Ultimate Weapon (26 page)

It was another two miles to the house. The drive was slow and painful, twisting through the early-evening traffic. They saw plenty of soldiers on the streets, but no more roadblocks: most of the troops looked to be digging trenches and putting sandbags around gun emplacements. Street-to-street fighting, that’s what they’re planning for, thought Jed. It’s going to be a hard, nasty slog when our boys start trying to take this place.

The house in al-Zawiyah seemed boarded up when they pulled the Toyota up outside. The whitewash on the walls had long since faded, and a layer of grime had attached itself to the surface. Jed got out of the car, and looked quickly up and down the street. It was a quiet district. There were a couple of restaurants and a shop opposite, but otherwise the street was overlooked mainly by five-or six-storey residential apartment blocks. A few people were drifting home, and it didn’t look like they were planning to come out again until morning. They’re just hunkering down in their homes, Jed thought.
Waiting for the worst.

Matt was already pushing the front gate open. It creaked on its hinges, and a coating of dust came away. Jed followed him into the internal courtyard. It was surprisingly quiet and cool inside. He checked his watch. It was just after seven in the evening. Their guns were packed into their kitbags, concealed from view, but Jed
knew he could have it ready for action within three seconds. He listened. Silence. He stood perfectly still, his eyes scanning the four walls that surrounded him. One had a doorway that led into the house, another into the garage. There were weeds growing up between the paving stones in the courtyard, and ahead of him there was a broken can once used to collect rainwater coming in from the gutters but now rusting into the wall. It didn’t look like anyone lived here any more. And if they did, they were letting the place fall apart.

‘British?’ said a voice.

The accent was heavy, Arabic, but not like the other voices they’d heard in Baghdad. The man was clearly expecting them. Jed held his right hand ready to whip out his Browning handgun, and he knew where his grenades were. The Firm has sent them to this address, and it was meant to be a safe house, one of a series that had been set up after the first Gulf War to help support the coup that was widely expected to topple Saddam; during the last few months many of them had been reactivated to stash kit for the special forces guys who’d be swarming through the place once the war started. It should still be safe. They’d told him it was. But what the hell did they know? They were all sitting at their desks in Vauxhall, swivelling around in their shiny leather seats, with nothing worse to worry about than how much this year’s pay rise might be. The house could have been compromised at any time in the last few weeks. And the Iraqis might well be staking the place out, watching and waiting for someone to turn
up to collect the gear.
And then gun them down in cold blood.

‘Who’s there?’ Jed said warily.

‘Show yourself,’ growled Matt.

Silence.

It was nearly dark now, and the moon was out, sending a set of shadows flickering across the courtyard. A noise. Jed’s eyes darted across the walls, but he couldn’t see anything. A door was squeaking. He looked behind him. The gate on to the street was shut. Ahead of him, the door to the house was pushed open. A pale light was shining behind it. Slowly, the figure of a man stepped forward. He was dressed in long black robes, with a belt around the middle. His face was dark, but most of it was obscured by ten inches of scruffy grey beard. Some kind of mullah, thought Jed.
What kind of nutters has the Firm hooked up with in this city?

‘You are the British soldiers?’ he said.

Jed nodded.

‘Then come inside,’ said the man.

He turned round, heading back into the house. Jed exchanged glances with Matt, then both men nodded and started to walk. In his pocket, Jed was gripping on to his knife. He looked harmless enough, but you could never be too careful. They might just be luring them into a trap. He went through the door and looked into the room. The walls were stripped and empty, like the interior of a barn. There was a smell of boiled rice, and some kind of meat stew. Lamb or goat, maybe, thought Jed. Christ, maybe even dog. Who knows? The mullah
was leading them towards the back of the room. He had a single gas ring on which the food was slowly cooking, and a crate of bottled water. In the corner there was nothing but a strip of blankets, and some sheets of cardboard that were being used as a pillow.

‘We’re here to pick up some kit,’ said Jed. ‘British kit.’

The mullah nodded. ‘It’s all downstairs,’ he said. ‘I will show you in a moment.’

He spoke English fluently, but with a fraction of a second delay between each word: the manner of a man who had learnt the language many years ago and had let it grow rusty.

‘Show us now,’ said Matt.

The mullah glanced at him. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘What’s your name?’ said Jed.

The mullah shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘We don’t need any names here. It’s better that way.’

Flicking on a torch, the mullah led the way. A thin beam of light broke through the gloom. Jed followed the mullah down into the cellar, with Matt closely behind. The cellar smelt damp, mixed with spilt fuel oil. ‘Here,’ said the mullah, shining the torch around.

It took Jed a moment to adjust his eyes. There were six rows of metal shelving, pre-built, and jammed towards the back of the wall. Enough kit to start a small war, thought Jed. Which was probably exactly what the guys who shipped it here were planning. He could see RPGs, machine guns, equipped with what
looked like about ten thousand rounds of ammo, regular grenades and stun grenades, sniper rifles, a dozen surface-to-air missiles, and five mortars plus shells. He scanned the shelves more closely. There were six pieces of laser kit, although they would only need one. Jed took it from the shelf. It was a GLTD II, manufactured in America by Northrop Grumann. Painted military olive green, it looked something like a squat film camera, with a rifle butt sticking out of its back. It weighed just twelve pounds, and was powered by a lithium battery fuel cell. It could mark out a target at a range of up to ten kilometres, with a deviation of no more than five centimetres, and was specifically built to bring home Paveway bombs, Hellfire missiles and Copperhead munitions. Jed handed it to Matt. ‘I don’t know how the hell they got these here,’ he said. ‘But it’s just what we need.’

‘Anything else?’ said Matt.

Jed looked at the armoury. If it came to a fight, they could use all this and more, but the risk of carrying it across town was too great. You couldn’t conceal a surface-to-air missile in the back of a Toyota Corolla. He picked up a box of grenades. ‘Just these,’ he said. ‘If anything goes wrong, we’ll have another go at blowing the place ourselves.’

He followed Matt and the mullah as they went back upstairs to the single room. The mullah put the torch down on the floor, and switched it off. There was a copy of the Koran lying on the floor next to him. ‘We’ll be off,’ said Matt.

The mullah raised a hand. ‘Don’t go out on the streets,’ he said. ‘You’ll be picked up by the army in no time.’

‘We’ve got a car,’ said Matt.

The mullah looked at him sharply. ‘I’m not here to help the British,’ he said. ‘I’m just looking after this equipment because I’ve been paid to. But I can tell you that after eight in the evening Saddam’s Fedayeen and the Syrians stop anyone out on the streets. They take them in for torture, or they shoot them on the spot.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘A lot of the young men get press-ganged into the army, and I don’t think you’d enjoy that.’

He nodded towards the floor. ‘You can stay here for the night, and have something to eat.’

Jed hesitated, then sat down. The mullah was almost certainly right. It was too dangerous to try and get around Baghdad by night. This was as good a place as any. Matt slumped down against the wall, resting on the side of his kitbag. Glancing at him, Jed suddenly noticed how terrible he looked. His hair was matted thick with sweat and dirt. And there was a layer of grime across his face. his clothes looked shredded and worn, and his eyes were sunk deep into his face, bloodshot and tired.

The mullah handed across a helping of stew mixed with some rice. Using a plastic spoon, Jed dug into it. The smell was sweet, a mixture of raisins, dates and nuts mixed in with stringy bits of meat. Not too bad, he decided as he hungrily wolfed it down. I’ve had better, but I’ve also had a lot worse.

He took a gulp from one of the water bottles, then looked up at the mullah. ‘Where are you from?’ he said.

The mullah smiled up at him, and picked up his copy of the Koran. ‘Iran,’ he replied softly.

‘Then what are you doing here?’ said Jed.

The mullah shrugged. He opened the book on his lap, and started to read. ‘“God does not forbid you from being good to those who have not fought you in religion or driven you from your homes, or from being just towards them. God loves those who are just. God merely forbids you from taking as friends those who have fought you in religion and driven you from your homes and who supported your expulsion. Any who take them as friends are wrongdoers.”’ The mullah paused. ‘That is the word of the Prophet.’

He looked at Jed. ‘We have been enemies of Saddam for many more years than you have. We know our way around this country, and if the Americans and the British want to finish the work that we were not able to finish ourselves, then it is not up to us to question the wisdom of Allah.’

‘You’re a bleeding nutter,’ said Matt. ‘You’ll have the Yanks running this craphole in a few months’ time. You won’t like that much.’

The mullah scratched his beard. ‘Who knows who will be in charge here,’ he replied. ‘Invaders come and they go, and the Prophet always wins in the end, because he has the force of God on his side.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll settle for the force of a cruise missile,
thanks,’ said Matt, arranging his kitbag into a rough pillow and putting his head down.

‘Who’s going to win the war, you reckon?’ said Jed.

‘God,’ the mullah replied. ‘God wins all wars.’

‘Yours or mine?’ said Jed.

‘They are the same,’ said the mullah. ‘Your God in your country, and mine in mine.’ He paused. ‘Why do you come here to fight? It’s a long way from your home.’

‘Buggered if any of the boys know,’ said Jed. ‘We’re just following our orders.’

‘Then you have your answer,’ said the mullah. ‘Because men who don’t know what they’re fighting for or why will always lose in the end.’ He looked back down at the Koran. ‘Get some sleep. When the war starts, you’ll need all the strength you can get.’

Jed lay back, resting his head on his kitbag. The surface of the floor felt rough and uncomfortable, but he was so tired he knew sleep would come soon. He thought about Sarah, and for a moment it struck him that he was unlikely to ever see her again. Both of them had disappeared from the face of the planet. He had no idea where she was, and no way of getting hold of Nick to see if he might have found her. He was tempted to use the satellite phone to call him, but he knew it was too dangerous. Every time it was switched on, there was a risk the army or police would track the signal. His eyes felt heavier. He could already hear Matt snoring: maybe that was why he was a good soldier, despite his hot head, because he could always grab some kip. He was trying to remember the last time he saw Sarah. Two
months ago, in Cambridge. A few drinks in the pub, then a pizza, then back to her flat. Nothing special. Just part of the on-off relationship they’d been carrying on for years, both of them too nervous to commit, and too bound up in their own lives to make enough space for the other person.

I should have said something more to her. I should have told her that she was the only person who ever really mattered in my life. I should have told her that I loved her.
Because I might never get the chance now.

At lunchtime, a call had come through on his mobile. Nick had already checked out of his B&B, and was eating a sandwich in a café. I’ve found something about that money, Horton had told him. What, Nick had asked him instantly. Horton had paused before replying. ‘I can’t tell you on the phone. It’s too dangerous. We’ll have to meet up tonight.’Then he’d given him the name of the Chelmsford pub and put the phone down.

Too dangerous.

Can’t tell you on the phone.

Nick had repeated the phrases to himself a hundred times since then.
What the hell is too dangerous to talk about on the phone?

Nick took a sip on the Coke he’d orderd, then walked over to a table. It was just after seven on a Tuesday evening, and the Ram’s Head was filling up with commuters stopping off for a quick drink on their way home from work. It was tucked into one of the side streets between Chelmsford station and the high street. Local enough to be welcoming, thought Nick, but not so local that a strange face would attract any attention. Maybe that’s why Bill chose the place: the guy has been
playing the circuit long enough to know when to stay in the shadows, and when to come out of them.

He jostled past a couple of guys trying to get to the bar.
WAR JUST DAYS AWAY
, blared the headline in the
Evening Standard
that one of them was holding. Next to it there was a picture of some soldiers stationed in Kuwait.
OUR BOYS GEAR UP FOR BATTLE
, said the subhead running across it.
IT AIN’T HALF HOT MUM
, said the caption underneath. Spare us the sodding war dance, thought Nick as he turned away. None of the people writing that rubbish have any idea what it’s like to actually be there. They don’t know the sense of exhilaration and fear that grips the men on the eve of any battle. And they knew nothing of the remorse of the survivors for all the good men who don’t come back. If they did, they wouldn’t be celebrating the outbreak of any war.
Not a chance.