Authors: Chris Ryan
‘Just keep walking,’ said Jed. ‘Act like we’re on our way to work.’
‘I say we turn round, skirt past them on the next street,’ said Matt.
His voice was low, nothing more than a whisper. The street led towards one of the big ministry buildings, and beyond that the factory district. There were no small side streets. Plenty of people were coming this way to work. Most of them were tired, and nearly all of them were nervous. Everyone minded their own business.
‘We walk past them,’ hissed Steve. ‘Turn round now, and they’ll spot us.’
‘It was your fucking idea to get the boat across the river,’ said Matt. ‘And now Rob’s dead.’
‘Shut it,’ hissed Jed. ‘You turn round if you want to, but we’re walking straight through.’
He kept his head down, and walked steadily on. The guards weren’t stopping everyone. There were too many people on the streets at this time of the day. As he drew closer, Jed could see them more closely. Three boys, around eighteen or nineteen, with AK-47s slung around their shoulders and knives stuck into their leather belts. All of them had green tunics on, but two of them had black trousers. The Iraqi Army was so poorly equipped, many of the men didn’t even have proper uniforms. He looked up, but avoided their eyes. He was level with
them now, with Steve and Matt both silent at his side. He took a step, then another. His breath was practically silent. Inside his chest, he could feel his heart skipping a beat as one of the soldiers glanced towards him. He could feel the man’s eyes resting on his skin, examining him. Then, in the same instant, he lost interest, his eyes flicking on to the next man walking past.
Without varying his pace, Jed walked on. The temptation was to quicken the pace, to break into a run. But he knew that was a mistake. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he muttered when they were fifty yards clear of the roadblock.
‘Close one,’ said Steve. ‘Too bloody close for my liking. We’ve got to find ourselves some cover.’
Jed glanced at Matt, but the man was silent, and his expression angry. Does he want to get caught? Jed wondered. Matt’s not handling the pressure.
We need to watch him
.
The ministries and apartment blocks fell away after half a mile, replaced by the dustier roads of the industrial district. It was approaching eight thirty now. The kids were all in school, and the workers in their offices and factories. The streets were emptier, and Jed was conscious that three men walking through the roads were more conspicuous. Twice more they saw trenches being dug and machine-gun turrets being put up. Yet all around the preparations for war, people were getting on with their normal lives: shopping, cleaning, working. What else can the poor sods do, Jed thought. They didn’t ask for this fight.
It’s just bad luck the battle is going to rage through their homes
.
Up ahead, Jed recognised a tower. It was just six storeys of dusty concrete, with air conditioners sticking out of every window, but to Jed it was familiar. ‘We’re getting close,’ he whispered to Matt and Steve.
The street gave way to a square. Another three hundred yards on the left, and there was a road that took you down to the facility. Their target. Jed could feel the tiredness in his limbs. It was twenty-four hours now since they had slept. They needed to rest before they attempted the recce. And they needed to wait for darkness.
A truck pulled up alongside them. Jed could smell the fumes pumping out of its exhaust. He watched the trucker walk across to a café, then sit down outside with a coffee and a roll. ‘There,’ hissed Jed. ‘That’s the place.’
He’d checked the piece of paper a couple of times already: this was the café that al-Shaalan had told them to meet his cousin at. He walked slowly towards the café. There were trucks all around the square, most of them old, and all of them belching diesel fumes. The smell of chemicals, concrete and deep-fried food hung over the place, and the voices he could hear around him came from right across the regions: Syrians, Moroccans, Indians, even some Filipinos. If we can’t blend in here, Jed told himself, we can’t blend in anywhere.
He put his kitbag on the ground, then waved at the waiter. A man in his late forties, wearing a stained white apron, he paid little attention to Jed’s accent as he ordered. ‘
Kahwa
,’ he said, holding up three fingers, and slurring the word so that the waiter wouldn’t
notice how terrible his accent was. A minute later he put three tiny cups of sweet coffee down on the table. Jed drank it in two sips. He could feel the jolt of concentrated caffeine hitting his bloodstream, yet the energy only made him more aware of the danger they were in.
‘Jesus, this tastes like crap,’ muttered Matt.
‘Quiet,’ hissed Steve.
Jed could see a couple of men looking at them, then look away. There were no women in the café, just guys aged between twenty and forty, most of them with thick, black moustaches, and sweaty, grease-stained T-shirts. At the next table there were two men, one about forty, the other around thirty. Right-looking table, reckoned Jed. He coughed and caught the man’s eyes. He looked straight at him, as if sizing him up.
‘How far to Tipperary?’ said Jed.
‘Five miles,’ replied the man.
Jed nodded. Contact. This was their guy.
From his pocket, he pulled out a roll of Iraqi dinars. The notes were brightly coloured, with big pictures of Saddam on them, but ever since the last Gulf War a shortage of printing equipment meant Iraqi money had no watermarks or metal strips, making it dead easy to forge. These were real ones, Jed reflected, as he peeled out twenty thousand, supplied by deserters who shipped up in Kuwait and were only too happy to trade their dinars for dollars supplied to them at the American army camps. He caught the eye of the man at the table next to him, then pushed the notes across the table. ‘We need
somewhere to stay,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘Just for a day. We can pay in gold.’
He paused, scrutinising the man’s face. Twenty thousand dinars translated to about ten dollars at the blackmarket exchange rate. Peanuts, but this was a country where men sold their lives for practically nothing. There was no point showing them too much money. In a place like this, if they thought you were rich, your throat would be cut in an instant. The only way they’d help was if they thought it was less trouble, and more profitable, than killing you.
‘Where’s my cousin?’ asked the older man.
‘Hiding,’ said Jed.
There was no point in telling these guys al-Shaalan was dead. It would only antagonise them.
There was a brief burst of conversation from the men. Jed tried to follow it, but it was impossible. Finally, the older man looked at him. ‘The back of my truck is empty,’ he said. ‘You can sleep there for twelve hours. For two ounces. Solid gold.’
Jed shook his head. ‘One ounce is all I have,’ he said. ‘One ounce, plus one hundred thousand dinars.’
The man nodded. ‘Payment up front.’
‘OK,’ said Jed.
‘Tell him we want some grub,’ hissed Matt.
‘Some food,’ said Jed. ‘Can you bring us some food?’
The man laughed. ‘You want girls as well?’ he said. ‘For more gold, maybe I can arrange something.’
Jed smiled. ‘Just somewhere to sleep, my friend.’
He stood up. The older man was walking from the
café, surveying the area. There were plenty of people about, but no soldiers. ‘This way,’ he muttered.
Jed followed a couple of paces behind, with Steve and Matt at his side. The square was bustling with traffic, but the streets leading away from it were much quieter: just warehouses, factories and small workshops. Their workers were all inside at this time of the morning, and most of the deliveries had already been made. The street they were walking down was empty.
A good place to cut a man’s throat
.
‘Here,’ said the man.
The truck was a Mercedes, but it must have been at least twenty years old. Jed didn’t recognise the number plate – not Iraqi anyway, he was sure of that. It was about sixty feet long, with a white body that was covered in dust and scratches. ‘You give me the money now,’ said the man, unhinging the back door.
Jed peeled out some notes and one gold coin. ‘Bring us some food,’ he said. ‘Anything you can find. And some bottled water.’
‘A kebab,’ said Matt. ‘I could murder a kebab.’
The man looked at him closely. ‘What happened to al-Shaalan?’ he repeated.
Bloody idiot, thought Jed. Don’t push him. We’re about to go to war with this country, and he knows it.
If they find us, they’ll kill him, then torture his whole family to death
.
‘Hiding, like I said,’ said Jed.
He could see the calculations running though the man’s head. He was afraid, but he wanted the money as
well. Fear or greed? It was just an issue of which emotion was the strongest.
‘Two ounces,’ said the man.
His younger friend was stepping up to his side. He kept his mouth shut, but his eyes were angry, looking for a fight. We could break you like a matchstick, thought Jed. But that would put us in deeper trouble.
‘That’s robbery,’ said Jed.
‘Then find another truck,’ sneered the man.
Jed pulled one more coin from his kitbag, and handed it across. ‘That’s all we’ve got,’ he muttered.
The man took the coin, scratching at its surface with a dirty finger. A drop of nitric acid was the only way to tell for certain there wasn’t bronze or copper underneath a thin plating of gold, but a fingernail was almost as good: plated coins would scratch, and would weigh differently in the palm of your hand. The man nodded, satisfied with his money, and tucked it into his pocket. He opened the doors of the truck, and motioned the three men inside.
It was dark in the back of the truck. As he climbed inside, Jed could smell goats and mechanical grease. There were some old papers lying on the floor, and in one corner some empty crates, but otherwise the truck was empty. Jed heard the doors closing behind him. ‘We’ll be back later with some food,’ said the man.
Jed peered into the darkness. He scrunched some of the newspapers together to make a bed. Tossing his kitbag down, he lay back, putting his head on the bag. ‘Better get some kip, lads,’ he said. ‘Who wants first watch?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Matt. ‘Don’t think I’d want to trust either of you to watch my back. You’d probably leave me to die – just the way you left Rob.’
‘Drop it,’ snapped Steve. ‘There was nothing we could do about it.’
Matt looked at him menacingly. He was sitting on his haunches, watching the door, but his blue eyes glowed in the darkness like the eyes of a cat.
‘Let’s get some sodding kip,’ said Jed, rolling over. ‘Then maybe we can get this job done, and then get home again.’
Jed walked slowly down the street. It was just after ten, but although the factories and the workshops had shut up for the night, the place was still full of life. The cafés were full of men drinking coffee and talking, but the atmosphere was brittle.
He’d slept for almost ten hours. It was one of the first lessons he’d learnt on joining the army: sleep and eat as much as you can when you can, because you never know when you’ll see a decent plate of grub or have a chance to put your head down again. After two hours’ sleep, the men had returned with the food: several packs of soft pitta bread, some dried fish and beef, sunflower seeds and a couple of melons. Jed had wolfed it down: they had some ready-to-eat camp meals in their kitbags, but they’d save those for the retreat. They tasted like microwaved dog crap anyway. After eating, Jed had taken the watch for a couple of hours, then they’d switched around. By nightfall, he was feeling rested and fed. And ready for the fight.
He could see the facility about two hundred yards ahead of him. He recognised the network of streets from the last time he’d been here: off to the right he could see the spot where the small boy had been hassling him. This time at least the little bugger should be asleep, thought Jed. And if he isn’t, he’s in trouble.
Of the three of them, he thought he should be the one to recce the area. He knew the layout of the streets best, and someone has to put his neck on the line, he told himself. It might as well be me.
He paused. He could see a truck pulling up. It was right outside the facility. Eight men climbed out, opening up the gates to the plant and walking inside. They were wearing olive-green uniforms, carried AK-47s and shoulder pistols, and on the right-hand side of their tunics, purple insignia. Special Republican Guard, thought Jed. They’ve beefed up the security on this place since I was last here.
He walked on a few more yards, keeping his pace steady so as not to draw any attention to himself. There were maybe a dozen other people on the street, but nobody gave the soldiers a second glance. They were so used to the military in this city, they no longer paid them any attention.
It was just something that happened in the background, like the weather
.
The truck was pulling away from the plant, and the soldiers were shutting the thick metal gates that blocked its entrance: it looked like a change of shift, and from the numbers of guys getting out, Jed reckoned there were twenty men protecting the plant. He took a few
more paces. The facility was a square courtyard, each side about 150 yards long. The gate was the only way in. There were four watchtowers, and machine-gun placements every fifty yards, but only two of them appeared to be illuminated tonight. From street level, you could see the pipes sticking up into the air: thick smoke was billowing from one of them. There were no high buildings overlooking the plant. If you wanted to get in, there were only two options. You could walk up and ring the bell. Or you could try and get in over the wall.