was more difficult. There was nothing he could do about it.

The whining grew louder. Joe couldn’t see the drone, but he could sense it almost directly overhead. He had a horrible vision of it landing on his face.
Please don’t see me,
he thought desperately.
After all this, please don’t see me 
. . .

There was a crack of thunder overhead. Rain lashed down. Joe felt it washing the gravel from his face. He cursed himself. Why had he thought nobody would guess there might be stowaways in these carriages? He had been so confident about his strategy before. Now he felt stupid.