My distant fence panel is now sporting a big hole full of amateur carpentry and a pig’s leg.
Goodness only knows what kind of targets this arrow will be useful for!
I dance around like some delighted lunatic, clutching at my aching midriff, laughing my head off.
Perfect.
~~~~~
Constanta, Romania
Two men huddled, sheltered below the great arched window which entirely dominated one side of the decadent, white stone, art nouveau Cazinoul building. The Black Sea stretched away to the east of the Romanian port of Constanta, with its waters looking very like its name as it raged under icy gale force winds. Sea spray lashed out horizontally on either side of the building, and white-topped waves fizzed away southwards along the sea wall as if they were hurrying toward the far distant Turkish city of Istanbul. During the hot summer months, tourists and courting couples would wander along the sea front and pose here for happy pictures in front of the building’s impressive façade, but today no-one was going to brave the bitter northeasterly winds blasting down from the Russian Steppes.
“They’re not coming,” Azat Sikand muttered in Turkmen from under his damp woollen hat. His sunken eyes, narrow face and pointed nose were angled downward toward his shorter colleague.
Murat Nagpal dragged his unseeing gaze away from the huge port complex which sprawled in front of them, and checked his watch. It was nearly fifteen minutes past eleven. Azat was right. “You have no stamina,” he said. “If you could only grow some hair, on that bald ball of solid bone that you call a head, you would be better off. The tribesmen will laugh at you, when we get back home and into the mountains.”
Sikand growled angrily, “There are no mountains on our plains and, if they laugh, I will cut their balls off. It’s well past time. If they were coming today, they’d be here by now.”
“I know,” Nagpal sighed. “This weather reminds me of when we were stuck in Qal-eh Wust, during service.”
“Yeah. It’s miserable. Like most places I end up, with you. And don’t remind me of that waste of life.”
The shorter, stocky, olive-skinned man pulled pointlessly at the already vertical collars of his greatcoat. “We needed the training. It’s done us good. We needed to know how to do this. We are the sacred champions of our people. The only ones who had the courage and commitment to do something. We will be remembered forever. We will be heroes.”
“It was a high price to pay. Five years of pretence: serving Afghan wool-head commanders, and kowtowing to infidels.”
“We bow to no-one, Azat. No-one. We were the smart ones. We chose to mislead the Afghans and NATO. We took their training, used their contacts, learned their lessons and secretly collected our armoury. We gained all of these things and more in those godforsaken mountains. We could not have struck our blow in the infidel capital without such learnings. We have spent much of their blood. They know of us now.” Murat Nagpal looked up into the smouldering face of his lifelong friend. Sikand had been a blunt instrument since they had been young children: tall, strong and easy to manipulate. He had proved himself time and again to be highly effective muscle. A valuable asset which supported his ambitious and imaginative mind.
“How long do we wait?” Sikand asked miserably.
“We can return to the apartment for today.” Nagpal made to walk away.
“I meant, how many weeks?”
Nagpal shrugged, “We will wait as long as necessary. There is no indication in the internet newsrooms that any harm has befallen the brothers. Remember: Sergei is smart. He will follow a long and winding path and meet us here. Of that I am certain. Better that he does that, than he inadvertently leads our enemies to us. We will benefit from being together and, more important, we do not want either of them falling into our enemies’ hands. They know too many of our secrets.”
“And the younger one? I always said he wasn’t ready.”
“I agree. Jeyhun is a worry.” Nagpal watched the cold waves smashing against the sea defences. “The machine is gone, so we have to assume he’s been compromised. He will have heard my message and known we were under threat, so let’s hope he’s not been captured. I suspect he hasn’t been. The British press are berating their security forces and government for letting us get away. If there was any hint that one of us had been captured, then it would be being paraded for the world to see. We should, however, make sure that he knows to make his way here. We need to leave him a message on his mobile. The ‘Icarus’ codeword. Otherwise, he might stay where he is or, worse, head for the wrong rendezvous point.”
“Let’s do it then.” Sikand made to walk off. “From somewhere warm.”
Nagpal stayed static, “
You
shall go: to Serbia.”
“What?”
“Yes, we’ll get you a rental car. It’ll be cosy enough for you, and your little brown numbskull, since you can’t tolerate the cold like a
real
man.” The answering expression on Azat’s face was more chilling than the freezing squall which blew behind his tense silhouette. “You can drive there, past Bucharest.”
“That will take days!”
“We’re not doing anything else, soldier.” Murat stepped close to him. “We cannot risk calling the cell from here. Not even from inside this country, if we can avoid it. You can drive into Serbia, find a pay-phone and call the youth. If he answers or not, it makes no difference. Say the codeword...”
“Icarus.”
“Yes, Icarus. Then hang up. No conversation. Then come back here. Hopefully, Sergei will be here by then. I will stay, to continue to maintain the daily visits to this meeting point.”
“What if they both arrive while I’m away?”
Murat smiled, “Then you won’t have to rejoin me here, every day, to assist in my vigil until they do.”
“And the borders?”
“The fictional identities have caused us no complications up to now. If you hit a problem at the crossing, then leave the message from the border itself and return. Draw no attention to yourself.” Murat heaved himself upright from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “I’ll use the time you’re away to procure some fresh papers. There are some excellent forgers in this city, and we have more than enough cash thanks to the generosity of all of our foolish, worldwide, internet friends. The sob-story swindle that Omid dreamed up, and posted on their ridiculous social networking sites while we were back in England was an act of genius, wasn’t it? Who would have believed that so many stupid people would give blindly to a cause they know nothing about?”
Azat Sikand’s taut smile was, to those who didn’t know him, only moderately less hostile than his snarl, but Murat was pleased to see it reappear on his comrade’s face. “That was the one useful thing that filthy Javed did for us,” he said.
“Ha!” Murat Nagpal exclaimed in agreement. “Well, apart from keeping us fed and watered for several months.”
“He truly was a worthless piece of godless scum.”
“That, he was.”
~~~~~
Guildford, England
I’m standing, speechless, in the middle of the pavement. Grumbling pedestrians are circumnavigating my human roadblock as they struggle through the treacherous, grit-darkened snow. They’re not being particularly vocal though – it must be my formidable physique and facial expression that’s making them cautious – and it’s a good job too, because, in the mood I’m in at the moment, I’m likely to lash out.
In front of me, a huge bookstore’s windows are entirely filled with their latest promotion. There are literally hundreds of identical copies of one book cover, and my little terrorist friend is staring back at me from every one of them. He’s smiling and brandishing his clenched fist under a bold block capital title. One word. ‘ABUSED’. Then a strap-line: ‘Standing Up For The Innocent, by Khandastanian activist, Javed Omid’. Then there’s a small citation, from some no doubt money-grabbing nobody: ‘An uplifting essay on the struggles of a multicultural society’.
Abused. Yes, that just about sums this up. Surely there must be some sort of law to prevent people from profiteering on the suffering of others? Surely there must be – in any society, let alone a multicultural one? According to the window display, it’s already a bestseller. Nice. Good to see that the general public feels the same way, and are shunning this heartless, greedy propagation of evil. It’s taken me a while, but now I can understand why you used to say the things you did. I can feel the last few tenuous fragments of my old peace-loving forgiveness and human empathy being stamped out deep inside me.
My demons are not going to let the old me survive.
They’re building a new fire, and it is raging.
A very dark fire: with flames the colour of the darkest shadows, with a touch that is colder than the hardest frost, which consumes everything it touches, which doesn’t understand tolerance, and, most of all, which knows no mercy.
I’ve been following you – you little, evil, selfish bastard – for months. You can stand there in front of me, and leer, and wave your fist as much as you like: it won’t help you. I’ve seen you playacting your injuries. Seen you being brought back, head bound in swathes of bandage like Mr. Bump, by your personal taxis, to the same terrace house that Shaz and her police squads raided all those many months ago. Seen your day care nurses helping you to hobble up the path with your expensive shopping bags. Seen the various brochures for unaffordable Central London apartments being posted into your letterbox. Seen your helpers leave for the evening. Followed you as you make your daily miraculous recovery, and creep out of the back door, suddenly bandage free, and sprint like some Olympian down your back alleyway and jump into the brand new car you have parked on another street.
You are stupidly repetitious.
I’ve also followed your car.
I know the casinos you like to visit. I know the gentlemen’s clubs you like to go on to. I know you drive back in the early hours, doubtless inebriated, and most likely emptied of your flawed seed, and creep stealthily back into your den.
I could call in the Press. They’d probably enjoy berating you for a couple of days. Maybe your expensive, ambulance-chasing, legal firm would get cold feet? More likely, it’d only add to your notoriety and therefore marketability. This publishing deal is evidence of how little someone like you, with no moral scruples, would be affected by simple embarrassment.
I could call the police: but a drink-driving related prosecution isn’t going to stop you doing what you want to. The laws weren’t written for you, were they?
Well, unfortunately for you, you’re not the only one who thinks like that.
Not having seen firsthand our wonderful laws in action.
Not having had life transformed into a horribly conscious death.
Not having suffered this ongoing – true – abuse.
It would seem that the laws aren’t written for me, either.
~~~~~
London
Sentinel watched as Brigadier Crispin Greere visibly squirmed in the uncomfortable chair opposite him. The little toad doubtless had aspirations to be on his side of the desk at some point – probably soon – and if recent events hadn’t unwound so dramatically, then chances were that he would have been a good step closer than he was right now. Sentinel was determined to, quietly, enjoy making him suffer. It was a mild form of compensation for the levels of grief he was getting from the PM’s Office and other Agencies.
Greere’s mouth looked like he was sucking on something evil-tasting, “It’s true that Tin also has a history, sir.”
“Hmmm,” Major Charles thumbed through the open file on his desktop. “A very violent history, and one which includes desertion.”
“He was badly affected by the ambush in Afghanistan that wiped out his Squad. Desertion is not strictly correct. He elected to leave his post and vanish, unsupported and unaided, into the Afghan Mountains for several months. Then he returned and gave himself up.”
“A period, during which, he single-handedly tracked down and summarily executed several Afghan citizens.”
“Taliban.”
“If you say so,” Sentinel was enjoying himself. “Are you sure he wasn’t just pilfering somewhere?’
“Iron was a mistake, sir. One which I’ve already apologised for.” Greere was babbling, with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. “His story was credible. Maybe if we’d had longer to train him, before we activated?”
“Are you making excuses, Crispin?” Sentinel watched his subordinate’s cheeks redden – though whether it was from embarrassment or fury, he couldn’t tell. He knew that Greere hated being referred to by his first name. It was, after all, terribly condescending.
“No, Major.”
“So how confident are you, that this remaining, ex-military Agent isn’t concealing another dangerous rogue tendency? There
are
limits. Even if we tend to ignore most of them.”
Greere knew that his boss was referring to the Berlin-debacle. “I also accept that Steel was psychologically disturbed, sir. Again, I can only apologise. His condition wasn’t obvious during training. He did a very good job of concealing it.” Greere’s ugly forehead was moist with sweat; presumably it was the stress of watching his career aspirations sliding away into the distance. “We do know that Tin did an excellent job in Spain and Poland. He’s waiting quietly for further instructions.” Greere hurried on. “Berlin was, I accept, messy but one of the cell
has
been eliminated, we have disrupted their communications, and planted tracking devices so that we can home in on the others, when it’s appropriate to recommence. The brother, Sergei Ebrahimi, continues to make a circuitous route across Europe. We’re waiting for him to go static. He will, most likely, be with the others when he does.”
“A predetermined rendezvous?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re counting on them waiting for the youngster to turn up?”
“Yes, sir. A message was left on the younger boy’s cellphone earlier today,” Greere continued to babble on excitedly. “A one word message: Icarus. We presume that this is an extraction call-sign, intended to advise the boy to break camp and reconvene with the main group. Unfortunately, the call was too brief to trace. Background noise suggested a random pay-phone was used. Somewhere in Central Europe is the consensus...”