Authors: Chris Ryan
But he smiled to himself as he realised that if he moved quickly, and if it was true that Buckingham and Black were at this moment heading to Asu’s safe house, he had a chance – not only to eliminate everybody who needed to be eliminated, but to earn himself a third paycheck too.
Contacts were everything in this business, and Saunders had them all. Sadiq Dahlamal ran a business importing Middle Eastern artefacts from his warehouse in Lots Road. He also happened to be a direct conduit to the Syrian administration. Dahlamal had been in the same boarding house – Fircroft – as Saunders at Uppingham. He’d been delighted to receive the tip-off that a British SAS unit had breached the Syrian border. Saunders was almost certain Dahlamal would take his call again, whatever the time of day or night.
He was right.
‘Sadiq, old boy,’ he said smoothly to the groggy-sounding Syrian merchant once he had him on the phone. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you. Probably worth your while if I did.’
‘What the bloody hell you want, Saunders? I busy man.’ They never had liked each other much.
‘I’d like to give you the exact location for the next few hours of your government’s good friend Asu and all his rebel commanders,’ Saunders purred. ‘For a small consideration, of course.’
That got Sadiq’s attention. The grogginess left his voice. ‘Where you come by this information?’
‘Ways and means, old boy. Ways and means.’
‘Where is he?’
Saunders found himself smiling. ‘I hate to be vulgar, Sadiq, but let’s get the money conversation out of the way first. Shall we say 750,000 dollars, cash?’
‘Half a million.’
‘I don’t think so, Sadiq. Seven hundred and fifty thousand.’
A pause.
‘Agreed. But we pay you only when Asu is dead.’
‘Naturally. And I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know that I trust you. It would be such a shame – and
such
an embarrassment – if word of your homosexual schoolboy dalliances leaked out, wouldn’t it? And the pictures, Sadiq. Enough to make a grown man faint. They cost me a considerable sum, but I’d like you to rest assured they’re safe and sound, for the moment.’
Another pause.
‘Where is he?’ Sadiq said.
‘Number 35, Fares Al Khaldoun.’ Saunders repeated the location Taff had given him.
‘That is heavily populated area,’ Sadiq observed.
‘Not my problem, old boy. Anyway, do a few more dead really make much difference?’
But Sadiq had already hung up.
Saunders put the phone down on his desk and inhaled deeply. He congratulated himself that this was turning out rather well. There was a certain pleasure to be drawn from dealing with regimes who feared that the end was close. They could be relied upon to act decisively.
The citizens of Homs, and anyone damn fool enough to join them, were in for a brutal few hours. Max Saunders consoled himself with that thought as he climbed back upstairs to the marital bed.
23.57 hrs.
Warm and muggy, considering it was nearly midnight. The stars were very bright overhead. Danny rapped three times on the cab of the pick-up. Clara pulled in at the side of the road.
They’d been travelling for fifteen minutes, and Danny estimated that they were just over thirty kilometres from Sorgen’s encampment. He’d been scanning the darkness constantly through his night-sight, but had seen no sign of any tail. Another eight klicks, he reckoned, and they’d hit the outskirts of Homs. When that happened, a fucking great .50-cal on the back of the truck would draw more attention than he was comfortable with. He started to disassemble it.
‘What are you doing?’ Buckingham asked.
‘Keeping a low profile,’ Danny replied, lowering the machine gun from its tripod.
‘Look,’ Buckingham said, standing up awkwardly. ‘I should have listened to you before, when you said we should extract. Hands held high, and all that. But really, is this necessary? If the women want to go on this ill-advised errand, let them. You and I can . . .’ He jabbed one thumb over his shoulder.
Danny stared at him in disgust but Buckingham didn’t seem to understand the look. ‘Get me out of here,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see to it that they’ll be singing your name from the rooftops of the MoD. I can do that, you understand? I know people.’
‘You’re a piece of shit, Buckingham. If I leave anyone to fend for themselves, it’ll be you.’
‘Damn it, man . . .’
But Danny didn’t want to hear it. He pushed Buckingham back down to the floor of the pick-up. ‘Don’t fucking move,’ he said, before jumping down and walking round to the cab. He opened the driver’s door. Clara was gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead. She looked like she didn’t want to think about what she was doing. ‘Less than ten kilometres, we’ll be in the city,’ he said. He looked over at Basheba. ‘Can you direct Clara to Asu’s safe house?’
The cuts on the Syrian woman’s face were beginning to congeal. She nodded.
‘If anyone stops you, try to talk your way past them,’ said Danny.
‘And if we can’t?’
‘I’ll deal with it. We’ll stay out of sight in the back. Once we’ve given Asu the tip-off, we’ll get straight out of Homs and head for the Lebanese border. Do you have somewhere you can take your son if we find him?’
Basheba nodded. That was good enough for him.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. And then, because Clara looked so frightened, he gave her a word of encouragement. ‘You’re doing well,’ he said.
She nodded gratefully at him as he slammed the door.
In the back of the truck, Danny raised the tailgate, then lay on his front, M4 cocked and locked and pointing towards the rear of the vehicle. He found, alongside him, a sturdy crowbar. Could be useful. No need to tell Buckingham to keep his head down. He looked like he was trying to disappear into the corner. The two women in the front had more courage than him in their little fingers, he realised as the vehicle moved off again.
His stomach was turning over. The confrontation with Taff had upended his life for a second time in as many days. It seemed like every anchor he’d ever known was being cut away. Like he wasn’t even the same person any more. He knew, however, that if he didn’t keep focused, it would all be meaningless anyway. He’d never see home again. So he forced himself to stay alert, keep his ears sharp and his brain active. Asu was a loathsome bastard, but even if he wasn’t lording it over an army of child soldiers who would be wiped out if his safe house was hit, Danny’s duty was clear. The British government wanted him alive. That was all he needed to know.
The pick-up slowed down. It meant they were approaching a more built-up area. Danny looked up, above the side of the vehicle, and saw the occasional building looming overhead. A small mosque with its colourful minaret lit up in the darkness. The shell of a former department store, its windows smashed. He thought he could hear a helicopter nearby, but it wasn’t directly above him so he couldn’t see it, and a minute later the sound disappeared.
They’d been travelling for maybe twenty minutes when they came to a sudden, screeching halt. The .50-cal, lying lengthways, crashed to the back of the pick-up. Danny felt his body tense up. The engine was still turning over, but above its low rumble he could hear a male voice beside the cab. He was speaking Arabic and his tone was unfriendly. Basheba gave the odd short reply. Thirty seconds passed, then the man stopped speaking. Danny heard footsteps and saw the top of his head moving along the side of the pick-up. He wore a hat with the standard camo of the Syrian army.
How many men? He’d only heard one but there could be more. A gunshot would immediately alert any other soldiers to his presence. A silent kill, on the other hand, could give him a few extra precious seconds. He grabbed the crowbar and shuffled along to crouch behind the tailgate. Buckingham was breathing heavily. Bastard was going to give them away if he wasn’t careful.
Movement on the other side of the tailgate. It opened.
The Syrian soldier only had a split second to be surprised at the sight of two men in the rear of the vehicle. He was carrying an AK-47 and immediately started to raise it. But Danny was too fast. The crowbar made a dull, wet thump as it connected with the soldier’s skull, then the guy hit the ground.
Behind them, a street devoid of traffic but with two oil-drum fires burning, one on either side, about twenty-five and thirty metres away respectively. Piles of debris along both sides, and deserted, bomb-shelled buildings, a jungle of concrete and steel reinforcing rods. There were silhouettes around the fires, but Danny couldn’t tell how many. They didn’t appear to be an immediate threat. His rifle engaged, he looked round the side of the pick-up.
The road ahead was blocked by a fallen telephone pole.
He gestured to Buckingham to follow him, then moved round to the cab and opened the passenger door.
‘Basheba,’ he said, ‘how far to the safe house?’
‘It is close. Maybe 500 metres.’
‘Get out of the truck. We’ll do it on foot. You lead.’
‘Her feet are bad,’ Clara said. ‘I’ll have to help her.’
Danny nodded. ‘You next, Buckingham. I’ll take the rear. Stay close to each other. If you hear gunshot, hit the ground. If I get hit, take my firearms and make your own way.’ They stared at him as the implications of that scenario hit home. ‘
Move!
’ he hissed.
The going was slow – Basheba limped along and it was clear there was no point hurrying her. Danny couldn’t fret about that. He needed to keep a 360-degree lookout, which meant pointing his M4 forwards, backwards and from side to side every few seconds as they advanced through this ghost town. Basheba led them past fires that were burning but recently abandoned – but somewhere behind him Danny could hear vehicles and the sound of voices shouting. Reinforcements, he assumed, and they’d be mob-handed.
Up ahead was a roadblock. Fifty metres before it they took a right. They skirted round an abandoned tank, covered with Arabic graffiti and lying at right angles across the street, before taking a left twenty metres beyond it and continuing for another 100 metres.
‘How much further?’ Danny asked.
But he didn’t have chance to hear Basheba’s reply.
A MiG shot overhead. Its payload hit the city a couple of seconds later. The earth shook so violently that all four of them fell, and they were still on the ground when a second aircraft flew over, dropping a load of similar ferocity. Danny’s eardrums thundered, but the immense noise didn’t dissipate with the impact of the bombs. Straight ahead, he saw that ordnance had hit fifty metres along the road. The way was barred by a mini mushroom cloud of dust with orange flame at its heart. The cloud was being sucked along the street towards them, and seconds later they were engulfed. It was thick, black and choking. And hot – it smarted Danny’s skin and singed his hair. It blocked out the moonlight and left them in total darkness. Danny could only tell where the others were by their hacking coughs. He thought he heard one of them vomit.
Fifteen seconds passed. The cloud was beginning to thin. Danny’s stinging eyes made out the grey silhouettes of his companions lying, like him, on the ground. ‘Everyone OK?’ he rasped, before spitting out the dust that had entered his mouth when he spoke.
Buckingham was the first to get to his feet. ‘This is madness,’ he croaked. ‘You’re going to get us all killed. We need to get out of here.’
Danny had to admit that he was right. Had they been just a little farther along this road, they’d be dead.
Buckingham was off on one. ‘This is
fucking
idiocy,’ he ranted. ‘I’m
ordering
you to get us out of here, Black. You hear that? I’m fucking
ordering
you.’
But then Basheba was there by Danny’s side, tugging desperately at his arm. Her face was black with the dirt, and tears stained her cheeks. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she said, her voice hoarse and choked. ‘Help me get to my son. I’m begging you.’
‘Leave her!’ Buckingham shouted. ‘We don’t owe her anything.’
It was Clara who shut him up, slapping his face with a force that Danny would never have expected of her. When she turned to Danny, there was a fierceness in her eyes that meant she didn’t even need to speak. It said, are you with us, or with him?
For Danny, the answer was clear. He pointed the rifle at Buckingham, then yanked it in the direction of the impact site. ‘Move,’ he said.
Buckingham looked at him with poison in his eyes. But he stumbled forwards, and the ragged group advanced – coughing, limping, yet strangely determined.
They reached a crater in the road where the bomb had hit. It was two metres deep, ten wide, a crucible of smouldering rubble. They edged round it, still choking from the dust. Fifteen metres beyond the crater, the sound of screaming drifted towards them. The buildings on either side were ramshackle concrete residential blocks, and as they pressed on, faces and figures emerged from the clouds of dust. People had left the flats and were running towards them. Many were limping. All of them ignored Danny and his companions, even though he was armed, as they fled the area as it came under ever fiercer attack. Flames spewed from the windows of a block on their left, along with plumes of black smoke. They pushed on past, and after another thirty metres the road opened out into a square of about sixty metres by sixty.