Firefight (2 page)

Time passed. Minutes, hours, he didn't know. Abdul-Qahhar
had never realised he could be so cold; all he could
do was try to master it, to persuade himself that everything
was going to be all right. 'You have done nothing wrong,'

he repeated to himself. 'Believe you have done nothing
wrong and they will believe it too.
It is a mistake
.

'
I have done nothing wrong
.

'
It is a mistake
.'

He felt himself falling asleep, as though his body were
shutting down.

'I have done nothing wrong
.

'It is a mistake
.'

The door burst open and two men entered. Abdul-Qahhar
was relieved to see they were not carrying guns, but his
relief was short-lived as one of them approached him, lifted
his head by the chin and struck him hard across the face.

'You have information we need,' the man said. He had
a thick mop of blonde hair and his accent was English.

'You are going to tell us everything.'

'I promise you,' Abdul-Qahhar begged, 'I do not know
what you mean.'

The Englishman sneered at him and stepped aside to
allow the second man to approach. He had a shiny, shaved
head and a thin, aquiline nose and when he spoke it was
with an American accent. 'You realise,' he said, in little more
than a whisper, 'that you are not on US or British soil. The
usual laws guaranteeing the safety of interrogated prisoners
do not apply here.'

'Please -,' Abdul-Qahhar breathed.

The American stepped back and turned around so that
he was facing away from the prisoner. 'I'm going to tell
you one thing before we start,' he announced, a bit louder
now. 'Not a threat, just a statement of fact.' He turned back
to look at him. His face was serious and one eyebrow was
raised. 'If you don't tell me what I want to know, I promise
you, you're gonna think Guantánamo is a fucking vacation
camp.'

Abdul-Qahhar stared fearfully back at him. 'Guantánamo?'
he whispered. 'I'm not a terrorist.'

His interrogators didn't even blink. 'We'll be back when
you're ready to speak,' the American said, and the two of
them walked briskly out.

'I'm not a terrorist!' Abdul-Qahhar shouted after them.

'You just think that because of the colour of my skin.
I'm
not a terrorist!
'

Yet again, his voice echoed around the empty concrete
room. Abdul-Qahhar saw his breath billowing in the icy
air, and he allowed his head to fall on to his chest, his body
trembling even more violently than before.

He was awoken from his cold-induced stupor by water, a
bucket of the stuff being thrown over him. His body temperature
was so low that he couldn't tell how hot it really was,
but to him it felt boiling. He screamed. Then he felt cold
again.

The two men were back. They were standing in front of
him.

'Please,' he shivered. 'Don't hurt me.
Please.'

'You have information that we need,' the American
insisted.

'I do not know what you are talking about. I promise
you, I do not know. If I knew, I would tell you.'

'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'

Abdul-Qahhar blinked. Now more than ever he needed
to sound convincing.

'I have never heard that name in my entire life. I swear
to you.' His wet clothes stuck to his skin.

The two men glanced at each other and something seemed
to pass between them. Then the American looked over at
the tinted dark window and nodded. 'Bring them in,' he
called.

Moments later, the door opened again. Two more men
walked in, both wearing blue overcoats. One of them was
pushing a steel trolley, the other had a shiny metal drip
stand. They stopped just by Abdul-Qahhar's chair, then both
of them pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and wrapped
cloth masks around their faces.

One of the masked men spoke. 'You sure you don't want
to take him to the waterboarding room?'

'No need,' the American replied. 'We'll have this guy
talking in no time.'

Abdul-Qahhar started to shake more violently as he
watched one of them hand a plastic bag full of colourless
liquid to the drip stand. It was the second man, however,
who spoke to him.

'I'm going to insert a needle for the drip,' he said, his
voice muffled slightly by the mask. 'It will hurt less if you
do not struggle.'

Abdul-Qahhar felt his eyes bulging as the medic approached
with a small needle. He started banging his restrained arms
up and down against the chair, but it made no difference to
the medic. He placed one gloved hand on the prisoner's arm
and slowly slid the needle into one of the plump veins halfway
up. Abdul-Qahhar gasped. The medic attached a long plastic
tube to the pouch of liquid suspended from the drip stand,
then turned and undid a small screw-top cap at the end of
the needle hanging limply from Abdul-Qahhar's arm. A jet
of blood spurted momentarily on to the concrete floor, but
the medic soon had the drip tube attached. He turned to
the interrogators. 'It's ready,' he said.

The American nodded, then looked blankly at Abdul-
Qahhar. 'SP-17,' he said cryptically. 'Developed by the KGB.

The most effective truth serum we have at our disposal. Of
course, if you still refuse to talk, then we have other means
of extracting the information we want.'

He paused, as though waiting for that to sink in, then
bent over and placed his face only inches away from his
captive. 'It's up to you what method you choose, but let me
tell you: by the time we've finished with you, you're gonna
be singing like a fucking canary.'

Abdul-Qahhar closed his eyes.

It is a mistake.

I have done nothing wrong.

I
have
to believe that.

'Please,' he whispered. 'I have nothing to hide. If you
would only tell me what this is all about, maybe I could
be of some assistance to you—'

But the American had already stepped away and nodded
at the medic, who turned a valve on the drip tube. Abdul-Qahhar
felt something cold rush into the vein in his arm.

There was silence in the room. Abdul-Qahhar, feeling his
teeth chattering again, clenched them together to stop it
happening. After a minute or so, however, he released them.
It suddenly seemed as though the room was not so cold.
There was warmth, or maybe it was just him. The light
didn't seem so harsh; it was softer, warmer. He glanced at
the needle in his arm, then smiled as he understood what
was happening. It was the drugs. The drugs were making
him feel better. Maybe, he thought to himself, this was what
Westerners felt like when they drank alcohol.

'I'm going to ask you again,' the interrogator's voice said.
'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'

'It means nothing,' he replied, drowsily.

The American turned to the medic. 'Increase the dose,' he
instructed. The medic turned the valve once more and again
they waited. The warmth increased, and the wooziness.

He heard the American's voice. 'You have information
about a terrorist strike.'

Abdul-Qahhar shook his head.

A pause. Lights seemed to dance around the room.

'You have information about a terrorist strike,' the
American repeated, relentlessly.

Again he shook his head. He felt comfortable for the first
time in hours.

A minute passed.

'You have information about a terrorist strike. You can
tell me about it now or you can tell me about it later. One
way or another, though, you
will
tell me about it.'

And all of a sudden, Abdul-Qahhar smiled. There seemed
to be no reason to hide it any more. No reason to pretend
- to himself or anyone else - that he did not know what
they were talking about. They were not going to hurt him.

'I'm going to ask you one more time. Does the name
Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'

Of course it meant something to him. Faisal Ahmed -
the men at the mosque had barely spoken of anyone else.

Faisal Ahmed, the warrior, they had called him.

Slowly, Abdul-Qahhar nodded his head.

The two men looked at each other and the American
stepped back. Abdul-Qahhar noticed how the light seemed
to reflect off his bald head. It transfixed him and he was
only woken from his brief reverie when the Englishman
spoke.

'Good,' he said. 'Well done, Abdul-Qahhar. You're doing
the right thing. Now listen to me carefully. We know he's
planning something big. All you have to do is tell me when
and where. As soon as we have that information, you can
go home.'

Abdul-Qahhar felt his head nodding. 'I would like to go
home,' he said drowsily.

'Then tell me,' the Englishman insisted. 'When and where?'

He had a pleasant face, this man. When he smiled, there
were creases on his cheek. Perhaps, once he had told them
all he knew, they would let Abdul-Qahhar sleep.

And so he spoke in a clear voice, or as clear a voice as
he could manage, like an eager child wanting to impress a
teacher.

'Three weeks,' he announced. 'Three weeks. London.'

They were in the toy department. A long line of children snaked
around the whole floor, waiting patiently. His daughter Anna looked
longingly at the sign.
'Visit Father Christmas in his grotto,'
it
read in bright, festive colours.
'A present for every child.'

'Can I go and see Father Christmas, Daddy?' Anna asked.
'Please?'
She tugged on his hand and looked up at him with those wide,
appealing eyes. In other children, an expression like that could be
put on, but not with Anna. She was six years old and wore her
emotions plainly on her face. She was desperate to see Father
Christmas and she so rarely asked for things. She was not brash
or confident. It meant she was picked on at school sometimes, but
she seemed to deal with it in her kind, sad little way.

He looked at the line of children. It would take an hour to
reach Father Christmas, maybe more. A quick glance at his watch
told him they didn't have time - the train back down to Hereford
left in forty minutes, and they still had to struggle across London
through the Saturday afternoon Christmas shoppers. He glanced
at his wife, who shook her head imperceptibly.

He bent down to look at her face to face. 'I'm sorry, sweetheart,'
he said. 'We haven't got enough time. Another day, hey?'

Anna's lip wobbled and she gazed at the floor. He knew what
she was thinking, at least he thought he did.
You always say
that, Daddy. You always say you haven't got enough time.
You always say another day.

But she didn't say anything. Obedient. Good as gold. Like always.

'Come on, love,' he said, doing his best to sound bright. He
took her little hand in his and together the family of three wove
their way through the crowds. Anna kept looking back and gazing
at the line of luckier children, and each time she did he experienced
that little surge of guilt that only a parent can feel.

He put his hand on Laura's shoulder. 'You go on,' he told her.
'I'll meet you downstairs, by the entrance.'

His wife looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement.
'What are you doing, Will?'

He avoided the question. 'I'll meet you downstairs,' he said,
before lightly touching Anna's hair. 'Stay close to Mum,' he warned.

Still smiling, Laura led Anna off down the ornate escalators. He
watched her disappear before turning back into the toy department.
He knew what he wanted. Anna's eyes had lingered over an
enormous fluffy dog, as soft as snow with a big brown ribbon. It
was expensive - even Anna could tell that, he thought. Certainly
it was too expensive to be bought on a whim with a Regiment
salary, but what the hell - he spent half his life in the most farflung
shit holes of the world. Why shouldn't he treat his little girl
now and then? He grabbed the toy and headed to a till.

As he handed over his credit card he heard the explosion.

There was a momentary silence all around him, and then everyone
started to panic. The line of children dissolved into a mass of
worried faces, and from the corner of his eye he saw two security
guards rushing towards the escalators. He dropped the cuddly toy
and didn't bother to grab his card back from the cashier. Instead,
he ran through the crowds, ignoring the shouts of the couple of
people he pushed out of the way with his impressive bulk. He
reached the escalator before the panicked crowds could swarm towards
it, and charged down several steps at a time, his heart thumping.

The pungent department store smell of perfume hit him as he
charged for the exit, his eyes darting around, trying to get a
glimpse of his wife and daughter. But he couldn't see them; all he
saw were frightened faces. And as he grew closer to the doors,
he saw other things too, things that would have turned the stomach
of a civilian, but which barely penetrated his emotional shell. He
saw a woman with a chunk of shrapnel embedded in her cheek.
Her body was shaking with shock, and a woman next to her was
screaming at the sight. He saw a man whose white shirt was soaked
red and who fell to the ground as he passed.

But he didn't see his family. Not until he reached the door.

They were lying on the floor, Laura's body draped over Anna,
as though she were trying to shield her from something. And around
them, seeping outwards, was a pool of blood.

He had seen hundreds of dead bodies in his time. Hundreds of
mutilated corpses. He had seen children gasp their last breath,
women garrotted. He had seen men die as a result of his own1
bullets.

But never anything like this. The scene sliced through him like
a cold knife.

'no!'
he roared as he launched himself towards them.

A security guard stepped in his way. 'Stay away, sir,' the man
instructed, but nothing was going to stop him. He punched the
guard squarely in the jaw, then threw himself down to his family.
He felt his trousers soak through with their blood and he touched
his trembling hands first to his daughter's neck, then to his wife's.

Nothing. No pulse. Their faces had the deathly pallor that he
recognised so well.

'Wake up!' he shouted. 'Wake up!' His brain refused to process
the information that it had been so clearly given. He refused to
accept that they were dead. He grabbed his daughter's face in his
hands and bent down to give her the kiss of life. As he did so, he
felt himself being grabbed from behind. The colleagues of the guard
he had floored - three of them - were on him, pulling him back.
He tried to struggle, but somehow he felt as though his strength
had been sapped, so he allowed himself to be pulled away.

The air was filled with screams and with the jolly sound of
Christmas music being piped around the store. And then there was
shouting. A man's voice, hoarse and desperate. He realised it was
his own.

'My family!' he bellowed. 'It's my family! Let me see them.
YOU HAVE TO LET ME HELP MY FAMILY! . . .'

'you have to let me help my family!'

Will Jackson awoke with a start, surprised by the sound
of his own voice. Sweat poured from his body, but he was
cold. He looked around, expecting to see his wife and
daughter there, then the brutal reality hit him, as it had done
every morning for the past two years. His wife and daughter
were not there. They were lying in a churchyard on the
outskirts of Hereford. They were cold and dead.

What he saw instead was a small apartment. After the
bombing, he had moved out of the military accommodation
he shared with his family and given up everything that
went with it - though there was no way he would have
been able to face staying in that place without them even
if he had carried on in the Regiment. Instead he had moved
into this one-bedroom ex-council flat several floors up that
had little to recommend it other than cheapness and the
fact it was close to the churchyard.

It was a bland place, with none of those little things that
turn a house into a home, none of the softening touches
that a woman's hand can bring. In fact, no woman had been
in this place since he moved in - not for any reason - and
it showed. Dirty washing-up was piled in the sink, clothes
were scattered over the floor, and by the door there was a
collection of empty bottles that he knocked over with a
curse at least twice a day. There was an empty bottle by the
sofa on which he had crashed, too. He drank vodka from
time to time to numb the pain, but there was a down side.
The more he drank, the more vivid were his dreams. Night
after night he was forced to relive with crystal clarity the
horror of that Christmas shopping trip two years ago; night
after night his family were brutally taken from him yet
again.

He pushed himself to his feet and immediately regretted
it as a wave of alcohol-induced nausea surged through him.
He retched, then ran to the bathroom where he vomited
a thin, putrid liquid into the toilet, before resting his back
against the bath, head in hands as he waited for the cracking
pain in his skull to go away.

Two years. They said the pain would go away and he had
believed them. Christ, he'd lost enough people over the
years - friends, colleagues - so many that he'd lost count.
But they were different. Soldiers always know that death is
a possibility. He'd killed enough enemy targets in Afghanistan,
Iraq, Sudan and Pakistan to accept that there would always
be casualties on both sides. But a mother and her daughter.
In London. At Christmas.
That
you didn't expect. And the
pain couldn't be healed with a Regiment funeral and a few
beers in the mess afterwards.

Will stood up uncertainly and looked at himself in the
mirror. He hadn't shaved for three weeks, or was it four?
A long time, anyway. Longer than he would ever have
considered when he was in the military. With trembling
hands he splashed some water on his face, squirted a blob
of shaving gel on his palm and rubbed it into his whiskers,
before picking up a razor. He tested the blade against his
thumb, but it was blunt and rusty, so with a disdainful sigh
he threw it back into the sink and washed the gel out of
his beard. Shaving could wait another day, he thought.

Maybe a run would sort him out. He ran a lot and worked
out too. Exercise was one of the few things that kept him
sane and at times he took it to excess, as though by making
his body feel the pain, the anguish in his mind wouldn't
seem so all-encompassing. But the hangover was bad today.
Tomorrow, perhaps. He'd work out tomorrow.

Stripping down, he washed, then walked back naked to
the main room, where he scrabbled around for a relatively
fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt, before making himself a
cup of strong, black coffee - the only thing that he could
ever say with any confidence he would have in his cupboards.
He gulped it down, relishing the burning sensation it gave
as it sloshed down his gullet, then put the cup with the
rest of the washing-up, grabbed his leather jacket and left
the flat.

It was misty out, and cold. Biting cold. But it cleared
Will's head as he strode the familiar route to the churchyard,
his hands firmly pressed into the pockets of his jeans.
He couldn't see that far ahead of him on account of the
mist, and the yellow light of the street lamps cast a ghostly
glow over the pavement as he walked through the early
morning half-light. There were few people out at this hour
- it couldn't have been much past 6.30, though Will seldom
wore a watch these days, so he couldn't check - and he
preferred it when the streets were empty. It was a surprise,
therefore, when he became aware of the car.

He heard it first, the low rumble of the engine a little
distance behind him. He didn't know what made him look
over his shoulder - perhaps it was the fact that, despite
being lost in his own thoughts, he had the feeling the engine
noise had been in his consciousness for a good couple of
minutes. He stopped and squinted his eyes slightly. The car's
headlamps cast ghostly beams towards him and it looked as
if it was black - though everything seemed monochrome
in this light. The car was moving at a snail's pace, but as
Will stared at it, it sped up and drove past. His eyes hadn't
deceived him, he noticed. It was indeed black - not just
the paintwork, but also the windows. He watched it as it
drove to the end of the street and out of sight.

He blinked, then looked around. There was no one else
in the street, at least nobody he could see through the mist,
and he was instantly suspicious of the car. It had driven off
as soon as he had clocked it. But who the hell would be
following him at this time of day? At
any
time of day?

Then he smiled and shook his head. For fuck's sake, Will,
he told himself. I know old habits die hard, but you're a
pensioned-off squaddie. Enough of the paranoia. Blackedout
windows? It was probably just a bunch of slappers on
their way home after a hen night. He sniffed and continued
on his way.

The rusting metal gate to the churchyard creaked as he
pushed it open and the noise seemed unusually loud in the
silence. It pleased him that the mist was so thick - this,
along with the earliness of the hour, would keep people
away and he'd have the place to himself. Will weaved his
way through the familiar tombstones until he came upon
the one he was looking for. When his wife and child had
first been buried, the grave they shared had been at the end
of a row. Now, though, as more plots had been used up,
the row had been completed and a new one started. Will
didn't like that. He didn't like the idea that their grave was
just one of many. But people will always carry on dying,
he told himself. Even him, one day.

Will stood in front of the grave, his breath billowing in
clouds from his mouth and nostrils, and let the silence
surround him. He found himself shivering from the cold,
but that didn't matter - just being here in their presence
soothed him. Noticing a patch of lichen growing on the
stone, he stepped forward and rubbed it off, before taking
a few paces back and reading the inscription as he had done
so many times before.

L
AURA
and A
NNA
J
ACKSON
T
AKEN
from us but always with us

He had never been good with words and had struggled
over that simple epitaph for weeks. But in the end he
was convinced it said what it was supposed to. Will stared
at it, reading it over and over. He lost track of time.

It was a sudden sound that snapped him out of his reverie.
Behind the gravestone was a high hedge and the noise
seemed to come from that direction. He looked up sharply,
but saw nothing. His eyes narrowed, however. No matter
how bad his hangover, it couldn't mask all his instincts and
Will Jackson knew, without knowing quite how, that he
was being watched.