Dark Forces (3 page)

‘Probably not worth it,’ Shepherd said. ‘Like you say, he’s either vaporised or well out of the area.’ He looked at his watch and flashed Shaw a tight smile. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere, anyway.’

‘A hot date?’ asked Shaw.

‘I wish,’ said Shepherd. He couldn’t tell Shaw he was heading off to kill someone and this time it was going to be up close and personal.

Mohammed al-Hussain was driven to see his commander in the back of a nondescript saloon car, a twelve-year-old Toyota with darkened windows. The commander was based in a compound on the outskirts of Palmyra, pretty much in the middle of Syria. Palmyra had been gutted by the fierce fighting between the Syrian government and Islamic State fighters. The city’s historic Roman theatre had been left virtually untouched and was now used as a place of execution, the victims usually forced to wear orange jumpsuits before they were decapitated, often by children.

The commander was Azmar al-Lihaib, an Iraqi who had been one of the first to join Islamic State. His unit worked independently, often choosing its own targets, though special requests were regularly handed down from the IS High Command.

Al-Hussain was dog-tired. He hadn’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. The
khat
leaves he was chewing went some way to keeping him awake but his eyelids kept closing as he rested his head against the window. He must have dozed for a while because the car lurched to a halt unexpectedly causing him to jerk upright, putting his hands up defensively. They had arrived at al-Lihaib’s compound. The men in the unit never wore uniforms and the Toyota’s occupants were checked by two men in flowing gowns, holding Kalashnikovs, with ammunition belts strung across their chests.

They drove through the gates and parked next to a disused fountain. Al-Hussain climbed out and pulled the backpack after him. He never went anywhere without his rifle and even slept with it by his side. He spat out what was left of the
khat
, and green phlegm splattered across the dusty ground.

Two more guards stood at either side of an arched doorway and moved aside to allow him through. He walked down a gloomy corridor, his sandals scuffing along the stone floor. There was a pair of double wooden doors at the far end with another two guards. One knocked and opened them as al-Hussain approached. He hesitated for a second before he went through.

It was a large room with thick rugs on the floor and heavy purple curtains covering the window. Commander al-Lihaib was sitting cross-legged beside an octagonal wooden table inlaid with mother-of-pearl on which stood a long-spouted brass teapot and two small brass cups. Even when he was sitting down it was obvious that al-Lihaib was a big man and tall, while his Kalashnikov, on a cushion beside him, looked like a toy against his shovel-sized hands. He was in his forties with hooded eyes and cheeks flecked with black scars that looked more like a skin condition than old wounds. Like many Islamic fighters his beard was long and straggly, and the backs of his hands were matted with hair. His fingernails were yellowed and gnarled and his teeth were chipped and greying. He waved al-Hussain to the other side of the table, then poured tea into the cups as the younger man sat and crossed his legs.

Al-Lihaib waited until they had both sipped their hot mint tea before he spoke. ‘You had a lucky escape,’ he said.

‘Allah was looking over me,’ said al-Hussain.

‘As were your team, thankfully,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘It is rare actually to see a drone but one of the men caught the sun glinting off it, then the missile being launched.’

‘I barely made it off the roof,’ said al-Hussain. ‘I’m sorry about the men who were with me. I shouted a warning but they froze.’

‘They had been briefed?’

‘They had been told to follow my orders immediately. As I said, they froze.’

‘You had only seconds in which to act,’ said al-Lihaib.

‘The question is, how did they know where I would be?’ said al-Hussain. ‘I was told of the location only an hour before I got there.’

‘And we learned of the colonel’s visit only that morning, by which time the drone was almost certainly in the air.’ Al-Lihaib sipped his tea.

‘Could the drone have been protecting the colonel?’ asked al-Hussain.

‘Out of the question,’ said the commander. ‘The Americans and the British do not use their drones to protect foreigners, only to attack their enemies.’

‘Then how did they know I would be on the roof?’

‘They didn’t,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘They couldn’t have.’

‘Then why?’

Al-Lihaib took another sip of his tea. ‘It could only have been the British jihadist they were after,’ he said. ‘The British have been using the drones to track and kill their own people. They must have been following him, watched him join you and go to the roof. Once they had a clear shot, they launched their missile.’ He smiled grimly. ‘You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was the Brit they wanted to kill. You would have been collateral damage.’

Al-Hussain drank some tea.

‘Your parents are in Lebanon?’ asked al-Lihaib.

Al-Hussain nodded. ‘They fled in 2013.’

‘They are safe?’

Al-Hussain shrugged. ‘I haven’t spoken to them since they left. I told them they should stay. We are Syrians, this is our country. We should fight for it.’

‘Sometimes we have to take the fight to the enemy,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘Like the martyrs did on Nine Eleven. The whole world took notice. And in Paris. We hurt the French, we made them bleed. They learned a lesson – you hurt us and we hurt you. An eye for an eye.’

Al-Hussain nodded but didn’t say anything. Al-Lihaib reached inside his robe and took out a passport. He placed it on the table in front of al-Hussain.

‘What’s that?’

The commander waved for him to pick it up. It was a British passport. The man in the photograph was strikingly similar to al-Hussain but, according to the printed details, he was called Hammad Rajput. He was two years older than al-Hussain and had been born in Birmingham. The beard in the picture was shorter and well-trimmed, but the likeness was so close they might have been brothers.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘We’re sending you to England, brother. We have a special job for you.’ He gestured at the passport. ‘A brother in England is allowing you to use his identity to get into the country. You look very like him so you will not be stopped, and your English is good enough to pass muster. We will get you into Europe and then to London.’

Al-Hussain chose his words carefully. Islamic State did not take kindly to those who did not follow orders without question. ‘I always feel that I can do my best work here,’ he said. ‘I have support, I know the territory. No one has more kills than me.’

‘You are one of our best snipers,’ agreed al-Lihaib.

Al-Hussain wanted to correct him. He was the best sniper in the country, by far. No one else came close. But pride was not a quality that IS encouraged so he bit his tongue.

‘That is why we need you in England. We have a job that only you can do.’

‘But I can come back? Afterwards?’

Al-Lihaib smiled slyly. ‘Do you fear becoming a
shahid
, brother? Do you fear dying for Allah?’

‘I would die in an instant for Allah and for my country,’ said al-Hussain. ‘Without hesitation and with a smile on my face.’

‘No one is asking you to die, brother,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘We have gone to a lot of time and trouble to train you. No one is prepared to throw that away.’

‘But I can do so much more here,’ said al-Hussain. ‘I can be efficient. And the targets I take out here are our enemy.’

‘The British are also our enemy, brother. They are killing our people from the air. They invaded Afghanistan and killed our brothers and sisters. They did the same in Iraq. The British are our enemies, and what better way to hurt our enemy than to attack him on his own territory?’

Al-Hussain considered his words carefully. Al-Lihaib was smiling but he knew he had to tread carefully. He felt that he had already said too much but he had to give it one more try. ‘It’s a long way to go. Is the target so very important?’

Al-Lihaib’s eyes hardened. ‘The importance of the target is not for you to decide, Mohammed al-Hussain. You are a soldier and you will obey orders. You will obey this order, will you not?’

Al-Hussain returned the man’s stare for several seconds, then lowered his eyes. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘
Inshallah
.’ God willing.

‘This is fucking bullshit,’ said the man. He was standing in a hastily dug grave, just over three feet deep. His name was Laurence McGovern but most people called him Larry. ‘You’re going to shoot me here?’

‘It’s got to be done, Larry. Stop complaining,’ said Shepherd. He was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson 627 loaded with eight .357 rounds.

McGovern looked down. ‘It’s fucking muddy as hell. And this is a two-thousand-quid Hugo Boss suit.’

Shepherd pointed the gun at McGovern’s chest. ‘Would you stop complaining?’ he said. ‘This is for your own good.’

‘Shooting me in the middle of the New Forest is for my own good? You are one mad bastard.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It has to look good or it’s not going to work.’

‘But the suit …’ McGovern raised his arms. ‘You could at least let me change into something cheaper.’

‘That’s the suit you left home in,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the suit you’re going to die in. Now, stop moaning.’ He looked over his shoulder at the two men standing behind him. ‘Are we good to go?’ he asked.

‘Ready when you are,’ said the older of the two men. Philip Duff was one of MI5’s most able technicians and was holding the trigger that would set off the small explosive charges on the vest under McGovern’s shirt. His assistant was a younger man and his main role seemed to be to carry Duff’s bags.

Shepherd looked back at McGovern. ‘Don’t fuck this up, Larry,’ he said. ‘If you do, we’ll only have to ruin another suit.’

‘Just pull the trigger and get it over with,’ said McGovern.

‘Don’t over-egg it, that’s what I’m saying,’ said Shepherd. ‘Bang. You react. Bang. Bang. You go down. Keep your eyes closed and don’t breathe.’ He took out his mobile phone with his left hand.

‘I’m not stupid,’ said McGovern.

Shepherd opened the phone’s camera and pressed the button to start video recording. ‘Just so you know, Tommy and Marty want to say goodbye.’

‘Mate, you don’t have to do this,’ said McGovern. ‘Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll match it. I’ll double it.’ He held up his hands. ‘Just name your price.’

‘I’ve been paid,’ said Shepherd. He pulled the trigger. Fake blood burst from McGovern’s chest. He looked down, his mouth open. Shepherd pulled the trigger twice in quick succession and two more blood spouts erupted at the top of McGovern’s shirt. McGovern slumped to his knees, then fell forward into the grave. Shepherd walked slowly to the grave and shot a few seconds of McGovern lying face down, then he switched off the phone. ‘All done, Larry,’ he said. ‘Up you get.’

McGovern pushed himself to his knees. His face was splattered with mud and he spat noisily. Shepherd looked at Duff. ‘How did it look?’ He held out the gun.

‘Perfect,’ said the technician. He took the weapon and handed it to his assistant, who placed it in a metal case.

‘The blood was good?’

Duff nodded.

McGovern peered down at his mud-soaked jacket. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said. He undid it and stared at the blood dripping through the holes in his shirt, then did it up again. ‘This suit is fucking ruined.’

‘I thought you’d fall on your back,’ said Shepherd.

‘I thought forward would be more real,’ said McGovern. He held out his hand. Shepherd grabbed it and pulled him out of the grave.

‘Think it’ll convince them?’ asked McGovern.

Shepherd held out the phone and replayed the video. ‘Looks good to me.’

McGovern was staring at his mud-soaked knees. ‘Who’s going to pay for the suit?’ he asked.

‘Just get it dry-cleaned,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘It’s fucked,’ said McGovern.

‘Larry, if anyone else had taken this contract you’d be fucked, never mind your suit.’ He pointed at the gold bracelet on McGovern’s right wrist. ‘I’ll need that. They’ll want proof.’

McGovern put his hand over the bracelet. ‘My wife gave me this.’

‘She divorced you five years ago.’

‘Yeah, but it’s worth a couple of grand.’

‘They’ll know it’s yours and that you wouldn’t have given it up without a fight.’ Shepherd held out his hand and clicked his fingers. ‘Come on, don’t fuck about.’

McGovern grimaced but unhooked the bracelet and handed it over.

‘The guys will want their equipment back,’ said Shepherd.

McGovern took off his jacket. Duff’s assistant unbuttoned McGovern’s shirt and helped him take it off, then removed the wiring, battery pack and transmitter that had been taped to his body. He put the shirt in one plastic bag and the equipment in another. Duff handed McGovern a sweatshirt.

McGovern looked at it contemptuously. ‘Are you serious? What did you do – raid your wardrobe?’

‘Play nice, Larry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Everyone here is trying to help you.’

‘Because you want to put the O’Neills behind bars,’ said McGovern.

‘And keep you alive,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s not forget that.’

McGovern pulled on the sweatshirt. ‘Now what?’

‘Now we take you to a safe house,’ said Shepherd.

‘Which is where?’

‘One of the reasons it’s safe is because you won’t know where it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘No phone, no Wi-Fi, no nothing.’

‘I wasn’t planning on tweeting that I was still alive,’ said McGovern.

‘We need you out of sight, out of mind,’ said Shepherd.

‘For how long?’

‘As long as it takes,’ said Shepherd. He gestured at a waiting SUV. ‘Time to go.’

‘Days, right?’

‘I don’t know, Larry. I can’t be making promises at this stage. The O’Neills wanted you dead and were prepared to pay good money for that. Luckily we got wind of it and I took the contract. We tipped you off, which is why we’re all here now. But how it moves forward …’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I really don’t know. I hope that after this the O’Neills will trust me and invite me in. If so, all well and good. But it might just be one of a series of tests, in which case it could drag on.’