Invasion (44 page)

Suddenly, the Sunflower was bathed in a powerful
searchlight. Khan’s hands went immediately to the boat’s controls, quickly setting their course and flicking on the autopilot. The helicopter, a huge, black shape silhouetted against the night sky, spun over the boat and hovered fifty feet off the port bow like a giant, deadly
dragonfly. Khan could see the pilots, their faces
lit by the green wash of the cockpit instrumentation. His eyes tracked slowly back to the open compartment behind the cockpit, where a crewman sat behind a wicked-looking mini-gun. Waving stupidly and sporting a wide grin, Khan reached for the rope behind him. Earlier, while Clarke prepared the boat for sail, Khan had slipped back on shore. There was one other item he wanted, something he thought may come in useful.

As the rotor wash of the gunship battered the Sunflower, Khan’s hand yanked the rope and the large, green and white Arabian flag unfurled on the flagpole and snapped outwards, fluttering behind the Sunflower in the
offshore
breeze. Khan continued to wave and grin stupidly, all the time praying that the helicopter would leave them alone.

‘What do you think?’ asked the captain of the gunship.

‘Nice boat,’ replied the co-pilot. Their earpieces
hissed as the door gunner behind them keyed his microphone.

‘Want me to put a few rounds into the water, get him to heave to?’

The captain considered that while he interrogated his on-board camera system. Khan’s beaming
face was displayed in tight close-up, his hand shielding his eyes from the searchlight, while his hair and clothing were whipped by the downwash of the helicopter.

‘He looks like one of ours. Besides, we’re low on fuel and we haven’t got the time. Funny hour to be out sailing though.’

‘Agreed,’ said the co-pilot. ‘Pick him up later?’

The captain traced his finger along an electronic map display. ‘Maybe.’

‘Shall we alert a patrol boat?’

Khan’s beaming smile and continuously waving arm filled the screen inside the gunship. ‘Negative. Look at that stupid grin. He’s probably an officer, helping himself to some local booty. If that’s the case, then good luck to him. I’m looking to get something out of this myself.’

‘Oh? Like what?’ asked the co-pilot.

‘I hear apartments will be made available to officers who were in the first wave. Accommodation in the more fashionable districts of London.’

‘Really? Who told you that?’

‘Just a rumour I heard. In the meantime,
let’s get this bird back to base. I
could use a coffee.’

‘Roger that.’

K
han lowered his arm as the searchlight blinked out and the helicopter banked away, lost in the darkness. A million coloured
spots danced before his eyes as they grew accustomed to the gloom once again. At his feet, the cabin door moved a crack and he heard Clarke’s voice.

‘Have they gone?’

‘Looks like it. Stay put a while longer, just in case.’

Khan’s heart pounded in his chest. Another gut-wrenching moment, one of a series that seemed to have lasted for days. In reality it was less than two. I’ll be grey-haired by the time we reach the States, he thought.

The Sunflower continued onwards without further incident, cutting quietly through the dark Channel. Clarke was back skippering the boat when Khan appeared from below with two cups of
freshly brewed
coffee. To the east the sky was just beginning to lighten.

‘Thanks,’ said Clarke, sipping the steaming brew carefully. ‘So far, so good, eh?’

‘We’re not out of the woods yet.’

‘True. But I’ve got a good feeling, same feeling I had about this boat the first time I stepped aboard her.’ He put his brew down and smiled. ‘This
is going to sound a bit weird, but three days ago I was in London, working, when I got a sudden urge to come down here, to the Sunflower. That night I packed a bag and drove down to the coast. Didn’t think much of it at the time.’ Clarke gently tapped the gleaming fibre-glass of the instrument housing. ‘You may laugh, but the more I think about it the more I believe she was calling me. She called you too, you know, brought us together. That’s why I’ve got a good feeling about this trip.’

Ordinarily Khan wasn’t superstitious. He was more used to living and working on the darker fringes of society, where sound intelligence and careful planning altered the game play, not luck or chance. But Clarke had a point, had felt compelled to travel to Hamble on a feeling. And it had saved him.

Khan’s thoughts
turned again to the possibility of a more powerful force at work, the same force that had protected him thus far, had guided him to the Sunflower where another man waited in the darkness, a man who’d also been called. Clarke was
almost right; it wasn’t the Sunflower that had brought them together. It was God. And He would see them safely across the ocean.

Khan took a deep breath of salty air and smiled in spite of himself. ‘I think you’re right, Patrick. I think we’re going to make it.’

‘Look.’ Clarke pointed to a dark headland off the starboard bow that jutted out into the sea. ‘That’s Hurst Spit. After that we’re in the Channel.’

‘Open water,’ realised Khan.

‘Correct. Once we’re past the Spit we’ll set the pilot and go below, take a look at the charts.’

‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ smiled Khan, throwing up a mock salute. Their laughter echoed across the dark waters of the Solent.

It could have been much worse, Mousa reflected, stamping on the accelerator and powering the Mercedes saloon past a slow-moving livestock truck. He could’ve been demoted, flogged – even executed – but deep down he knew it wouldn’t have come to that.

He glanced out of the window as he swept past the rumbling vehicle, at the rows of sheep that stared back at him from between the wooden slats, marking his passage with tired bleats and cold, dead eyes. Mousa smiled. They reminded him of the elders, the twelve jurists and clerics of the Guardian Council who’d presided over his recent military tribunal at the Palace of Justice in central Baghdad. The Cleric, clearly intending to distance himself from the proceedings, had observed them discreetly, sometimes seated near the back of the hall, occasionally settling into the witness gallery above the marbled floor.

Mousa had dreaded meeting him, for once at a loss as to how to explain his actions, his blatant insubordination. But after arriving in Baghdad, the Holy One hadn’t summoned him at all. For the first time in his life Mousa had felt exposed, naked. That first morning, standing alone in the defendant’s box (he’d refused legal counsel), Mousa had briefly caught the Holy One’s
eye. When he did, he’d registered the disappointment behind the round spectacles and felt utterly shameful. He cared not for the judgements of the old men ranged before him on their ornate stage, only for the approval, and absolution, of the Holy One whom he’d so publicly disobeyed.

Mousa turned the wheel and cut across the highway, hitting the off-ramp at Al-Quahira, squinting
as the rising sun caught the burnished domes of the grand mosque that dominated the near horizon, casting its golden
rays across the city. He fished in the glove box for a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on, heading north on the empty Ali-Talib highway that would take him beyond the city limits. He crossed the Army Canal, leaving the gleaming towers of the business district behind him, and cruised by the smarter suburbs of Ash Sha’b and Hayy Sumar, their palm-lined avenues giving way to open fields beyond.

Mousa still marvelled
at Baghdad’s transformation,
its once teeming slums bulldozed, the residents banished to other districts, the new suburbs a lush network of low-rise homes and green parks. Now only the affluent and the influential travelled the city’s wide highways and occupied its gleaming marble and glass buildings,
the capital of Arabia twinkling like a diamond in the sand by day, and like a bright constellation of stars at night.

Until
recently, Mousa thought
of
himself as
one
of
those influential personalities, his rank, reputation and proximity to the Holy One ensuring no
door remained unopened, no order questioned. Now it was different. Word
had spread of his tribunal, of the witnesses that had flown in from the European front to give evidence against him, including the preening Al-Bitruji, who’d marched into the courtroom with a confident stride and a grave look across his fat face. Mousa knew it was an act, knew the man was revelling in Mousa’s downfall.

Mousa had glowered at him as he gave evidence, causing Al-Bitruji to stumble and stammer through the weasel words of his prepared statement, the one that told of lost aircraft, tanks and men. He could’ve killed him on the spot, knowing that Al-Bitruji had leaked news of Mousa’s
failure
and insubordination to his contacts in Baghdad, that he lacked a soldier’s guts to do anything decisive himself, preferring instead to gossip like an old woman in the marketplace. Others had stepped forward too, from the command bunker in Grovely Wood, from Air Command at Heathrow,
all allied to Al-Bitruji and eager to drive another nail into Mousa’s coffin. And that, Mousa was now convinced, had been their undoing.

As day three of his hearing had opened, the remainder of Al-Bitruji’s snakes had slithered into the witness stand and hissed their betrayal. Forced to endure their whining condemnations, Mousa had burned with rage as he glared at the traitors across the marble chamber.

It was then he’d noticed the Holy One again, flanked by two bodyguards
as he watched from the shadows of the pillars that circled the hall, his lined face suddenly pained. No, it was more than that, Mousa had decided; there he stood, the Holy One’s trusted confidant, having to suffer the betrayals of those less loyal, less devoted, and certainly less capable than himself. Mousa had felt it then, a shift in the wind that blew against him, a turning of the tide indicated by the subtle nod of the Holy One as he caught Mousa’s glance. To
be summoned here, to face the shame of a public hearing, was punishment
enough for a man like Mousa. The Holy One must have known that, had seen the indignity etched on Mousa’s face, but the rituals had to be observed, the game played out to its conclusion.

The Guardian Council had made him wait for its judgement, three more days in fact, but the final outcome was one Mousa had begun to suspect. He’d stood straight and tall, resplendent
in his best dress uniform, his back ram-rod straight, his eyes staring off into the middle distance
as the elders
passed
down their judgement: banishment from the European theatre, a temporary attachment to an obscure Military Academy in Damascus, and a purse to be paid to the families of the dead soldiers and airmen, all one hundred and seventy-four of them.

The Council had been lenient, their spokesman informed him. Mousa was relieved to have avoided the disgrace of demotion, yet it was on his lips to demand it, to be sent back to the European front as a mere private; combat was a far more attractive proposition than wasting his days giving lectures to officer cadets. Instead, he kept his mouth shut. He’d been saved by the Holy One, of
that he was sure. Only time, and the course of action he’d now chosen to take, would tell whether he was right or not.

So now, the road ahead was practically empty, only the odd farm truck or military vehicle sharing the six-lane highway with his Mercedes saloon. He powered the window down, letting the warm breeze ruffle his hair. It needed cutting, as did the dark stubble on his face that reached down to the thick black curls that sprang from the open neck of his navy linen shirt. But he would get around to it, when the movement order to Damascus finally materialised. In the meantime, he would relax, keep a low profile. And visit old friends.

He was dressed casually, in jeans and trainers, a white galabiyya gown on the seat behind him should the need arise to change into more modest attire. He didn’t expect to today, however. At the side of the road a movement caught his eye, and in the shadows of a nearby palm grove he spotted a cluster of military vehicles, one of the many air defence teams that marked the outer boundary of the city. The wind snatched at the smoke of cooking fires and ruffled the camouflage nets, the sun dappling
across the tips of the surface-to-air
missiles beneath. So far Baghdad hadn’t been threatened, and nor did Mousa expect it to be. As long as the Israelis stayed out of the fight.

Another two hours had passed before Mousa turned off the highway, heading northeast
across the flood plains of southern Salah ad-Din, the fields on either side of the road thick with summer crops, the water treatment
systems whipping spray across armies of swaying
cornstalks. Ahead, the Tigris River beckoned, marked by the thick forests of palms that lined its banks.

He turned off the asphalt, onto the dirt track that twisted its way deep into the palms. The track ended at a large clearing, the steel gate of the compound opened by a young boy who swung it closed again and slammed the bolt home as Mousa drove through. He watched the boy scamper inside the villa as he climbed out of the dust-covered Mercedes and stretched his limbs. The sun was higher now, climbing towards the sky, but the rising heat was tempered by the surrounding forest, by the breezes that picked up off the nearby Tigris.

‘You’re getting old, General.’

Mousa spun around, surprised to see the man behind him, his approach silent, the two fingers jammed into his spine like steel rods. For a man in his seventies it was impressive.

‘Bullshit. Those creaking bones of yours make far too much noise. I was just being polite.’ Then they embraced and shook hands warmly, each man planting a small kiss on the other’s cheeks.

‘It’s good to see you, Zaid.’

‘Salaam alaikum, my friend. It’s an honour to have you here,’ smiled the old man. ‘Come.’ He beckoned Mousa to follow him. Zaid had aged some, but
remained fit, the barrel chest that swelled against the white vest still formidable, the posture erect, the stride confident. And he still wore the trademark combat trousers
he’d
always worn, the green and black tiger stripes of the old Iraqi Marines. No boots though, Mousa noticed, just the leather sandals that slapped against his feet as they circumnavigated the villa. How had he managed to sneak up on him wearing those?

The place hadn’t changed much since Mousa was last here. The cars and pickups still nestled in the shade of the palms, all foreign imports of course, as was the impressive cluster of high-tech satellite dishes that beamed their unfettered TV and radio signals directly into Zaid’s home. The grounds were
well kept
, the lawns trimmed, the vivid flowerbeds carefully attended to, and Mousa had to smile. Zaid had done very well for himself, had worked hard to maintain his privacy. Beyond the walls of the compound he was a man of mystery, the old soldier that lived quietly out by the Tigris with his extended family, with connections to powerful people in Baghdad. People like Mousa.

He followed Zaid around the grounds of the whitewashed villa to an impressive shaded veranda where lunch was
being prepared. Mousa caught the smell of barbequed
lamb as a group
of women in colourful saris and sequinned
headscarves fussed over a huge table laid out with covered plates of bread, rice and salads. Beyond the veranda,
a grass bank sloped down towards the clear waters of the Tigris. A group of children played football nearby, while a couple
of older boys sat on the edge of a small wooden
jetty, fishing rods dipping towards the slow-moving waters.

‘Allah has truly blessed you,’ Mousa observed.

‘In every way,’ Zaid agreed. He led Mousa to a table in the shade of a tall palm. A few metres away, the river lapped against the bank. A pot of coffee was delivered by a middle-aged woman, her attractive face framed by a white veil. No doubt one of Zaid’s eight daughters, Mousa guessed. Then they were alone.

‘Speaking of blessings, I hear you got lucky with the Council,’ Zaid observed. Mousa raised an eyebrow. ‘Word travels fast.’

‘I still have contacts.’

‘In any case, the Council had little to do with the decision.’

‘You always were his favourite,’ Zaid remarked with a wry grin.

‘You know what that’s like.’

‘Different rulers, different times,’ the older man observed. ‘Saddam was a little more intense. Even bodyguards like me were not immune to his rages.’

Mousa took a careful sip of the bitter coffee. ‘Still, the Cleric is a different man entirely. He dislikes the base nature of politics, the compromises, the
in
-
fighting
. And yet, look at us now, how he’s brought
us together, under one flag, one nation.’

‘I never thought I’d see it in my lifetime,’ Zaid admitted. ‘The Caliphate restored, an empire stretching all the way to the English Channel and beyond. Makes an old man’s heart sing.’

A dhow drifted into view around the bend in the river, its sail filled, its small deck laden with cargo. The children ran to the end of the jetty, waving frantically. The distant pilot waved back and the children squealed with delight. Zaid chuckled and lit a cigarette with a Zippo lighter, the emblem of the United States Marine Corps emblazoned on its brass flanks. He caught Mousa’s inquiring
eye.

‘Fallujah,’ he explained, sucking the strong Turkish tobacco deep into his lungs. ‘So, Faris, what brings you here, to this quiet little backwater? You know I’m retired, yes?’

Mousa saw the glint in the old man’s clear blue eyes and chuckled. Zaid would never retire, not until he took his last breath. He’d first met Zaid Hadi when he’d joined the Military Academy all those years ago, the tough combat instructor who’d fought the Americans across Iraq, the British in Helmand, the Jews in Gaza. When the Caliphate had risen once more and Mousa had moved into Special Forces, he’d
called on Zaid’s
skill and experience many times, fighting side-by-side on countless operations in Nigeria, Kurdistan and across the Middle East. Zaid was a legend, a man whose speed and agility had long deserted him, yet even today his formidable reputation remained unequalled.

Mousa glanced over his shoulder, at the women who were preparing the food, at the children playing and fishing nearby.

‘They are deaf and blind to your presence,
Faris. You may speak freely,’
invited Zaid.

Mousa settled back into his chair. He kept his voice low, his eyes watching the surrounding trees, the river, the shadows of the opposite bank. ‘So, these contacts of yours, did they tell you of my punishment?’