Blood Moon Rising (A Beatrix Rose Thriller Book 2) (14 page)

“We know all about that.”

Beatrix seized on that. “Control told you?”

He looked her with a sudden glint of cunning. “You know that I know where he is, don’t you? I know he’s the one you really want. He’s responsible for what happened to you. What would you say if I gave him up? I could tell you where he is and how you could get to him. Would that be enough for you and me to call it quits?”

“For you and me to be quits, I’d have to shoot your lovely wife in the head and then I’d have to shoot you. So no, that wouldn’t make us quits. It wouldn’t even be close.”

“Come on!”

“Where’s West?”

“Go to Hell.”

“Last chance, Duffy. Where is he?”

“Fuck you.” He spat at her and then craned his head so that he could look back at Faulkner. “And fuck you, too.”

“Okay.”

Beatrix stepped back. Sascha Duffy’s chair was behind an overturned table. Beatrix reached down to pick up the table and pushed it so that the edge bumped up against the woman’s chest. She took out one of her throwing knives and, going around behind her, she sliced through the cable tie. She reached out, fastened her fingers around Sascha’s right wrist and pressed her hand down against the table. Duffy started to protest, but she raised her left hand to forestall him.

She was reluctant to involve the woman. She had no wish to hurt her. After all, she had done nothing to her. Beatrix was quite certain that she had never even heard her name before. Her involvement was just bad luck. It was unfortunate that she was married to Duffy. It was unfortunate that she was here, with him, in Basra. It was unfortunate that she could be used as a lever against him.

She thought of Mysha. She had made a promise to her, and she meant to keep it.

Sascha Duffy was a means to an end.

There were other ways that she could get the information that she needed, but they would be messy and unpleasant. Time was pressing, and this, she knew, would be the quickest way.

“Spread your fingers, please,” she said.

“What?”

“Spread your fingers.”

“No.”

“It’ll be much better if you do.”

She raised the knife, tip pointing down at the back of the
woman’s
hand.

“Sascha!”

The woman spread her fingers just as Beatrix stabbed down at the table, the blade tapping into the wood between her thumb and index finger. Beatrix raised it and brought it down again, the blade pecking between Sascha’s index finger and forefinger, then again between her forefinger and ring finger, then again between her ring finger and little finger.

Beatrix started again, a little more quickly.

“I used to be good at this,” she said as she moved the blade with fluid speed. “I could do it faster, but that was a long time ago. I’m older now. The reflexes . . . well,” she darted the knife faster and faster, “I’m getting up to how fast I’d be comfortable doing this if it was my hand and not your wife’s.”

The colour had drained from Sascha Duffy’s face, and she couldn’t speak.

“A little bit faster, then?”

“No,” Duffy protested. “Stop.
Stop
!
”

Beatrix raised her fist to the height of her head and then slammed the blade down, hard, the point buried into the wood between the woman’s thumb and forefinger, millimetres from the fleshy web that joined them.

“Stop, Rose. Stop. That’s enough.”

“Shall we try again?”

“I’ll tell you what you want.”

“Where’s West?”

“A safe house.”

“Where?”

“We have an office.”

“You were there yesterday?”

“You were following me?”

“That was the office?”

He jerked his head in a nod. “Yes.”

“How safe?”

“It won’t be easy to get him out.”

“We’ll worry about that later.”

“Guarded?” Faulkner asked.

“Of
course
it’s guarded,” he said derisively.

“That’s better, Duffy,” Beatrix said. “Now, the second man. His name is Faik al-Kaysi. Your men shot and killed his mother and arrested him.”

“Name’s not familiar.”

“But?”

“But we’ve scooped up plenty of troublemakers recently. It’s possible. What’s he got to do with you?”

She ignored his question. “Where would he be?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to make a call.”

Beatrix frowned at that.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Rose. We give them all to the Iraqis. Local police. God knows what they do with them afterwards. He’s probably in al-Mina.”

“Local prison?”

“Yes.”

Beatrix turned to Faulkner. “Give me your phone.”

“I don’t know, Rose . . . You think that’s a good idea?”

“Give it to me.” She pulled out the P226 and pressed it against Sascha Duffy’s right temple. “It’s fine. If he says anything I don’t like, I’ll shoot her and then I’ll shoot him. And he knows I’d do it, too. Don’t you, Duffy?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

Duffy spoke on the phone for five minutes. He asked for details on Faik al-Kaysi and then he waited as whoever it was on the other end looked into it. Beatrix watched him carefully, the Sig pressed against Sascha Duffy’s head the entire time. The woman was stock still, hardly breathing, bloodless. She heard the muffled voice of the other person as information was relayed and watched as Duffy’s eyebrows rose.

He ended the call and handed the phone back to her. There was a bitter little smirk on his lips.

“Don’t think there’s much you can do about this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“We did arrest him, after the thing at the oilfield. He’s in
al-Mi
na, like I thought, but he’s been convicted of murder. There was a riot the day before yesterday. Several of the guards were killed. They’re going to hang him and some of the others.”

“Where?”

“In the prison yard.”

“When?”

“After prayers. Tomorrow morning. First light.”

Beatrix gave a crisp nod. “Thank you.”

“What now?”

“Get in there,” she said, pointing to the walk-in fridge.

“Come on, Rose, I’m helping you out. This isn’t necessary.”

“You know it is, Duffy. Don’t waste my time. Get in the back or I’ll shoot you now.”

“Alright, alright,” he said. “Fine.”

Faulkner followed the two of them back to the fridge, and once they were inside, he locked the door and then slid an iron bar through the two door handles.

“You can’t be serious?” Faulkner said in an urgent hiss as soon as he was done.

“About what?”

“Getting this Iraqi boy?”

“Deadly serious.”

“There’s two of us.
Two.
You want to plan a jail break? How are we going to do that?”

“There’s always a way. These will be untrained, badly armed guards. And they have no idea we’re coming. There’s no better tactical advantage than surprise.”

“We don’t have the kit.”

“No,” she accepted, “that I do agree with. You’re going to need to set up another meeting with the quartermaster. As soon as you can. He needs to come here.”

“What about these two?”

“You think anyone will hear them out here if they start making a noise?”

“Probably not. I didn’t see anyone around yesterday.”

“Good.”

“What else?”

“We stay here tonight. I’ll scout the prison tomorrow, and then we can sort out the gear we’ll need.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m going to need to speak to Michael Pope.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

T
hey slept at the foundry that night. Beatrix awoke early and took Sascha Duffy’s Audi and drove north, where Basra ran up against the Shatt Al-Aarab watercourse. She drove by the al-Mina football club, where twenty or thirty youngsters were kicking a ball across the parched yellow grass, and then by the Al-Tahreer General Hospital. She passed buildings that had been wrecked in the war and had still not been repaired, pylons that had been torn down, their cables stolen. On the horizon, gas flares leeched dirty smears of grey smoke into the sky.

It was eight in the morning and it was already hot, dizzyingly hot, and there was only so much that the air-conditioning in the car could do. Beatrix was sweating by the time she reached the
al-M
ina prison. It had been built by the Americans after the capacity in the nearby al-Ma’aqal had been exceeded. It was small by Western standards, with just four hundred inmates, and it was already overcrowded. It didn’t look particularly substantial. Beatrix thought of the great Victorian edifices in London and Manchester, their vaulting brick walls and their sense of impregnability, and this collection of prefabricated buildings seemed wispy by comparison. The facility was encircled by razor-topped fences, twelve feet high, and those were protected by concrete baulks. The main entrance was a slab of concrete with a gate cut in the middle. The buildings beyond looked like warehouses. An Iraqi flag flew from a building that
Beatrix
guessed was used for administration.

She knew all about the reputations of Iraqi jails. Saddam had used them as depositories for anyone who had the nerve to challenge the regime, and once you were inside, there was no coming out. There were stories of what had happened in Basra’s prisons
during
the time the British were here, too.

She was a hundred feet away from the gates. She didn’t want to get any closer.

She looked around. The surrounding area had a collection of buildings that had been damaged during the war. Repairs had started on some of them but had since been paused. The insurgency had forced foreign contractors away, and they had still to return.

That suited Beatrix very well.

She was able to approach a nearby three-storey building
without
arousing suspicion. A metal door, chained and bolted, prevented access to the front, but the ground-floor windows were protected only by plasterboard, and Beatrix was able to force her way inside. It looked as if the place was being refitted as an office. The exterior cladding was missing in places, and the interior consisted of
barren
concrete surfaces and open apertures where doors and windows would eventually be fitted. Beatrix found the central stairwell and climbed to the second floor.

She made her way across the dusty, unfinished floor to the side of the building that overlooked the prison. The windows this high were open and unguarded, and she edged ahead while crouched low until she was confident that she wouldn’t be observed from the street below.

She stood to the side of the window, took out her binoculars and quickly scouted the prison.

There were guards on foot in front of the main entrance and another two in a thirty-foot-high watchtower that looked over it. She focussed on them: they were toting rifles, probably Tabuks, the modified version of the Zastava M70 that the Iraqi army used. They were reliable weapons, chambered for 7.62x39mm rounds, meaning the rifle had a maximum effective range of six hundred metres. Even then, it was hopeless unless you were no more than two hundred metres away from the target. It was only good for “spray and pray,” and Beatrix was not concerned about the threat that it posed. In any event, they would neutralise them first of all.

She examined the walls and the buildings. They looked as flimsy from up here as they had from the street.

An idea began to form.

She noticed a structure was being erected in the courtyard between two of the larger buildings. A wooden floor on stilts had been constructed with a staircase to one side. A long frame was lying in the dust, consisting of two
3
-metre-long posts that had been
fashioned
into square diameters with a third post, perhaps two metres long, fixed between them and supported by braces. There were slots in the wooden floor where the frame might be inserted. A man was working on the frame, using a power saw to cut out a notch in the middle of the shorter post.

It was a gallows.

The notch would be where the noose would be fitted.

It was mid-afternoon when she returned to the derelict foundry. There was a rental car outside the building. Beatrix was expecting company, but experience had taught her that assumptions were dangerous. She took the Sig and shoved it into the waistband of her trousers.

Faulkner was in the canteen with the Group Fifteen
quartermaster
.

“Hello again,” he said. “You wanted some extra hardware?”

“Something came up. Different needs.”

He indicated Faulkner. “So he said.”

“Can you help?”

He nodded. “I can. I have just what you need.”

Beatrix had called Faulkner with the list of equipment that they required. The man took a long canvas bag from the floor and placed it on one of the canteen tables. He unzipped the bag and took out an M40 bolt action sniper rifle. “Not easy to get this on short notice,” he said. “A friend of a friend had it. It was left behind after Enduring Freedom. It’s not the best example I’ve ever seen, but it’ll do. It should be good enough for what you want.”

Beatrix took the parts, examined them and then assembled them with expert hands. The M40 was standard issue for the United States Marine Corps. Bolt action, a five-round integral box
magazine
, chambered for 7.62x51mm NATO rounds, accurate to up to nine hundred metres. It needed a good cleaning and a splash of oil, but it would serve their purposes.

“Ammunition?”

The quartermaster reached into the bag and took out a box of rounds.

“Sight?”

He took out a Schmidt and Bender Police Marksman II 3-12x50 dayscope. This, at least, looked brand new. He went back to the bag and collected a swivel-type bi-pod.

“Good,” she said.

Finally, he took a pair of walkie-talkies. “Best I could do, I’
m a
fraid.”

Beatrix took them. They looked like they were twenty years old. As long as they worked, they would suffice. She tossed one across the room to Faulkner.

“Do you need anything else?” the quartermaster asked.

“No,” she said. “This will be fine.”

“Very good.”

He nodded with satisfaction and left them.

“Well?” Faulkner said.

She took out the map that she had drawn this morning and spread it on the table. “There are buildings all around the prison. Most of them are empty. Construction sites. No guards. Easy to slip in and out. You won’t have any problems. This one here”—she stabbed a finger against the paper—“this is the one. Perfect view into the yard. Are you happy with the rifle?”

Faulkner hefted it. “Looks fine. Range?”

“Three hundred yards.”

“Then there won’t be a problem. You don’t need to worry about me holding up my end.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. “You’ll do fine.”

Faulkner’s cellphone was on the table. It started to vibrate.

Faulkner picked it up. “Hello, sir,” he said. “Yes. She’s here. Hold on.” He offered the phone to Beatrix. “It’s Pope.”

She looked at it dubiously.

“It’s safe. Encrypted.”

She put the phone to her ear. “Hello, Pope.”

“What are you doing, Beatrix?”

“Stop worrying.”

“Stop? Faulkner tells me . . .”

“I’ll do what I promised.”

“But?”

“But I need to do something else first.”

“But you’re still—”

“Yes,” she cut him off. “I’m still going to get West for you.”

“What about Duffy?”

“We’ve got him with us. He’s being very helpful.”

“In exchange for what?” He sounded dubious.

“We have his wife, too.”

“Okay . . .” He sounded reluctant, but there was nothing that he could do. He needed Beatrix. She knew that perfectly well. They both knew that Faulkner was too green to extract Mackenzie West alone. “What do you need?”

“I met a girl. An Iraqi girl. She helped me out, and so I’m going to return the favour.”

“Philanthropy, Beatrix? That’s not like you.”

I want to do something right.

And this is right.

“Rose?”

“She’s twelve years old. Her mother was killed by Duffy’s men. Her brother was detained and passed to the police. They’re going to execute him in six hours. They’ve already built the gallows. She doesn’t have anyone else, Pope. It’s me or nothing.”

“We don’t have any influence in Basra anymore, Beatrix. I’m not going to be able to put any pressure on, especially not in six hours.”

“I don’t need you to put pressure on. Even if you could, there wouldn’t be time.”

“So?”

“Just listen. I’m going to go in and get him out.”

“What?”

“
Listen
. I’ve scouted it. The security is weak. It’s easily breached. Getting him out isn’t the problem; it’s what happens next. He won’t be able to stay in Basra. They know where he lives. They’ll just come and get him again. I need you to arrange for him and his sister to get out of Iraq. They have family in Kuwait. You need to get them over the border.”

There was a pause.

“Pope?”

“Yes,” he said. “That might be possible. We have assets in
theatre
. I can get them to the border.”

“Fine. Good. Get it sorted. Do it now. Just tell Faulkner where you need us to bring them. We’ll do the rest.”