Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (14 page)

The rain fell.

The drone hovered above his face.

He waited for the guards to start shouting. Or for the crunching sound of feet across the gravel load.

Neither came.

The whining grew softer. The drone was moving on.

Joe still didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Barely breathed. His limbs were numb and heavy, and he felt the sharp nausea of fear. This
had
to work. He
had
to get across the border.

‘
C’est bon!
’ called a French voice from below. ‘
Allez!
’

There was a sudden, loud hiss. The freight train eased into motion.

Joe’s pulse started to race. The train gathered speed and, a minute later, the sensation of hard rain across his face came to a halt. He opened his eyes. Total darkness.

He knew he was in the tunnel. He felt a sense of elation.

He forced himself to move. His body ached, and the inside of his mouth was caked with grit. He didn’t know how high the roof of the tunnel was, so he kept low, hunched in a little ball as the wind and the noise rushed past his ears. He thought of how far he had come – the dangerous sea crossing on a tiny boat full of desperate migrants. The long journey through Europe, stowing away in the back of more lorries than he could remember. He ignored the hunger gnawing at his stomach, and the thirst that burned the back of his throat, and the pain in his muscles, and the piercing cold . . .

He was about to enter the UK, and that was all that mattered.

Lights. Rain. The train had suddenly emerged from the tunnel. Joe flung himself on to his back again, breathing heavily as the brakes gave a loud, ear-piercing squeak. Even up here, he could tell that the wheels were sparking against the rails, because there was a faintly blue light in the air. He uncovered his rucksack and pulled out his glasses. They were smeared from being stuffed in his rucksack, but he placed them carefully on his face. Smudged vision was better than blurred vision. He crawled to the edge of the carriage, and waited for the train to come to a halt.

Silence.

Joe put his hands up over his head and grabbed the edge of the carriage. The wet metal bit against his hands as he pulled himself up. The thin muscles in his arms burned.

He peered gingerly over the side of the carriage. The train had pulled in to a railway siding. In the distance he could see a network of wire fences, telegraph towers and solitary freight carriages. There was a road, maybe 150 metres away, with car headlamps burning through the torrential rain. Joe was breathing heavily. He had a call to make. Did he climb out of the train here, or wait for it to travel further into the UK?

He made his decision quickly. It was dangerous to be stowed away in a carriage full of gravel. He didn’t know how it would be emptied out, but he had no desire to be inside when that happened. And it didn’t matter
where
in the UK he alighted. As long as he was here, that was all that mattered.

He hauled himself over the side of the carriage, scrambling wetly to grab the rungs of the ladder on the outside. He descended slowly and carefully. His limbs were still trembling, and he wasn’t at all sure that his fingers had the strength to grip the metal.

But they did. Thirty seconds later, Joe felt his feet crunch on to the ground. Not a moment too soon. The freight train suddenly hissed again, and began moving backwards out of the siding.

Joe watched it leave. Then he looked down at himself. His saturated clothes were covered in wet, gravelly mud. His jeans were ripped. One of his trainer soles had come loose. He removed his glasses and tried to wipe the rain from his face with his sleeve, but just winced as grit scraped across his skin.

He put his glasses back on – and his heart stopped. He could see many multiples of his shadow stretching out in front of him, fanned out along the train track. That meant there were several light sources behind him. They were moving.

‘Hey! Hey you! What are you doing there? Get away from the side of the track!’

Joe spun round. He winced. There were three torches, very bright, about twenty metres away. He couldn’t see the shapes of the people holding them.

‘I said get away from the side of the track! We are armed. I repeat, we are armed.’

Joe stepped sideways, away from the track. At the same time, he raised his arms above his head.

It all happened so quickly. Before Joe even knew what was happening, the three men with torches were upon him. He caught a flash of camouflage gear and realised they were soldiers. Two of them stood to one side, holding their beams at head level and shining them directly at him. The third grabbed him roughly and forced him down, grinding Joe’s cheek against the rough ground. ‘What are you?’ the soldier growled. ‘One of those fucking migrants? Reckon you’re going to be put up in some posh hotel, do you? Here for some handouts, are you?’

Joe felt the hinges on his glasses go. He tried not to panic. Instead, he twisted his head to look directly into the fierce stare of the soldier who had pinned him down to the floor.

‘I want to claim political asylum,’ he said.

December 21

Seven

It had been two months since Baba had arrived at the compound of Dhul Faqar. The worst two months of her short life.

Baba had seen daylight three times. The first time had been three days after her arrival. Dhul Faqar’s wife – Baba had learned that her name was Malinka – had made her scrub her skin so harshly that it was red and raw. It stung when she applied the pungent perfume with which she was obliged to douse herself. And the gossamer-thin, see-through gown she was forced to wear, although it looked soft and silky, was harsh and sore against her skin. When Malinka had taken her into Dhul Faqar’s chamber, Baba had thought the sore skin was the worst of her problems. She had soon forgotten about it.

Malinka had whispered in her ear that if she did not perform properly, she could expect a harsh punishment. Then she had left them together.

Dhul Faqar had been strangely kittenish at first, as he approached her and tried to slip the gown from her shoulder, while Baba kept her eyes averted from his gaze. She had recoiled in instinctive horror at his touch. Dhul Faqar had instantly changed. He had called for his wife, who had entered so quickly that Baba knew she must have been waiting on the other side of the door. Malinka had dragged her out of the room by her hair and, blinking, into the midday sun. There, Malinka had ordered two of Dhul Faqar’s men to flog Baba. They did it willingly, with vicious grins on their faces. Twenty lashes, each one leaving a snake of blood up Baba’s naked back. They had taken three weeks to heal, but by that time Baba had learned not to flinch when Dhul Faqar approached her.

The second time she saw sunlight was a month into her incarceration. Dhul Faqar had called for her, and Malinka had brought her to his chamber. She didn’t struggle – she had somehow found the ability to keep control. She cried, of course, when the act happened, but that seemed to increase Dhul Faqar’s pleasure, not decrease it – even if her tears always earned her a few words of contempt from Malinka. On this occasion, it had been over more quickly than usual. The relief must have shown in Baba’s face. Dhul Faqar had turned suddenly angry, as though his sexual humiliation was her fault. Malinka had dragged her outside again. On this occasion she had been spared a flogging. She was simply beaten and kicked until her breasts and stomach were bruised.

The third time she had seen sunlight was on the day she had tried to escape.

Baba hadn’t been planning it. She was too numb to plan anything. Dhul Faqar had been particularly brutal in the preceding days. He had left her bleeding and unable to walk properly. When Malinka had inadvertently failed to lock the door of the dingy room in which she was forced to exist when she wasn’t servicing Dhul Faqar’s needs, Baba had simply made a run for it. To her astonishment, there were no guards outside. Baba had sprinted away from the buildings, and for a wild moment of exaltation she thought the nightmare was over.

But then she had heard the laughter behind her. She had turned round to see two of Dhul Faqar’s guards – the two who had delivered the twenty lashes – watching from a distance of twenty metres. They each had a snarling black dog on a leash. The animals were straining to get at her. ‘Go on then,’ one of them shouted. ‘Make a run for it. They could do with a meal.’

Baba had simply collapsed in fear.

Malinka’s wrath had been truly terrifying. She had administered the punishments herself this time. Baba had two black eyes to show for it, a bleeding lip and more bruises to her body and cuts to her cheek from Malinka’s perfectly manicured nails. There was a thin scab against her jugular where Malinka had held her evil knife and threatened to cut Baba’s throat if she ever tried such a thing again.

Baba had hated the lonely cell in which she had been kept during the first six weeks of her incarceration. It contained nothing except a clay pot for her to use as a toilet. It stank, and was cold and uncomfortable. But after her escape attempt, she would have given almost anything to be returned to it. Because from that point on, she had been chained like an animal to a post in the room where Dhul Faqar spent his days. A thick metal collar was locked round her neck, with a chain leading from it to the post. Under the collar, her skin was sore, sweaty and spotty. And now she was no longer taken to Dhul Faqar’s chamber when he wished to abuse her. Instead, on a daily basis, the room was cleared and the act would take place while she was chained up like a dog.

Now, Baba spent all day in the presence of the man whom she hated more than any other, always taking great care not to look him in the eye. She saw him at work. She witnessed his meetings with a wide variety of dead-eyed militants. Some of them she recognised. When Dhul Faqar was not around, they would leer unpleasantly at her. When he was there, however, they did not dare. It was clear to Baba that they feared him greatly. When she needed the toilet, or to be washed, Malinka would release her from her chain and accompany her, all the while whispering threats of great punishment if she did not remain utterly compliant. Then she would return her to the chain.

Baba was not without spirit. But that spirit was now completely broken. She knew that now Dhul Faqar had allowed her to hear his important, confidential business, she would never leave this compound. Which meant she would be killed when her usefulness came to an end.

In the meantime, she heard everything. She heard talk she did not understand of oil and of middlemen. She heard him discussing the wages his militants were to be paid, and planning the taxes that they would extort from ordinary people. With the taste of bile in the back of her throat, she heard him encourage his commanders – none of whom dared look him in the eye – to give young women to their men, as rewards for their loyalty, and as a means of spreading the fear that would keep the people under control.

And today, she heard him revealing the identity of one of his men in a far-off country.

‘His name is Jacob Hakim,’ Dhul Faqar told the fighter who was sitting opposite with his gaze averted. It was one of the men who had flogged Baba, and she noticed how his eyes kept flickering towards her. He was sitting at a low table with his boss, and they were drinking mint tea out of small handleless cups. ‘He lives in London. We are sure that the British security services do not know his identity. He will be of great service to us in the events that are to come. I am telling you this because, when the time comes, he will need to leave the UK and come to live with us here. I will expect you to welcome him as a brother. But for now, you must keep this a secret, do you understand? Only you and I will know that we have spoken of this.’

The fighter nodded. ‘Yes, Dhul Faqar,’ he said, before taking a sip of his mint tea.

Dhul Faqar stood up. The fighter scrambled to his feet, clearly understanding that the interview was at an end. He bowed clumsily, his weapon clunking, then scurried out of the room.

Dhul Faqar had an oddly satisfied look on his face. He picked up the fighter’s half-drunk mint tea and carried it over to Baba, who quickly averted her eyes. He handed it to her. Baba, who was very thirsty, gulped it down while he surveyed her quietly, his head cocked.

She handed the cup back to him as the door opened. Malinka appeared. She had a second man with her. She looked at Baba with suspicion as she handed back the teacup. An unusual thought crossed Baba’s mind. It had never before occurred to her that Dhul Faqar’s wife would be jealous of his sex slave – she seemed happy to be part of the whole sordid business. But maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe she treated Baba so badly because she was jealous of her. Or, maybe it made her feel powerful to be completely in control of Baba? Either way, Baba didn’t like the way Malinka was looking at her as Dhul Faqar took the teacup and turned towards the newcomers.

‘Sit down,’ he said to the man, before nodding curtly at his wife. She inclined her head and left the room, but not before shooting Baba another poisonous glance. Baba dreaded the next time she was alone with that woman.

Baba didn’t recognise this man. He was dressed in black like all the others. His eyebrows met in the middle, and his nose had once been broken. Even from the other side of the room, Baba could smell his pungent body odour. He sat down at the table, in the same place as his predecessor, his head bowed. Dhul Faqar poured him some tea. Baba saw that his hand was shaking as he accepted it.