Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (17 page)

‘What about extraction?’ Danny asked. ‘How do we get out of the country when the op’s complete?’

‘As soon as you’ve gleaned any intel from Dhul Faqar, you radio it through to us. If possible, you extract Dhul Faqar himself, but his information is your primary priority. The Kurds will wait for you, then take you back across the Turkish border to a prearranged pick-up point. You’ll have to dig in there until we can get transport to you. It could take a few days, so it’s
critical
that you get that intel radioed through to us the
moment
you have it. You’ll have a satphone for that purpose, but you need to keep all other transmissions to a minimum. The Yanks will be scanning the airways constantly. The Russkies too.’

The loadmaster stepped up to Hammond. ‘We’ve just had word from the MoD,’ he said. ‘The Turkish authorities have given permission for us to enter their airspace. We can have wheels up whenever you give the word.’

Hammond nodded and turned back to the team. ‘Your RV with the Kurds is at midnight,’ he said. ‘You need to be in position at least two hours before that, but you need night cover to HALO in. We’re about three hours’ flight time from the insertion point, so we’ll leave here at 1800 hours. Everyone agreed?’

The team nodded.

‘Operation call sign Delta Three Tango,’ he said. ‘We’ll continue the briefing here while we wait for wheels up. We’ve got details of your Kurdish contacts, mapping of Dhul Faqar’s compound – you’ll need to commit it to memory by this evening. Dhul Faqar’s a real piece of work, by the sound of it. Got a thing about people looking him in the eye. Anyone who does it gets strung up. Tosser. Intelligence suggests that he lets his men rape whichever captured women take their fancy, so long as they leave the choicest specimens for him. You can expect some pretty brutalised sex slaves in the stronghold. Don’t start getting chivalrous. Nothing’s more important than getting Dhul Faqar alive, and pumping him for intel.’ Hammond looked over at Alice Cracknell, who was busying herself with piles of paper to continue the briefing. ‘We’re not going to stop this attack in London, we’re going to stop it at source.
You’re
going to stop it at source.’

He turned back to the briefing table. Danny, Spud and Caitlin exchanged a long glance, then joined him.

Tony had a splitting hangover as the Alitalia flight touched down at Dubai International airport.

He had woken up half an hour previously to see one of the pretty-boy air stewards still loitering in the aisle, eyeing him uncomfortably. He’d sneered unpleasantly at him, but now that the booze had worn off he’d decided not to give him any more aggro. There’d be enough of that when they landed. Instead, he stared out of the window, watching the scorched desert landscape become the glittering sea of buildings that was Dubai.

As the aircraft reached the end of the runway, and turned left on to the taxi route towards the terminal, he saw the flashing lights of two police cars waiting on the tarmac. He touched his hand to his forehead. There was still dried blood there, from where he’d headbutted the old guy. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. The whole cabin had seen it happen, so there would be no point denying it.

As soon as the plane came to a halt, three members of the Dubai police force boarded. They had tan-coloured short-sleeved shirts, and aviator shades. Two were clean-shaven. One had a short-cropped beard. An air steward led them to Tony’s seat and pointed him out. The stern Emirate cops didn’t need to say a word. Their holstered guns were on full display, and it was obvious that they weren’t going to take any shit. Tony, raised his hands to show that he wasn’t going to cause any trouble, then stood up and allowed them to lead him off the aircraft.

He squinted as he emerged into the bright sunlight. It was warm enough to make him start sweating immediately.

He didn’t speak until he was on the tarmac, being led towards the police cars. ‘Speak any English, fellas?’ he asked, keeping his voice calm and reasonable.

‘You keep quiet,’ said the police officer with the beard.

‘You know you’re dragging the wrong guy off the plane?’

‘I said keep quiet.’

‘That old guy they saw me go for, you want to know what he did?’

No reply. But the police officers glanced at each other. Tony could tell he had their interest. He stopped walking and they did the same. ‘Touched my dick,’ he said. ‘Fucking faggot tried to feel me up. You should be leading him off the plane, not me.’

He watched the officers carefully. He could already see the disgust in their faces. Tony knew this was a country where such activities were harshly punished.

‘Get to the car,’ said the officer who had already spoken. But he sounded less aggressive now.

Tony nodded and started walking again. ‘Seriously, fellas,’ he said. ‘You don’t want dirty old guys like that wandering around Dubai, do you?’

‘Do you know his name?’ the officer asked.

‘Didn’t ask, mate. Didn’t want to stay too close.’ From the corner of his eye, he saw a black Mercedes screeching across the tarmac towards him.

Here comes the fucking cavalry
, he thought to himself.

By the time they reached the police cars, the black Merc had screeched up alongside them. A Western man in his late fifties, wearing a charcoal-grey business suit, jumped out of the back. He looked very harassed as he strode up towards the three Emirate police officers, holding up an ID card. ‘Dominic Copeland,’ he wheezed. ‘British Embassy. We have permission to accompany this gentleman off the premises.’

The officers looked warily at him. One of them got into his car. Tony saw him speaking into his radio while the rest of them stood awkwardly on the tarmac. He could sense that the cops didn’t like this sudden change of authority, but their hostility was directed more towards the guy in the suit than to Tony himself. Their colleague emerged from the car a minute later and spoke a few short words in Arabic to them. They inclined their heads, then turned to Tony. ‘You’re free to go,’ said the police officer with the beard.

Tony saw him glance back towards the plane. He leaned in towards him. ‘You want to take that guy in,’ he said. ‘Ask him a few questions. Give him the old . . .’ He made a gesture with his right hand to indicate someone being slapped around. And he could tell, by the stony expression on the officer’s face, that he intended to do just that.

‘Get in the car, please,’ the embassy guy said in a not-too-friendly tone of voice. Tony gave him a pleasant smile and got into the back of the Merc. The embassy guy sat next to him. As they pulled away across the tarmac, Tony saw the three police officers heading back to the aircraft. He figured that the day of the old guy with the broken nose was about to get a whole lot worse. Served him right for getting involved.

The embassy guy was looking at him like he was a piece of shit on the sole of his shoe. He was wrinkling his nose. It was obvious that Tony stank. ‘I don’t know what the bloody hell you think you’ve been playing at,’ the guy said. ‘If you’d been anyone else, you’d be on your way to an Emirate holding cell by now.’

Tony stared out of his window. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not.’

‘You should be grateful to the embassy for getting you out of this,’ the man snapped. ‘The phone lines between here and London have been red-hot. We’re extremely busy, and we’re not here to—’

‘Do me a favour mate, and shut the fuck up. I’ve had a long twenty-four hours.’

Tony could sense the waves of outrage emanating from the embassy man, but he did at least keep quiet for the next couple of minutes, while the car was waved through an external passport control post on account of its diplomatic status. Soon enough, they were speeding along a raised section of highway, heading towards the heart of the Dubai metropolis. It occurred to Tony that the last time he had been in the region had been on a mission with Danny Black that had taken them into Doha, the capital of Oman. The two cities looked very similar – ostentatious displays of great wealth. Tony reckoned he could enjoy himself here, given the right company and a few grand in his back pocket.

But the thought of Danny Black put any idea of enjoyment from his mind. He felt a physical surge of intense dislike in his gut. He looked at his hands and saw they were shaking.

‘You’ll need to clean yourself up,’ the embassy man said suddenly.

Tony snapped out of his thoughts and turned to him. ‘What?’

‘I said you’ll need to clean up, man. You look and smell like a tramp. I’ll be surprised if they let you into the hotel in that state.’

‘Fancy one, is it?’

‘We have a room set aside for you, and a change of clothes. But for heaven’s sake have a wash first. The residents of Dubai are very particular about outward appearance. You’re representing Her Majesty’s government and I will not have you letting the side down.’ He seemed almost to shudder at the thought. ‘And besides, you’re going to be in the company of royalty. It’s not too much to ask that you look the part, is it?’ And then, almost under his breath: ‘Even if he is a damn liability to the rest of us.’

The ghost of a smile crossed Tony’s lips as the black Mercedes turned on to a raised causeway heading out into the glittering sea, towards a tall skyscraper of a hotel, its mirrored windows glittering brightly in the sun.

Nine

Joe felt warm for the first time in days.

The soldiers who had found him on the railway track had been rough and unpleasant. One of them had called him a wog. Another had laughed when, as they led him from the track, he had fallen over and twisted his ankle. They had dragged him into the back of a military truck where he had crouched, huddled, his muscles aching with the cold and his skin sore from the abrasive grit in which he’d hidden himself. And yet, despite all this, he couldn’t help but feel elated. He had made it into the UK. The first – and most difficult – stage of his objective was complete.

The remainder of that night and this morning was now a blur. Joe had been so exhausted he could barely keep track of what was happening. There had been a succession of abrupt officials who had asked him more questions than he could now even remember. They had taken him to a room where he was able to shower and put on clean clothes – a pair of jeans and a red hooded sweater. They had taken his photograph and recorded his fingerprints. They had given him lukewarm, sweet, milky tea in a plastic cup, which he had guzzled down as if it were the finest drink known to man.

Now, he was sitting in a stark, brightly lit room. It had windows on three sides that looked out into a busy open-plan office. Joe was reminded of the police stations in the American cop shows he used to watch back home in Syria when he was much younger, in the days when watching TV was an option. Those days seemed a long time ago now.

His new clothes were a little big for him, but he didn’t care. He had been given a plastic chair to sit in as he waited. Although it was hardly the most comfortable seat in the world, he still found himself nodding off as he sat in it. In his drowsy state, the humming lights in the room somehow merged with the memory of the drone that had nearly picked him out as he hid in the train carriage. He relived the crushing claustrophobia of being hidden in the grit and started, suddenly, awake.

A woman had entered the room. She was tall and thin, with what seemed to Joe to be an abnormally long neck. Her lips were pursed, almost disapprovingly, as she pulled up another chair and sat opposite him, clipboard in hand. But when she spoke, it was not unkindly.

‘I understand you speak some English, dear,’ she said.

Joe nodded.

‘I’ll need your full name, please.’

Joe had lost count of the number of people he’d given this information to over the course of the morning. He recited his name again. The scratchy sound of writing filled the room as the woman carefully filled in her form.

‘And what are your reasons for claiming asylum, dear?’ she asked.

‘I’m from Syria,’ Joe said. ‘From Aleppo.’

‘I see,’ said the woman. ‘And are you saying that you can’t stay safely in your home country?’

Joe blinked at her. He didn’t quite know how to respond to such a stupid question.

‘Young man, you are not the only Syrian refugee seeking political asylum in Britain. If you wish your application to be successful, you will need to convince us that it is valid.’

Joe nodded. ‘I cannot safely return to my home country.’

‘And why is that?’

Joe barely knew where to begin. Should he start at that moment, two years ago, when a bomb had hit the apartment block where he lived with his mother and father? Or the day, two weeks after that, when gunmen had burst into his school while Joe was at his usual place at the computer? How they had killed thirteen of his friends? How a bullet had missed Joe by only an inch, and slammed into the computer screen, shattering it? How he had tried to keep his best friend Jamal alive by pumping his heart the way he had read about, but it had only seemed to force the blood more quickly from the wound in his throat in the moments before his death?

Or should he start with what happened next?

‘I was abducted by Islamic State,’ he said.

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘I was living in a small refugee camp on the outskirts of Aleppo with my mother and father. They came at sunset – five of them. They knew who they wanted and nobody dared stop them taking us.’ Joe closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He had recounted this scene in his head every day since it had happened, but somehow saying it out loud was more difficult. ‘They took us to the town of Raqqa. It was a very long drive – it took all night. When we got there the following morning, they made me and my mother watch while they dragged my father from the car. They stripped him naked and hung him from a tree with a hood over his head. They laughed as they did it.’